Ok so here is the first chapter. This will probably include quite a bit of Johnlock friendship, and possibly later on, relationship. This is my first chapter long fic, so please review so I can improve. Thanks so much. I will hopefully be updating at least once a week, most likely over the weekends.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. All rights go to BBC, or any other respective owners.

Learning to Cope

I'm at a loss. It was all so real, so genuine, how could it have been nothing more than a dream? Everything, everyone, all just cruel figments of my messed up head. I thought I was getting better, coping, but now everything has crashed down around me and I'm at a loss.

"Sherlock, your phone!" I called from the shower as the phone buzzed loudly. It was somewhere in the bathroom, though I couldn't quite figure where. I waited for a response but it was pointless, he was caught up in some new experiment. I quickly turned off the water and wrapped my towel around my hips, climbing out in search of the phone. I finally found it, buzzing away, buried under a pile of dirty clothes. I picked it up and read the text. It was Lestrade, seemed like there was some new case that he needed us for. Sherlock would be happy, he'd been cooped up here the past week, with nothing but old experiments to work on. Only today had he been able to start on something new. I shrugged out of my towel and into my robe and headed into the kitchen to tell Sherlock about the case.

He was sitting at the counter, eyes closed, obviously shifting through his mind palace. I knew he would just be a pain in the ass the rest of the day if I interrupted him so I went on into the living room and turned on the telly. After about ten minutes I heard him get up and come walk behind me and flop onto the couch. I just barely turned my head to talk to him.

"That was Lestrade earlier. Two bodies were found at The Globe. He needs you there as soon as possible." I waited for a response.

He stared at the ceiling for a while until he finally murmured. "Dull."

"I knew you'd say that." I looked down and replied to Lestrade's most recent text;

"I know that, but at least ask."

"I told you so. - JW"

I resumed watching the telly until the phone buzzed again with Lestrade's final attempt.

"Tell him this then…" I looked up with a smirk.

"How about this? The bodies were found on the stage, laid out in full costume in a replica of the death scene from Romeo and Juliet."

His eyes left the ceiling and darted toward me, a glimmer of curiosity showing through.

I smiled and texted Lestrade.

"Got him. -JW"

Four hours later we were leaving The Globe and Sherlock was in an even worse mood.

"Obvious." he snarled as he hailed a cab. "Just two kids, fell for each other. The girl was depressed and never noticed that the boy was psycotic. No challenge. Dull."

"Sherlock please, they were just kids." I snapped.

"I don't hold sympathy for the delusioned."

I decided it was better to move onto a new subject. I remembered the thing about the phone this morning, it seemed like as good a topic as any.

"Sherlock, I found your mobile hidden under a load of dirty clothes this morning, do I want to know?" I asked.

He rolled his eyes. "It was being loud last night. I was about to flush it but I thought that might upset you and I really didn't want to deal with that, so I shoved it under the clothes. I hoped it might have gotten thrown into the washer."

I looked over at him. He was holding the phone in his hands, twirling it, staring at it, just about boring holes into it. I couldn't help but laugh a little. He looked so frustrated, by such a small thing. His head jerked up as he heard me laughing and I stifled the sound. At first he seemed annoyed but slowly a smile crept across his face and we both began to laugh. It felt good. We needed it.

Once we had quited down he looked at me and asked "How about we go out for dinner tonight?"

I agreed and we headed to Angelo's.

We sat at our table and I ordered. As usual, Sherlock didn't get anything. I had asked him once about the almost complete lack of eating, soon after we met. He had said something about digestion taking energy away from work when he was on a case and that he usually felt no need. In the time that I had known him I could count on two hands the times I had actually seen him eat. I had begun to worry about his health but he didn't seem to be losing weight or anything so I just added it to the list of the many Sherlockisms I had discovered.

That's what Sherlock is after all, what made him… him: his quirks. I mean for God sake's the man is a walking anomally. He walks around this city like he knows just how it clicks, which he does. He gives off this air of superiority around other people, like he is on another level. Which again, he is. He seldom eats or sleeps, just works, runs, thinks, all the time, an ever wound up toy, bumping into things and bouncing right back, off looking for new adventures, distractions. But that's just the thing. I see all of that, just like everyone else, but I also see the pure essence of the human heart and spirit. When he plays that damned violin at three in the morning, the notes dripping with longing and passion. When he throws himself onto the couch after a long case and sleeps for days. When he looks at Mrs. Hudson with the gentlest eyes I have ever even imagined. It's those moments when I see just how human, how vulnerable, he is. He does everything that I could ever dream of doing, and so much more. That's why we get along so well. You've got me; ordinary, simple John Watson, wanting to do so much, just not quite sure how. And then you've got him; extraordinary Sherlock Holmes who doesn't really know what he wants so he just does everything, not caring how people see him. In that way I guess, we complete each other, we fill the gaps that the other never really knew were there, or just never cared to address.

I continued to eat as Sherlock babbled on about some experiment. I was too tired to really listen, too absorbed in my own thoughts. That is until I heard him say something about the case from earlier that day.

"I mean really John, are all children so dim-witted as to let themselves get dragged into that? Let a childish, romantic, fantasy trick you just so you can feel… I don't know." He finished talking and turned his gaze away from his hands, which were fiddling with the napkin in front of him, and looked at me. "I mean, did you… were ever tricked so thoroughly by someone because you wanted it to be true? Because you needed something so unrealistic, you created it for yourself, let yourself fall into a lie?"

The look on Sherlock's face worried me. I stopped eating at stared back at the man across from me. My best friend. I had never seen this side of him. He looked confused, anxious, like there was some hidden truth that just kept avoiding his grasp. I looked at him for a second longer and then glanced out the window, watching the anonymous cars and people pass by. People so close, but so terrifyingly distant, in parallel worlds to the one where Sherlock and I sat now. I thought about what Sherlock had said, had asked, and I knew the answer wholeheartedly.

"No Sherlock, I wouldn't fall for that. Maybe I might have years ago but not now. I've been around you to long. The world is a different place through my eyes now. No, I know what's real. There's no doubt in my mind."

My answer seemed to shock him. His eyes grew wide for just a split second before they resumed their normal, calculating gleam. "Yes of course" he mumbled. "Of course." his eyes fell back to the napkin, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on the cloth.

I couldn't help but be a little concerned still. He was acting so strange, even for him. No, especially for him. He was being thoughtful and almost philosophical it seemed. In public nontheless. Yes he got this way every now and then, but that was always at home, when it was just the two of us. He never talked like this when we were out. I voiced my concern, hoping that the strangeness of his mode might allow me to get a reasonable answer. "Are you alright Sherlock? You seem a little… perturbed."

His posture changed immediately. His hands flew into the pockets of his coat and he leaned back in his seat, his eyes piercing my concern. "Yes of course John. I just got distracted that's all. Are you done?" He motioned toward the empty plate in front of me.

'Oh. Well, yes.' I stammered, still slightly taken aback by the sudden change back to his normal demeanor.

"Well then, we best get back to Baker Street. I still have my experiments to finish."

He stood and buttoned his coat and waited for me to stand. I did so and we walked on out into the cold, London, night air. He hailed a cab and we rode home in silence. When we reached 221 B, Sherlock bolted from the cab and through the door, up the stairs to the flat. When I arrived he was not in the kitchen like I expected but sitting on the couch, clutching what appeared to be a notebook, in his hands. His eyes were closed. He must be off in his palace again. I let him be and headed on up to my bedroom. It had been a long day and I was more than ready for a good night's sleep. But as I lay there in bed, slowly drifting off, I couldn't help but wonder… where had I seen that notebook before?

Again, thanks so much for reading and please review.