Wanted to update If I Could Only, but this came out

Sherlock knew who the blond guy was. Of course he bloody knew.

John Watson. Who didn't know him? Who didn't know John Watson in the entire campus?

At the first sight of John Watson, Sherlock came to an abrupt halt, his mouth open like a goldfish, and hastily made into the urinal before John could spot him at all. He shut the door of the urinal behind him with an audible thud and for the first time since discovering the blond man in front of the library, he pressed his index and middle finger to the his carotid and took deep breaths to calm himself down. He closed his eyes and tried to think of anything, of searching for his latest timetable in the mess on the bed, of reminding Mycroft to get some of his stuff from home, of everything but John bloody Watson and his blue eyes and that damned smile.

Sherlock opened his eyes, slumped against the tiles and nails trying to dig into them. That had been a close shave. He retrieved his phone. It had brought him nothing but bad luck. Bad, bad luck. He had paid more for the old number and it didn't have voicemail (and what phone did not have voicemail in this tech-era, God!) and now he inadvertently had John Watson's number and his body protested against deleting it.

He pressed the delete button. Thankfully, the sky did not fall on him. A part of him said that he was stupid to have done so. John's number, the one precious link, the one thing that would distinguish him from all others who did not have John Watson's number and would bring him a step closer to even talking to John.

He chucked those useless thoughts away. Better to stay away from John Watson and everything that was him. All these years of life he had resisted getting close to a person, or even entertain the hope of getting close to someone having learnt the hard way that he wasn't the sort of person people wanted to get to know. He wasn't going to stop now. Wasn't going to make the same mistake again.

He smoothed down his shirt, fixed his hair so that he didn't look like he had been fucked thoroughly. Opened the door, and came face to face with John Watson.

Sherlock's body froze, his mind being the perpetrator. He had never seen John this close to him, look up at him with those intolerable blue eyes at that proximity.

"John Watson?" Sherlock enquired, grateful to hear his voice much steadier than his heart.

"Um, yeah?" John nodded. Sherlock could see that he was bracing for an attack. Even though he wasn't the most likeable person in there, he was too infamous and from John's demeanour, it wasn't hard to understand that even John knew his reputation.

"First thing," Sherlock spoke quickly, so that he didn't have to spend much time looking like an utter fool to him, "I do not know any Jim Moriarty. His friends have been bothering me a lot. Kindly inform them the same."

"Okay," John's voice was prompting, and Sherlock's mind was already preparing ways to drag John into the urinal and make him feel pleasure in the purest of ways.

"Second thing," Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, "get out of my way."

John looked at him confusedly, maybe a little indignantly at having formed the request so poorly and so rudely. He didn't understand that if Sherlock had put it in any other way, he'd have made an absolute sodding fool of himself in front of John Watson.

Wordlessly, but fuming, John moved to acquiesce. Sherlock resisted a glance behind him, a last one before John disappeared, after which he mentally slapped himself and made his way towards his dorms. He wasn't in a mood to attend his classes anymore.

Once the door was shut securely behind him and the world cut off from the privacy of his room, Sherlock collapsed on his bed and absentmindedly cupped the place between his legs. He stared up at the ceiling. Distantly, his phone rang somewhere, but he didn't care. Realising that he was touching himself again, he stopped and gripped the edges of his bed. He knew that he was safe now, that there was no power in the world which could make John Watson even suspect what Sherlock thought of him and now he was free to think as much about him as he could, but he was well above fooling himself like ordinary people did. John wasn't interested in him in the slightest. Would never be. If he dared go any further than where he was now, he'd end up . . . doing something stupid like. . . blurting everything out in front of John.

And so, he was very careful of what he revealed of himself.

John Watson was someone every girl in the campus talked about, whether Humanities or IR or Science or Engineering or Medicine or anything. Tanned golden, lips red, not very full, but they were pretty for a boy's. He was shorter than most men, 5'6 perhaps. He was sometimes picked at for his short height, but he had smooth comebacks ready. He was, well. . . not on the healthy side, but not thin as a lath too. He was slim, perhaps, yes that's what one could call him. Sherlock didn't prefer guys too slim or too healthy. There was a range, and John was just on the edge of it, thankfully. He had a couple of depressions on his face, small holes and sometimes acne that he was quite self-conscious about. He had less facial hair than average, except for a smart trim of beard on his chin that he kept stroking absentmindedly, drawing Sherlock's attention to it sometimes, even if he liked John clean-shaven. There was a youthful glow to his face, made him look lovely when he laughed. When he laughed, he scrunched up his whole face. His shoulders used to shake.

Sherlock stopped at that point. Not helping.

Not that there weren't studs in Cambridge. But John, he was different. There was something about him. The way he talked, smiled, it did something to Sherlock. There was a self-assuredness to him. There was an intensity to his gaze. He was soft and nice, the sort of guy who, if he found a topless girl in the backseat of his car, would drive her back to her house and bide her a nice and literal 'goodnight'. He was sure-footed, and he didn't have any problem making friends. Girls loved him, and regretfully, he loved girls back.

But the texts had revealed that John had a boyfriend. John was bisexual, perhaps. Sherlock felt like he had a chance, but that had been killed by this damned Jim person.

John and he used to share the molecular cell biology 2201 course last year. That was where he had first seen John. He had been wary of him from the first day, and the habit of keeping John at arm's length hadn't developed properly yet. Unlike other people, Sherlock had to make himself think that he could not have John close to him and he had to pretend to be indifferent to him, even rude on some occasions. He wasn't sure if John even remembered that he took a class with him last year, Sherlock thought with a pang.

Sherlock knew he was a mad guy, but John Watson, he made Sherlock take another course as same as his: Anatomy 101. And then Physiology 304. Liked watching John from a distance. In those moments when he allowed himself to dream a bit, he wondered how it would be, being near John, having John notice his presence. Maybe John would be the one to find him moderately likeable, tolerable. Maybe John would make him laugh, just a bit. Maybe John would let him touch him a bit.

Only this year, Sherlock's senses had kicked in when he realised that he was never going to have John Watson. Sherlock had never really talked to John Watson, let alone have him. Their conversation in the urinal (God, that sounded so pathetic) was effectively the only one Sherlock had had with John so far. And so, this term, Sherlock, out of his utter need, had kept his one-sided interactions with John Watson only till inorganic chemistry lab, which was yet to start.

His phone rang again. His brain told him that it might be John, that John wanted him back all along, and he only played hard to get. And now that John had Sherlock's number, they'd converse properly via texts.

He knew how wrong he was.

The inorganic lab was the only thing Sherlock was looking forward to that Michaelmas term. Books weren't everything that Sherlock relied on. World was a more important place, and where theoretical knowledge was, well, theoretical, practical knowledge was something Sherlock was keen to learn about.

Plus, this was the class he'd see John Watson in, almost a week after that texting incident. They had now stopped, and Sherlock fantasised that John had taken care of his little request and told his friends. Perhaps found his boyfriend too.

He had inorganic lab on Tuesdays and Fridays, 2:30 to 5:30. Six hours of John per week, if at a distance. That's all Sherlock allowed himself now. For John was dangerous. One slip, and John would infest him like cancer, tainting his orderly thoughts and destroy years of imperviousness in Sherlock. That urinal incident (or at least Sherlock regarded it as an incident) had been a slip, and it had been hours till Sherlock had managed to get rid of John's thoughts.

When he arrived, he already found John with his signature group of friends, secret admirers. Sherlock observed him from a distance. He allowed himself to sometimes think that John did not like so many people around him, for many of them tried to talk to him, and they all ended up talking within themselves. Sherlock liked thinking that John was alone like him, that John neededsomeone who could understand his loneliness and give him space and. . .

A sharp smack against a desk brought Sherlock back to real world. Sherlock stopped slouching against the counter table. He always sat at the front, seeing as that would not allow him an unobstructed view of John every time.

"Okay, I'm passing the groups for labs, three on a table, alright?" the instructor said. "Those without their lab coats and eye protection, back of the lab please!" This elicited a loud orchestra of groans and "fuck off" from many of them. Sherlock turned to look whether John had his. Surprisingly, he did.

The lab instructor flinched when he realised that Sherlock would be taking the sheet first. Sherlock could help but smirk at that. That was the effect he liked having on people, not the other way around. John Watson, being that one person, was to be kept away at a safe distance at every time. Sherlock would be safe from him, and he would be safe for Sherlock. Good for both of them.

His heart gave a twinge at that. He usually had what he wanted but. . . this. . . he shouldn't want. He couldn't want this.

He looked down at the paper with the group numbers. He wrote down his roll number and looked around, who to pass it to. John was not at a great distance away, five people away, in fact, given that most of them were still grumbling over their first lab gone to waste and were making their way to the back of the lab. If Sherlock passed it in John's direction, it would mean that John would have the table next to him. If he passed it the other way. . . that would be better, in every way. He'd be safe, he'd be far away from the danger that was John Watson.

No good would come out of it. John had a boyfriend who he was terribly dedicated to, if going by the way he politely rejected the advances that girls made on him. John wouldn't like him, John had a boyfriend, John had a boyfriend, John wouldn't like him.

He signed against his name, and passed it in John's direction, keeping his face stoically ahead. When he glanced at John, he could see the man gazing at the paper a bit too longer than other people had.

His phone buzzed.

Hi Jim :) :) :) 3 ~ xxxxxxx

Right at cue, it reminded him that he had been able to talk to John only because a bunch of people thought Jim—John's boyfriend, the red flags in his mind reminded him again—was the British equivalent of Bruno Mars. He looked around for the paper, instantly regretting his impulsive decision get the better of him. He glanced at John, who was imperturbable and oblivious to all the inner workings of Sherlock's mind.

The best he could hope for was that he didn't make himself out a fool, now that he had the slightest chance.

Did you really think that there was going to be no angst? Ha ha ha, smiles she like the devil.