Meaning: (To make something that is bad, unpleasant, or dissatisfactory easier to cope with, endure, or accept)
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The game ended unfinished, with Molly taking notes of property holdings, funds, et cetera before cheerily saying goodnight to Sherlock and John. The two tidied up the room in silence, picking up stray granola wrappers and water bottles. After cleaning up, they were silent a while.
The three of them had made small talk during the game, mostly between John and Molly. They talked about their majors, they talked about their teachers, they talked about family, their lives outside of college, whatever they felt needed to be brung up, quite frankly. Sherlock had a time of it trying to act as though he was indifferent, yet picking up on the information he felt needed to be filed away for later.
Molly had noticed this and grinned to herself, she could tell when Sherlock was trying to act out of character. Although she would never dare reveal it to Sherlock, he had tics, just like any other human being.
Molly liked being the only one who knew these things, but looking at John she felt her chest swell a little. He was attractive, not her type per-se, but was far from unpleasant to look at. She knew her attraction was obvious to Sherlock, he seemed to always be able to read her mind but she didn't care. So far as she'd seen, Sherlock definitely held some kind of fascination with John that was unusual.
John called Sherlock out for things; for example, when Sherlock questioned the logic of the game-- like the game not keeping up with inflation or the pointlessness of the chance cards-- John would roll his eyes and try to explain it as if he was talking to a child as Sherlock would try to rebuke in return, clearly irritated. They bickered like children, or an old married couple, and it warmed Molly's heart to have this side showing to someone other than her (and on the rare occasions, Greg).
...
"Molly was nice." John offered, in lieu of a conversation starter after she had already gone.
"She is tolerable, unlike most people." Sherlock conceded, "You two seemed to have hit it off."
"We have similar majors, so that's definitely a part of it, at least on the medical side anyway." John looked over at the dying plants again, watching them with interest. "How long until your experiment concludes?"
"I am planning on giving it another few days at least, I have all the data I really need. At this point, I'm just padding out the spreadsheet. I found out all I needed to know in the first week, but science relies on multitudes of data reinforcement for it to be accepted."
"Okay, so I thought I could do this with a nice segue into the question but you'd probably see right through it anyhow. Besides, you seem like the type that would prefer I be direct and not beat around the bush. Tell me about this Moriarty guy." John straightened his posture after saying it, as though he had drunk liquid courage in the last 10 seconds of speaking.
"Your assumption would be correct. I hate small talk." Sherlock sighed, "Moriarty was my roommate, as I have already told you, and that he jumped to his death. What I left out was that he was a psychopath. He didn't even kill himself because he was depressed, he did it to mess with me. Everyone tells me that I'm deluded and self-absorbed to think so, but I know better.
He knew how intensely I latch onto a competition, and he hoped I would make my death grander than his to finally win against him in the stupid little game of his, or finally lose... and not give into death with him. As you can see, he won the final game."
"Wow." John muttered, taking all the information in, "That's... a lot. He ever see a therapist or anything like that?"
"According to him, a few tried to commit him over the years when they saw through him, but he was a charismatic individual." Sherlock's voice grew slack and his expression distant. "He had the ability to make others follow his every word. Had he not been so interested in me as a rival, I have no doubt he would have driven others to their death for the sport of it. He liked acting too, got a lot of lead roles, but it came second nature to him since almost everything he did was part of his nice-guy persona. Molly almost fell for it, once. He might have even killed her once he got bored with her. It's unnerving to think about all the damage he could have caused."
"At least you came out of it unscathed," John offered to which Sherlock let out a dry laugh.
"Not entirely." Sherlock uttered cryptically.
"How do you know he was that dangerous? Killing someone is a lot different than manipulation, how are you sure he was capable?"
"One night, when he planned on going to a party off-campus, he started a row with me-- can't even remember what it was about, it was so trivial. To make a long story short, he purposefully left his phone out on his bed for me to tamper with. Even had a simple password on the lockscreen to mock me. If he had no password I might not have even bothered, but he knew how I was--" Sherlock started, pacing back and forth across the small room.
"Not to interrupt but," John interjected, earning an irritated glance from Sherlock. "Aren't you being a little egotistical here? Laying all of these plans just tailored to you? Isn't that a little... unlikely?"
"You never met him, so you couldn't know. Our rivalry was something that, dare I say, was of epic proportions. Mythical, even."
"Okay," John scoffed, almost laughing.
"Anyway, when I unlocked the phone-- his birthday was the code, what a joke-- the phone was nearly bare. No apps downloaded for social media, no games, nothing non-standard to his phone. All of his storage used was from his gallery. Photos painstakingly organized, categorized, all noted with names, dates, everything. They told what seemed like stories, John.
They would start of him taking pictures of an individual from a distance who didn't seem to know they were being photographed, eventually they would get closer and closer over the course of weeks or days, then have a picture taken of him probably by the subject or a photo of him with the subject, then there would be a gap of days or a week with a final photo of him smiling with the person's arm or foot lying in the background. He murdered these people, somehow. All of those names came up with missing persons records or newspaper clippings of corpses being found, it is no coincidence I'm sure of it."
"And you never thought to call the police?" John asked, earning an incredulous look from his roommate.
"You're kidding, right? That evidence would have been easily destroyed. Besides, he wanted me to find it and that alone speaks volumes. He knew I couldn't do anything about it, but he wanted me to pursue him and turn him in. I was working on it, compiling info without the photos as evidence over the course of months.
I was at the crux of it all when he jumped. He's dead, it's pointless now. Plus, most cops around here are imbeciles, and the ones who aren't are bent ten ways to Sunday. It would have lead nowhere without all the info I compiled. You've been in the army too long, you're too used to accountability, Watson."
Sherlock clenched and unclenched his fist mindlessly, a nervous tic.
"Maybe so. You may not have been friends, but his death clearly effects you. Has the sessions with the school counselor been helping? You were there when I met you."
"No," Sherlock laughed sourly, "she was useless at her job. She is better suited at a primary school where they give out gold stars."
"Would you be willing to talk to me?" John asked, watching him with expressionless eyes. "I don't have formal training yet, but I believe I may be useful to you."
"It's not about use. However, if it behooves you, I will allow you to listen to my 'incessant ramblings' as Lestrade calls them." Sherlock held out his hand to be shaken.
John was adequately surprised, he didn't think Sherlock would take to the idea so quickly. Still sitting on the floor, he reached his hand up and shook hands with Sherlock as the mark of a deal being struck. John noticed a minute tremor in Sherlock's hand but did not comment as the taller boy excused himself to his computer to do more work on his thesis. John watched with interest, moving up onto his bed and taking a moment to stare at Sherlock's violin.
"How about an exchange, then? If you feel it is not beneficial enough for me." John felt selfish, almost fiendish in his request. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, reminded himself.
Sherlock looked up with a rare, momentary look of shock before letting his expression slip into a smirk of curiosity, "What is your price, then, Dr. Watson?"
"Play for me sometimes, play anything you like." John smiled meekly. "I love music, but I never learned how to play an instrument. Harry learned piano while my dad always sent me outside to play rugby with the neighborhood kids. It's one of my greatest regrets, never learning to play the piano with my sister."
Sherlock felt a passing heft within his chest as he saw John's hard expression change to something much younger, more bittersweet and naive. His palms began to sweat, the shaking stopped as his fingers hovered over the computer keys. No one ever asked him to play for them before, not like John just did. With a genuine sincerity beneath the selfish request. Not asking to play something from the top 50 hits, but to play from his own choice, an unusual request indeed.
Realizing the somber expression within this bit of honesty, his voice became something close to soothing, "Easy enough. I will indulge you that, you need only ask."
"Anytime?" John asked, a cheeky grin crossed his face.
"Within reasonable limits," Sherlock conceded, his cheeks tinting beneath the smile he hid behind his computer screen. His heart fluttered at the sight of such a gentle smile, he adjusted the laptop on his bed tray, making sure it was level enough to not bend forward.
His throat felt a little dry as he dwelled on that thought, he asked John to grab a water bottle for him while John was grabbing one for himself. John tossed it to him, going back to his bed and lying down.
Suddenly, John missed reading. The room was quiet, save for the clicking of the keys on Sherlock's laptop. With a frown, he glanced outside, then at his watch, deciding it wasn't too late to go by the library and pick up a few books for pleasure reading. He was still taking undergrad courses, so he clearly had the time.
Getting up, he stuffed his phone and wallet into his pants pockets, glancing over at Sherlock. "I'm going to the library, would you like to come?"
Sherlock met John's eyes which seemed miles away as he stared at the door to the hall, then glanced at the laptop. He had made some decent progress in the past week so he could step away for a while. "I suppose."
Sherlock stood and stretched before he stuck his wallet into his pants pocket. John pulled on his jacket and kindly reminded Sherlock to remember his jacket, since it would be cold out. Sherlock clicked his tongue with fondness, hiding his satisfaction of being worried about in a frown of disdain.
Sherlock placed his palm on the window, hand immediately chilled and had to agree, it was cold. He pulled on his jacket and scarf, glancing over at John with his leather bomber jacket. It was not nearly warm enough for the weather outside, but Sherlock disregarded it and opened the door for him as they left, locking the door behind them.
They walked to the library with leisure. Hands shoved in their pockets-- save for John's hand which held his cane-- and their chins tucked down as they watched the pavement ahead. The silence was weightless, the quiet sounds of fall around them as dry leaves crunched underfoot. When a particularly cold wind blew past, both instictively walked closer in hopes to gain warmth from the other. Neither noticed their arms brushed each other.
John's cane thudded soft of the concrete, his energy a little low due to the thin jacket not providing him enough warmth. He exhaled sharply and shakily, his breath showing in the dark as a white puff of air. His fingers were growing numb and tingled from the cold.
"Are you cold?" Sherlock asked, eyeing the library about 20 feet away, its lights a beacon in the dark.
John nodded, trying to pull the short collar of his jacket over his nose and mouth by sticking his head in like a turtle. "Sorry, yeah. I forget sometimes that nodding doesn't make a sound."
"My mother used to say 'Do you have rocks in your skull, because unless you do I can't hear a nod'." Sherlock smiled faintly, remembering the memory with some fondness.
"I guess it's because I spent so long in the southern hemisphere. It doesn't get as cold as it does here, rarely snows even." John shivered a little, "I just have to adjust again."
As they reached the stoop, John held the door open for Sherlock and followed him in. The warmth of the building immediately soothed them, taking off their coats and setting them on the back of a few chairs at an empty table by the front door.
"Do you have anything you're going to look for?" John asked.
"I didn't come along to follow you around," Sherlock quipped.
John stifled a laugh, going towards the shelf harboring the murder mysteries. Seeing the direction John went in, he shook his head as if in mock disappointment and went up the stairs to the second floor, dedicated to non-fiction and textbooks.
Sherlock took a glance off the balcony, seeing John reading the backs of paperbacks from a distance and felt a sense of deja-vu. It took him back to going to the library with his brother as youths. Sherlock had always dawdled in the botany, human biology, psychology, and forensic science sections while Mycroft lingered among political sciences, business, finance, and law.
Despite only seven years of age gap, Mycroft was already in the prime of his career and an indispensable figure in society. Sherlock, on the other hand, desired to beat his brother but had no realistic way to do so with his peculiarities, particularities, and general disengagement for setting forth more effort than necessary.
Sherlock was intelligent, absolutely. Top of his class? Always. However, he didn't put forth more effort than necessary to make friends, create roots, or set forth in establishing a career path. His parents had money to live peacefully in retirement; Mycroft paid for Sherlock's education in hopes he would make something of himself; and Sherlock just wanted to learn and absorb information. He felt dread at the thought of graduation, being set out into the world with need of finding a career-- a "purpose".
So he read, and with every book he read on subjects he enjoyed he would forget a little more about the things that didn't matter: the plot of books he took tests on in secondary school, heliocentric theory, the color wheel. None of it mattered, nothing mattered except his knowledge. The knowledge compiled over the past two decades.
He had a few books in his right arm: a book on the process of the creation of inks, a book on identification of air-borne diseases, and a how-to on tracking animals. Over the past few semesters he managed to read nearly every book that interested him, and was down to nearly three dozen left out of the entire upper floor. The realization made Sherlock glad he was going to graduate soon.
Taking a glance at the lower floor, Sherlock noticed John starting to struggle between juggling books and leaning on his cane. Though Sherlock had suspected the injury required for the cane was psychosomatic, outright saying so would go against the manners that Molly tried to drill into his thick skull. Going to the ground floor, he set his books on the table and walked over to John to offer his help.
John nodded sheepishly, but seemed put out by the need for help. Sherlock considered telling him the need for the cane was a crutch, that he was only making things more difficult for himself, but didn't in favor of carrying both sets of their books to check out.
The woman at the counter, early twenties with blue eyes and golden brown hair, caught John's eye and she smiled at him as he approached the checkout desk. Sherlock followed beside him and watched the girl with interest as John made small talk, looking over the books Sherlock picked with interest. John said a polite goodbye as he and Sherlock put on their coats and left with their books, Sherlock still holding them.
"You didn't ask her out." Sherlock pointed out, adjusting his scarf around his neck.
"Why would I?" John laughed, "Be odd to ask out of nowhere. Besides, I have barely even settled in, besides she wasn't interested."
"I thought that you had a bad leg, John. Not useless eyes." Sherlock rolled his eyes, "She was clearly flirting with you."
"You're joking," John squinted suspiciously, grinning. "Didn't take you for the joking type, Sherlock."
Sherlock put a hand on John's arm, stopping him from proceeding, "Must I walk you through everything, John? No, I'll just give highlights along the way. You're clearly cold."
Instinctively, Sherlock unwound his scarf with one arm and wrapped it around John's neck as he spoke, causing John to blink in confusion, in a daze as he listened. Sherlock started walking again, a bit in a rush as his mind worked quickly. John stumbled for a moment to match pace but caught up as he, unknowingly, depended slightly less on his cane.
"Women have an innate tendency to use a higher pitch in their voice in the presence of an attractive mate, it is believed by evolutionary psychology that it is due to the high voice correlating with youth and fertility which men find attractive and are more willing to copulate--" Sherlock went on, opening the door to their dorm building as he talked.
"Copulate?" John asked, flustered.
"To have sex, John." Sherlock tutted, as if disappointed.
"I know what it means--"
"I shall continue then," Sherlock pressed the up key on the elevator and stepped inside, waiting for John who shuffled in beside him. "Her eyes lingered on your lips, telltale sign, and she was digging to find out interests or established plans to see if she could wiggle her way into them. Those are just the most glaring ones--"
Greg was in their shared hall, leaning against the wall as he frowned at them, then beaming with shock, "It's nearly cerfew, guys, you shouldn't be out so close to-- wait, Sherlock, isn't that your scarf?"
"Yes, goodnight Lestrade. Tell Anderson to stop tattling about every time I leave after dark." Sherlock waved over his shoulder, unlocking the door and letting them both inside the room.
Once the door was closed, Sherlock set the books on the mini fridge and began undressing and preparing for bed on his side of the room. John took his books from the stack and set them beside his bed, sitting on his bed.
"I guess I didn't notice she was flirting," John admitted, "but when you put it like that, it was pretty obvious in hindsight. She isn't really interested, though."
Sherlock groaned, "Tedious. I just explained--"
"There's something you didn't notice, though, Sherlock." John's voice was quiet and brooding, "But you couldn't have seen, most people don't notice... Before she did all that, she noticed my leg then she began flirting with me."
"What does that matter?" Sherlock asked, pulling on his night pants. They were loose, so he untied the drawstrings and knotted it tighter.
"There are those who try to fix others, you know. A buddy of mine, back when I was... over there, he and one of the nurses got on well when he got hospitalized after an amputation. Long story short, she wanted to fix his arm, wanted to make it reappear somehow just by being saintly towards him.
It exhausted her and, after a while, he hated being treated like an ill child. He adapted to living without it but after she realized there are some things that don't need fixing she left him. She took their newborn daughter with her.
That girl at the library, in that moment, had that same look. The I can fix him look. I hate that look, and I don't want to see it again. That's why it matters." John sighed, "You didn't need to hear all that. I'm sorry."
Sherlock reached into the mini fridge and pulled out a water bottle and took a drink, shrugging, "No need. I shouldn't have insisted."
"Thank you," John unwrapped the scarf from his neck, just remembering it was there. It smelled like sandalwood and lavendar, he noticed. It was a comforting smell. "Here, your scarf. "
Sherlock took the scarf back wordlessly, setting it in the closet with his coat. John began changing his own clothes. Sherlock stepped into the bathroom and after brushing his teeth, sat on his bed and watched as John brushed his teeth with the door open.
"You don't need fixing, John." Sherlock agreed, "Not by her for that matter, she clearly makes poor choices."
John guffawed, "Wow, Sherlock. Tell me what you really think."
"She makes poor choices if she only looks for things to fix. Besides, your leg is fine. There's no physical wound, is there? I imagine it's psychosomatic, and maybe hearing that diagnosis is why you don't favor the uni psychologist."
John exhaled sharply through his nose, spit out his toothpaste and stomped to bed without another word to Sherlock. Sherlock was indeed right, the psychologist had said as much, but John refused to believe it. If it wasn't a real injury, then what was all his wasted time for? Time spent with a psychologist talking about his time in the military, time spent looking for a dorm with an elevator, time spent getting to class early to make sure to get an aisle seat in the front.
A dull pain twinged in his leg and he mentally cursed it, hearing Sherlock adjust in bed and falling asleep. What if there wasn't even anything to fix? Where would he be with all his wasted time?