2 a.m.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Greg groaned and glanced at his watch. 2:30 am. Jesus Christ, was that pounding in his head? After only two pints? Oh wait, no, it was on the door. Rubbing his eyes and grabbing a t-shirt to pull over his bare chest, he forced himself to roll out bed to answer that infernal knocking that would not stop. Being an RA for the freshman dorms was great, really. He loved putting together pizza and movie nights, helping new students find their way around, making the kids feel more secure about their new homes, but holy shit he could not wait for the semester to finally be over so he could get a solid night’s sleep. If he had to deal with one more midnight complaint about the rank of marijuana or screeching violin noises coming from Sherlock’s room, he was going to throttle that guy to within an inch of his life.
He opened the door and sighed. Not a complaint from another student, thank God, but the next worst thing: a complaint from Sherlock’s roommate.
“What on earth has he done this time, John?” Greg asked impatiently with a yawn.
Despite the ungodly hour, John was still in his day clothes, shirt messily untucked and pants wrinkled to within an inch of their sorry lives. Dark shadows around the bottom of his eyes told Greg that the poor rugby player hadn’t slept in days, more likely than not from his obnoxious dorm mate’s noisy shenanigans.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“That’s the problem. Not a damn thing. He hasn’t left the room in a week, he only plays his violin quietly, he’s smoking cigarettes instead of joints. Something’s wrong,” John explained.
Greg had to stop and scratch his head for a moment, blinking several times to make sure he wasn’t in some back-ass-ward dream. He was getting a complaint about Sherlock Holmes actually not being a colossal ass? It was the stuff of twisted trips.
“Alright,” he finally ceded. “Let’s go see what’s got his knickers in a twist.”
With John exhaling in relief, the two made their way to the dorm room at the very end of the hall (Mycroft Holmes had specifically talked with the housing department to get his little brother’s room as secluded as possible while still forcing him to live on campus). When John slowly opened the door, Greg was immediately accosted by a thick cloud of heavy tobacco smoke and the low tune of befuddled humming. Through the dimness, he could see that Sherlock was perched on top of the chair he had moved to be on top of his desk scattered with papers, book, empty energy drink cans, and empty packs of cigarettes, giving the makeshift structure the appearance of a Hoover Ville pyramid. The man himself had his legs propped up on the window sill, a half smoked stick lazily held between his lips, and his eyes closed under a lazy frown.
“Get out,” he ordered without opening his eyes, taking such a long drag that the cigarette burned out completely and he spit the butt aside.
“Sherlock, consider this an intervention,” John announced as he flicked on the lights. “I can’t stand your moping anymore.”
“I don’t need an intervention.”
The words sounded like a pout.
“Yes you do, mate,” Greg coughed, still trying to evict the secondhand smoke from his lungs. “And if you refuse to cooperate I am not afraid of allowing Mycroft full access to your room for a drug sweep.”
This caught Sherlock’s attention. He opened his eyes, but just narrowly enough to shoot them both a rapturing glare. Letting out an indignant huff, he climbed down from his precarious seat to just lean against the bed as to stand eye-to-eye with his friends. Greg grimaced at the sight of him up close. The younger Holmes looked like even more of a mess than John. It was unpleasantly obvious by smell alone that it had been at least a week since he had showered, and even though he was naturally skinny, it looked as if he hadn’t eaten in a week either.
“So what’s the problem?” Greg asked.
John rolled his eyes.
“A girl. He’s hiding in his room because of a girl.”
Greg felt his jaw go slack against his will. He and the rest of the RA’s just assumed that Sherlock didn’t fancy women, but bang goes that theory.
“I’m not hiding,” Sherlock grumbled. “I’m strategizing and predicting possible scenarios.”
“You’re scared because even though Molly fawns over you, you have no idea how to ask her out because of your own stupid arrogance and pride,” John snapped, his patience obviously worn thin by lack of sleep.
Molly Hooper? The mousy forensics major from the crime scene photography class the four of them took together? He had spoken to her a few times before, but not enough to really get to know her. She was sweet, that much was obvious, but also that she was hopelessly head over heels for Sherlock. On more than one occasion, she and Sherlock had been lab partners only for Molly to end up doing the whole project herself while the younger Holmes messed around with the equipment…
“You know she adores you?” Greg offered.
“Obviously,” Sherlock retorted sharply. “But that makes things… problematic.”
This made Greg roll his eyes almost as hard as it did for John.
“For Christ’s sake, mate, just ask her out for a pint! We all know she won’t say ‘no,’ and with a brain like hers who knows how long it will last before some other guy comes along. I swear to God, Sherlock, if you don’t ask her, I will.”
He only half meant it, but the comment made Sherlock jump, and both Greg and John laughed hysterically. Greg yawned and checked his watch. At least he could get a few hours of sleep before his next class.