An Experiment in Sentiment – A Sherlock Fan Fiction

The scene around them was all too familiar. The darkness was pierced with the flashing blue and red lights of a half dozen police cars, the wails of their sirens piercing the relative calm of night. Their colours were reflected in the puddles of gathering rain on the street, which continued to grow under the relentless downpour. The two men watched as the police swarmed an old, run down building that looked about ready to collapse on top of them all, surrounded in the crumbling bricks of its walls.

Sherlock turned up his coat collar, mostly to stop the rain from trickling down the back of his neck, but partially to muffle the loud cries of the cops as they closed in on the building. They demanded repeatedly for the occupants to exit, with their hands up. They shouted orders for the culprits to bring out their hostage, who had been confined in the house for days. Sherlock turned to John beside him, who seemed to be the only one who had bothered to put on a rain coat. He wore a grim smile, which looked ridiculous in contrast to the oversized, yellow poncho-type thing that hung from his stiff shoulders.

"Are you sure you've got the right place?" John asked for the second time that day, practically yelling over the din of sirens, barked orders, and pounding rain. There weren't any visible signs of life emanating from the condemned building, which appeared to have been abandoned a long time ago, judging from the state of it, and the similarly boarded windows of the whole street. Sherlock scoffed.

"Of course it is!" he replied with certainty, as if the answer was obvious. He'd explained it to John earlier in a quick stream of facts before setting off, though John hadn't been able to catch even half of them. "This has to be it, John!" Sherlock, whose gaze had returned to the surrounded building, could almost hear John's eyes roll in response.

"Well, let's hope so." John muttered quietly after a long moment, his voice lost in the chaos. He looked back at a woman leaning up against the nearest police car, her face buried in her trembling hands. John recognized her from their visit to Lestrade earlier, even though her features were obscured by her shaking fingers, her body cloaked in a large, pink coat that appeared to be made of thick wool. The fabric was soaked through, much like everyone else around them, and it clung to her shaking form, her shoulders sagging under a combination of the heavy, wet wool and the grief that shook her frame. Her son had been kidnapped while walking home from school nearly a week ago and, if Sherlock was right as per usual, only the decaying walls of the building in front of them separated her from her son now. If he was still alive.

It wasn't the kind of case they usually took, but Lestrade had been insistent. He had some sort of connection to the mother, and had practically begged for the safe return of her only son. Out of a case, and completely bored out of his mind, Sherlock had reluctantly accepted, to prevent Mrs. Hudson's walls from receiving further abuse from his handgun. Good thing he had, for none of them would've guessed the case would lead them here, to this abandoned city street.

There was a sudden uproar of voices as the front door opened just a fraction. The police all directed their guns to the creaking door as a young, frightened little boy stepped tentatively outside. They could almost hear the relief over the ringing in their ears. Sherlock and John instantly recognized him from the missing posters as he stepped forward, his thin limbs shaking so violently it was a wonder he could stand upright. His eyes were wide with fear, the flashes of the police lights reflected in their depths. The boy was immediately followed out by a young man, who emerged with his hands raised in surrender, his expression equally terrified.

"Don't shoot!" he pleaded as he ushered the boy forward gently, motioning for him to go to the cops. The boy did so as quickly as he could manage, and was immediately swaddled in the familiar neon-orange shock blanket. Seconds later, his mother broke through the crowd to scoop the boy up in her arms, sobbing as she squeezed him tightly, not yet able to form words that matched the relief she felt.

The police advanced on the young man, who couldn't have been older than thirty. He didn't resist, mumbling incoherently under his breath as he was forced into the back of one of the cars, hands secured behind his back. He wasn't a criminal, not really, and even John could see that. His feeble attempt at kidnap and ransom had been out of desperation, out of fear of debts gone unpaid. He'd needed money, which had pushed him to do the unthinkable, which nearly everyone was capable in hopeless situations. He wasn't a real criminal, which could plainly be seen in his wide eyes, filled with guilt, fear, and flashing of the red and blue police lights that had him trapped.

John almost felt sorry for the poor man as he watched him get shoved roughly around, a sad, pleading look in his eyes, nearly as wide and frightened as the little boy he'd kidnapped. Sherlock studied John's face as he did, noticing the change in expression as the car containing the kidnapper drove away into the rain, disappearing into the dark. He didn't understand the sympathy John felt for the man, the emotion written clearly upon the former army doctor's face.

Sentiment Sherlock groaned internally. He didn't understand it, at least not in this situation. Did John feeling bad for than man help him at all? No. He'd told him so before, how caring does little to help. So it was a mystery to Sherlock as to why John stared sadly, a frown forming on his face, as he watched the police car retreating down the street. He knew John thought he deserved to be caught (he'd kidnapped a child, after all), so his strange compassion towards the man baffled him.

Sherlock let his gaze move towards the boy, who had seemingly disappeared again, only this time under a combination of the shock blanket and his mother's bright pink coat. That expression of sentiment made sense, at least. The boy was in shock, having been held against his will in an abandoned house for nearly a week, something no little boy – or anyone, for that matter – should have to experience. He was in shock, he was afraid, and sought out his mother's comfort, as any child would. It was normal for most people to seek out comfort after a traumatic experience, a lengthy absence. He didn't agree with it, but he understood, at least.

Strangely, Sherlock felt his mind dwell on his own absence, his quick mind making the connection. He'd let days turn into months, months to years, John thinking him dead that whole time. His gaze still resting upon the mother and her son, Sherlock briefly wondered if John had expected a similar embrace upon his return. He dismissed the thought almost immediately. John would never expect Sherlock to express his feelings in the form of a hug, for John probably thought him incapable of having such emotions anyway. Sure, he was partially right, for the thought of comforting John hadn't occurred to the genius until now.

Sherlock turned once again to John, who still stood silently beside him, alone with his thoughts. Though he was in better shape than he had been a few weeks ago, when Sherlock had made his return, to toll of his absence could still be seen with Sherlock's keen eyes. He didn't hold himself quite as straight as before, and the ghost of extreme fatigue covered his whole body like an unseen weight. The new lines on his face that hadn't been there before, and few more grey hairs, had been acquired by stress instead of age. He was thinner than Sherlock remembered, too, though he had gotten better in the last little while.

These tiny observations tugged at Sherlock's insides, which came as a surprise, as things rarely did. He hadn't apologized for his deception, not really. He didn't think the milk he'd brought him upon his return counted, but it was the only apology he'd been capable of. He wondered if John was still mad at him, wondered if he still felt betrayed. He certainly had at the beginning, and Sherlock had clearly seen the accusations in the eyes of the man he knew so well. He had been shocked to find that it stung, the unsaid blame John had sent his way, burning him.

Sherlock's eyes flicked to a pair of police officers returning to their car, watched as one briefly squeezed the shoulders of the other in a quick, one-armed hug. It disappeared as quickly as it had come, a tiny, reassuring embrace. Sherlock studied the emotions there; the relief of catching the culprit, the pride of completing the task. The tiny gesture was a celebration of a job well done, a small pat on the back, literally. The other officer didn't seemed alarmed or surprised, seeming to not even notice the presence of his colleague's arm over his shoulder, like it was normal.

John, suddenly pulled out of his own thoughts, glanced up at Sherlock. He was about to ask him if he was ready to get going (finding it strange that he hadn't taken off already), but stopped himself upon seeing Sherlock's expression. The only words John could think of to describe it were confused, puzzled, and completely lost in thought, concentrating very hard on something unknown to John. John mirrored the expression, equally confused, as he thought about what could cause such a look on the face of his flatmate.

Though John's expression lacked that tiny shadow of guilt that hid on the face of the consulting detective. Guilt at causing John pain. It was always there, eating at him, gnawing at his insides that squirmed with the unfamiliar sensation. The feeling that had never left, and Sherlock often felt like he was wading through it, the intangible substance of sentiment, the guilt that dragged him down as he fought to push through it, only to find it got deeper and thicker as he did. Sometimes, like tonight, it would curl up into a wave without warning, crashing over him with little provocation.

Standing there with John, just as a case was coming to close, Sherlock took in the scene around him. A mother as she hugged her son tightly against her, relief in her face as the terrible nightmare of his disappearance came to a happy end. A cop giving his partner a quick squeeze of his shoulder, a pat on his back, content with the resolution of another case. Sherlock, standing apart from one of the very few people he could call a friend, a man who managed to tolerate him, even live with him. A man he'd made suffer, letting him think he'd died, taken his own life right in front of him. A man whose face still bore the faint traces of the hell he'd endured in his absence, those tiny hints of his suffering.

Before he could talk himself out of it, before he could remind himself that he was Sherlock Holmes - the man who not only despised sentiment and feelings, but was also extremely awkward when trying to navigate their unfamiliar waters – he rushed towards John, his coat flying out behind him like a cape despite how water-logged and weighted it had become. The detective wrapped his long arms around his flatmate's torso, pulling him against him. He held him firmly and securely to his chest, much like the mother and her son not too far away, resting his chin atop the yellow plastic hood of John Watson's bright raincoat.

"Sherl -" John had started to say in surprise before Sherlock's grip forced the air out of his lungs in a loud gasp, a gasp that was inaudible to anyone else, drowned out by the drumming of rain against pavement and the wailing of sirens all around them. John found his face pressed up against the wet fabric of his friend's coat, his next words considerably muffled by Sherlock's signature blue scarf. "Sherlock?" Sherlock had felt John stiffen in his embrace, shock and confusion in his voice as he spoke Sherlock's name like a question. "Sherlock, what the…?"

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock whispered just loud enough to be heard, a rare apology escaping his lips, as he held John even snugger against him. The gesture was marred a bit by the expression Sherlock wore, though John couldn't see it, as he shot a glare at Lestrade. He had been observing the kidnapping situation from afar, like them, but the detective inspector now stood with his mobile raised, trying to shield it from the unrelenting rain as he took a photo of the detective and his assistant. He grinned widely, most likely laughing, which Sherlock met with a scowl.

"I'm sorry," he repeated in an even lower tone, closing his eyes to rid his vision of the DI's massive grin and clicking camera. Eyes closed, the world around him black, Sherlock focused on the feeling of the warmth of John's body in the circle of his arms, pressing against him, warming him after the cold assault of rain. Sherlock was surprised to find he found it comforting, strangely familiar, unlike any of his past experiences with human contact. Drowning out the sounds swirling around him - paying no attention to the people, nor the rain – as he lost himself in this new feeling of his flatmate caught up in his arms in a long overdue hug.

After a long moment of silence, Sherlock released John, returning his hands to the safety of his coat pockets, where small puddles had started to form. John gawked at his flatmate, which Sherlock correctly associated with his own rare display of sentiment, of normal, friendly human touch. John continued to gape until he regained his ability to form coherent words.

"For - for what?" the words tumbled out his mouths in a rush, Sherlock fighting back a smile at the baffled look on John's face. No, smiling would just confuse the poor doctor even more. "What, what the hell, Sherlock?" Sherlock allowed his mouth to form a half-smile.

"For everything, John." He answered John's first question simply, for he knew that he needed no other explanation. What else could bring the rare grip of sentiment around the detective's cold heart? His fall, his death – the only time John had watched, in horror, as the beginnings of tears had sparkled in Sherlock's eyes. Despite the unexpected apology, John still found his brain in a bit of a stupor.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" he repeated once more, unable to find another way to press for the answer he desired. Sherlock didn't answer for a while, leaving the two standing, facing each other, as some police cars started to leave, the rain starting to abate. The rain was a mere sprinkle of irregular droplets – it would probably be reduced to a mist in a few minutes – when Sherlock spoke.

"Call it a bit of an experiment," Sherlock replied with a certain finality, a smile teasing the corners of his mouth, before spinning on his heels to retreat down the road in search of a cab to return them home. After a second or two - just standing there, blinking – John gave a soft, incredulous laugh before taking off after his flatmate.

…

Sherlock continued his experiment, the results of his first test not quite enough for the consulting detective. Slowly at first, Sherlock fit some more tests into the everyday life of him and his flatmate. Including a few long embraces after facing a near-death for what seemed like the hundredth time, a few reassuring squeezes of John's shoulder for everything from comfort to praise, and a few hugs of thanks and gratitude.

Sherlock silently observed John's reaction every single time, studying the reception of his apparently sudden, newfound acceptance of physical contact. As time passed, Sherlock felt John relax at his touch, strangely comfortable in his arms. The thought made Sherlock smile, for he had done it. He'd really, and truly, done it – he'd made John his friend. He never been closer to anyone before. Not even family for, as one could probably guess, Mycroft hadn't been one to hug his little brother, even as a child. He'd never really felt the safety of being held in the arms of another, and he decided he rather liked it, at least coming from John.

After a while, much to Sherlock's surprise (and delight), John started to be the one to initiate these little experiments, pulling Sherlock to him easily, casually, without any hint of his first reaction. It brought a tiny smile to Sherlock's face every time, feeling the comforting warmth of John's body so close to his. It was familiar to them now, commonplace, and no longer met with the sudden appearance of Lestrade's camera phone, or sniggers from the rest a NSY. It was normal, or at least as normal as Sherlock could be.

It had been nearly a year later when Sherlock took his experiment to the next step, after many nights of mulling the thought over in his racing mind before he finally drifted to sleep. They'd been working on a rather difficult case - standing deep in thought in Lestrade's office - when John had made an important point, one that had managed to escape Sherlock's rather wildly speeding train of thought. For the life of him, Sherlock couldn't remember the case, or even what John had said, for it paled in importance after what had followed.

"Brilliant, John!" He'd exclaimed, or something very similar, before swiftly placing his hands on either side of John's face, pressing his lips to his in a quick kiss. It was over in a split second before Sherlock returned to his thinking out loud, fitting the point John had made into his rushing thoughts and nearly impossible decuctions. John stood there, swaying the tiniest bit, blinking the surprise out of his eyes. Lestrade, sitting at his desk, let out a short laugh that sounded much like a snort at John's expression, correctly guessing it'd been the first time, judging from the utterly shocked look spreading across John's face. Anderson leaned against the doorway to the office, scowling.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" John finally demanded, mirroring his reaction from the first time Sherlock had hugged him nearly a year ago in the pouring rain. His almost-shout had cut off Sherlock's hurried string of deductions, which he stopped midsentence at the sound of John's voice. Another chuckle escaped Lestrade's lips, while Sherlock smirked at John's expression.

"An experiment, John." He answered, seeming to be rather proud of himself, his smirk growing. "You're rather attractive when you're being clever, it was too much to resist." This earned another loud guffaw from Lestrade, who was clearly enjoying himself more than anyone, followed by a disgusted snort from Anderson, who was being mostly ignored.

Sherlock grinned, the case he'd been working on all but pushed from his mind as he studied John's reaction intently. His bewildered face had blushed bright red, much to the amusement of everyone in the room, for Anderson had finally left, effectively missing the once thought to be impossible scene of John launching himself upon the consulting detective. He returned his kiss eagerly, and Sherlock felt himself smile against his lips, his thin arms winding themselves around his flatmate, pulling him closer.

His experiment was a success.

Edited 5/1/2013

Thanks to everyone for their kind feedback and those who may leave some in the future - your love keeps me going! Thank you so much for taking the time to read it through *hugs you*