A/N: This is my first Sherlock fic, and while I set out to write something fluffy and romantic, I ended with something quite different. However, I am quite glad that this is how it came out. I am slowly inching my way into Sherlock and I think my writing should reflect their shifting bond. It kinda got a little deep here towards the end... -_-; Please review, I would like to know if I should continue writing Sherlock fics...and constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. :heart:
Mycroft did gnaw on my nerves quite a bit. He was smart, I'd give him that, but not in the way Sherlock was. He had information, he had connections and he was clever enough when it came to analyzing people- yet he just wasn't amazing, not like his brother. No, only Sherlock could both anger and amaze at the same time. Only Sherlock made it seem cruelly right. With Mycroft, it was wrong.
I don't know why my mind lingered on him as we walked away from the flashing lights of the scene. We were supposed to be headed to the Chinese restaurant; I knew Sherlock hadn't eaten since we'd been watching out for the suspect, perhaps even longer.
"He's charming," I managed to say, still unable to forget the encounter with another Holmes. Sherlock tensed ever so slightly next to me, gloves making a light rustle as his fists clenched and unclenched just as quickly.
"Amongst other things," He replied, his voice sharp as he looked up and down the street we were crossing. He's annoyed. Perhaps it's worse than he makes it seem? I didn't deny I was curious about their relationship- but that didn't mean I would bother him about it, either.
"Why exactly don't you like him?"
"You've met the man, I believe you can work that out yourself," Sherlock replied, words biting once again. His lips were pressed tight; his body seemed to close in on itself. Typical behavior for someone who's avoiding the subject. Not wanting to press him, I shrugged off the coldness and instead focused on staying relatively awake. When we reached the restaurant, I noticed the waiter treating Sherlock with the same almost respect Angelo had- but he seemed markedly less familiar.
"You come here often?" I asked, curious, as he looked down at the menu. One of Sherlock's eyebrows quirked almost imperceptibly as he replied,
"Not particularly. Depends on if I've eaten during a case or if I have money." I paused while turning a page, glancing up to see the totally absorbed expression of the detective. If he's eaten? If he has money? Sherlock spoke again, this time without looking up, saying,
"Don't look at me like that. Only the brain is necessary; everything else is rechargeable, secondary." A brief syllable escaped my lips before I choked back the words, disbelieving.
"No wonder you're so thin," I said, and a corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched.
"Why should it matter?"
"Isn't it obvious? No wonder they worry-," I stopped myself before I could finish, realizing who I sounded suspiciously like. Even when trying to avoid it, it still happens. Sherlock set his menu down, pressing his hands against the table.
"When have I ever asked for their worry? When have I ever needed- it's unnecessary. It does. Not. Matter," He finished, emphasizing each word, blue-grey eyes fixed on the tabletop. I put my own menu down, resting my chin upon interlaced fingers.
"It does. If you don't eat, you'll get weak and you won't be able to think as well."
"On the contrary, I think the best with little food and rest," He shot back, and I frowned, realizing that this was quickly turning into an argument. I don't want to fight with him now. Not after all that's happened.
"From now on I'll have to make sure you eat properly," I mused, ignoring his stare as the waiter came by; after I ordered for the both of us, I turned to see his calculating eyes fixed on me.
"Were you worried, John?" His voice seemed smaller, softer, somehow scared. It was too strange, too wrong to hear it coming from Sherlock. I looked up quickly, brow furrowed. You're making me worry now.
"You were about to take a pill that could've killed you. Probably, actually, how did you know they both weren't deadly?"
"They weren't," He says quickly, and leans forward a little to continue. "So were you worried?" I sigh, rubbing my face belatedly, pushing away the heaviness of exhaustion. "Yes," I murmur, knowing suddenly that my answer is true. For some reason, god help me, I was worried. So very, very worried that he wouldn't make it out alive. That he would take the pill, die and leave this behind. Leave me behind. Sherlock nods vaguely, distracted now by something I haven't noticed. He is rubbing the crook of his left arm, eyes far away.
"So was I," He whispers, and it's so quiet I almost miss it. Almost. But I don't, and that's what makes the difference. I hear his insecurity, I hear the barley masked worry that he must keep hidden deep inside himself. He doesn't have room for anything but perfect calculations and catching criminals- no room for a brother who worries about him and certainly no room for friends.
No room for love. His heart may be large, pumping blood through his body as he eats and runs irregularly. His heart may be strong, able to withstand the death he sees and the ones who try to break him with their whispers and shouts of 'freak'. His heart may be many things, but I also know it's broken. His heart is a maze of pain and things he'd rather forget, things he'd rather change or destroy, but he can't.
Because Sherlock Holmes is only human and he wants love. He wants for someone who understands him, someone who won't question his every move, his every decision. Sherlock doesn't know it, but he broadcasts his loneliness like a flare, calling for help, bringing both the wolves and the rescue team.
In these small moments spent in a dimly lit Chinese restaurant, I remember Lestrade's words. I remember when I said, 'You know him better than I do.' I've known him for five years, and no, I don't. I realize that he really doesn't know Sherlock all that well, that he really only sees what the detective before me wants him to see, what he is allowed to see. Because Sherlock can't let anyone realize that he's just human. He isn't some indestructible superman, some comic book hero that always gets the bad guy in the end.
I forgot. I think they forget, too, that Sherlock carries a weight we can't imagine. He carries the burden of a mind so great that he sees everything he might not want to about a person. He sees what we don't want people to see and he's hated and admired for it.
So tonight, right now, I will forget that he is the world's only consulting detective. I will forget that he's just been in a situation where he could've died. I will forget that people call him a freak, tell me he has no friends, that he's a psychopath and he's dangerous.
But I won't forget that I just killed a man to save him. I won't forget because it means he is different, he is special, he is someone I am willing to protect. Someone I am willing to trust.
We spend the night in relative silence, and after he's let Mycroft slip to the back of his mind, he proceeds to talk animatedly about his theories and observations. I do forget all that's just happened, and I am happy, for once- simply because we are two people, enjoying each other's company.
When we get back to the flat, I am ready to relax and sleep. He helps me shrug off my coat, hands surprisingly gently and quick. As I turn to go upstairs, I catch something in his eyes- a glitter, a warmth, something that softens the chill of his cold eyes.
And I think I will enjoy living here with him.