Discalimer: Nope, nothing's mine.I'm making no money with this.
Note: Just a little something I wrote as exercise when I was struggling with writers block. Inspired by the title of the song "Subborn Love" by the Lumineers.
Summary: The five times John hates Sherlock and the one time he notices he really doesn't.
Stubborn Love
Potato Peeler
Sometimes John wonders, he really does. He wonders what kind of hidden childhood trauma, what deep set psychological condition is responsible for his growing into a man so morbidly masochistic as to voluntarily be living with Sherlock fucking Holmes.
It has been a shit day, quite frankly. One of those days, when it seemed like every elderly gentleman in all of London has decided to come in for an unscheduled prostate exam ("You know, doctor, at my age you can never be too careful.") and entire classes of kindergartens around town seem to have caught the stomach flu at once.
Please God, let the evening pass in blissful, case-less peace! John is not a religious man, but it certainly can't hurt to at least try at the off chance that someone or something is actually listening. Please, a hot shower, a nice cuppa and – good Lord – some food! His stomach gives a menacing lions' roar at the thought of the potato gratin he is planning on preparing for himself (and Sherlock, if today miraculously falls on one of the rare occasions that the detective is inclined to listen to his bodily needs) for dinner later.
It is out of this very mood that John hates Sherlock, positively detests him from the depth of his heart, when he enters the hazy atmosphere of their shared flat and finds the tall detective already occupying the kitchen, bend over what is probably the most disgusting pursuit – an experiment of doubtlessly vital importance – that John has ever seen. And he was at war in Afghanistan. As a doctor. He has seen things.
"That is the most disgusting thing I have ever seen." He states his thoughts flatly, not finding in him the strength for a temper tantrum. Not even when he notices the potato peeler, the one instrument vital to the realization of his dinner plans already put to use - a use ruling out preparing food with it ever, ever again.
"Yet." He adds, defeated.
The detective does not even bother to raise his mess of dark curls in order to throw John a greeting glance. Instead, he gasps in exasperation, throwing the severed foot he has been working on in the sink (to the others) with a frazzled gesture and grabs a fresh one. With surgical precision he puts the potato peeler to the foots' heel and begins, slowly, carefully, to peel off the horned skin there.
"Not hungry." He comments, with no relation to Johns former complaining whatsoever.
Sometimes John wonders, he does. He wonders quietly, a menu of a Chinese delivery service in hands.
The Lions' Den
John can't believe he is doing this. He can't bloody well believe it. It's barmy, absolutely daft. All his eye and Betty Martin - the way he is willing to surrender to Sherlocks every whim and crazy idea. He is a former army soldier, for Gods' sake. He has ranked leading positions, giving orders to other people, enjoying the privilege to boss them around at his own every whim and crazy idea. Why ever he has agreed to this is so much beyond his understanding, he wouldn't be surprised if someone would approach him with the intent of writing a psychological study on this particular inconsistency in character when it comes to his relationship with the world's only consulting detective. God knows there are more.
"I can't even begin to say how stupid this idea is." John whispers for about the tenth time throughout the past minutes. His animal attendants' uniform is scratchy and smelly and just a little too small. It pinches in all the crucially wrong places. He probably shouldn't complain though – it is wondrous enough Sherlock had two of them hidden somewhere in his seemingly bottomless wardrobe for cunning disguises. Without this get up they would probably already be sharing the coziness of the backseat of Lestrades official car, listening to a lecture on "going too far" or "crossing lines" or "not getting you out of the trouble next time, no matter how important the case".
"Nonchalance, John." Sherlock duns quietly. To be fair, the detective has informed him on the importance of blending in perfectly, of looking like they belong, of wearing the barmy uniform with a busy nonchalance that says "I have work to do. None of your business" before and John has agreed – in retrospect, foolishly agreed – to play along. Of course the ruddy boilersuit sort of thing looks not half bad on Sherlocks wild-cat-like body. No trouble displaying nonchalance then, John thinks, grudgingly.
Already he can smell the distinct odour of the predators enclosures. The harsh, musky stench of huge cats ripping up raw meat and prowling small cages slowly. Oh god, at this point he already half hopes their cover will blow and someone will stop them. Sod the case, sod solving it. He just wants to not have to go into the lions preserves.
As Sherlock murmurs "Don't dawdle!" and pushes John through a door that specifically forbids non-staff members to enter (DANGER! Fierce Animals - Sherlock has probably nicked the key god knows where), John thinks he is very the likely only man in the world with a flat mate, partner in solving crimes and best friend he absolutely hates sometimes.
He would beard the lions' den for him without question, – literally – however whimsical the bloody reason, would follow him everywhere, at every time, but sometimes he still hates the bastard.
A Little Party
A little Party never killed nobody.
The rich baritone voice keeps repeating the sentence in his head, a slightly distorted caricature of his usual, detached sound. Well, John thinks, maybe not killed in the classical sense of the word, but certainly turned him into the nearest thing to a zombie there probably is. And a zombie, though not all stiff and unmoving, is certainly not entirely alive either.
Ever since waking up with a rebellious stomach, the taste of dead vermin in his mouth, sticky hair and the worlds' most blinding headache John is pretty damn convinced that he has been turned into a zombie. He cannot seem to gain full control over his body, for example. Also, his ability to form coherent words as well as the capability to use his head for anything else than carrying it around on his shoulders - which is hard enough - seems entirely lost to him. Additionally, he finds himself somewhat obsessed with the thought of brains. Well, not brains in general. One particular brain, to be precise. A very big one. A very brilliant one. A brain he very much wishes to blow out with a shot gun for making him get completely slaughtered in the middle of the fucking week against his own better judgment and against his outspoken protest.
"Come on John, a little party never killed nobody." The detective has claimed, quoting the ridiculous song that was blaring deafeningly over the crowd of dancing people with a condescending smirk and a raise of his eyebrow.
"I have to get up early in the morning." John has protested, futile. The smiting logic of Sherlock Holmes struck his objections down and smashed them to pieces on the dance floor.
"Yes, but you are a horrible actor and in order to get close to our murder suspect we both need to appear utterly drunk."
Besides, you might as well enjoy yourself, old friend. You get out for a drink and a round on the dance floor seldom enough, the uruly vicious little voice in Johns head has whispered into his ear. The same bloody voice must have been responsible for convincing him that moving in with Sherlock was a good idea.
Remembering said little voice, John could in all honesty not entirely and solely blame Sherlock for his current condition (he could have skipped the last two beers, after all), but chooses to concentrate his hate on the detective and his unorthodox undercover investigation methods anyway. Somehow, they always seem to end up with John getting drunk and one day, he swears, he will get revenge.
Really Hard
In retrospect, the hollow thudding and the sound of glass shattering into a thousand pieces should probably have been a warning to John rather than a motivation to spurt up the narrow stairwell of 221b faster, his date in tow. He knows, has learned the iron hard way, the granite way even, that bringing a date home when Sherlock is loitering around the flat is doomed to end in a terrible disaster. He knows that rumbling and lumbering are never, ever good signs and probably mean that the selfish detective has turned the place into an uninhabitable lab for his dotty experiments or usually explosive outbursts of boredom relief, rendering the flat unfit to bring up any kind of visitor. He knows perfectly well all of this signals the immediate evacuation of whatever girl he has planned on bringing upstairs. Yes, he knows. Why on earth his concern for the self-destructively smart bugger is getting the upper hand nonetheless every bloody time, causing John to heartlessly abandon the girl at his side and rush to Sherlocks help, is still something of a mystery to him. He isn't even in any real danger most of the time.
Something else that John realizes in retrospect is that he should probably have expected her reaction to the sight that unfurls in front them as soon as she enters the living room, several moments after John does. There is a tall, dark haired man with a blood dripping halberd standing in front of her after all, looking nothing short of stark raving mad. Also, there is the unmoving, bloodied body of another man lying directly in front of her feet. It is – John comes to the conclusion later that night – quite understandable that she should head out of the door with a hysterical shriek, screaming something about "calling the police" and "bloody maniacs".
"Please do, and specifically ask for Detective Inspector Graham Lestrade!" Sherlock calls after her calmly.
"Greg." John corrects, not even taking the time to wonder when on earth he became so used to events like this, that correcting Sherlock is really the first thing to say he goes for. The detective skates over the statement and tosses the halberd away noisily.
"Sherlock, what the fuck happened here? Are you hurt?"
"No, I'm fine." Sherlock waves dismissively. Then, somewhat grumpy "The stupid idiot really though he could frighten me with a hired killer. Boring." He wipes his bloody hands on his shirt and gives the body on the floor a deprecating shove with his elegant foot.
"Is he hurt? You did not kill him, did you? He's bleeding." Some day one of this little fights with assassins hired to end the consulting detectives life and thereby his brilliant deductions and crime solving is going to get someone killed (which is kind of the point). Hopefully not Sherlock, John thinks, but preferably no one at all. He can only imagine the awkward trouble with the police that would cause them.
"Just scratched him a little." Sherlock waves the incident away and is already halfway over to his microscope, undoubtedly with the intention of reburying himself in the investigation he was caught up in when the attacker disturbed his work. "Just leave him. He will be out for some more hours. We can deal with him later. Right now I have more pressing issues that demand my attention."
"Um, one more question." That earns him a nasty glare, but he has to ask. "Where did the halberd come from?"
"Oh, really John. Do keep up!" Sherlock sighs. Then, because the adrenaline from the fight has obviously left him in high spirits, Sherlock asks in a voice that makes it clear he is more making what he knows John to deem polite conversation than being actually interested: "How was your date? She looked more attractive than your usual ones, measured on the scale of average modern beauty ideals. Why did she leave so early? Usually you bring them back here for a glass of middle priced wine and then go up to your room and…"
"No. Stop. Let it go." John interrupts fretfully and lets his head sink to his chest in the attempt to control his anger. It can be really, really hard to like Sherlock Holmes at times. Really hard.
Tasty
"What's this?" John asks suspiciously as Sherlock puts down a steaming hot liquid in Johns favourite mug on the coffee table next to him one night, as John is typing away sedulously on his computer. It surely looks like tea, smells like tea… Could be anything. With Sherlock you never know.
"I have to inform you that your skills of observation appear to have reached a new low, John." Sherlock takes a sip of his own cup, and returns to staring at the telly in disgust, bridging the bottomless abyss called boredom that usually lurks between cases with his new found obsession of solving the cases on TV crime scenes within seconds and then complaining noisily that the ending of the respective episodes never seems to make any sense.
"Yes, thank you. I see what it is. Smell it too." John says patiently. "After the Baskerville incident I'm just a little suspicious, though."
Sherlocks exasperated huff cuts him short. "Oh, do let that go, will you? It was in the name of science."
Isn't it always? John thinks, somewhat annoyed, but, in the sense of friendship and on behoof of a peaceful afternoon, refrains from commenting out loud. He sniffs the cup as second time and decides to give Sherlock another chance. It was just this once already quite some time ago, at Baskerville. Well, and all the other times. John takes a sip.
Bloody hell.
"Sherlock." He forces himself to stay calm. "What am I drinking? This is not tea, is it? Please, tell me it's not a drug or some sort of narcotic. It tastes like nothing at all." He sends himself a memo to not – mind you, not ever – drink anything the detective brings him again. Ever.
"Oh, jolly good. So you taste it too?" Sherlock seems pleased. Never a good sign.
"I taste absolutely nothing. What is it?"
"That is exactly the point. I'm testing a substance that reduces a persons' sense of taste considerably. Two drops of it into my cup, two in yours. I was just wondering if I tasted a faint trace of bitterness on the back of my tongue, so it was a good idea to test it on you too. One test subject is hardly enough to collect sound data."
John stares into the cup, horrified, and sets it down on the table gently. After all, you never know with Sherlock, it might as well have an explosive side effect.
"You numbed my sense of taste? Sherlock I have dinner reservations for Jenny and me at that insanely expensive French place in – oh – two and a half hours. It took me forever to get a table there. Please tell me my taste will have returned by then. The starters already cost half my monthly income." It's going to be one of those nights, John feels. One of those nights he goes to bed, thinking about painful ways to pay Sherlock back for his latest cruelty in the name of science. God, how he hates him sometimes.
"You'd do better to cancel that, then." Sherlock says casually. "But you should be fine in four to six weeks."
+1. Stubborn Love
As they lean back into the comfortable seats of the cab, watching the golden evening sun kiss Londons rooftops passionately until they emit a glaring light, John thinks about how much he loves these moments. The residual thrill of an exciting case solved successfully still in their veins, the joy at the prospect of food and showers and hours and hours of peaceful sleep ahead of them appeal even to Sherlock, although he would never admit to it, and make these moments together so peaceful, so calm, so valuable.
After Sherlocks last snarky remark to Anderson, there is still a wide grin on the faces of both men. As he glances over to John out of the corner of his eye, the detectives smirk transforms into a gentle smile. One of his rare, genuine smiles that make him look more and less human than usual, both at the same time. More so, because, contrary to what the detective likes to make people believe, not even he can prevent human emotions form sneaking into his heart from time to time. Less, because it contorts his usually so cool, controlled features to an almost ethereal beauty. John loves these smiles. They are precious and beautiful and intimate.
They almost make up for all the times the detective vexes him with his quirky behavior.
"Could you drop us off at the Italian Place in Miller Street?" Sherlock asks the cabbie on hearing Johns stomach give a noisy rumble.
No, he does not hate Sherlock Holmes, despite all the times he might be convinced he does. He may hate him at times, but he never hates him in the literal sense of the word. Besides, what is hate if not a very close companion of a fierce, unreasonable love? Love and hate are certainly not opposites. In fact, they lie so closely that sometimes, in situations of extreme emotionality, they can get confused all too easily. Eventually, though, love is the stronger of the two. It is persistent. It is stubborn. Just as stubborn as Sherlock himself, John muses, and chuckles lowly to himself at the thought.
"Hm?" Sherlock raises an amused eyebrow.
"Oh, just thinking about the way you punched that fake priests nose in. That was quite a move." John lies. The detective does already know more of his thoughts he would ever share with anyone else. No need for him to know all of them.
They share another grin.
"Well," says Sherlock and turns away to look out of the window. John can only see the ruffled curls on the detectives' brilliant head. "He was making an effort to hurt you with that billiard cue and I was starting to feel a little possessive. I want to keep the privilege of putting you into the hospital all to myself, I think."
John grin widens as he feels his ears turning hot. Definitely not hate, no. The other thing is much more likely. Yes, it's a stubborn love.