Elementary, my dear Watson.

The teacher has proposed a game of heads up seven up. Easy. Little Sherlock is picked the first round, thumbs down, and when it comes his turn to guess who tagged him out, obviously, he knows who immediately. He explains, tiny as he is, in great detail. 

He loves the game because it gives him an opportunity to deduce, and do so out loud for the class, and he does it smiling because he loves it. it’s like his own personal show and tell. Firstly, he explains a few things. How he listened to the slightly weightier footsteps of whoever tagged him and through the process of elimination decided who it might be and who it clearly wasn’t. He explains how he felt the brushing of a long shirt sleeve against his wrist. More possibilities eliminated. He goes on and on, until he wins. Maybe he goes a little too far and deduces for everyone who was picked. Maybe he accidentally misses the point of the game and solves the whole thing, calls each person out one by one. His classmates aren’t happy. Maybe, after that, they even start being mean to him.

The next time the game is played, Sherlock like usual is excited. He’s ready to participate and play, and he waits and waits and waits and expects to be picked, but… no one chooses him. He doesn’t get to play, and class lets out. He goes home feeling isolated and disappointed, and more than just a little sad. He feels lonely. Then comes the third and the fourth game, the fifth and the sixth. It’s a reoccurring theme now that his classmates aren’t picking him, and being the smart little guy he is he knows that. He knows it’s deliberate. He goes from playing the game, to being on the sidelines, sitting in the middle of the classroom. Alone but surrounded. Excellent but never picked. He’s not being included anymore and it hurts somewhere in his funny little head knowing his classmates don’t like him because he’s weird or a show off or whatever other names they call him. He puts his head down on his desk and tries to play anyways. Maybe he holds onto a shred of hope that he will be picked, eventually. Maybe the teacher will make everybody be nice to him.

Then one day, his heart aching, his little face buried in his arms on the desk waiting to be picked— someone makes him jump. Someone does the unexpected, and they tap him. He’s filled with bewilderedness and excitement and anticipation and it takes all of his energy not to cry or peek, and when it comes the time to finally look up, he does so with his thumb down for the first time in weeks. He’s confused, feeling a million things at once— and then he locks eyes with an unfamiliar face among the rest at the front of the class. A new student, one that had been introduced a few days prior. John Watson. And he’s smiling at him.

Sherlock seems to ignore him for a few moments, fingers still steepled at his chin, before finally peeping up. But the tone he takes on isn’t a warm one. It’s cold, analytical, and entirely focused on something that obviously isn’t his flatmate. When he speaks, the octave is low, and his words dismissive: “… Please, do try to keep your distance. I am trying to think, and your hands are very distracting.”

John, being a tease and apparently not catching the seriousness in Sherlock’s tone, continues anyways. His hands continue to trail over the front of his shirt, smoothing out the fabric, and affectionately mapping out the definitions of his chest with his fingers: “Are they now? Distracting you.”

Sherlock’s silence has made a sudden comeback and he doesn’t even bother with a reply. He simply sits, utterly still, with his fingers resting against his chin. He isn’t receptive at all to the touches he’s receiving, and John feels almost like he’s hugging a statue. Only then does he get the idea. He pulls away reluctantly, and stands up straight as if ready to walk off. His voice holds a bit of disappointment as he speaks: "Right, then. Affection is bad news for brain work I suppose… sorry for interrupting.”

The silence continues for another brief moment before Sherlock realizes John’s hands are missing from him, and something about the absence, apparently, bothers him; he perks up, opens his eyes, and turns suddenly, looking aghast if not slightly offended that John had actually removed himself from his person: "Wait, what— where are you going, what are you doing?”

John pauses for a good few seconds, and then tries to bite back a bit of an intrigued, if not slightly confused grin. He looks Sherlock up and down and quirks an eyebrow before speaking up, quietly: “I’m… stopping, leaving the room? You asked me to.”

Sherlock looks bewildered, his expression feigning offense still. He glances down at a random object to his left as if looking for an answer there, then turns to John again, his eyebrows furrowing: “No, I didn’t.”

John is full on grinning now, though he looks even more confused than before, even having to fight a laugh at his lover’s sudden change in mood: “Sherlock—”

Before he can continue, he’s rudely interrupted by the detective, who has now turned his attention away again: “I was only complaining. I don’t recall asking you to stop.”

Now it’s John’s turn to be silent, bewildered. After a moment’s hesitation he quietly resumes his position behind Sherlock, and gingerly wraps his arms around him again. Sherlock’s posture softens under his hands, and his eyes close as if ready to pick up where he’d left off the first time. He waits until John has settled completely to steeple his fingers at his chin again, and mutters quietly: “Yes. Thank you.”

More silence passes between the two of them, Sherlock apparently in his mind palace, and John holding onto him for warmth. He nuzzles at his ear softly, and mumbles against it after a few quiet moments: “… I know you’re here, Sherlock. How long do you intend on sitting, pretending to be in your mind palace like this?”

With that, the detective smiles, finally. He leans his head against John’s and chuckles, keeping his fingers neatly steepled at his chin though the both of them know there’s no reason for them to stay there anymore. When his reply comes, it’s soft and simple, and he emphasizes his contentment by leaning into the warmth of the other man’s lips against his ear.

The teacher has proposed a game of heads up seven up. Easy. Little Sherlock is picked the first round, thumbs down, and when it comes his turn to guess who tagged him out, obviously, he knows who immediately. He explains, tiny as he is, in great detail. 

He loves the game because it gives him an opportunity to deduce, and do so out loud for the class, and he does it smiling because he loves it. it’s like his own personal show and tell. Firstly, he explains a few things. How he listened to the slightly weightier footsteps of whoever tagged him and through the process of elimination decided who it might be and who it clearly wasn’t. He explains how he felt the brushing of a long shirt sleeve against his wrist. More possibilities eliminated. He goes on and on, until he wins. Maybe he goes a little too far and deduces for everyone who was picked. Maybe he accidentally misses the point of the game and solves the whole thing, calls each person out one by one. His classmates aren’t happy. Maybe, after that, they even start being mean to him.

The next time the game is played, Sherlock like usual is excited. He’s ready to participate and play, and he waits and waits and waits and expects to be picked, but… no one chooses him. He doesn’t get to play, and class lets out. He goes home feeling isolated and disappointed, and more than just a little sad. He feels lonely. Then comes the third and the fourth game, the fifth and the sixth. It’s a reoccurring theme now that his classmates aren’t picking him, and being the smart little guy he is he knows that. He knows it’s deliberate. He goes from playing the game, to being on the sidelines, sitting in the middle of the classroom. Alone but surrounded. Excellent but never picked. He’s not being included anymore and it hurts somewhere in his funny little head knowing his classmates don’t like him because he’s weird or a show off or whatever other names they call him. He puts his head down on his desk and tries to play anyways. Maybe he holds onto a shred of hope that he will be picked, eventually. Maybe the teacher will make everybody be nice to him.

Then one day, his heart aching, his little face buried in his arms on the desk waiting to be picked— someone makes him jump. Someone does the unexpected, and they tap him. He’s filled with bewilderedness and excitement and anticipation and it takes all of his energy not to cry or peek, and when it comes the time to finally look up, he does so with his thumb down for the first time in weeks. He’s confused, feeling a million things at once— and then he locks eyes with an unfamiliar face among the rest at the front of the class. A new student, one that had been introduced a few days prior. John Watson. And he’s smiling at him.

Let’s talk about the scene that comes right after the opening credits real quick. (From the moment it pans in on sherlock to the explosion that happens shortly afterword. If you need to, go re-watch it… anyways.)

I don’t really feel like writing a novel at the moment, so, to shorten things up a bit.

The dramatic toss of his robe as he flops on, and curls into the sofa; immediately assuming the fetal position.

“Where are you going?”

How he watches John leave through the window like a literal puppy once their spat is over with.