Mrs. Hudson looked up at the ceiling separating her from "the boys" upstairs. Having a domestic spat, from the sounds of it. They're both so sweet, but they do get under each other's skin at times, she thought to herself with a sigh.
"Can you just please stop doing that every single time-"
"Doing what?"
"You know, that thing you do, just showing off half the time. 'I see your trousers are wrinkled on the right leg but not on the left leg, clearly this means you were on the tube half an hour ago and got off three blocks from here. Also, your birthday is in two weeks and you're estranged from your father.'"
Sherlock winced at his friend's logic chain, scowling at the impression he was doing of him. "That is the most erroneous attempt at an observation that I've ever heard. I never said that. Of course, I can hardly blame you making such a mistake; I shudder to think of what it must be like in there." He stood, bending slightly to see eye-to-eye with Watson, peering in as if through a shop window. "Must be nice and quiet at least."
"Look, I don't know why I let you talk to me this way all the time. I may not be some sort of barely-functional mad genius, but I'm not stupid."
"I never said you were stupid." The accused mad genius took a step back to observe from a distance. He looks mildly surprised and serious. "If that was over the line, I apologize. It's not easy for me, you know."
John made a face, standing and approaching Sherlock with his arms folded over his chest. "What isn't easy for you?"
"People's feelings, recognizing people's feelings and acting accordingly. You know that."
John stared, listening intently. Is that a touch of jealousy I hear? "You're right. I know you and I should just accept it already that you're never going to be Mr. People Skills. Still, you can 'recognize and act accordingly' with some people, you know. Like me, like Mrs. Hudson..." He remembered how tenderly Sherlock had treated their landlady after she'd been held at gunpoint once he'd dealt with her captor.
Sherlock rolled his eyes in boredom, "Of course I'm better at it with you, you're my...my..." The word 'family' lingered in the front of his brain but it went unsaid. "You and Mrs. Hudson are my people." He'd never admit that it was because he felt safest with them. He always assumed it was because they were currently the people who endured him the most and were consequently familiar. "When did my thing start to irritate you, John? You used to enjoy my observations."
Watson sighed, leaning over the kitchen table. "I still do, but sometimes it just sounds like you're bragging. I still think you're marvelous, you know," he added, getting a pleased smile from his friend. "As much as you can't imagine what it's like in my little pea-brain-"
"I never-"
"You inferred. Multiple times. As I was saying...I can't begin to imagine what it must be like going a million thoughts a second like that. Must be incredible."
"Oh, yes it is, John. So is breathing."
John rolled his eyes at him, shaking his head frustratedly. Swaggering git, he thought acidly, heading upstairs to bed. He slammed the door and was soon treated to his eccentric roommate's violin-playing. He sounded as though he were continuing his share of the argument through music. It was angry, demanding, one of Sherlock's own compositions. The man can do anything, anything! Read a total stranger's life story by the turn of their collar, run his weird little experiments in the kitchen, compose music off the cuff when he's in a mood...God, what that must be like!
Sherlock played on, deep in thought, mentally rehashing his and John's discussion to comb it for details. His playing becomes harsher, dissonant, so even John thinks I'm a damned computer. My friend...my only friend. As if feelings were so bloody important. I do have them...Just because I don't go slopping them everywhere in front of the whole world- One of the strings broke, and he growled at it in annoyance.
"Snapped your A-string, Sherlock? You sounded a bit heavy on it," John called down.
"Yes, John, it was the A. Don't worry, I have a spare." Guess he can make observations after all. Never knew he understood anything about music.
"The show must go on. Go ahead, maestro, continue having your say."
By then, Mrs. Hudson had grown quite tired of their shouting, and started beating on the ceiling with a broom handle. "You boys be quiet up there; it's time for decent people to sleep! Ought to be ashamed, rowing like that in the middle of the night." Her displeasure was clearly enough to make them quiet down and behave. At times she was surprised at the effect she had on them. She suspected that it was because the poor lambs benefited from having a mother-figure around to keep them in line. She sat back down on her bed, reading a letter from her cousin Ellie in Ireland. She'd sent a silver charm of a pair of shoes. Adding it to her bracelet, the landlady pondered aloud. "Those boys would do well to take a walk in each other's shoes. Might be good for both of them."
John woke the next morning, finding himself abnormally spread out. Usually he woke up curled up in the fetal position against the wall. He looked up at the ceiling, at the light fixture. He sat up and looked around, fully registering that this was not his bedroom. These are Sherlock's things. What am I doing in his room ?! "Hello?" he asked experimentally, and covered his mouth! He slowly drew his hand away...finding it slim, long-fingered, and pale. Not my room, not my voice, not my hand...What the hell is going on ? Feeling ready for the inevitable, John crawled off the edge of the bed and faced the large mirror on the wall. Sure enough, he found his friend staring back at him! He gasped, a strangled sound as he staggered back, clutching at his heart. Unbidden, a thought flashed through his head: 103 bpm, 37.4C degrees, elevated state due to shock. Watson shut his eyes and shook his head sharply, it was almost as though he had seen the words with his very eyes! He blinked several times and drew the curtains back to shed some light on things. He looked out the window at the sun, instantly reading its position in the sky: 10:35am...10:36. Low clouds moving in, rain likely. Once again, he looked at his hands: Bitten nails, signs of a nervous temperament: common withdrawal symptom. Small scars and calluses...and an image of Holmes playing the violin sprang vividly to mind. Then, as a special treat to himself, he dragged his fingers through his hair, relishing his flatmate's soft mane of dark curls. He chuckled wickedly to himself. Then...he wondered how Sherlock was going to react. On autopilot, he snatched up a robe and slipped into it, tying the belt and wandering out into the living room. He gave the ceiling a glance before slipping into the kitchen to start coffee. He scooped the grounds into the basket, giving an appreciative sniff. He was surprised by what it registered: Costa Rica, store brand, mediocre quality, first opened 2 weeks ago, bag was left open last time, oxidised... but the associated imagery was what really floored him. For a split-second he felt a sharp craving for a cigarette and a line of cocaine! He saw himself using them clearly in his mind's eye. He wondered for how long that was his friend's morning routine, grateful now that he was clean. A slight growl as the nicotine craving didn't quite go away. Mostly clean. That's why he takes sugar in his coffee. Black was his signal.
He started a batch of toast as well while he waited for the coffee to be ready, sitting down at the table with a dazed expression. This was simply going to be one of those days. He glanced at the toaster, listening to the ticking, 47 seconds remaining, shutting his eyes again as he was assailed by an onslaught of information. How in the world did Sherlock control this brain of his?!
Dutifully, he stirred in two spoonfuls of sugar into his cup of coffee, wincing a little at adulterating it so, but finding the taste surprisingly pleasing. He was taking a second sip when he heard the sound of a struggle upstairs. Yelps and tumbling and a long string of curses...and soon the other resident of 221B came thundering down the stairs.
"John?! John, is that you?" He looked wildly around the room, focusing on his own body, looking him over. Beautiful... He shook himself, trying again, but coming up with nothing but ?
"No. It's your brother, Mycroft," Watson replied sarcastically, sipping his coffee with an almost bored air. "Of course it's me." His eyes raked over his friend's body...his own body...taking in every inch of it. He just tried to do his reading-people thing, didn't get good results from the looks of it. "Watch your step, the last one's a touch shorter than the rest," he advised.
"Dammit, John, what the hell happened?! Something's wrong, there's definitely something wrong with your eyes. I think I'm going blind. I can see, but I can't see! This is bad, this is very bad. I can't think straight."
Watson stood up and helpfully guided his friend to the table, pouring him a cup of coffee and sliding over the plate of toast for them to share. "Just stop panicking, we'll get to the bottom of this."
"Yes...yes, thank you," Sherlock sighed, drinking deeply. "Are you all right?" He rubbed a hand over his face, slapping himself lightly as he wondered what made him ask that.
Watson's eyes fix intently on his friend, taking note of everything: Choked slightly on the coffee, realized that it's black and he likes it, worried about the taste acting as a trigger. Sharp inhale at the end. See how he savours it! Left hand trembling, more jittery than he wants to let on. He actually voiced concern for me! He noticed distress, he cares! Not used to feeling empathy for other people, it's obviously an unfamiliar concept to him. He shook himself out of his stream of observations. "Fine, fine," he lied, bringing a hand over his eyes again and flinching.
"You...!" Sherlock gasped, pointing an accusing finger at his roommate. "You were just...you can...so that's it! I'm not going blind, I'm just..."
"Normal," John finished for him, trying not to grin at his friend's expense.
Holmes cradled his head in his hands in frustration. "Just don't you dare tell me I'll get used to it, or I'll..." he pauses to think up something that would be really annoying.
"You'll what?"
Then, it occurs to him! "I'll take you to the Underground."
John nibbled his toast disinterestedly. "So?"
Sherlock's devilish smile spread over Watson's face, "Oh, think of all the people down there! All the nitpicky little details you'll pick up and catalog. I may not have my usual level of observational skills anymore, but I could tell you didn't like that at all, just doing it to me. Take that by a factor of twenty, a hundred! Oh, that would be torture!" He laughed with triumphant glee, smacking the table emphatically.
This threat had a sobering effect on John, who gulped in dismay. Just the thought of being around so many people in this state...it explained perfectly why Sherlock was not a people-person. Even for someone to whom it was as natural as breathing, it would cause him to limit his social interactions.
"It's involuntary, I can't help it," Watson groaned. He accounted for the clock losing half a second every minute and a half, his own throbbing pulse, and the acrid smell of burning coming from the diner below them. New broiler cook, first day in the business, sounds about twenty-five with an English degree, owner turned his back for a minute too long. Prognosis: fire liability. I give him a week.
The smug detective pouted mockingly across the table. "Oh, stop showing off, why don't you? Always bragging. It's so annoying," he purred.
"Oh, shut up." He covered his eyes in another vain attempt to block out the inflow of information. It was too much! Nothing escaped him anymore, he noticed everything! He had to notice everything! And he was about to get another dose...Footsteps coming up the stairs... Ladies' shoes, patent leather, kitten heels, broader at the ends for better balance and support. New, sticker still on the left one, obviously bought and wore them out of the store, impulse buy. Timing of footsteps indicate a shorter person but someone familiar with the building. It's the third of the month, rent checks were cashed yesterday. Mrs. Hudson!
"And what color are they?" Sherlock asked, breaking into his friend's unbidden thoughts.
They grew nearer, John took a breath and muttered, "Red."
The landlady knocked briskly and let herself in. Her shiny, new red shoes clicked across the floorboards. She obviously couldn't wait to model them for someone. "Everything all right this morning?"
Desperate to snatch his identity back, Sherlock stared at her for a moment before hazarding, "Oh, yes. Fine. Have a date planned, Mrs. Hudson?" He examined her clothes, noticing nothing, the rest of her appearance offered nothing of value to him, either. He cringed, mourning the loss of that which he'd so long taken for granted.
"No, nothing like that. Just thought I'd get myself something special. With the consulting business being what it is, thanks to your blog, I can actually afford a treat now and then."
"They suit you," Sherlock remarked, trying to be polite for a change but sounding a tad grumpy. John stood with his back to the wall, covering his eyes again and taking long, deep breaths.
"Now what's the matter, dear? You look like you have a headache," the motherly woman clicked her way across the room to examine her tenant. She laid a hand against his forehead, patting his cheek. "Poor thing. You need to let people take care of you now and then, you know. You're not invincible. Go ahead, let Doctor Watson fuss over you a bit." She leaned in close and whispered confidentially, "He adores you, you know. He'd give you his blood, down to the last drop, if you needed it."
John gave her a faded smile and nods, "Yes, I know." And with that, he slumped down over the table, clutching his whirling head with a moan.
Sherlock sprang forward to look his friend in the face, tilting his head back up. He found his fingers drawn irresistibly through his hair. "Hey, come on, snap out of it! Don't get dramatic on me, you git!" A few light slaps to the face. The other man just stared up at him, slouched over and dazed. His eyes were wide and overwhelmed. "What is it? What's the matter?"
"I can't...I can't! I don't know how to turn it off!" He cried, banging on the table and scattering debris across the kitchen. "Help me, please help me!" John whispered privately.
This put Sherlock at a loss, how to help the man who was drowning in awareness. There wasn't anything useful he can say or do to help him at this point.
"You can't turn off the coffee pot? You just flip the red switch back the other way," Mrs. Hudson suggested brightly. This sends both men into a sniggering fit. They looked at each other, then at her, then back at each other again, giggling like a couple of naughty schoolboys.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that was very helpful," John told her, fighting to keep a straight face.
To his credit, Sherlock knew better than to hope that he was out of the woods. He stayed close, softly tittering with his friend, absently touching his hair and face in a soothing manner. He felt warm butterflies in his stomach as he did so, startled at the soft stirrings within him. Then he turned around and addressed their concerned landlady. "I'll take care of him, no need to call anyone. All right? We're...we're just fine." She nodded and scuttled back down the stairs. Once they were alone again, they could be more free to speak aloud. "It would never have occurred to me to 'turn it off' as you call it. Oh, but it's hurting you. It's driving you mad...poor thing." Then, he caught himself, snarling. "Great, now I have empathy! Lot of good it does, I'm sure."
John stood, leaning against Sherlock's shoulder. They walked over to the sofa and plopped down into it together. "Thanks for caring," he half-joked, getting a surly growl in return.
"A fine exchange," Sherlock grumbled sarcastically. "You have my brain, and I've got your heart. God, the world is so tiny in here! There's just nothing! No meaning, no facts, just nothing! I...can't stand to think of you blundering through life like this."
"Why not me?" He knew all too well that his friend had no problem looking down at other lesser folk for not possessing his superior intellect. He'd often wondered how he measured up.
Sherlock stumbled a bit here, corralling his thoughts. "I just can't, that's all. All those other idiots out there, I can understand living like this, but you...you're different. You're like me, you're mine! You're in my world, John! You're bigger, better than that. You deserve better. I l- I like you, John. I like you a lot and I don't want this miserable, limited existence to be all you have. How small everything is! It's horrible! And these...feelings! I mean, real feelings. I thought what I had was normal, but now..."
"I have your brain, you have my heart," John agreed simply. "And oh, how we loathe them!" They laughed out loud together over this. Their humor was short-lived, though, and it soon misted away into melancholy. "I honestly don't know how you cope with this. On top of the whole 'noticing everything' business which is irritating enough, I feel...detached. Does that make any sense? Just...far away, like something's missing."
"Simple, you've got my mixed-up brain chemistry, too. You've got the brain of a high-functioning sociopath. That's just how it is until we get switched back. I'm sorry." Once again, Sherlock couldn't make his hands behave, he had to stop himself from reaching out and petting his friend some more. It was becoming a compulsion! He hoped he wasn't blushing. This was as much as he could handle, he'd only been coping with this situation for under an hour and he was already stir-crazy. "Let's get dressed and get out of here. The walls are closing in on me, I swear..."
"Where in the world can we go and look...normal? Normal for us, that is." Still, John agreeably stood as well. He started up the stairs out of habit when Holmes cleared his throat loudly, taking his elbow and dragging him into his bedroom. He rummaged around for some suitable clothes and thrust the bundle into Watson's hands.
"Try and look presentable; the kindest thing anyone says about me is that at least I'm well-dressed. We have a reputation to uphold." He patted his cheek, grinning at his own befuddled face and sauntered out. "No snooping!"
Watson had no desire to go snooping through his friend's possessions. He often found himself wishing he didn't know about some of the things he did! He dressed, staring at himself as little as he could manage. Once again, though, he came face-to-face with himself in the mirror and couldn't help gazing a bit. He smiled, admiring how it transformed Sherlock's face. He had the most beautiful smile, his whole face lit up.
Meanwhile, Sherlock made his way up to John's room to get dressed. Humming to himself, he picked out the most comfortable-looking sweater he could find and pulled it over his head. Once he was put together, he went back downstairs to check on the man in his body.
"You all right in there, John?" Sherlock asked, banging the door open. He then sniggered softly at his friend posing in the mirror. He looked as though he was really admiring the view.
"Fine, I'm fine. I just..."
"Shall I leave you two alone?"
Watson waved him aside, buttoning up his shirt the rest of the way. Sherlock came over to inspect. He straightened his collar, brushed off his shoulders, and ran his fingers through his hair to get it to behave, getting an odd tingling feeling from it all. "You'll do," he muttered, tossing him his coat. "Let's go."
"Go where? You still haven't said-"
"I need to relax, we're going to the morgue." Sherlock wrapped his blue scarf around Watson's neck to complete the picture of normality, giving him a smile of approval. Beautiful...What the hell is the matter with me?! Without another word, they head out. Along the way, it occurred to Sherlock that Molly Hooper was likely to be there. Their encounters with one another had been interesting lately. He actually felt the cold grip of guilt seize his heart, sickening him with reminders of his cruel treatment of the woman who was so taken with him. He flushed in embarrassment.
"John, do something for me, will you? While we're there, if we run into Molly...be nice to her for me, please? I've been...I've been..."
"You've been a complete and total bastard to her, and you're just now realizing it. Is that right?" John didn't need his newly-acquired ability to read the remorse on his friend's—on his own—face. He patted his knee with a nod. "I'll try my best to patch things up with her. Think you could handle taking her out for coffee sometime?"
"I suppose it couldn't hurt."
Soon, they were walking into the lab, and John braced himself for the flood of observations that were about to wash over him. "Don't know how you stand it, really," he murmured softly.
"I miss it. I miss it so much. Never thought I'd be without it. I told you, I'm blind! This is miserable. All right, deep breath, and don't lose your head."
Sure enough, Molly was there, hovering over a fresh corpse, poking at it with a medical instrument. She turned around at the sound of the closing door and tensed. With an uncharacteristic sneer, she looked right past the tall, dark figure. "Doctor Watson, what can I do for you? Something your friend needs for the Yard?"
John gritted his teeth and stepped forward. He and Sherlock had prepared a passable speech for him to give her. It had been hard to get him to stop, once he got going, as several years worth of guilt were coming back to haunt the socially-handicapped man. "I came to see you, Molly. To talk to you. I know I've behaved abominably, and I'm sorry." He looked back over his shoulder and got a nod, urging him to go on as planned. "I'm a cold-hearted, cruel bastard with no scope for normal human emotions. I've said things to you that make my stomach turn, and I want you to know I've...changed," he fought the urge to laugh at this word. "I may not show it, but I do respect you professionally, and personally." His eyes scanned over her, taking in her sorrowful expression, her surprise, the layers of hurt that his friend had dealt her. "I want us to be friends again."
Molly's eyes start out of her head. "Who are you?"
"What do you mean?"
"You look like Sherlock, but you...you don't sound at all like him. Friends again?! Since when were we ever friends? Who the hell are you?"
John's eyes widened, he reached backward and touched his friend's shoulder to steady himself. "You're serious."
"Very. What is he, John, some kind of a doppelganger? Someone you're trying out?!"
Grasping at straws, John had to think of something that would shut her up before she hit the truth. "It's all right, Molly, I swear. I'm just...not the same man I was yesterday. I owe you this much for putting up with all that you have. It is beyond my understanding why you'd ever have..." He found he couldn't finish. He trailed off foolishly, looking at his shoes and scratching the back of his head.
The bashful act seemed to work, intentional or not. Molly stepped forward, sadness lingering in her eyes. "Oh, Sherlock..." She crept forward and pulled him into a tight hug.
John held her, not sure if this was right but at least it's making her happy. He can certainly sympathize with her in certain areas. "Look, I know I say awful things, but I don't mean them, not the way they sound." He looked her straight in the eye and found that he nearly lost his nerve. Startled by this, he plunged onward before he forgot what he was supposed to say. "I...suppose it all comes out like that when I...don't know how to talk to someone. Which, frankly, is nearly all the time." Another look, and he found that it was all gone. Why in the world he would lose it so badly was beyond him. Surely, a man such as Sherlock Holmes would at least have experience talking to a woman! But no, he felt like a tongue-tied twelve-year-old at his first school dance. Time to improvise! "You should hear the things I say to my best friend. Any sane person sharing a living space with me would have thrown me out the window by now, and he puts up with it because he knows that in spite of all the bad, that I honestly do care."
It was the strangest thing as he held her. His whole body responded, half rejecting this contact. It felt weird, uncomfortable, like he couldn't believe he was letting her cling to him for this long. That she'd want to! The only thing that made him keep up the charade was just knowing that Molly had probably dreamed of doing this for years. She pressed her face into his shoulder; he glanced down at her for a moment, suppressing a laugh over being so much taller than she was. He'd known since he was a teenager that he'd never crack two meters, and here he stood, towering above this sweet creature. This woman who only had eyes for him. "Forgive me?"
She grinned giddily and nodded as they parted, still holding onto his hand.
Feeling rather daring at the moment, Watson kissed her hand and drew his cool fingers over it. "Good. Glad we got that sorted," he remarked brightly. And, in true Sherlock fashion, he broke away from her entirely, clapping his hands together and heading over to examine a dead body. His partner followed closely, amazed at how easily he'd amended his working relationship with Hooper.
She was used to this kind of behavior from him by now, so she continued on with her work and let the boys have their fun.
After they spent about an hour tinkering around and running recreational tests on the available subjects, John glanced up and saw Molly watching him like a hawk from across the room. He flashed her a quick smile and held his hand up to his ear, miming a phone, mouthing the words "Call me."
Bile rose up in Sherlock's throat when he saw that, unable to pinpoint why it made him angry. He obviously thought he was doing what he'd asked. Still, it didn't change the fact that he had the sudden desire to start beating that corpse in front of him like a piñata. He couldn't contain himself any longer, he burst out shouting, "For god's sake, John, stop it! This isn't what we'd agreed on!" Then, he realized, bringing a hand to his mouth, "Oh, shit." John winced hard as their cover was blown, covering his face. Sherlock simply stamped on the floor, furious with himself. "Stupid!"
"He...he just called you John. Why would he call you by his own name? Oh...! Oh, but that's impossible! That's beyond crazy, that's just stupid! How in the world..."
Figuring he had permission to go back to acting like himself, Sherlock growled softly, "Dammit, Hooper, why do you want me so badly?! I treat you like dirt and you keep coming back for more. Confound it, I always thought you were intelligent!"
Molly stared at the pair of them, looking from one to the other, frantically. She finally landed on the shorter, blond man in front of her. "Sherlock? Is that really you?" He nodded, glancing between her and the floor. "I think...it's because I keep thinking how lonely it must be for you. Kind of makes you seem vulnerable, more human. I think, maybe I could help you, since we see so much of each other. And, of course..." she trailed off, turning her gaze back to John, beaming at him in involuntary admiration.
"Are you serious?!" Sherlock groaned disgustedly. "Look, I came out here to get John to be nice to you for me to make up for all the times I've been mean to you. And what do you say? That you have a stupid crush on me out of pity and some demented physical attraction. Come on, John, we're going!"
"It's not that!" Molly denied sharply. "Well, not all that, anyway. We've worked together, I like you! For some bizarre reason, I know that beneath all your horribleness you're still a good person." This struck him absolutely speechless. He stared at her dumbly for a solid minute. He'd been called many things in the past, but no one had ever accused him of being a good person at heart!
"Molly," he sighed, brushing his hands over his face, trying to think of something sensible. "Look, I meant what he said. Every word of it. Not sure about the hugging or the 'call me' bit-"
"But how in the world did you two-?"
"No clue, no idea. If we ever get back to ourselves, it can't happen soon enough. God, you looked so happy, though! In his arms like that." The image was fully burned into his mind, he couldn't get over the fact that a sweet girl like Hooper would care for him. It felt like that wretched Christmas all over again, when she made him feel about an inch tall. "Molly...I'm so sorry. I never meant to lead you on or anything, give you the wrong idea. I mean, no one's ever..." He was floundering and they all knew it. Luckily, she knew what to say.
"Come back and finish when you're you again. I want to hear it from the real you." Molly gave him a small smile, drew her hands across his shoulders and patted his cheek.
"I don't how how good of an idea that is, actually. At least like this it's not as difficult to relate to people. As myself I can tell someone's life story by the state of their jacket, but I can't tell when I'm hurting someone. I'll come back, but don't expect Prince Charming, and certainly don't hope for a happy ending."
This sombered her once again as she nodded her resolve. "I won't."
John interrupted, cutting between them and standing by Sherlock's side. "Think it's okay if he just poked around with the corpses a bit longer? He came here to calm down. Been a bit of a bad day for both of us, really. I think it makes him feel like himself."
"Sure, fine," she whispered as she went back to work.
John followed her to the slab she was working on, and whispered, "Someone like you deserves better than him. He's not used to it. I...honestly don't think anyone's told him they loved him before. He doesn't know how. Plus, something tells me he's not into ladies." With that said, he returns to his friend.
A few hours later, they'd finished up unwinding among the dead, gone out for dinner at their favorite dim sum restaurant, and were now crawling back home. John went up ahead, leaving his flatmate behind outside. He knew better than to object or question him. They both needed some alone time after the day they'd had. He went up to his room and flung himself on the bed, wishing that somehow when he opened his eyes again he'd be himself.
Down below, Sherlock skulked around the building for a few minutes before going inside as well. Instead of going up to their flat, however, he found his feet leading him to Mrs. Hudson's quarters. She caught a glimpse of him and waved him in. He obeyed, feeling very fond of the lady right now. She never thought he was an insensitive freak. She may not approve of how he got his kicks, but she was always there for him, and he for her. "Something will come up. A good murder," he remembered her promising him once when he was down in the dumps. She always knew just how to cheer him up.
"Well, well. The doctor makes house calls," she grinned widely at her own joke. "You know, you and Sherlock have been acting strange all day. How's his headache?"
"Better, I think. Never saw him like this, actually."
"He needs you to take care of him. Mark my words. What that man needs is some TLC and you're just the fellow to give it to him."
Sherlock gave an indulging chuckle to her suggestion. "I worry about him," he admitted truthfully.
"I'm so glad he has you," Mrs. Hudson told him, nudging him down at her table while she started some tea. Soon, she sat down next to him and patted his hand. "I've never seen him happier than when he's off and running somewhere with you. You're just right together. I suppose that's why you put up with as much as you do. I know he mustn't be an easy man to live with, but he's worth choosing your battles in my opinion. Even I will let him shoot the walls full of holes if it keeps him happy."
"It's just the one wall, and most of them got in the target," Sherlock said in defense of his marksmanship.
The kettle whistled, Mrs. Hudson poured them each a cup, and she gave him a sneaky smile of a busybody. "So when are you going to tell him?"
Sherlock choked mid-sip, "Tell him?"
"You know, tell him how you feel about him. I mean, I'm sure he can tell, the man knows everything. Even I can see it as plain as the nose on your face. It's all right, John. And I know that he won't hold it against you, even if he doesn't love you back."
"Doesn't...what?" he spluttered, suddenly nervous. Sherlock finished his tea quickly before he broke his cup from his shaking hands.
She then took on a slightly disapproving tone, as though remarking on something scandalous. "Well, you know how he got so hung up on that Adler woman. Frankly, even I don't know much about him, I've never seen him take such a shine to anyone else before. Still, he may like hearing it."
"Yeah..." Sherlock agreed absently, trying to speak in character. What would John say? "Couldn't hurt, could it? I mean...unless he never wanted to speak to me again. Maybe he'd get a good laugh out of it at least."
The landlady patted his arm comfortingly, regretting that she'd suggested such a thing. "Now, now. You don't know that! You don't know anything for certain. He wouldn't hold it against you. You're his best friend."
"Only friend. Well, there's you, too," he allowed, remembering the blind rage that had overtaken him when he'd found her hurt at the hands of some thug agent. Friend wasn't the right word for it... "You're more like a mother to us than a friend. If I liked my mother." Funny, John's pretty much an orphan as well. Strange thing to have in common. When did I start liking so many people?
This sentiment brought happy, sympathetic tears to the woman's eyes. She reached out and hugged him tight. "Oh, you poor lost boys. No wonder you took to each other so well. I think your souls must've recognized each other."
Unable to say anything else, Sherlock nodded vaguely and let himself out, heading back upstairs.
It had been a long day, with no end in sight for their situation. It was 7pm and they were both sprawled silently in their living room sofa; their dead stares veered between the stupid talk show they were watching and the ceiling. "John? You feeling all right? You seem...jittery still, and frankly you're being kind of a grouch."
John grimaced, leaning back in his seat. This awful withdrawal had been plaguing him all day, making him wonder how one's body became so used to poison that it rebelled at it being withheld. "Just have to ride it out. I'm pretty sure I know what it is."
Sherlock took something out of his pocket, having recognized the signs in him all too well. It was the third week since he quit, he knew if he could last just a few more days he would be through the worst of it. "Yeah. Me, too." He shifted in his seat, staring at whatever was in his hand, contemplating. "Look, I want you to have this. It's not much, and it's my last one but you obviously need it. It's bad enough being stuck in my head all day without..." He reached over and rolled up John's sleeve and stuck something on his arm.
John stared at his arm, then back at Sherlock, looking very touched. "Your last piece of a nicotine patch," he whispered. It wasn't even a half a one, he'd obviously cut one into quarters for a quick emergency dose. His last one...
"Better?"
After giving it a moment to kick in, he felt sweet relief from his unnatural craving. "Much better, thank you."
"I had that one stashed away for a rainy day. I just wanted to help." And of course Sherlock ruined his moment of kindness by slapping himself in the face, grumbling about wanting to help. "Is this what it's like for you? Normally? Can you not stand to see someone suffer?"
"Normally," John replied flatly. "Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry about all this. I know it must be no picnic for you, either. Can't believe you told off Molly like that," he grinned, nudging him playfully, sneaking a hand on his leg again. "Served her right, in a way. Treating you like some lost puppy, even if she did have good intentions."
Sherlock cringed away from his closeness with a shiver, "Please don't touch me anymore, or I'll probably explode! Listen, I can't go any longer without mentioning this, but honestly I'm hurt that you never told me before."
"Told you what?"
Holmes gave a sharp laugh, "Told me what...Let me give you some clues, then, shall I? I can barely keep my eyes off you, for one thing."
"That's nothing important. We're each other, it's weird, of course we'd stare," John dismissed, wishing he could put his friend off the scent but knowing it was impossible now.
"These hands have a mind of their own. They want to touch you, to rub your shoulders, to touch your hair, to...do things I'm not comfortable mentioning at the moment," Sherlock illuminates with a deepening blush, staring at the offending appendages, flexing his fingers and shaking off any mad impulses they may have.
"Don't. Please don't, Sherlock. Not now, not like this. Don't make me have this conversation now. I...I had it all worked out, it was going to be perfect. The only reason you're feeling anything right now is because you've got my heart beating in your chest. When we get back to normal, you'll be just as elusive, just as cluelessly disinterested..." John trailed off, startled to find his voice choking up, under the threat of tears. It actually gave him some measure of relief! I still have feelings, I can still cry over this.
"Takes a lot, doesn't it? Just to get what is apparently a normal human reaction. At least a visible one." His wandering hand reached out and touched a broad, wiry shoulder. "Feels lonely, doesn't it? Like you're the only person in the world. Or, rather, you're surrounded by hundreds of people who can't touch you, can't reach you."
"It's terrible. I wouldn't wish this on anyone, but especially not you. You're my best friend, I wish you could be happy. I mean, really happy, and not just because of a good murder." They grinned over this, remembering the times that Sherlock had been leaping around the room in ecstasy over a particularly puzzling and/or gruesome case. He didn't notice that his 'dead' soul seemed to warm and grow while in the company of his partner. He didn't notice because all he knew was that it felt 'normal'. When his attention was diverted away from him, that's when the cold emptiness set in and dulled his emotions, his empathy. It took his other half to make him feel human.
Unable to stand it anymore, Sherlock whispered, "Hold me." And they sat together, curled up in each other's arms, not making a sound. Hands drifted through hair, over arms and legs, across cheeks and brows. Sherlock looked up then and took in his own amazed face. "You're a doctor; you know that just because you can't see something, it doesn't mean there's nothing there. Some things are just harder to see with the naked eye, you know. Trust me, it's there. All that our switch did for me in this respect was to help me understand how badly I've been hurting you."
"You don't hurt me."
"You think I don't care, and that hurts you. You're afraid of me not caring for you. I can tell that much." He combed his fingers longingly through dark curls. He knew perfectly well that he was gazing at himself, and he'd never given much thought to his own attractiveness or lack thereof, but at the moment all he could think was that there was no lovelier creature anywhere. "God, you're beautiful!"
John laughed, gently butting heads with the man. "Narcissist." He squeezed him tighter, feeling his 'cold, unfeeling' heart warm up as they cuddled together. They just sat like that cozily as minutes drew out in silent perfection.
A pleasant shiver rushed through them both, making them open their eyes again. They both stare at each other, dumfounded!
"Ha! Boy, am I glad to see you!" Watson crowed, seizing the other man around the cheeks and giving him a kiss.
Sherlock was equally floored, "We're back, we're back!" He brought his hands up to his head, wincing at the throbbing that's been going on all day. "Oh, it's good to be home! Everything's just as I left it, I think. Oh, I can see! I can see!" He gave a maniacal laugh, giving himself a quick internal examination. "You found out when holding Molly today that I'm not attracted to girls. That I don't make normal conversation with people because I had a stammer as a child and I'm always afraid of it coming back. It nearly did today in the morgue. You sounded adorable! Let's see, what else..."
John sniggered at this, letting the pale man jabber happily to himself, enumerating the things he'd missed throughout the day. "I didn't even track my muddy feet through your mind-palace."
"I started building you one, just a little one for starters. I only hope you can get in. Key's under the mat."
They were both in a state of sheer bliss, giggling on cloud nine. Sherlock then decided to be a bit brave and foolish at the same time; he shoved his friend by the shoulders onto the armrest, sprawling out on top of him and kissing him back. His kiss was shy and awkward, but it was him! When he released, John gasped loudly, clinging to him, panting. This brought a satisfied smile to the detective's face. "You're getting the fireworks now, aren't you? I can tell. I never knew before. Oh, I'm so glad to be home!"
"Fireworks?" John asked, struggling to sit up.
"Fireworks," Sherlock repeated, looking positively manic. "Zooming through my head, every time I was near you, whenever you smiled at me, touched me! I'll miss that. You can keep the rest, but I'll miss the fireworks." He kissed him again, slower this time, savoring it. "Oh yes...this is better, though. Quieter, gentler."
"Mmm, what's gentler?"
"Well, no offense, but having access to 'normal' emotions made me appreciate my own version of them. But...did you have this headache all day? Didn't you take anything for it?"
John shook his head, stroking his beloved's hair. "Nothing helped, it kept coming back. It honestly was like taking someone who'd only ever ridden in a horse-drawn buggy and putting him in a Lamborghini at top speed. I'm glad to be out of your head. I'm sure it'll go away soon since you're used to it. You really...? It's not just because of me, is it?"
Holmes shook his head, his eyes sparkling divinely. "My own, my own. I told you you were mine, John. I told you that you were one of my people, that you were in my world. Mine, mine!" he whispered intensely. "See, John? I'm happy, this is happy enough for me. And nobody's been murdered." Then his expression went blank, "Murdered...Oh no, Molly! What do I say to her?"
"Just tell her you're gay," John suggested helpfully.
"I'll just make a mess of things," Sherlock muttered. "I'll tell her about us, but...I'll try to be...what's the word? Tactful."
"Tactful. Now there's a word you may need to look up."
Molly was just about to go home for the night when she heard footsteps echoing in the hall. She looked down one way, then the other, and saw Sherlock marching in with his coat billowing out behind him. He ran the last few steps and stopped before her.
"All right, I'm back. I'm myself again, so here I am."
She already looked broken-hearted at the mere sight of him. She gulped, raising her hand to touch him. He didn't make any advances, but he allowed it. He figured he owed her something for her heartache. He closed his eyes briefly as she drew a hand across his cheek. She drew closer in a flash, leaning in to kiss him, when he pulled back abruptly.
"Don't," he commanded shortly "Just listen to me, Molly, because I'm only going to say this once. Even if you ask me about it later, I'll deny everything. I won't repeat it for your benefit or anyone else's. Understood?" She nodded, unsure what to expect. "Molly Hooper...You're not an idiot." He paused to gauge her response: Confusion, heartbeat is still too fast, slight blush, probably realized how plain she looks when she doesn't expect to run into me. She always primps up if she knows I'm likely to turn up. It then occurred to him that he'd never read her before, never bothered. It was as though she did not even exist, he had nothing on her in his vast mental file. That would be soon remedied. "I mean it, Molly. I think you're a very...capable person. You don't piss me off, understand? I've requested you specifically a few times, actually." Still looks confused. I don't think I can make it any plainer. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?" She shook her head, then looking him up and down as though he'd lost his mind. "Dammit, what else can I say to you?! I'm not very good at this, you know. Talking to a woman. I mean actually talking-talking to a woman-woman, like people do. I can't do it, I've never done it before and I damn well won't do it again!" He grabbed her by the shoulders, actually shaking her a little. "I don't mean to be horrible to you! I just don't know how else to be! This is me trying to be nice! I...respect you as a professional and...that-that thing! With a person and you...don't want to eviscerate them?" He released her, growling as he stomped up and down the hall.
"Sherlock? Are you telling me I'm your friend?"
"Yes! Yes, that thing! That's the thing!"
She nodded, patted his shoulder and said, "Well, see you later, then."
Just then, John came in after his new boyfriend. He'd been waiting for him out front but started to get impatient, not to mention apprehensive of how Sherlock's exchange with the lovesick mortician could be going. He saved any need for explanation by running up to them and taking Sherlock's hand.
"There you are. I was getting worried."
The tall, angular man put an arm around Watson and drew him close. "I think it went rather well, if you ask me." He planted a soft kiss on his forehead, breathing in his scent indulgently.
Molly looked between the two of them with a look of sudden understanding. "Oh! So you two are...? Well, now I feel silly. Should've seen that one coming a mile away. That..that actually makes sense. Anyway, see you around. Good luck!"
They strolled off together, hand in hand. "You know, Sherlock, not much has changed when you think about it."
"Really? What do you mean?"
"I'm still in your head, and you've still got my heart."
Sherlock flinched at John's ridiculous sentimentality and shook his head, a sneaky smile spreading across his face. "Everything is as it should be, then. Let's go home."