I Am Not Stupid, Sherlock

Rating: T

Note: I hope you enjoy!

Despite Sherlock's snide remarks to the contrary, I am not a stupid man. In my medical practice, I am methodical and discerning. My time in Afghanistan taught me to trust my instincts, which is why I believe I made it back to London, unlike so many of my comrades in arms.

There were times, under that pitiless blue sky, when the world grew still and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I quickly learned to trust this feeling. Trouble, while perhaps unseen at that moment, was waiting around the next switchback in the road. The one time I ignored this feeling and limited myself to my rational mind, I paid dearly. Hence the shoulder. To this day, when it aches in the cold and the pain is hard to tolerate, I remind myself that the truly important lessons that we learn *cost*. They cost us dearly so that we never forget.

Mycroft is right about me missing the war. I don't miss the bloodshed, the sheer panic, the boredom. What I do miss is the clarity and exhilaration that comes from those near-death moments of chance. Coming back to London and trying to reacclimatize to civilian life was daunting because of that lack of adrenaline, of clarity. I walked the streets and felt as if I was dreaming whilst I was awake.

Nighttime was a different matter entirely. Nighttime eloquently illustrated to me that Michael, that the other lads, were always going to be with me, would always be lost. Hands held over pumping wounds, trying not to flinch at the sound of automatic gunfire, trying to focus on keeping them with me, watching as my orderlies ran away and I was helpless, I shuddered and cried and thrashed.

So, I've always considered my meeting with Stamford to be a stroke of good fortune. Since meeting my flatmate and best friend Sherlock Holmes, I've re-entered something of a civilian life, and the dreams have lessened. I sometimes wonder if the bizarre and outrageous crimes we investigate in some fashion mitigate the horrors from Afghanistan. Sometimes I think that Sherlock's cases simply keep me too occupied (and tired – did I mention that the man doesn't sleep?) to dwell on my own past. No matter the reason, Sherlock's friendship and my inclusion into his life have been a new chapter in my life, and mostly a good one.

That being said, let me return to my first statement about not being stupid. I know that I am being subtlety stalked. The small glances, the escalating touches. The innocuous comments designed to distance me further from my sister. The less subtle attempts to ruin my dates or prevent them altogether. Sherlock at his most open is a hard man to read, so these inferences I've made have taken months to coalesce.

After seven months of living together, I am fairly sure that Sherlock either considers me his possession or is trying to own me. I wish I could consider love on that short list, but how can a man with such an icy heart feel such a thing? I acknowledge my romantic streak and try to stick to the facts.

Last week, when I attended the crime scene with Sherlock for the door-to-door baker murders, I noticed that things had changed once again. Did I encourage this? Being the focus of such an intense regard was flattering, if uncomfortable. Should I have drawn a line? Did I want to draw a line?

When Donovan and Anderson offered their usual, snide remarks I was infuriated. It was two in the morning, and we'd taken a twenty minute taxi ride to get to the crime scene, for people who couldn't have been more ungrateful. Looking Donovan in the eye, I'd firmly said, 'We don't have to be here. You called *us*, remember? I'll thank you to have a little more courtesy addressing the man who'll help you crack this case.'

Sherlock, as usual, seemed to be deaf to their bullying and was busily going through the pockets of the deceased. I thought I saw a small smile, however, hovering at the edges of his mouth.

'Leave off, Sally', Anderson smirked. 'The freak's boyfriend must be feeling sensitive tonight'.

I was divided equally between my embarrassment about their juvenile remarks and my concern for my friend and flatmate, although Sherlock always let that type of comment slide unanswered. I could be an adult if he could, however, so after one more glare I returned my attention to the corpse in front of me.

I dozed on our taxi ride home, later that night. I had no one to blame but me for my exhaustion. After a gruelling day seeing patients I'd decided to follow my friend halfway across London to investigate this latest murder, and I supposed I was happy and grateful to do so. I awoke as the taxi parked on Baker Street by our flat, my head resting on Sherlock's shoulder. He was humming tunelessly, staring out into the night.

I rubbed my eyes and scrambled out of the car after Sherlock.

The walk upstairs was just enough to wake me fully. It was five in the morning, and I knew I'd have a hard time going straight to bed. I wandered into the kitchen, deciding to make myself a cuppa and perhaps reheat the leftovers from two nights ago. As I returned to our main room, my hair rose on the back of my neck and I knew something had changed.

Sherlock sat in his chair, watching me with those slashing grey eyes. I wondered what he was thinking. I wondered if I wanted to know what he was thinking. Uneasy, I made my way into the room and sat on the sofa.

'John', he said, that baritone voice making it sound sleepy and somehow *sexual*. 'Anderson marked your left wrist with fingerprint powder'. He stood up and paced over to me. 'An accident, I am sure'.

Gentle yet inexorable fingers claimed my wrist. A handkerchief appeared (from where?), and my wrist was thoroughly yet gently buffed.

'He should be more careful'.

Grey eyes stared into mine, cold and yet hot. Shaken, I made a stupid joke and thanked him. My instincts were screaming, but rationally there was nothing amiss and no danger present.

'Right, then. Thanks. I'll be off to bed, then', I said, smiling for all I was worth. Sherlock just smiled that same secretive little smile, looking at me like he could see all of me, *through* me.

I admit it. I decided to tactically retreat.

Later that night in my bedroom, I considered the meaning of being the best friend and flatmate of a supposed sociopath. FACT: I owed Sherlock my life, and solving cases with him was immensely satisfying. Almost like saving a life from the field surgery tent. FACT: things were changing between us and I didn't know how to react. FACT: I'd caught him following me at various times, most notably my last tea with his brother. FACT: I spent more time than I reasonably should thinking about a flatmate or colleague. He was just so bloody luminous, though.

FACT: I felt like I was being hunted.

FACT.

I don't doubt my instincts. I was being stalked. I was being slowly and carefully hunted, to what purpose I didn't yet know. Since I was being honest with myself, I had to admit that along with being alarmed, I felt flattered. After twenty years of pursuing women, pleading my case, joking and seducing my way into their beds, it was strange and yet exhilarating to be the one pursued.

Perhaps I would go with it and see where it went.

Three weeks later, in a churchyard near the Baskerville testing site, I feel like a bloody fool. Whatever looks or gestures I'd seen, obviously I'd misconstrued them. Sherlock had told me to my face that he didn't have friends, and he'd pushed me away, preferring to suffer and think in solitude.

I sat in that churchyard staring at nothing, although making a few notations in my notebook as thoughts occurred to me. Suddenly, Sherlock was in front of me, shooting me sharp glances and trying to talk about the case. I felt confused and tired.

'Good luck with that, then', I told him, preparing to walk back. I was obviously out of my depth and misreading what was happening in our rel-...friendship.

'Listen, what I said before John, I meant it. I don't have friends'.

I felt like cold water had been poured over me. I felt scared, and sad, and angry. How stupid I was, opening myself up for unknown possibilities. I turned again to leave, but Sherlock is a hard man to ignore.

'I don't have friends. I just have one', he said to me, those grey eyes like lasers on my face.

Hope blossomed in my chest, along with fear and uncertainty. Time to retreat. I didn't know the battle plan, I didn't know the terrain. What was solid and relatable was back in London, in my practice. I turned to go.

'John?'

'John!'

Sherlock ran to catch up with me, and I didn't know if I was pleased or scared.