There are stories to Sherlock. Real, honest-to-God, non-explosion-y stories.
John is more surprised by this than he should be, he thinks as he sits across from Sherlock and listens to another long, rambling story involving a lonely childhood that wasn't really lonely because of facts and discoveries and observations and logic and things much more important than friendships and people. And- was that teddy bears? Did the word "teddy bear" really just escape the consulting detective's lips?
He asks for clarification. Sherlock's lips curl slightly upwards. Yes, as a matter of fact, he did just say "teddy bear", John, where has your mind been? John tries not to stare. A teddy bear.
"What did you do to it?" He asks, suddenly very certain of the gory demise of the teddy bear. He pictures explosions, beheadings, a young, curly-haired Sherlock bending over the table and frowning in concentration, cutting through fuzzy cloth with exacting precision in order to find out the exact composition of the fluff inside.
"Nothing." The detective folds his hands under his chin and looks steadily at him. The waiter arrives with their coffees, and John takes a sip, feeling the warmth spread through his body. The clatter of the restaurant must be messing with his hearing.
"Nothing?", he repeats. This conversation keeps getting stranger and stranger, John thinks to himself. Or, normal-er and normal-er, which is stranger and stranger with Sherlock, really, he doesn't think there's ever been a stranger normal conversation, and oh God he's staring at him again.
"Nothing." Sherlock leans back and takes a sip of his coffee. Amused eyes flick back up towards his. He sets the drink down. "You were expecting a different answer."
It's no use lying. "Yes", he tells him, then frowns. "If nothing happened to it, Sherlock, where is it now?"
Sherlock waves his hand in a fashion that indicates the current topic of conversation is clearly not worth talking about. John presses on; it's a teddy bear, for crying out loud, a teddy bear associated with Sherlock and not blown up or dissected or otherwise Sherlock'ed, which means it has some value to Sherlock, which means he has to know where it is. "No, Sherlock, really; where is it?"
Sherlock sighs and glances back to him, looking utterly bored. "Mycroft took it when I was seven." He states it unemotionally, but the intended sentiment seems somehow off to John. "He said I was getting too big for it."
"The bastard."
Sherlock smirks, a wicked little cut of his lips. "Don't worry, Mycroft was taken care of."
"Really? How?" John leans forward.
"It wasn't exactly legal." Sherlock clears his throat, his eyes focused on something directly behind John.
"What he means is," the crisp, cultured voice ripples over him, and John struggles not to turn and look at Mycroft, "his plan backfired on him and he was in the hospital for a week afterwards." Mycroft smiles as he sits down, uninvited, at their table. "He always was the violent one." He pauses and purses his lips. "Mummy never was very happy with that." Sherlock glares at him.
"Don't you have some country to overthrow?"
Mycroft raises an eyebrow and softly tsks. "Sherlock, I've told you time and time again, I occupy a minor position in the British government." He smiles. "Nothing violent or powerful at all."
Yeah, right, John thinks to himself. Over the past few months, he's become half-convinced Mycroft rules Britain with an iron fist- or a slightly sinister chuckle, as it were.
"But I'm afraid my brother is right," Mycroft glances at John, who undergoes a slight panic attack when he realizes the thoughts he's been thinking in Mycroft's presence. It gets a little better when he remembers that telepathic technology is nowhere close to being feasible in the near future. Mycroft raises an eyebrow in his direction. John throws his prior research on telepathic technology out the metaphorical window. With Mycroft, anything is possible.
Mycroft turns to his brother. "Well, it's been lovely checking up on you, Sherlock. Do keep in touch," he smiles, and John can see the muscles twitching in Sherlock's hand as he fights for self-composure. Mycroft looks over at him, and he stiffens instantly.
Mycroft's eyes twinkle as he bids John good-night. As he leaves, he tosses over his shoulder, "Oh, and Sherlock? I left a bit of a surprise for you at the flat." Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at his brother's retreating form. The phrase, "You're welcome," drifts back on the evening air to the two still seated, in varied states of shock and suspicion, at the table.
Sherlock is the first to move. "Come on," he growls as he pushes up from the table. "Let's see what he's done this time." They pay for their dinner and John is herded out the door, arms still fighting to get into their coat-sleeves. Sherlock pulls over a taxi (John is still amazed by his ability to pull over a cab effortlessly; he supposes it's easier when one is ridiculously tall and dramatically encloaked in a swirling dark coat. Being neither, it's nearly impossible for him to ever get a cab.) and the two get in. Sherlock is silent, his brilliant mind clearly focused on whatever Mycroft could have done to the flat. John's not too worried- it is Mycroft, after all. And after the first three heads in the refrigerator and the decaying elephant foot on top of the telly (he never did ask about that one), he figures there's not too much that could physically fit in the flat that could surprise him anymore. The cab pulls up to 221B Baker; Sherlock thrusts a wad of cash at the cabbie, but John intercepts it and counts out the correct amount. The cabbie looks disappointed, and so John throws an extra fiver into the back seat as he is physically dragged from the cab by his arm. They run – well, Sherlock runs, long limbs striding gracefully; John is pulled alongside, shorter legs working hard to keep up but inevitably failing – up the stairs. Sherlock bursts into the living room and immediately proceeds to tear it apart, inch by inch; nothing remains safe from his furious gaze and prying hands. John watches the destruction for approximately seven seconds, then shrugs and walks up the stairs towards his room, unconcerned.
"John!" The commanding voice cuts through the apartment, and suddenly Sherlock's behind him, eyes sparking in anger. He pulls John's hand back from the doorknob just as it's about to close over it. "What are you doing?" Sherlock's voice is incredulous. "Don't you understand?"
"Understand what, exactly?" John doesn't bother to hide the irritation in his voice- the bloody genius would know and wouldn't care, anyways. "That you and your brother are both mental, and that you're trying to prevent me from having a bit of a lie-down? Gathered that, yeah, thanks."
"John, look at me." Green-blue eyes bore down into his, intense and worried. Worried? John thinks. No, that can't be right. Sherlock is never- "John." The voice is deadly serious, and John focuses on the man – still in the trenchcoat, couldn't even be bothered to take it off – before him. "This is Mycroft we're talking about here. Mycroft." He stresses the name, using the same tone John remembers using when discussing his commanding officer, right after he got laundry duty for talking back. Personally, John thinks the tone is a bit much, but when Sherlock's looking so damned, well, worried is the only word to really describe it, he's not keen on mentioning it. "There's no telling what he's done to the flat." John glances wearily up at him and sighs.
"Fine, but would you mind checking my room first? I really am tired," he complains, and he's man enough to admit that yes, there is a bit of a whine in his voice. Sherlock nods, moves in front of John, and turns the doorknob. John steps up, expecting Sherlock to walk into the room. Sherlock, however, has other plans which apparently include remaining motionless, and so John gets a face-full of Sherlock's woolen jacket instead. He stands on his tiptoes, trying to see over Sherlock's shoulder, but even that doesn't help – it's like trying to see over a bloody mountain, he grumbles in the back of his mind.
"Sherlock?" No response. "Sherlock?" He pokes the back of the jacket. Still no response.
"Sherlock?" He pokes harder, then gives up and attempts to muscle his way past Sherlock. The consulting detective gives little resistance, and as John stands in front of Sherlock, he sees why.
There, on his bed, lies a black medium-sized teddy bear with button eyes, a small stitched-on smile, and a black-and-white jumper. It's obviously been well-loved and well-looked-after, John notes, taking in the worn state of the fur and the slightly deflated look of the bear, he supposes because of the many hugs it's received. He goes over to the bed, sits down beside the teddy bear, and stretches out a hand to touch it, only to be thwarted as a long arm reaches over his shoulder and plucks the teddy bear up and off the bed. John watches Sherlock as he inspects the teddy bear, his face completely blank. John's getting better at reading the detective, though; he thinks he can see the faint strains of emotion breaking through in the lines at the corners of the detective's eyes. A small sheet of paper floats down from its place lodged under the bear's jumper, and John grabs the note before Sherlock can tuck the bear under his arm and reach out a hand for it. In neat, indistinct handwriting, the note states, If you had only asked, I would have given him back to you. John looks up at Sherlock, who's reading over his shoulder. Sherlock straightens quickly.
"Well," he starts. "That's ridiculous. Obviously a lie. You can see by his handwriting-"and from there he launches into a perfectly logical, well-reasoned argument that both he and John know is utter bull.
"So are you keeping it?"
Sherlock looks taken aback for a split second, then settles into the same emotionless mask he'd used while examining the teddy bear- his teddy bear- Sherlock's teddy bear. This idea is going to take some getting used to, John realizes.
"There's no use for it, John; it's an object of sentimentality. What would I do with it?" His portrayal of disdain would be much more convincing if he wasn't cradling the thing to his chest. John isn't quite sure what to do in the face of such a paradox, so he asks, "What's his name?"
Sherlock doesn't even look up from smoothing down the bear's jumper. "Hector."
"Hector." John tries it out, rolling it across his tongue as he looks at the stuffed animal currently nestled in the crook of the consulting detective's arm. Hector. To John, the big, brawny-sounding name doesn't fit at all with the worn, smiling teddy bear, but when the snuggly bear is being stroked and petted and –dare he say cuddled? – by the coldly brilliant detective, he sees how it might work. John rolls onto his stomach and props his face up with his hands. "So what's it mean?"
"Does it have to mean anything?" Sherlock still hasn't looked up from the teddy bear. John's never been uncomfortable exactly with Sherlock's stare, though most call it unnerving. But he almost feels sorry for the little fellow currently trapped under Sherlock's piercing gaze, unable to wriggle or squirm or show any other signs of discomfort. Then, John supposes, it is Sherlock's teddy bear. Maybe it's used to such treatment.
"Well, no", John shifts forward, nestles his head on top of his crossed hands and looks back up at Sherlock. "But with you, it normally does."
Sherlock is silent. His hands never stop moving over the worn fur. The room is quiet, but it's not an uncomfortable quiet. In fact, John finds he rather likes it. The pads of Sherlock's fingers make a barely audible sound as he strokes the slightly rough material of the bear's jumper. John closes his eyes.
"It's Greek." The two words burst forth like gunshots from Sherlock, over-loud and ringing about the small room. John cracks open an eye and calmly observes his flatmate, who determinedly keeps his gaze on the bear. It was clearly a battle to get those words out, though why, John has no idea.
"Oh?" He tries.
"Originally from the ancient Greek hekein, meaning to have or to hold." Sherlock relaxes a little now, more comfortable in his role of fact-giver. "It was also used as an epithet for Zeus, meaning "the one who holds everything together."
John shifts a bit. "Sounds a bit of a job, for a teddy bear." Sherlock shrugs. The room falls silent again. "Who's Hector?"
Surprisingly, Sherlock doesn't give him a look of disdain, but responds, "Hector is the great Argive warrior of the Iliad. He is the greatest fighter, as well as the most honorable man of either side of the battle. He's described as brave, caring, loyal, loving, and dependable. He's killed by Achilles, in the end, but he's remembered by both sides as a hero."
After a moment, John blows out a stream of air. "And you named your teddy bear after him?" Sherlock nods distractedly. John lets out a chuckle. "But- why?"
"I liked the story." Sherlock bends his head over the teddy bear, bringing it closer to his face and effectively hiding them both from John.
"You know, I don't remember any of that from the book."
"You wouldn't." Sherlock's voice is muffled in the soft stomach of the teddy bear. John lets the comment go.
"You're an excellent story-teller." There's a slight pause, and from John's angle, he can see that Sherlock's ears have gone slightly pink- a phenomenon he's never seen before.
"Yes, well. Yes. Thank you." For once in his life, Sherlock seems unsure. John wonders how many times Sherlock's gotten a compliment on something other than his intelligence. It can't have been many.
"How old were you when you got him?" It's strange, this mental picking-apart of Sherlock's brain, but John is curious, and the detective hasn't stormed out of the room or told him to stop yet.
"Two."
"Hm. And who told you the story?"
"I read it." John makes an effort to lift up his head.
"You what?"
"I read it."
"At two years old."
"Well, yes." Sherlock's voice carries the connotation of, Didn't everyone read Homerian epics at two? John decides very quickly to never tell Sherlock exactly when he started reading (at the respectable age of four, thank you very much), and resists asking whether he read it in ancient Greek or plain English.
"Ancient Greek. It flows better, and Mummy never liked any of the English translations. She said they didn't get the feel of the story." Sherlock's read his mind yet again, but John figures it doesn't really matter, just this once.
"Hm," he responds non-committally, having absolutely nothing to offer as to the merits of the English translations of Homerian classics. Sherlock walks over and sits down next to John's head. It's quiet, peaceful; something John suspects the detective hasn't experienced much of. Sherlock's eyes are still focused on the bear. He'll get worried when Sherlock starts singing to it, John decides, and drifts off to sleep.
o.O.o
The next morning, John wakes up with a hand in his hair. He rumbles a note of approval and scooches closer to the warmth emanating from the body next to him on the bed. Lazy fingers reach out to touch whoever it is and collide with fuzzy, matted fur. Blearily, John opens his eyes and finds himself face-to-face with a black teddy bear. He blinks. The shiny button eyes stare back at him. John moves back slowly.
An arm flings over the bear to grab John's wrist and prevent his escape. Soft eyes peer at him over the slightly matted fluff, as Sherlock raises his head off the coverlet. John has to choke back a laugh at Sherlock's bed head. "Spent the night, I see," he teases softly.
"I'm keeping the bear." Sherlock regards him with nothing but utter seriousness. It slowly dawns on the fuzzy-minded John that appears to be a big deal. But even bigger than a normal big deal, since it's Sherlock and he doesn't do anything that's not entirely rational. John looks at Sherlock. Realizes he's yet to answer. Opens his mouth. Closes it. How can the world's best consulting detective be soothed when he's decided something based on entirely emotional reasoning? Is it possible? And why on earth is he depending on John's approval, anyways? Isn't there someone else better qualified to tell Holmes that it's ok, it's ok to want, to need, to crave human interaction, that for God's sake, it's ok to have a teddy bear and fuck what the rest of them say? Sherlock's still looking at him, he realizes, with those wide, serious eyes. Waiting for- something. Depending on him, trusting him to say the thing that makes it all ok. John opens his mouth again. Realizes, not without a dash of panic, that every coherent thought has left his head. Decides on, "Ok." He says it.
"Ok." As the words leave his lips, John realizes he likes the way it sounds. He repeats it, whispering, looking into Sherlock's eyes so that he understands how ok it is. "Ok. Ok. Ok." Sherlock's head flops back onto the bed, and his fingers begin to move through John's hair, stroking it. John relaxes under his touch. Thank God- apparently that was the right thing to say. John smiles at the teddy bear currently nestled in Sherlock's arm. It smiles back. As the fingers gently pull through his hair, John closes his eyes and decides it's going to be a pretty good day.
o.O.o
Sherlock and teddy bears. Who would've thought? (Not me. No, really. This came from a completely whack conversation with a fellow fan. God, I love this fandom.) My personal headcanon is that Sherlock always needed a sort of John-figure to explain things to and such, and Hector was the first. Plus, Teddy!John just fits right, in my head. I dunno. Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is loved to a ridiculous amount, guys. 3