MY FEELS!

lifted from The british teapot… used without permission… link to original above

John Watson had come into the library for a quiet afternoon of study. Third year of schooling, nearly done, he knew exactly how he liked to study— in a quiet room with no distractions, his nose in the book and away from all of his friends and teammates. He’s a sporty one, you know.

He even had his own spot, right near a window by the back closet, where the smell of old books lingered and people were rarely ever there. This time, however, John spotted a young man sitting at his table. Polite as ever, he only smiled and took seat beside him.

Unlike John, this young man wasnt polite at all. Sherlock Holmes had almost dismissed John until the male sat at his side. He immediately set about looking him over— short hair, so he must play sports. A hooded shirt, so he enjoys his comfort and probably has nothing to do for quite a while. A nice stack of books, so he’s in several classes and has a lot to study for— but no notebook and no pen, so he isn’t taking notes. He’s only reading. Sherlock smirks to himself and scoots his chair further away from John, garnering no attention.

So he scoots further once more. He’ll need the leg room.

“Sorry, am I in your way?” John asks as he lifts his head to the younger male across from him.

“Not at all.”

Sherlock waits until John returns his gaze to the text in his book — it’s time to strike.

In one swift move he swings his legs up onto the table and sets the heels of his feet on John’s books. “Sorry, am I in your way?” he taunts.

John merely grunts, but decides to ignore the invasive feet in his way. The long, crossed legs of Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t distract him. “Not at all,” John retorts as he reads whatever text he can. When he’s run out of words to read, he rests his cheek on his hand and closes his eyes.

Sherlock pauses, curious as to why his legs weren’t shoved away or why John hadn’t yet moved. His antics were tolerated, and to him, it was a surprise.

“You could have pushed my feet, you know.”

“I know.”

Five minutes pass and neither boy had made a move. Sherlock reaches across the table, snatches one of John’s books and opens it at the half-way mark, placing it on his face. He props it high enough so that he can peek down at John if he should decide to. He folds his hands in his lap and waits. They both wait. They’re waiting for the other to make a move and break this silent contest they have going on.

A silent friendship forms. The two sit like this for hours, at times glancing to one another and catching a look or a smile from the young man sitting opposite, but it’s nice. It’s warm and comforting and unlike any bond they’d ever formed. They have a connection, all at once, and it’s suddenly become a lingering joy.

The day ends with an exchange of names and an unspoken promise. Every Saturday at noon, for the rest of the school year, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes would meet at the back of the library to study.

And more often than not, it would end with a book on Sherlock’s head and feet on John’s book. One of these days, John will have enough of it and tip the curly-haired boy out of his chair, but that time has yet to come.