"John?" Sally Donovan said over the small laughter in the precinct. The Yard was in good spirits after a particularly hard and dangerous case had been solved, and jokes and celebrations were being shared by all.
"Yeah?" John turned from the red head that was trying to flirt with him.
"We're all going down to the pub to celebrate. You in?"
"Uh, yeah, sure. Sherlock, do you-"
"Wait," Donovan cut him off, "You think we'd let Freak come? No, the invitation is just for you."
John stiffened and pulled his arm away form the red head, striding quickly to stand next to Sherlock. "Then I decline. Our show's on tonight, anyway."
Sherlock gave him a look. "I don't watch TV. If you want to go, you may, John. I can just go home and check on the eyeball experiment in the shower." Sherlock turned to leave.
Donovan scoffed. "See? Imagine that drunk. Bye, Freak."
John looked over at Sherlock, but the detective was already half way down the hall. "Now you listen here," He seethed at the dark haired woman, "If I ever hear that word pass your lips again in his direction, I will kill you and make it look like an accident. I live with him, don't think I don't know how." John turned on a heel and left a shocked Yard behind him as he stalked after his flatmate, catching up with him as he hailed a cab.
"Decided not to go?" Sherlock commented.
"I don't want to spend my time with that crowd. Bit toxic, yeah?"
Sherlock was glancing out the window, but a quick smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before dissipating again. They rode in silence, the nighttime lights of London dancing through the cab, and walked up to their flat in the same state. "I'm gonna shower." John left his friend in the living room, and went up to wash the smell of grisly murder off his skin.
Twenty minutes later, John found Sherlock still in the living room, his violin flat in his lap, arms dropped limply next to his thighs, and his wild curls covering his face. He was staring at the violin, head dropped slightly, and John could just barely see that he was biting his lip. "Sherlock?" He asked quietly.
The detective didn't raise his head as he said in a voice lower than normal, "Sometimes I wonder why I can't be normal."
John froze as a small drop of water landed on the violin. Silence filled the flat again. The doctor took small steps until he was standing next to his friend. He laid a hand on the finely black suit jacket. "Because then you wouldn't be you, Sherlock. And you are pretty fantastic."
Sherlock looked up now, his eyes a bit red and his cheeks flushed. His eyes were normally silver bullets that fired round after round into your psyche as he read your history in your face, but as John looked at him then, uncertainty swam in the argent lakes and threatened to drown any confidence without a second thought. He stood up. "I didn't ask for this. But they all ask for me. The least they could do is show some gratitude." He dropped the violin on the couch and stormed off to his room, roughly shutting the door.
John felt like following up on the murder threat, but just took a deep breath and put the kettle on. Five minutes later, he had two mugs of Sherlock's favorite tea in hand, and was tentatively knocking on the detective's bedroom door. "Sherlock?" A noncommittal grunt was the response he got. He took it as a 'come in'. "I brought you tea." He slowly entered, peering in to see Sherlock, still fully clothed in his suit, face down on his pillow. His never ending limbs were splayed all across the sheets and, for some reason, his comforter was on the floor. "You're going to wrinkle your favorite suit, and Mrs. Hudson refuses to do your ironing." That got a laugh out of his friend.
Sherlock rolled over onto his back and put his hands on his face, and John sat on the now unoccupied side of the queen sized mattress, folding his shorter legs up underneath him. "What type of tea?" Sherlock peeked through his fingers.
"Irish breakfast and cinnamon."
Sherlock sat up and folded up in a mirroring fashion to his blogger, took the mug and took a drink, visibly relaxing as the liquid comfort did it's job. "Thank you, John."
"You're not a freak, Sherlock. You're brilliant. You're clever. You're a dick, but you're also capable of kindness." Sherlock laughed a bit. "You love your work, and have a passion for it that I wish I had for, well, anything in my life, really. You work hard, and you get what you want. Sounds to me like you're just a human like the rest of us."
"Hardly, John. I am a god amongst men." He smiled into his tea as John pushed him lightly.
"Again, dick."
"But, without my blogger, I'd be a lonely god without anyone who believes in me, and nothing for me to believe in. Nothing to bring out the human in me. Because you're brilliant, too. You're kind. You're brave. You're sometimes a bit thick, but you learn fast." John rolled his eyes. "You delight in life, and have the ability to sit and passively perceive the world with optimism; a skill I lost a long time ago. I can't function in social situations, but you help. Sounds like you're more than human, too."
They smiled at each other and continued to drink their tea, a comfortable silence settling like eloquent dust in the small bedroom. Finally, they both whispered, "Thank you."