Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to the BBC, not me, obviously.

Warnings: Spoilers for Season Four. No slash at all, but it doesn't rule it out either, if you like that sort of thing.

A/N - Hello, and welcome to my first Sherlock story! This is something that I've been wanting to write since the fourth season ended, but it took a while for this conversation to materialise in my head. I've loved Sherlock since the very first episode, but this final season has been my favourite, and the thing that I loved most about the final episode in particular was that it showed how utterly human Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock could be given the right circumstances. He was so uncontrollably emotional in this episode (which I loved) and it seemed to me at least that for the first time in this incarnation of Arthur Conan Doyle's character, Sherlock actually understood some of the emotions to an extent.

He understood why it might be difficult for John to shoot an unarmed man (hence why he asked Mycroft first). He understood Mycroft's attempt at sacrificing his life (when he tried to get Sherlock angry so that he would shoot him instead of John). He even seemed to understand why it was cruel to force Molly to say 'I love you'. And at the end, when he began to play the violin for his sister…it felt very different to the cold, calculating character we saw at the beginning of the first season. Overall, I loved it, but I did think that Sherlock and John were due a longer conversation than the one they had at the end. Hence this little one-shot. It covers quite a varied range of subjects, but the overall theme is friendship. I hope you like it!

~ Human Again ~

"So…" John began, trailing off as he glanced up at Sherlock. He wasn't sure how to start, but John knew he had to say something. He'd been building up to this conversation for at least a week – putting it off whenever he saw the slightest bit of strain in Sherlock's face - but now that the dust had finally settled, and everything was starting to get back to some semblance of normality, it seemed as good a time as any to start.

Or rather, John didn't think it was particularly wise to put it off any longer, for a whole host of very good reasons.

Sherlock had been unusually quiet, for one. He hadn't been playing his violin at home at all according to Mrs Hudson, and there had been no gunshots recorded at the flat for ages. Instead, Sherlock was reserved. Which, John knew, meant that something bad was going on in Sherlock's head. It was like the calm before a storm. Or the calm after the storm, when everyone just stood around in the devastation wondering if life would ever be the same.

The biggest warning sign, though, was that Sherlock had stopped searching for cases. He would still offer his advice whenever Lestrade came to him – his ego made sure of that - but he'd stopped reaching out to the DI for something to keep the boredom at bay.

Worryingly, he wasn't really reaching out to John either, his rare texts mostly consisting of random questions that didn't appear to make more sense. It was concerning on a scale that John had only felt twice before when it came to his former flatmate. Once when Sherlock had thought 'The Woman' had died, and once in the run up to Sherlock's dive off the roof of St Bart's.

John sighed, and tried to find the words he wanted to say to get his best friend back to normal. Because he wasn't normal. He wasn't even close to being back to normal. None of this was normal.

He and Sherlock were sat in their usual places at 221B Baker Street, right in front of a gently flickering fire. The armchairs were new of course – little had survived the recent explosion, and the armchairs themselves had been decimated – but they were at least almost identical to the originals.

John had initially had his doubts as to whether the Baker Street flat would be salvageable at all, but of course in true Holmes style, it was back to normal within a fortnight. Early on, John and Sherlock had spent a quiet morning picking up debris and trying to rescue Sherlock's possessions, but John suspected that it was Mycroft – who was obviously still feeling guilty for the whole fiasco – who'd had the largest hand in making sure the renovations were finished so quickly.

John hadn't been round much of late – too busy with Rosie – but he couldn't see any major changes in décor. He sniffed. The place even smelled the same. Not even a hint of rubble or ash…

John shook his head and tried to focus again. He glanced at Sherlock and tried again. "So…"

"What is it, John?" Sherlock replied with an eye-roll, although his tone of voice wasn't giving away any of the irritability that John knew his friend was feeling. Sherlock had been irritable for days, but Rosie – John's infant daughter – was balanced quite happily on the consulting detective's knee, his strong hands holding her safely in place. John knew that Sherlock would die before scaring her, so John allowed himself to relax and get back to the conversation he wanted to have with his friend. The conversation they both needed to have.

The trouble was he still didn't know where to start, but as Sherlock had always appreciated honesty and bluntness, in the end John decided to just go for it.

"Well, I was just wondering," John began cautiously, watching closely as Sherlock in turn studied Rosie. Rosie, for her part, was gurgling contentedly and trying to eat her own fingers. "Do you think you remember everything now?"

He knew there was no need to elaborate further. Even Anderson – the idiotic twit – would have been able to decipher precisely what John was referencing.

Sherlock's sister. Sherlock's sister killing Sherlock's first best friend and then getting locked up by her oldest brother for years, much to the surprise of their parents, who had long believed her to be dead. John sighed. That little chapter in the Holmes family history had only ended about a month ago, and John knew that everyone involved – himself, Mycroft, Mr and Mrs Holmes, Molly, Lestrade, and especially Sherlock, had all thought of little else since then.

But of course, when it came to talking…well, no one had really done much talking about it at all. Hence, the difficult but ultimately necessary conversation, with an unquestionably difficult but equally necessary man...

"How could I possibly know if I can remember everything?" Sherlock challenged, careful to keep his anger out of his voice. "Need I remind you that up until a couple of weeks ago, I was labouring under the false impression that I was remembering everything, right up until dear Eurus turned up. And then in an instant my beloved childhood dog became a boy. A boy whom I had cared for greatly, and who had died quite horrifically."

"Sherlock…"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore, John," Sherlock interrupted tiredly. "And I certainly don't want to remember."

He bounced Rosie gently on his knee when she began to fidget, and John fought against the irrational urge to take his daughter back. He could trust Sherlock, he knew that, but Sherlock looked tense and frustrated and a little bit upset, and John had seen the man shoot holes in the wall when he became even the least bit emotional.

Still, John deliberately leant back in his armchair – the one Sherlock kept in place even though he and Rosie didn't live at Baker Street – and forced his body to relax. The he tried again.

"I think we need to talk about this," John began quietly but firmly. "I think you need to talk about this."

"Rosie bears a stunning resemblance to Mary, don't you think?" Sherlock replied, another challenge in his eyes when they rose to meet John's gaze. John sucked a quick breath in, but tried not to react otherwise.

"Don't do that," John told him, after counting to ten quite slowly in his head. "I know what you're trying to do, and just…don't."

Sherlock didn't apologise, but he did seem a bit regretful, which made John want to punch him just a little bit less.

"I don't want to talk, John," Sherlock repeated. "Neither, it seems, do you."

"That's not fair," John replied, already feeling the conversation getting away from him. Really, he should have seen this coming. He blamed tiredness and the fact that it had been a while since he'd actually lived with the man. Apparently he'd lost his touch.

Sherlock shrugged. "What's fairness got to do with it? I don't want to talk, you don't want to talk. So why talk?"

"It helps," John replied.

"Does it?" Sherlock asked rhetorically. "Did talking to my sister – while she was pretending to be your therapist – help? It certainly didn't prevent her from shooting you."

"How is she?" John asked abruptly, ignoring Sherlock's bitter words. "Your sister, I mean."

"She's locked up again," Sherlock shot back.

"That's not what I was asking," John replied calmly.

"I know," Sherlock replied tightly. "But as we have already discussed, I don't want to talk about her. Not with you, not with anyone."

"Okay, okay," John said, holding his hands up in surrender. "We don't need to talk."

Sherlock simply huffed in response and began to pull himself up from his chair.

"Here," Sherlock said, gently lifting Rosie into his arms as he stood. "Take your daughter back before she drools all over my favourite suit."

He placed her on John's knee, and John pulled her close, although his eyes were fixed on Sherlock, and more specifically, on the taller man's faintly shaking hands. It was getting late, and he needed to put Rosie to bed soon. The trouble was, he really didn't want to leave Sherlock alone. If ever there was a danger night, this was it.

"Tea?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock said distractedly. He was looking around for something, although John didn't have the faintest idea what. "Oh, yes please."

John rolled his eyes. "No, you pillock. I've got Rosie. I was asking if you could make me a cup of tea."

"You shouldn't swear in front of her," Sherlock replied, although he did move to the kitchen, presumably to sort out the aforementioned tea.

"She's a baby," John shot back loudly, before smiling down as his daughter. "She doesn't understand swearwords yet."

But she would, and just for a moment, John was frozen in terror, because oh god, he was alone now. Mary was gone and Rosie just had him and how the hell was he supposed to look after her when he could barely look after himself –

"Tea."

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Sherlock placed the cup of tea on the end table and gently took Rosie from him, balancing her on his hip before taking a seat in his armchair again. This time it was John's hands that were shaking, so he quickly picked up the tea in an effort to hide it. Stupid really, especially when he was with someone as observant as Sherlock

"Shouldn't you be getting home?" Sherlock asked cautiously. John could tell that he was concerned, which felt wrong since it was Sherlock's sister who had tried to kill them not that long ago, not his.

John shook his head. "Rosie'll have me up in a couple of hours anyway. Doesn't make a difference when I get home."

It did of course, but he wasn't about to tell Sherlock that. He knew the other man was finding it difficult playing second fiddle to a baby, but Sherlock hadn't really complained much about it, which was as much a warning sign as anything else.

"You could stay here, if you want," Sherlock offered casually. The consulting detective was watching Rosie again, but John had a feeling that was more to avoid his gaze than any real interest in the baby.

"I don't live here anymore," John told him tiredly. He almost wished he hadn't started the conversation now. He'd only intended to get Sherlock to open up a bit so John could stop worrying about him so much, but it had quickly got out of hand. Now they were well and truly into uncharted territory.

They'd never really spoken about the fact that after Mary's death, John had stayed in the house he'd bought with Mary. To Sherlock's logical mind, it probably made little or no sense, but John, as he had often tried to tell his friend, didn't work entirely on logic.

Sentiment. Sentiment was important too.

"I know you don't live here anymore," Sherlock replied quietly, and John could detect a slight tinge of hurt there. Most people would have missed it, but John wasn't most people. That was the problem really.

"It's not safe for Rosie here," John began, although he wasn't entirely sure why. He supposed he was trying to show Sherlock the logical arguments as to why he couldn't and wouldn't be coming back to Baker Street, even though in reality, logic had little to do with it.

"I've moved all my experiments away from Baker Street," Sherlock said, his voice almost painfully casual now. Sherlock kept his gaze down. "I'm sure you're aware that Mycroft has an old warehouse tucked away that he uses for his more illicit meetings. I've been doing my experiments there. More space, and it has the added bonus of pissing Mycroft off."

Joh raised his eyebrows in surprise. Sherlock had moved his experiments? So that John and Rosie could stay, or just to piss Mycroft off? Or both? John tried to get his head around that, but failed miserably. Instead, he decided to move on to the next argument.

"She needs a cot," John argued, gesturing towards Rosie, who had started to try and eat her own feet this time. "She's a baby, Sherlock. She can't sleep in a bed. Not yet."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to gently rock the child again. "I'm not an idiot, John." Sherlock shrugged. "I bought a cot."

John was momentarily stunned into silence. "You bought a cot. Where?"

"From a shop," Sherlock answered, brow furrowed in confusion. "Where else would I - ?"

"No, you cock," John retorted. "Where is it?"

"Oh. It's in your old room," Sherlock replied quietly. "I just thought…well, I know you don't live here anymore, but I thought you might find it convenient to stay here occasionally – "

"You bought a cot," John repeated.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, and John could tell that he was getting frustrated. John took a deep breath and decided to try a different tactic. He glanced down at his daughter, his beautiful baby daughter, and knew what he needed to do. He took a deep breath, and then...

"She does look like Mary," John said quietly.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, considering something, although John didn't have the faintest idea what.

"Is that a good thing?" Sherlock finally asked, and John couldn't tell if he was genuinely curious, or just trying to get John to talk. The old 'two can play at that game' trick, possibly.

"Yes, of course it's a good thing," John told him, humouring the other man by answering the question honestly. "I loved Mary. I loved her, and if my daughter turns into half the woman my wife was, I'll be the proudest man on Earth."

Sherlock seemed satisfied enough with that answer. "She was quite extraordinary." He paused, and then quite suddenly said, "I think I miss her."

John paused for a second, and then, "Me too."

They were silent for a little while then, while John sipped his tea and Sherlock allowed Rosie to play with his hair. Sherlock was clearly lost in thought; he didn't even seem to notice when Rosie began to eat said hair.

John coughed, and Sherlock glanced down, gently moving Rosie out of reach of his head almost as an afterthought.

Wordlessly, John stood and gently picked up Rosie from Sherlock's unresisting arms. The poor kid was being passed around like a rugby ball, but she seemed content enough. John envied her for that, but not much else. The truth was, there would always be a hole in her life that Mary should've filled. She would miss her presence, even if she didn't understand why. John would miss Mary too. Always.

"Are you okay?" John asked once he had Rosie settled again. She was yawning now, so he cuddled her close to his chest.

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied, clearly lost in thought.

"I'm asking as a friend, not a doctor," John clarified. "Are you okay?"

"What is 'okay'?" Sherlock asked instead of actually answering the question. "How does one determine what is okay and what is not?"

"It's relative to the person, I think," John replied patiently. "It's your definition of okay that matters." He paused to allow that to sink in, and then continued. "So, are you okay by your own standards?"

"Oh," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Then no."

"No?" John asked, concerned.

"No, I'm not okay, obviously," Sherlock replied with a casual shrug. "I've been worse, of course, particularly during my brief flirtation with illicit substances, but if I am to go by my own definition….I am not okay. This is not okay."

"What?"

"This…thing with Eurus," Sherlock replied, gesturing somewhat erratically at nothing in particular.

"It's over, Sherlock," John told him, a little desperation in his voice. Because it had to be over…

"I know," Sherlock replied, and John let free a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Then Sherlock continued. "However…"

Sherlock trailed off and placed his hands under his chin in his usual steeple pose. Not for the first time, John couldn't help but wonder what went on in that brilliant mind.

"Yes?" John prompted after a few seconds. He was loathe to speak at all, not now that Sherlock was choosing to talk of his own accord, but he knew Sherlock would need at least nudge to keep going.

"Irritatingly, I find that I'm…concerned," Sherlock began, looking a little frustrated at what he no doubt perceived as a show of weakness.

"About?" John prompted dutifully, wondering when exactly he had signed up to be the man's therapist. He tried to relax again, to not seem like a doctor, but rather the friend he was trying desperately to be.

"My sister," Sherlock finished quietly. "I'm concerned about my sister."

"She'll be okay," John said, without any real meaning behind his words. "She's where she needs to be."

Sherlock simply shook his head. "That's not what I'm referring to. I mean…I am concerned about her, obviously, but I'm more concerned by what she might mean for me."

John was lost. "What are you talking about?"

"We were close in age," Sherlock continued. "Much closer than Mycroft and I. Her gifts were similar to mine as well, although on a much grander and more sinister scale as it turned out."

Sherlock paused, glancing down at Rosie as if she was a puzzle.

"I remember now that we were…" Sherlock began. "That we were quite close, at least until Victor came along. Then Eurus and I drifted apart, and I've been wondering whether…whether his death was my fault. I'd stopped paying her attention and –"

"Shut up," John interrupted, causing a sleepy Rosie to whimper slightly. He deliberately lowered his voice, but kept his eyes on Sherlock. "It wasn't your fault."

"But – "

"No," John said firmly. "It wasn't your fault. It was hers. Upset or not, insane or not, it was her fault."

"Right," Sherlock said, a little shakily. "Of course."

Joh narrowed his eyes. There was something else there. Something that Sherlock wasn't telling him.

"That's not all you're worried about, is it?" John guessed shrewdly.

"Very good, John," Sherlock praised, and John saw the flicker of a pleased smile shoot across his face. It fell away quite quickly, but at least it was something.

"Well?" John prompted.

"Freak," Sherlock said bluntly.

"Excuse me?"

"Freak," Sherlock repeated. He began to elaborate. "Barely a week goes by that I don't hear that word directed at me at least once."

"I know," John said softly.

"I don't like it," Sherlock said, and John looked up because it was the first time that Sherlock had actually acknowledged that.

"I didn't think it bothered you," John admitted.

"It bothers me more now than it used to, I think," Sherlock told him quietly. "Because of Eurus. Because now I know that everyone thinks she's a freak too."

Then it finally hit John why Sherlock was so…off. He was worried about what it might mean for him…

"You're worried that you're capable of becoming like your sister," John deduced. Sherlock looked surprised that John had worked it out, then slowly he nodded his head. John rolled his eyes. Honestly, it wouldn't do Sherlock any harm to actually give him some credit in the brains department once in a while.

"We're alike, Eurus and I," Sherlock explained. "We always were. And if I'm a 'freak' like her, does that mean I'm capable of –?"

"Of what?" John said, suddenly angry, although not with Sherlock. "Of killing people? Torturing people?"

Because what they had gone through at Sherringford definitely constituted torture.

"Yes!" Sherlock shot back. "Why not? I like murder, remember?"

"Investigating it, not committing it, you idiot," John retorted. Sherlock looked a little bit surprised by his vehemence, but John had had it with the soft approach. Maybe tough love was required instead…

"John…"

"You chose to be a consulting detective," John reminded him. "Why? You could have done anything in the world. Why choose to do that?"

"The truth?" Sherlock asked, and John nodded. "I was especially good at it, and I enjoyed it."

Sensing that there was more that Sherlock wanted to say, John stayed quiet, focusing his gaze on his daughter so that Sherlock didn't feel like he was being psychoanalysed. Thankfully after a couple of minutes, that approach seem to pay off.

"When I was a child," Sherlock began quietly. "I found it difficult to connect with other children, a fact that I'm sure doesn't surprise you."

John smiled and nodded. Sherlock, notably, did not smile.

"My brain has always worked differently to the rest of world," Sherlock continued. "But it's not defective. There's nothing wrong with me."

The last sentence was said as if Sherlock was trying to convince himself, rather than John. As if Sherlock had spoken those exact words to himself over and over and over again…

The smile fell from John's face. "I know that, Sherlock. Who told you that there was?"

"Everyone, always," Sherlock dismissed. "Apart from perhaps my mother and father, although I caught them whispering about me late at night more times than I can count. They had me examined numerous times. Asperger's was one diagnosis that kept coming up. I was dubbed a full-blown psychopath once when I was thirteen, although when I turned fourteen, the diagnosis had changed to high-functioning sociopath."

"You know, you're a bloody rubbish sociopath," John told him. He quickly moved to explain. "You know what's right and wrong, and you care, I know you do, even if you don't always show it.

"Perhaps," Sherlock allowed with a small smile. "But back then, I didn't have many people to care about, so the label seemed to stick. I embraced it eventually." Then he continued with his original point. "Anyway, regardless of the diagnosis, the fact remained that I simply didn't know how to engage with other children. I tried to read books on the subject, but that didn't help, and I tried to experiment – trying various different approaches – but that only ever resulted in either pain or rejection. In the end, I simply tried to observe. I'd always been more observant than the average child, but I took to it obsessively after a while, wanting to know everything about the children I so desperately wanted to emulate."

John was silent. He had always wondered where Holmes' obsessive deductive powers had come from – whether it had been natural or a skill that he had developed over the years. Now he knew; it was both.

"I had no idea at the time of course, why it was so important to me to find a friend," Sherlock mused to himself, almost as if he had forgotten John was in the room again. "Obviously I had deleted Victor– reworked my memories so that he became a family dog - but my subconscious was clearly trying to fill the hole left by his absence."

"Oh," John said, even though he knew his friend was no longer talking to him. He didn't mind though. Clearly Sherlock was starting to seriously work through some of his issues. It would be messy and traumatic, no doubt, but better in the long run. A person like Sherlock holding these emotions in would be a recipe for disaster.

"Caring is not an advantage," Sherlock muttered, almost too quietly for John to make out the words. Sherlock glanced up finally and noticed John's questioning look. He moved to explain with only moderate frustration. "My brother has told me that over and over again. Perhaps he truly believes it, but I suspect, knowing what I know now of course, that he was trying to save me from myself. Obviously he miscalculated greatly, but it's hardly the first time he has made a mistake with one of his siblings."

"I suppose it isn't," John agreed gravely.

"Hmm," Sherlock continued. Sherlock shook himself and stood up abruptly. Then he sat down again, crossed-legged this time. "Anyway, one can hardly avoid the comparisons when it comes to the relationship between Eurus and myself. We were forged in the same friendless fire. All she's ever wanted is to fill the gap left by my absence. All she's ever wanted is to fit in. And I understand. I am the Victor in her story, and she is me, the lonely child."

"Except you're not dead," John told him bluntly. Sherlock flinched, but John carried on. "I'm sorry about your friend, I truly am, but Sherlock, you are not dead. Your sister, despite her best efforts, did not kill either of us."

"John…"

"Also, as for being similar to her, you observe people," John told him, on a roll now that Sherlock was letting him speak again. "She controls people. She manipulates people."

"So do I," Sherlock mumbled.

"Not in the same way," John told him. "You do it for a reason. As a means to an end. She does it because she enjoys the power. She does it because she wants to cause pain."

"But…"

"Do you want to know what the biggest difference is between you two?" John challenged.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered.

"You have me," John told him. "You, Sherlock Holmes, are not alone. Not anymore. There is no gap in your life, because I filled it. Because I am your friend."

"Not my friend," Sherlock said. Then before John could get angry, he clarified. "Not just my friend. My best friend."

"Yeah," John said, a little relieved. "Your best friend. You're not a robot, Sherlock, and you're definitely not a freak. Caring is an advantage sometimes. It's okay to be human."

"Being human hurts," Sherlock admitted.

"Yep," John replied honestly. "But it's better than the alternative."

He thought of Sherlock's sister, locked up with her demons, and he shivered. Then he thought of the way Sherlock had been when he had first met him, but even then he still couldn't see the similarities between the two of them. Sherlock was a hundred times better than his sister in every way, and if other people couldn't see that, it was their loss.

"You know, I'm nothing like Harry," John told him conversationally, after a couple of minutes.

"I know that," Sherlock replied. And of course he did, even though he'd never met John's sister, and probably never would.

"And you are nothing like Mycroft," John told him as well, knowing full well that Sherlock would agree in a heartbeat.

"I know," Sherlock replied with a knowing smile. "Thank God."

"Look, blood doesn't guarantee anything, okay" John continued. "You are nothing like Eurus, not if you keep choosing not to be."

Sherlock paused and a flicker of emotion that looked a lot like relief crossed his face. And then, "I know."

"Good," John smiled. "Now, if Rosie and I stay here tonight, will you stop being a prat and start looking for cases again, please? It's freaking Greg out."

"Of course," Sherlock replied, looking pleased and relieved all at once. Then the younger man continued with a straight face. "Who's Greg?"

It took a moment for John to realise that Sherlock was messing with him, but when he did, he smiled. Then he laughed. Then, as carefully as he could without waking up his sleeping baby daughter, he pulled the cushion out from behind his back and lobbed it at Sherlock's head.

And then Sherlock laughed too, and suddenly everything felt better. Not perfect and certainly not normal, but definitely better.

Because that's what friends did for each other. They shouted, they talked, they laughed.

They made things better.

And, thanks to John Watson, now Sherlock Holmes knew that as well as anyone.

A/N - So, this was mainly written for myself, to resolve some of the thoughts that were swirling around my head after the final episode was over. Still, I hope you got some enjoyment from it. This was my first Sherlock fic, but I do hope to write some more in the future, so any feedback, good or bad, would be appreciated. Until then, and as always, thanks for reading!