That's What Best Friends Do
John was mostly sure that Sherlock never cried. It wasn't that he couldn't cry, of course. Well, that was what he would say if you asked him. But secretly, John didn't really know. Even at the most gruesome of crime scenes, Sherlock never seemed affected. When Mycroft had been in a car accident, he shrugged.
But he knew now.
The day was entirely too sunny for the crime scene and the awful sights inside of it. When John and Sherlock had gotten up that morning, they had expected it to be a cheerfully normal day. It was the middle of summer, after all, and the Yard had promised a party to celebrate the weekend. John, naturally, was more excited about that than Sherlock, who had grudgingly promised to show up.
John was most excited about bringing Mary and properly having an announcement for their engagement. She was a big hit with everyone, especially Lestrade, who saw her as John's lifeline after Sherlock's disappearance and presumed death.
Sherlock wasn't much for the party, but was at least hoping that he would be able to sneak into the morgue in the middle of the hubbub, or that he could convince Molly to take him up. Perhaps, he had thought, after a few drinks, she might even agree to let him take some body parts back to the flat.
Whatever the two of them were planning was now inconsequential. In Sherlock's eyes, it was one hundred percent illogical for him to do anything else other than investigate this particular homicide. In John's, it wasn't only bad taste, but impossible for him to ignore the crime scene out of compassion and emotional investment.
(Or, that was what Sherlock deduced after John had stayed at the crime scene through the late hours of the night, assisting with menial tasks when he would have normally returned to the flat to sleep. John said that he wanted to be there, just in case Sherlock needed him for anything. Sherlock knew that he wouldn't need him, but decided to let him stay because John would only strain himself to come up with an excuse to stay. There was no need to put him under additional mental duress. He was already pacing every thirtieth minute, had gone through four bottles of water, and had been running his fingers over his phone for the past ten minutes. He had also been sitting in the same chair for half an hour, and half an hour before that.) /
John was equally worried about Sherlock. After all, the crime scene had special meaning for him. It wasn't just a random homicide, it was a dear friend. He didn't know how Sherlock was managing to investigate so calmly, so level-headedly, in such a…detached way. For John, it would have been torture. For Sherlock, it looked just like another case.
Except for the fact that it was Mrs. Hudson's cold, dead body lying on the pavement, John might have been able to pretend. Except for the fact that her body was broken beyond repair, John might have been able to examine her without crying. Except for the fact that the victim was one of his dearest friends, he might have been able to look at her face. But none of these things were possible.
"John," Sherlock said, in a voice that John hardly recognized. "You should go home." He sounded almost ragged; broken. John flipped his phone in his fingers again, not taking his eyes off the pavement.
"I—no, I'm fine. I'm good. Yeah, that's. Yeah."
"No, John. You're anxious, and you haven't eaten, and you'd benefit more from sleep than I would from your presence."
For the first time in a while, John looked up from his hands and faced Sherlock. What he saw surprised him. His best friend looked nothing like his usual self. The Sherlock he knew was confident and almost haughty at a crime scene. This man standing in front of him looked tired and run down. He almost looked sad, even. As though, for once, something had broken his hard exterior and made him feel.
"Sherlock, I don't think you're one to talk. You look like you've been run over by a bloody train."
He didn't even argue. He just sat in the chair next to John, and his shoulders slumped as he placed his elbows on his thighs and put his head in his hands.
"Sherlock? Are you—are you crying?"
"I believe so. It's unpleasant."
John fought back the urge to laugh. Even when he was grieving, Sherlock could still sound like a whiny toddler when he experienced something vaguely normal.
"It's okay," John found himself saying. "It'll be okay."
Sherlock took a deep breath. "Car crash. Hit and run, however, the driver made the mistake of exiting the vehicle to assess the scene before fleeing. The vehicle was a small sedan, likely a Subaru."
John squinted. He didn't understand why Sherlock was reciting the case details, but perhaps…perhaps he was coping. He'd seen stranger methods before, after all.
"The driver was male, likely young, with large hands. He's strong; he moved the body. After exiting the scene, the vehicle likely traveled east…"
John sat with Sherlock for another hour, going over the details of the case. Between the two of them, they began to find it easier to treat the case objectively. Together, they got through it. They made it until morning, and when the sun came up, John was able to coax a drained Sherlock into a cab, where he promptly fell asleep.
They could properly process it in the morning—or rather, the afternoon—but for now, they just muddled through. Together. And even though Sherlock was a little obsessive for John, and John was a little too invested in his emotions for Sherlock, they made it work.
After all, that's what best friends do.
A/N: This was written for willshakespeare-immortalbard, for the Gift-Giving Extravaganza. The request was for a Johnlock friendship only story, with the angst or hurt/comfort genre. I hope this was okay for you, and I'm sorry that it's so unforgivably late! Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy.
Thanks to Laura and Teddy for helping me out, and to Teddy for inspiring Mrs. Hudson's death.
If you'd like to leave a review, that'd be swell. Have a lovely day!
Allie