Chapter Text
Lucky number 7; Angel numbers; 420; number of the beast; Friday the 13th; zero o’clock—numbers don’t matter to Sherlock, not really, but he assumed there would be something special about twenty-two, something befitting how musically and typographically comforting the number is.
Four days after having completed twenty-two winters on earth and two days into the second semester and Sherlock isn't feeling as optimistic. Proof? Oh, he has plenty. After classes ended today, he found a fancy candle-sealed envelope slipped under his door. Sherlock's escalating headache and his eagerness to just find some peace and quiet made him dismissive of the envelope’s content, despite the promising premise manifest in the two tickets enclosed. After all, 2023 is a new year, a fresh start—wasn’t Sherlock tired of how things feel all too static, too linear?
Head lolled back and arms limp to his either side, Sherlock is tipping his chair and staring at the ceiling—at the purple fluorescent sleeves—as he smokes. The nicotine in his cigarette continues to give him an additional buzz to whatever he smoked a few minutes ago. His roommate’s and ex’s energetic voices aren’t exactly tuned out as Sherlock further sinks into a memory from exactly a year ago—into the beginning of a late birthday celebration with a special someone. Blaring party horns and floating confetti and lights flickering on and Sherlock's waiting lips as he turns around after Memory-Watson's chirpy voice joins Real-Watson's genial voice,
“Sherlock, your other half is here.”
Sherlock releases his chair, head bobbing and gaze barely levelling when the name cascades out, “Liam?”
“No. James.” Bond retracts his hand, smirking and rising from his crouch. “I snap you out of your doldrums by telling you someone is here to see you and you immediately think I'm him. Forgot how my touch feels already?”
Biting down on his filter and pressing a small smile, Sherlock pushes aside both of Bond's smiles—the warm one shaping his lips in memory and the mischievous one a breath away from him now. He then fixes his gaze at the suite’s door. William's eyes crinkle into a smile as Watson says something and gestures for him to come inside. Sherlock is about to get up when Bond's hand reaches for him, a sparkle of mischief glinting in his sky blues.
“Thirteen seconds. You finally broke your record of not reacting to Will when he’s around, congratulations.”
“Last time I checked, the human body is comprised of 6 elements and none of them are noble gases. When stimulated, I don’t have to remain inert.”
“Stimulated, huh?” Bond raises an eyebrow and Sherlock flashes him a wry smile, the cigarette burning between his fingers as he makes a beeline for the door.
He almost bumps into Watson who turns around when William's eyes drift from his face to Sherlock. Once Sherlock has taken the slutty position of placing his right forearm on the doorframe and leaning his forehead to his hand—and once Watson has discreetly slipped from under—he flashes William his signature smile.
“Careful, Liam, you're at risk of developing a Sherly-addiction at this rate.”
“Addictions, I can control. The Dean’s instructions, on the other hand, are so far and most regrettably out of my control.” William holds up a long thin blue jewelry box. Instead of taking it, Sherlock narrows his eyes and pulls a slow drag.
“I’ll be real with you. I was expecting an elaborate proposal with an audience and not something so lowkey. Yet not even a smooch, love.”
“Stop being saucy and take the box, counsel. I don’t have time for games.”
“Shame.” Sherlock tips his head forward, getting in William's space and waggling his eyebrows. “Because I would throw everything aside just to play with you.”
William's smile doesn’t flag and neither does he retract his hand—the box—but his eyes flicker behind Sherlock and only then does the latter remember they do have an audience. Sherlock looks over his shoulder: Watson and Bond are watching the scene unfold expectantly, eyes brimming with eagerness and smiles full of mischief. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth, absentmindedly tosses it in the bin outside, and leans into William to whisper,
“Not to David Mills this but, what's in the box?”
The corners of William's lips twitch at that and Sherlock twitches at that. William then flicks his eyes up and tilts his head, and Sherlock is immediately trying to stop his dick from having a will of its own. From wanting Will to its own. Caving in under William’s prompting eyes, Sherlock finally takes the box. However, he doesn’t let his eyes stray away from William's amused ones and neither does William let go of the other end of the jewelry box. Sherlock’s smile is lopsided now; he doesn’t even notice how quiet the words are until he hears the husky quality to his tenor.
“Of course the other person had to be you. The red to my blue, as always.”
“Out of my hands.”
William lets go of the box and shrugs. There is intent—deliberation—in those scarlet eyes and Sherlock finds himself once again incapable of looking away, despite being thoroughly unnerved by the intensity, by the possibility. And so, Sherlock pockets the box and essays a smile.
“I know my observation skills are rather uncanny, but I am not a mind-reader.”
“Well, I do need to talk to you about something important so I have to ask, how much did you smoke today?”
Sherlock pushes his hair backwards. “Well if we’re heading there then rest assured, Liam, it’s not enough to compromise my consent.”
“For a change.”
“Oi!”
“Offended?”
“You really are too much.” Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose yet William doesn’t reply. He studies the smile-lined eyes and he is urged to speak. “So what is it that you wanted to talk about?”
William takes a step back, leaving Sherlock with more questions once his expression—his slanting eyes—takes on a familiarly playful shade.
“I’ll tell you later. Dean’s office at 8 sharp tomorrow. Don’t keep me waiting, Sherlock.”
Sherlock wishes he hadn’t thrown the cigarette because the force with which he came down on his lip when William called him by his name unironically needed something to cushion it. So he just grits his teeth and watches William disappear down the hallway. Sherlock knows not how long he has been standing there, willing himself to calm down, but Henry is now passing him by, eyeing him with a blank expression and a lollipop sticking out of his mouth.
“Why do you look like your gut health is in shambles?”
Sherlock turns to answer his bestfriend just in time for two things to happen simultaneously: Bond has jumped up and got into Sherlock's face, asking, “So when were you going to tell us about this?” and Henry says in lieu of accounting for Sherlock's expression, “I met Senpai’s boyfriend on my way here.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” Sherlock scoffs indignantly, torn between responding to his three companions. A+ priorities.
“I don’t mean that,” Bond's face contorts dismissively and he turns to Henry. “And he prefers to use ‘arch-nemesis,’ makes him sleep better at night.”
Henry’s attempt not to laugh results in a snort as he pulls out his lollipop.
“Arch-who? Ponytail-senpai, have you never heard of the 30 days rule?”
“The what now—? Are we just making shit up now??”
“If rivalry lasts more than 30 days, you're no longer rivals, you're—” Watson makes a magician-like motion with both hands, which Sherlock doesn’t understand until Bond snidely adds,
“Your nemesis will be arching, just not in the way you think it will be.”
“Jesus, guys, this is Liam we’re talking about here.”
“So? You want us to look respectfully when you're looking carnally, like a who—”
Sherlock injects enough force in just two fingers to torque Bond's shoulder, thankfully intercepting the younger’s speech. He is thus passing Bond by, heedless of Henry’s laughs and Watson's attempt at stifling his smile. By the time Sherlock is lighting another cigarette, Watson slugs his arm.
“At any rate, that’s not the issue.”
“John is right.” Bond nods and Henry is looting something out of his backpocket.
“We’re talking about this.”
Unfazed, Sherlock straddles his chair by the balcony and looks up at the expectant faces—at the two tickets Henry has produced. He allows two drags—two exhales—before he cocks an eyebrow.
“What’s so interesting about being invited to Allegory’s Severings?”
“Apart from you getting the very first front-row tickets to the most exciting game we’ve been anticipating for months—”
“And the game your friend has been developing for almost a year—” Watson holds up a finger helpfully while Henry nods enthusiastically.
“That too.” Bond grabs a chair and mirrors Sherlock's pose, close enough to inhale the smoke the elder breathes out. “If I knew the poll the Dean made last week concerning electing two people who fuck together was about getting an early feel of a VR game instead of solving an actual crime, I would’ve voted for myself and Will.”
“Your fidelity levels are commendable, Bond. Moneypenny would love to hear that.”
Now it isn't just Bond who is smirking. Sherlock is blowing the smoke from the corner of his mouth when Watson shifting his weight followed by crossing his arms catches Sherlock's attention.
“How exactly is James's partner relevant to you joining hands with William for a demo?”
“Senpai just wants to hold hands with Will that it’s all he can think about.”
“I will hack into your phone and leak all your nudes, mate.” Sherlock throws a pointed look at Henry who just laughs and retreats to sit at the edge of his bed. “Besides, I don’t fuck with Liam. 90% of the time he makes me want to commit manslaughter.”
“That’s just the gay—”
“John this isn't one of your sapphic stories—”
“You know very well who Adler and Hudson are based on—and before you say anything, even if it weren’t the gay, there is a 10% unaccounted for here.”
“I do not fuck with numbers.”
Henry raises his hand, expression innocence incarnate but Sherlock is already mentally rolling his eyes.
“Would you fuck with people who fuck with numbers, or do we omit the preposition altogether?”
“Billy.”
Henry shrugs and stretches across the bed to reach the drink on his nightstand—which he starts sipping on rather loudly, to everyone’s dismay. Bond is still adamant on tipping Sherlock's chin up.
“Can't you be a tad bit excited? I promise, it won't kill you to show excitement about other stimulating things than your prec—”
“The company sponsoring Herder is shady and I don’t like it. I don’t have high hopes for Allegory’s Severings but I'm happy for him.” Sherlock rises up and puffs on his cigarette. “Until proven otherwise, I will not change my opinion. There's nothing that interests me about the game.”
“Except the player.”
Sherlock just steadily eyes the deadpan Bond as he continues to smoke; he wishes he can remember why Bond has invited himself to their room in the first place. Eventually, under his friends’ bemused gazes, Sherlock sighs and shuffles towards his bed.
“It’s late and Liam would chop my dick off and feed it to the dogs if I'm a second late tomorrow morning. You can get excited about Uni’s crappy cruise trip on Friday instead. So let’s adjourn this roasting party.”
“Sure, sure, counsel.”
Watson places a hand over Bond's mouth—silencing whatever bubbling snide remark his impish eyes express—and he ushers Bond out.
Reaching for the empty ashtray on the nightstand, Sherlock stubs out his cigarette. However, he doesn’t miss the trio’s conversation at the door, and he admits, Bond's apt remark about He’s the one who mentioned dicks not I might have some solid basis here. After all, a year ago, what first started this plethora of teasing when it comes to his relationship—or lack thereof—with William was Sherlock’s noticing that William, a political sciences major with a knack for mathematics and zero interest in working out his body, is actually a former hardcore athlete. Or, in Bond's words, Sherlock’s stared long enough at Will’s thighs to know there are sexier ways to be suffocated by than banter.
And so, starting to review his former verdict that things are too boring, Sherlock falls asleep to the exciting thought that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow would be a fun day.