"...Based upon that evidence, I look 13.7% more like a horse than I do an otter. Not as flattering, but honesty is... something best ..." Sherlock scrunched up his nose in concentration.
"The best policy?" John asked.
He watched Sherlock point at him through the little screen on his phone.
"Exactly! Very good, John. John. John. John. That's an odd name, isn't it? Jaaaaawn." Sherlock turned a serious face towards him, "Do you think I look like an otter?"
"Ah…"
Sherlock waved at him. "Nevermind. You're stupid. Everyone's stupid. Am I stupid?" Sherlock paused to think about that, before finally muttering, "Logic."
"Yep," John said to himself, "Greg is going to love this."
"John, you look like a hedgehog," Sherlock said, jumping right into a new topic. Or was it back to the previous?
"What?" John allowed his hand to drop so that he could look at Sherlock properly for the first time in over twenty minutes.
Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know."
Shaking his head, John raised his phone and continued filming.
"Sonic. Sonic. Sonic. Sonic. Sonic. Sooooooniiiic," Sherlock sang to himself, voice rising and lowering in a tune that wasn't completely horrible for being the same word over and over. Of course, with that voice he could probably make a reading of the dictionary come across as a fascinating tale.
"Sonic? Why Sonic?" Sherlock examined his hands, as if the answer might be written on his palms.
"The hedgehog?" John supplied helpfully.
Sherlock's lips curled in distaste.
"Should have deleted that." Sherlock threw his fist into the air. "I will delete that!"
He gave John a startled look as if he was the one who'd shouted. John shrugged, feigning ignorance.
Soft humming started as Sherlock pressed his hands to the sides of his head. John leaned forward and took hold of a bony wrist, phone momentarily forgotten.
"Sherlock."
Wide eyes turned towards him.
"Why don't we wait until you're not completely off your rocker to mess around with your brain?"
Honestly, John wasn't certain he entirely believed the whole "deletion process" thing, certainly not at face value, but he'd rather not chance it.
Sherlock ignored responding to him in favor of glossing the tips of his fingers over John's hand. Shivers flowed through John as the fingertips trailed up over his jumper to circle his elbow and then travel back down again.
"Nice. Nice."
Sherlock flipped his hand over and swirled his finger across John's palm, forcing John to swallow uncomfortably.
"Not as nice as Mycroft's."
John's brows drew together. He supposed Mycroft did have nice hands. Nice enough for a bloke, anyway. It was a bit of an odd thing for Sherlock to say, but so was half the crap that came out of the his mouth.
"Makes me feel good with his hands."
It took John a moment to process that. And then the world broke.
Pulling himself from Sherlock's grasp, John forced the detective to look at him, not that it did much good with his overblown pupils and unfocused gaze.
"Sherlock, what do you mean by that?"
"Iceman. Warm hands."
Sherlock giggled. John frowned.
"How does Mycroft make you feel good?"
"You're angry. Why?"
Sherlock drew away from him, and John's heart clenched at the idea that Sherlock might think it was his fault.
"I'm not angry at you. I just want to know what Mycroft does with his hands that makes you feel good."
"Angry at Mycroft," Sherlock said, nodding at himself. "Doesn't go away when he's told. 'I'm the smart one.'" Sherlock made a face. "Stupid Fatcroft." Sherlock peered out the window. "Nosy. Always watching."
John closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. None of that meant anything. That was just Mycroft being Mycroft. Sherlock wasn't implying… Surely he would have told John if he didn't feel safe… If he was being…
Opening his eyes, John said, "Sherlock please answer the question. What does Mycroft do with his hands?"
Not taking his eyes off whatever had caught his attention outside, Sherlock slid his hand down beneath the sheets bunched up around his waist.
John stormed across the room, startling a little noise out of Sherlock. He marched through the slammed-open door with a barely contained fury.
Away. He needed to get away before he did something he regretted. Sherlock, for all his intelligence, had the emotional knowledge of a rock, and John didn't want to risk making him feel guilty.
As luck would have it, the man in question came into view just as John rounded a corner. He smiled at John. That smug, superior smile that told everyone in explicit detail how very powerless you were in comparison to him. How he could make you disappear to Antarctica, or wherever the hell he sent people, and no one would ever even question the decision, let alone try to fight it. How he could twist and bend someone as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes until the man no longer recognized that what Mycroft had done to him – was doing to him – was wrong. So wrong.
"Hello, John. I see my brother has gotten himself into a bit of trouble. Again." Mycroft glanced in the direction of Sherlock's hospital room in clear distaste.
John's fist was swinging before he even had the chance to consciously order it to move.
LMK what you think! Concrit welcome! Thanks!