Sherlock had always been mostly bark, very little bite. Not to say he couldn't hold his own in a fight, because he could with a black belt in aikido, fencing skills, and three years of boxing from school, but that wasn't the point. The point was that he had always used words as his weapon of choice.
There were few skills or traits he had that he truly gave himself credit for. (Cooking? That was just chemistry with, you know, food. Bravery? Mycroft always said it was just a kind way of calling someone a moron. Nobility? He could go on for hours, if not days, on how he way anything but noble.) Being able to defend himself with cutting remarks and verbal blows was one of these skills. When you were a child like Sherlock you learned very quickly how to stop bullies from targeting you and adults to not talk down to you. Maybe that was sort of a bad thing.
In his thirty-odd years of life Sherlock could count on one hand the number of people he hadn't felt he had to use his weapon on. The most recent of which, number four, was John H. Watson. There was something undeniably safe about that man, with his wooly jumpers and constant need for tea. Something undeniably, undoubtedly believable.
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A/N: I think I'm getting a "thing" for 221B drabbles. Just maybe.
I think there was a point in there... but then, it was written up in under three minutes (which I know because I finished it before Breakable by Ingrid Michealson was done when i started the two at the same time) at twenty after mightnight. Lovely. forgive me if it's a bit crud.
~Piki :B