The Oddest Eccentricity of an Oddly Eccentric Man

John had often wondered about it.

This odd eccentricity that his flatmate had.

Well one of the odd eccentricities, one really should be more specific shouldn't one when one is discussing the eccentricities of one Sherlock Holmes, World's Only Consulting Detective. This eccentricity had been noted only and solely by John, who even though the second most observant man in the world (we all know first place remains with Mycroft - much to Sherlock's irritation) would not admit it, John was incredibly observant for a mere mortal, especially with those pesky emotions.

Many had noted eccentricities around the younger Holmes brother (even Anderson had managed that) but not this particular one. It was the answer that John always gave to the constant pestering questions from intrigued members of the public, police force and some proportions of the criminal underclass of "What is the weirdest thing about Holmes?". The bemused expressions that he receives are priceless and he thinks sometimes he could live on the faces pulled for the rest of his lifetime because they are just so amusing and shocked. His favourite response to this answer is when he replied to a certain member of the British Government inquiry on this point during one of the many abduct- sorry - meetings that John had suffered over the years. The gentleman in question nearly fell off his chair in shock and muttered something like "That's what you choose - out of everything?" just with maybe a bit more cursing. Though John will always remember at the end of their meeting with how he was graced for just a second or more with an impressed glance and the throwaway comment of "you are really more observant than you give yourself credit for".

However back to the main point: John's response to THE question was always the same regardless of explosions, poorly placed body parts -a horse's head in his bed being the worst. Sherlock just could not understand the issue. He decided that John must be part of a secret religious cult by the amount of time he spent muttering the mantra of the "Godfather". John didn't bother to explain - and death threats. He was just that curious.

The oddest eccentricity of that madman who lives in 221B Baker Street? Of a man who plays violin at three in the morning and refuses to eat for days? A man who can solve a case on the basis of someone's fingernails? A man who just could not comprehend why telling a grieving widow that she shouldn't cry because the murder victim was on intimate terms with various women in the local neighbourhood at the time of his death, was in any way insensitive? What would the oddest eccentricity be - well to John at least?

That bloody coat.

He just didn't understand.

I should explain John does understand a coat is for warmth and protection for the elements. He also understands that this coat is incredibly fashionable and - in all probability- so expensive it would make his eyes water. What he could not understand is his careful care of that coat. I mean yes it is a ridiculously expensive coat but well this is Holmes. He would happily turn down a case from Kings and then accept one from an old age pensioner who had no means of paying. He just really didn't care for such material possessions. He didn't care for much beyond his work, his Strad and John. Or at least that's what John thought. Sherlock would dive off a six storey building into the Thames but only if he'd removed the coat first. He would throw everything everywhere - clothes, beakers of acid and even a cat once (it landed on its feet) - but this coat was always hung up neatly on a coat peg. Sherlock would forget to dry his hair, to eat, to sleep and yet he remembered to have this coat dry cleaned twice a year at the launderettes with a slightly worn bell (like door handles and takeaway restaurants apparently). It was madness this stipulating obsessive care of this coat. No it wasn't madness - it was logical and normal for humans to care for objects and that's where the interest and curiosity lay for John. Why did Sherlock do this? The man who deemed sanity as incredibly mundane and thus pointless. Why would he care so much? Therefore John decided to find it out as he sat at the breakfast table with a mug of tea and marmalade on toast (marmalade not jam- he hated jam - unimportant but important all the same).

John tried for two days to deduce and investigate like Sherlock. He asked people who had known Sherlock for years: Lestrade, Donavon, Anderson, Mrs Hudson, Mike, Molly … not Mycroft he didn't particularly want to ask such ridiculous questions to such an influential person. He'd rather have him concentrating on maintaining the economy in Europe than worry him about something so silly. However John was faced with failure at each turn - most hadn't noticed and thought him mildly crazy and obsessed for caring. Donavon, in what was the most caring manner he'd ever seen, kindly suggested going out for a drink one night and her helping him to - I quote- "get laid as he so obviously needed to". He politely turned her down on this offer and decided not to broach the topic again.

However as John lay in bed that night (well when he collapsed after a day and a half of tearing across the city for a very interesting case involving six smashed Westfield figurines and the Jewels of a famous Hollywood actress - a story for another time) the blasted question wouldn't leave him alone. He'd tried to work it out but it was impossible he'd tried all the things that Sherlock would. But maybe that was the problem. He was trying to be cold and logical when it was obvious from the care and attention for the coat that this was a matter of the heart and so had to be treated in a very Watsonian way. For in the musings of 4:30 in the morning, as is so often the case, a goldmine had been uncovered. That was the answer: an answer that had been so very John. Not dazzling and fantastic or dramatic but earthy and warm and undeniably human. Something that was obvious to him but not to many. The answer lay in a cup of tea and just asking. Mind made up John dozed off.

Therefore John found himself seated opposite his friend over a mug of tea wondering how to broach the subject for surprisingly John had managed to maintain some social niceties even living with a higher functioning sociopath and he knew he couldn't just ask "What the hell is it with that bloody coat?" However his flatmate did not suffer with such issues so after a silence -not comfortable not awkward just silence- Sherlock came out with "What's bothering you?"

Thank God John thought. This is perfect.

"I was just wondering what's the deal with your coat?"

"My coat? That's what's worrying you, I was expecting at least Harry getting into trouble again."

"No." John really didn't want to have to remember that he really should call his sister to see how she was doing. He called regularly (once a month unless he could put it off for two) but he didn't have to enjoy the conversation. "It's just, well, you just really look after it more than you care for yourself sometimes and I wondered why?"

"It's important." Never had a statement been said with such certainty.

John's voice hitched as he asked the question that mattered. The one that may remain unanswered but damn he hoped it didn't: "Why?" How simple a word just one syllable and yet it would be the last nail on the head in John's complete acceptance of all things Sherlock.

John knew he was being nosy and possibly invading Sherlock's personal boundaries. He was expecting huffs and then a sulk for a week, a cutting comment on an aspect of John's life and a subject never broached again. What John was not expecting was his flatmate to ponder the question, come to a conclusion and drawing himself closer to say what came next.

"It's a gift from Myk. And a statement. He - hmm. I'd better tell the story from the beginning. That's unfortunately a habit that dreadful blog of yours is getting me into. When I was 18 I started well taking…" A huff came from across the table "Yes I know. I shouldn't have started but I did, so may I carry on? Good. As I said when I was 18 I started taking. Doesn't matter what but I thought it would help my brain. It didn't. Instead I got addicted. By the time I was 23, I was shooting up three times per day, selling - shall we say - things I'd never sell if sober to pay for my habit. Waking up in a back alley, shivering in the snow, unable to remember how I got there was the final straw. A wake up call which I needed. I picked myself up and went and caught a bus straight to Myk's. When he opened the door, he … he didn't recognise me. I had to convince him it was me. After a heated discussion and a family secret which I am not telling you, he took me in and looked after me. He got me clean not Lestrade. Everyone seems to make the assumption that it was for work that I did it. Honestly you'd think I had no self-respect. It was Myk that sat with me when I was being physically sick; held me in his arms when I was shaking and crying; and told me stories like when I was a child when I was having nightmares. It took a year but I managed it. I got clean and gained weight - looked slightly less like a morgue inhabitant as Myk so kindly described me. Once that was done he set me up with Scotland Yard, negotiating a contract between us and helping me into my new lodgings at Montague Street. It wasn't until a year later I got the coat, on the anniversary of my being clean to be specific - Myk always was so sentimental. Anyway he gave me the coat. A very expensive coat he left the price tag on to make a point to me of that. He was saying that he trusted me with something that expensive and that I wouldn't sell it for drug money. A statement as well as a gift. But the reason I care for it so is really due to what he said as he handed it over. He smiled and said "I'm so proud of you"." The gentle wistful smile here indicated to John that this was a rarity for Sherlock.

"So it reminds me that I have to stay on the straight and narrow and to never let myself down. I imagine that your psychiatrist would find my care for it, an allegory of keeping myself clean. But then she was an idiot - couldn't tell someone missing war from someone fearing it. Or this could all be hokum and I just like blue."

The smirk on his friend's face was infectious for John as he reviewed the two things that he had learnt in maybe not the most elegant speech ever given by Sherlock but probably the most honest:

1. That the Holmes' really did care for each other. It was just a more antagonistic and caustic bickering amongst siblings. Nothing really thinking back to his and Harry's fist fights when they were younger. In all probability it probably protected the world from various wars and John from various explosions. In a related topic Mycroft also deserved at least a friendly "Hello" next time he abduct- sorry - arranged a meeting and maybe a cup of tea when he popped around to give Sherlock a case.

2. And that John must be trusted by Sherlock because he couldn't imagine this conversation with Lestrade or Angelo or -God forbid - Anderson. He was probably up there with Mycroft and the skull - could one imagine better company?

Oh and Sherlock couldn't be a sociopath. But John had known that for some time.