Hey guys! Here I am again with something new. Why am I dabbling like this? It's not like me to touch such sacred ground. Er...so, anyway, here's something new. Sherlock How I love this...I couldn't resist it and it's not even that good.
So...song used in the fic is Coldplay's Fix You (not that Sherlock needs any fixing as John knows, mind you...).
I hope you guys like it at least.
Please Review
When you try your best, but you don't succeed
The slamming of the door behind him told John that he'd lost his temper again, despite his attempt to keep himself composed.
It couldn't be helped, he reasoned. Sherlock was just being incredibly unbearable again and it was just easier to walk out than stick around and let the man know just how under John's skin he'd managed to get.
Shaking his head, John tugged his jacket closer around him before he stepped from the concrete stairs and into the rainy, foggy night, uncaring of the possible consequences and hardly thinking about the possibility of catching cold.
It was the least of his worries. Especially at three in the morning.
When you get what you want, but not what you need
John Watson didn't want or need a lot of things. Not since coming back from Afghanistan. Still, he would consider himself a bit of a selfish man – but also a very moral one. He loved the thrill of danger. That in itself was likely one of the larger reasons that he stayed in the company of someone who likely didn't have any morals at all.
Sherlock Holmes was someone that was incredibly infuriating. He was extraordinarily intelligent with so many things, but also ignorant when it came to others. A functioning sociopath, he called himself, and John had to wonder how he managed to function at all from time to time.
However, upon seeing the brilliant man flash a smile and summon tears whenever they were convenient, John could easily see how his (friend, companion, colleague, acquaintance?) could function. He was an incredible actor – though that thought was almost frightening, really.
He scowled slightly and sighed as he peered up at the muggy sky, only to be met with large raindrops splattering across his furrowed brow. He welcomed the coldness of the rain, it helped to wake him up. He couldn't remember the last time he properly slept, really. Or ate.
Those were luxuries, it seemed, when one had to deal with Sherlock Holmes.
When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep
The night passed on and John didn't go anywhere in particular, refusing to go to Sarah's this late (early?) in the night. He didn't want to go back to 221B Baker Street quite yet either. He was still in a foul mood and Sherlock attempting (succeeding, the doctor corrected begrudgingly) to deduce every little emotion John was feeling and to tear down the reasons for them as useless was not something he wanted to deal with right now.
Stuck in reverse
So he just walked, his mind reeling and slowly beginning to calm down with the soft pattering of the rain against the sidewalk. It also felt almost nice against his scalp, though now he was almost beginning to wish he'd brought his umbrella with him.
And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
Somewhere along the line, he'd decided that he'd gone quite far enough and just stopped, pressed his back against the rough brick of a building, and closed his eyes. The previous tiredness was gone now and John almost felt refreshed, but not quite.
It was a realisation, really that knocked his senses back into him. A realisation that he seemed to be the closest to a real friend that Sherlock had. The only one the consulting detective practically forced (well, not really, though it would seem that way sometimes) to come along with him.
Doctor John Watson was no genius. He didn't understand and he couldn't deduce and he couldn't think like Sherlock could, but he was smart enough to know that there were quite a few people who did not think highly of Sherlock Holmes (though really, the man could be such a child sometimes).
When you love someone, but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?
John wanted to ask, why am I the one allowed to be close?, but it was like a part of him already knew the answer and it was stashed away somewhere he couldn't quite get to.
Sherlock kept him close and John kept Sherlock close (as he could get anyway) because try as he may, he could not not like the other man. The tall man who whipped cadavers and left severed heads in the refrigerator and who could tell you your life story simply from looking at you.
It was unnerving to a lot of people, John knew, but he only found himself fascinated and even though Sherlock was incredibly childish, incorrigible, and infuriating (he also had a lack of sympathy, empathy, and knowledge of the solar system), the good military doctor stayed...
He didn't entirely know why, but maybe it was because he hoped that he saw something (even if it was just a spark) that no one else could.
He turned around and began the trek back, hands shoved down deep into his pockets.
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
He couldn't pretend that he understood Sherlock Holmes. John probably knew him slightly (which was probably better than the majority), but he could not pretend that he knew much more than that. It was difficult to know someone like Sherlock.
It was almost unfair, really, but maybe it was the mystery of the man which helped to keep John at his side. The doctor was almost pretty certain that was almost exactly it.
He didn't think Sherlock held any ill-feelings towards society as a whole. Even though the bastard was just that, a bloody bastard sometimes.
Maybe John was just being hopeful.
And high up above or down below
When you're too in love to let it go
That wasn't a bad thing, was it? He didn't think so. Sherlock needed someone other than Mycroft to look after him (the man needed John to do a hell of a lot for him. Grocery shopping, general cleaning...). John may not have been a genius (everyone was an idiot in comparison to Sherlock, who oh-so-loved to point that out), but he did understand need when he saw it.
Even if Sherlock didn't quite see it himself. John seemed to have one up on him somehow in that regard.
Sure, he could leave and maybe Sherlock wouldn't notice. However, John had too much hope that he was at least somewhat important to the other man. At the very least as a colleague, but he hoped he was considered a friend (Sherlock had let it slip once, so John could be certain he was right.).
But if you never try you'll never know
Just what you're worth
After all, unless he stuck around, he wouldn't know, right? Maybe sometimes he'd get frustrated, but that was likely because he couldn't understand. He figured he would never understand how Sherlock's mind worked. Always needing that challenge; always wanting and sometimes not even able to comprehend.
Sherlock, in a way, had saved John.
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
No, it wasn't in a way. John was almost entirely certain that Sherlock had saved him. Before meeting this remarkable (incorrigible) man, he had been spiralling down some sort of tube (life?) that he felt he had no control over.
At least now he better understood himself (even though he figured that Sherlock maybe knew more about him than even himself sometimes). He was a better person for it. He owed Sherlock quite a lot in that regard.
Tears stream down on your face
When you lose something you cannot replace
Tears stream down on your face
And I...
He might have become angry, frustrated, irritated, and an assortment of other emotions from time to time, but there was no way that he was going to leave.
Tears stream down on your face
I promise you I will learn from my mistakes
Tears stream down on your face
And I...
This was something enthralling, exciting, different. He may have only been the man fetching Sherlock's phone from across the room and more or less acting as the lackey from time to time, but he at least knew that good was coming out of his actions.
Sherlock Holmes was a great man. He may have denied that he was a hero and he may not have ever wanted to be one, but he was a different sort of hero than the knights in fairy-tales, John decided.
Perhaps a Byronic hero would be best suited for him (John would protect Sherlock and keep him from becoming a tragic hero).
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you
"I suppose you're finished now?" Sherlock asked, eyes not looking up from his laptop; John resisted the urge to scowl and merely sighed instead.
"It would seem that way, wouldn't it?"
"Hm."
John watched him for a moment, hanging up his coat and running his fingers through his hair before disappearing into the bathroom.
Things continued on.
He didn't go anywhere for very long.