Disclaimer: I don´t own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit with them.
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The Feeling Is Mutual
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Ever since we first met, Sherlock Holmes has had a strange hold over me. Not in a literal sense- never in a literal sense, since he´s rather averse to physical contact, but somehow, he is capable of making me do whatever he commands. Which does admittedly sound pathetic on my part, and it´s not exactly as though he tells me to jump and I ask how high, but that doesn´t change the fact that I am spending a lot of time catering to my flatmate´s quirks.
The reason for this however is neither that I am putty in his hands, nor do I have a masochistic disposition.
Someone who is unfamiliar with the two of us probably would not understand how our relationship works. I shot a man to save Sherlock´s life on the second day of our acquaintanceship, which should tell you a great deal about me. Someone said I was getting very loyal very quickly, but that´s not true.
He fascinated me, of course. I couldn´t believe how precise and accurate his mind worked, and how many details he caught which others hardly ever notice, or maybe simply don´t pay attention to. Being with him rather quickly put something in my life right, something which had been off-balance and made me miserable ever since I returned from service. Sherlock however reminded me that there were other things than self-pity and hopelessness, and suddenly, a lot of things seemed possible again, things I thought I had lost- like the full use of my left leg.
I soon realized that I was smitten, and there was no going back. No matter how many times I was angry about Sherlock because frankly, life with a genius of his dimensions wasn´t always easy (and still isn´t), I couldn´t let him run off alone. Apart from the thrill which we both enjoy whenever we´re on a case, I do feel protective of him. Yet there´s still another reason.
Contrary to Sherlock´s opinion about my deductive skills I have a fairly good eye for people. I may not be able to tell what they have eaten for breakfast after just one look, or whether they have betrayed their spouse with the pool guy, but I can rely on my guts when it comes to decency.
Yes, Sherlock Holmes is a decent man. Most of the people who know him would probably disagree, but their knowledge of him is superficial at best. There is a side to him which he carefully hides, buried deeply under layers of sarcasm, rudeness and irritability. He doesn´t suffer fools easily, and to him, nearly everyone is a fool. He exaggerates, of course, but there are times at which he does have a point.
One might argue that there is no need for him to treat others as disrespectful as he does. One might stress that he seems to enjoy it. Both of which are undeniably true, but after my initial bafflement at witnessing him interacting with the police and various other people, I have begun to watch him more closely on such occasions.
It´s not that Sherlock sets out to nettle the world around him. It´s what he does to be able to take it on. There are ever so subtle signs: a slight squaring of his shoulders, the turning up of his coat collar, the necessity to be quick so he can be one step ahead of whoever he is facing. He is the odd one out and, judging from his non-existent social life and the general way he conducts himself, always has been. Sally Donovan might not have been the first one to call him 'freak'. Kids can be as cruel as they can be inventive; there will have been other names.
The way I see it, Sherlock has used every single one of them and built an armour out of it. He knows that he usually is the cleverest person in the room, so he uses his words as weapons, as shields. He´s learned, at some point along the way, that attack is the best means of defence.
And yet he feels. He may deny it, but the other side of him, the one which is quite often visible for me, sometimes for our mutual acquaintances and never for strangers, is as susceptible to emotions as everyone else. It´s the side which shines through when he plays the violin, for example, or when he simply can´t hide that he cares for me- like that night at the pool with Moriarty, or when I got the flu and Sherlock attempted to cook soup. It´s the thought that counts, I told him afterwards.
He usually shows his affection in a thousand indirect ways, ways I had to learn to read. When I came home from work on cold days he had a fire going in the fireplace. I did think nothing of it until I realized that he also did so when he hadn´t even been using the living room, which is otherwise kept more or less sufficiently warm by an ancient radiator, which albeit is nothing in comparison to a cosy fire in front of which to relax.
He buys scratch cards for Mrs Hudson when she´s unwell, something he otherwise shakes his head about.
He rarely asks for my opinion but often starts an argument to get it anyway.
He died for me.
The months which have been following that event have been the worst experience I can recall, including my time in Afghanistan. There was no one else I could relate to anymore, familiar faces seemed to have become alien. There was no more violin play, no more warmth, no home. I was drifting through the days and clawing my way through the nights. I often had to leave my light on in order to be able to fight off my nightmares, but in the end, they even started to haunt me while I was awake.
Later, I learned that Sherlock has suffered as well. His faked suicide had ended life as he knew it and started a time of great deprivations, for both of us. There was no comfort to be had, no light at the end of the tunnel to look forward to, no definite edge to our respective environments; we have thoroughly been messed about.
His return has shaken the world once more, but with that, things were slowly beginning to fall back into place.
For outsiders, I am at his beck and call. But I know better. Sherlock Holmes is my friend, and friends stick together.
I dare say the feeling is mutual, because for all I know, ever since we first met, I, John Watson, have also had a strange hold over Sherlock. He did even say so, after all, and knowing him as well as I do, I can safely deduce that he really meant it, despite the rather playful way in which it was delivered: "I´d be lost without my blogger."
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The End
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