It's Alright, John, a sherlock fanfic

Spoilers for episodes 1-6

I hadn't lived with Sherlock long enough to know what he was really saying to me after that first adventure with the homicidal cabbie. I'd taken the words at face value, the way I would have taken them had they been said to me by an ordinary person.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes of course I'm alright."

I was still trying to keep up my sham of innocense, a useless endeaver when one's flatmate is none other than the world's only consulting detective. He had seen through my charade long before the conversation had even started. The inquiry had a tiny note of genuine concern, but had this particular incident occured later in the time I spent with Sherlock Holmes, I would've heard the certainty.

Sherlock never asked a question he could deduce for himself and the words were practically dripping with his strange sort of reassurance. It was almost as if he were saying, "It's alright, John. It's okay now."

And the fact that I had dinner that night with one of the most extraodrinary lives I have ever had the pleasure of saving simply reinforced the fact.

The reassurance was Sarah's this time, and that was just as well. We had put that poor woman through Hell. And it was, admittedly, all Sherlock's fault.

I wanted to tell Sherlock that I was moving out. I wanted to scream and throw a tantrum, tell him that I never wanted to see him again. A beautiful, kind woman like Sarah had no business anywhere near a criminal orginization, and I should have had the opportunity to take said beautiful, kind woman on a date that wasn't fraught with peril.

But I couldn't, because without him, she would have died. Without him, I would have still been an invalid vetran, sitting alone in my tiny flat. And he was currently ripping the bonds off a crying Sarah all the while very gently, very un-sociopathically telling her that it was alright. And with every reassurance I felt the anger drain away and forgiveness begin to tug at my heart.

And in every one, I could hear the comfort intended for me as well.

"It's alright, John. It's okay now."

And despite the harrowing first date, I ended up getting a second chance with Sarah so I suppose he was right, as usual.

"Alright? ARE YOU ALRIGHT!?"

This wasn't a reassurance, this was a plea, proof in and of itself how disturbed he was. His pale fingers ripped the bomb-coat off of me, nearly taking my arm off with it.

In a weird sort of reversal, I reassured him. I didn't have it in me to leave such a desperate plea unanswered. I sank to the ground as he paced around the pool, filled with a nervous energy.

Before we were anywhere near done assuring ourselves that the other was alright, Moriarty came back and those horrible red lasers danced among Sherlock's messy black curls.

I nodded at Sherlock as he lowered my gun towards the explosives; if we were going down, this madman was going down with us. The seed of a plan had already formed in my head, if I were to jump at the same time Sherlock fired the gun, I might be able to get him into the pool before the inevitable explosion. It wouldn't be much protection, but I had to do my best to keep him alive.

Because the world needed a consulting detective. Because I needed my friend. And because I had already learned that the saying "you can choose your friends" was a lie.

But my plans came to naught. The BeeGees rang through the air and the consulting criminal disappeared, calling off the snipers with a snap of his fingers.

The need to be back in 221B overcame us then. It wasn't rational, and if Sherlock hadn't been so worked up, he probably would've mentioned that our flat wasn't any sort of safe haven from Moriarty. Nevertherless, neither of us could relax until we were both safe at home.

I sank into my chair and put my head between my legs, the dizziness of the adrenaline rush still tugging at me. Ever the opposite, Sherlock paced around the clutter of our flat with the same nervous energy he'd shown during our brief respite at the pool, all the while muttering;

"It's alright, John. It's okay now."

And for a while, it was.

In retrospect, I could never quite be sure whether I hated, or loved the Baskerville case.

On one hand, Henry Knight was restored. Formerly a broken, manic therapy patient, Henry was now free to live his life seperate from the terror of his past. It was one of my personal favorite aspects of Sherlock's cases, seeing broken people restored, and it wasn't one that happened often.

Another point in it's favor was the fact that Sherlock Holmes got something wrong for a change. An anomoly I never thought I'd ever be privy to. Perhaps it was a bit cruel of me to point it out the way I did, but I was very eagerly waiting for a set of circumstances that would take the arrogant sod down a few notches.

And it had been nice to hear from Sherlock that I was his friend. It had been more than nice, actually. Over the year I had put my life on the line for him more than once. Despite his tendency to annoy me out of my wits, this man had become the very best friend I had ever had the priviledge of knowing, and the most important person in my life. And although I didn't like to waste energy thinking about it, although it was so selfish that I considered it the antithesis of all I strove to be; I couldn't help wondering if my affections for my friend were one sided. Yet, during that bizarre, horror-filled case, in the most sincerest of apologies that I had ever heard the man give, Sherlock reassured me that he didn't have friends. Just one. And I was proud to be that one.

On the other hand, the hound was one of the most terrifying things I have ever seen. Glowing, gigantic, with hungry red eyes, I cowered away from it in absolute horror, finally realizing that it was all true.

And then like waking from a nightmare, the lights turned on and there was Sherlock asking if I was alright in a tone that was a strange hybrid of his reassurance and his plea. I remember frantically searching for the monster, all the wonder trying to work out how Sherlock had been able to waltz into the lab were the beast had been prowling. He couldn't have shot it, as I hadn't heard gunshots. Had he lured it somewhere else? Where else? And Sherlock spent the whole time saying,

"It's alright, It's okay now."

And although I screamed to the world that it wasn't, it really was.

The last time it happened, Sherlock was being arrested. It was something I never thought I'd see, regardless of the warnings of Sally Donovan and Anderson.

It was ridiculous. These people knew Sherlock, had stood by and watched him solve cases, nobody could fake being that clever, not even Sherlock Holmes.

His reassurance was quiet, meant only for me;

"It's alright, John."

And in the midst of my arguments with the Yard, I took the time to throw a "no it's not" over my shoulder at him.

Because it wasn't. It really, really wasn't.

He was carted away, still standing tall, like a king going towards his execution. (1)

I couldn't leave him like that. I didn't have money to bail him out again, and I couldn't bear to watch his name dragged through the mud. Fortunately the Chief Superintendent gave me a perfect opportunity.

"Joining me?"

"Yeah, apparently it's against the law to chin the Chief Superintendent."

It's alright, John. It's okay now.

I heard it from everybody this time. Everybody except him. Sherlock couldn't reassure me now, because Sherlock was dea-

Mrs. Hudson brewed endless cups of tea and sat quietly with me. Lestrade seemed to feel that it was his particular duty to look after me as much as possible and was frequently over at the flat. My bank account was suddenly filled with a very large check from a "very" anonymous benefactor. Molly wrapped her two skinny arms around my shaking shoulders and simply held me as I sobbed.

They all whispered that it would be alright, it'd be okay in time.

I stared at my broken reflection in the grave marked Sherlock Holmes and wondered how this could ever, ever be considered alright.

I could almost hear him give his strange comfort.

It's alright, John. It's okay now.

No it's not alright, Sherlock. This will never be okay.

AN: Wow, that was rather depressing of me...I feel the need to apologize. Oh well. Anyway, this is just a piece centered around a repeated line I noticed when first watching the show. Sherlock often tells or asks John if he's alright.

I'm not sure I got a cohesive tone with this piece, but I've angsted enough about it enough, so I'm just going to post and hope for the best! On a side note, John Watson is a surprisingly easy perspective to write from. His voice just came out naturally. (Might be due to the fact that he is my favorite character-at least in this version of Sherlock). The piece was originally written in 3rd person with an omnipotent narrator, and I found it rather dull. Although it's not perfect, I like it so much better in 1st person, John Watson's POV. Thoughts?