Summary: In which John fails to understand the true meaning behind Sherlock's words and Sherlock is just too damn Sherlock to say it otherwise. (Format of five and one times, just without the one exception part. Might add that in later on as a stand-alone chapter. Various canonical references.)
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock BBC or any of its characters. Obviously.
Warnings: Slight spoilers for the Hounds of Baskerville (S2xE2) and the Reichenbach Fall (S2xE3). You might have to watch the Reichenbach Fall to know what the last part means, though.
Author's Note: This is me intending to write something fluffy but gave up and this fic exploded into something else altogether instead. You could say this is me writing some angsty stuff and hoping I did not just fail epicly. Hope you guys like it, anyway. I might add in another part as a stand-alone chapter once I get the ability to write fluff back. :/
On with the story!
I Don't Always Say Things The Way I Mean Them
ONE
John had had enough.
First, it was the whole sneaking-into-restricted-areas fiasco. It had been a while since he had the need to pull rank and he had to admit it had been a tad bit nice.
Captain John Watson.
However, everything just went downhill from there.
The trek through the moor at night where he had been accidentally left behind by the other two and had tried to call for Sherlock, to no avail. Numerous times in fact. Yes, the whole experience of having even the faintest tangle with 'petty emotions' such as fear had most likely caused Sherlock some distress, but did that selfish git even consider that he might have been a little shaken too?
Which brought him to his next point. The man then proceeded with a rant of utter self-loathing about 'his body betraying him' and 'how he'd always been able to keep himself detached but what the hell about now?' He understood that Sherlock was merely shaken by the whole experience of actually feeling fear (for however brief a moment). He realised that the moment Sherlock started firing off rapid-fire deductions about a nearby couple, trying desperately to cling onto a semblance of familiarity.
Sherlock's acerbic response to his attempt at soothing him ("So just leave. Me. Alone.") had still stung. What hurt him even more were Sherlock's last words to him before he excused himself from the situation, not wanting to witness a further downward spiral that might render their partnership (friendship?) unsalvageable.
"I don't have friends." Savagely said with no apparent regrets.
Just a partnership to him, obviously.
And it was still ringing in his ears as he walked out into the cool night air.
Somewhere back in the inn, staring dazedly at the recently vacated seat across him, Sherlock slumped over in his seat, hands tugging and clawing brutally at his head full of dark curls.
Don't leave, John. You're my friend, my only one. I'm just so tired and frustrated and confused and afraid that I might be wrong and— Why was asking you to stay so damn hard?
TWO
"Alright there, Sherlock?"
It had been a particularly brutal string of murders this time. The victims, all young children, had been slaughtered, their mutilated corpses lying strewn in various abandoned areas. Personally, cases with children always hit him the hardest. John knew, no, suspected that it might very well be the same for Sherlock too, judging from his rigid posture and more-so-than-usual ruthless vigour throughout the case.
He, for one, knew he wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight.
He glanced at the unmoving figure curled up on the couch. His eyebrows creased with worry for his flat mate. He knew that for all the talk about being a 'high-functioning sociopath' and detaching himself from petty feelings, the murders of these innocent, vulnerable children would have been quite a blow to Sherlock as well.
It was with some surprise and a sinking feeling of utter disappointment that he registered his flat mate's reply.
"I'm perfectly alright. Why wouldn't I be? It's the same as always, is it not?"
He snapped his mouth shut, turning on his heel and plodding off to his bedroom.
Sod this. If Sherlock so obviously didn't care, he wouldn't care if Sherlock cared either. So there. He was going to bed even if he wasn't actually going to be able to sleep.
The door to John's bedroom slammed shut shortly after that.
Sherlock's gaze remained fixed on the closed bedroom door for a long time, something curious glistening at the corners of his eyes.
A moment later, he fiercely swiped a hand over his face, falling back onto the couch, dark curls tumbling over his eyes.
I'm not alright at all, John. I think I might be falling apart. Those mangled bodies and vacant eyes—I'm not actually entertained or thrilled by them. Especially children. Not children.
Won't you stay up just a little while to pick up the pieces?
THREE
"That's amazing, utterly fantastic!"
"Do you know you do that out loud?"
John felt his cheeks burn and an odd, jumpy feeling in his chest.
Right. No interruptions when the great Sherlock Holmes was thinking.
"Sorry, I'll shut up now," he muttered, trying to salvage whatever scrap of dignity he had left.
He really ought not to continue feeding the man's ego. It was probably already inflated enough by the praises and awestruck expressions of those privileged enough to glimpse Sherlock's brilliant mind at work.
Ah, there he went again. Seriously though, this whole compliment-and-stare-awestruck-at-Sherlock routine had to stop. Lord knew what would happen when the already arrogant man let all these compliments go to his head.
"No, no, it's fine," he heard Sherlock say, a slight smirk on his face as those blue-grey-green eyes snap back to peer at his face.
Of course it was fine for him, John thought bitterly, after all, the man practically lived off praises and admiring looks from dull, boring common folk like me.
He instantly felt guilty and mortified for thinking of his flat mate in such a horrible, negative light. He felt himself relax with a barely audible sigh of relief when he saw Sherlock close his eyes, fingers steepled in the familiar thinking pose as he slouched on the couch, no doubt lost in that mind palace of his once more.
As John wandered off to make some tea in the kitchen, Sherlock's eyes flickered open as he craned his neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of his flat mate. He returned to his thinking pose on the couch once more after a moment or two, though.
It was such a silly and sentimental idea to even intend to mean anything other than what he had said, much less actually trying to voice it out to the army doctor.
No one had ever said that to me before you came along. Do you mind doing that again?
FOUR
"I don't have friends. I've just got one."
John really wanted to believe him. Really, he did.
But right now he was really unsure of just what Sherlock was trying to do. Was this Sherlock's attempt at an apology, accepting that John was his one and only friend? Or was he simply trying to manipulate him like how he did to everyone else – sneaking a little smile at Molly to get her to wheel out the body again at morgue, acting the role of a poor, injured man seeking help to get into Adler's place of residence and well, the list just went on.
He was uncertain of just what the man was playing at, but he certainly wasn't stupid enough to know when he was being played with. Just as he was walking away, intent on clearing his thoughts with a moment of Sherlock-less existence…
"John, you're amazing! You're fantastic!"
He felt a little put out that after spending a considerable amount of time living with him, Sherlock Holmes still thought him as much of a fool as anyone else.
He vaguely recalled him using these exact two phrases to compliment Sherlock in the past, among others. These two were the more frequently used ones, though.
Really, Sherlock? Now I can't even give you points for creativity.
At that exact same time, the thoughts in the other man's head were buzzing nervously with anticipation.
Sherlock wasn't sure if John would react badly but really, he found that these were the only compliments that could roll off his tongue naturally without sounding forced, rusty or stiff. He knew full well that these were the two compliments John frequently used on him. Sherlock thought perhaps John would have liked it if he said it for him instead of the other way around for a change.
He did mean it whole-heartedly, though.
John, you make me want to become a better person; you already do, in fact. My thoughts flow faster when you're near and I don't nearly piss off as many people when you're here. You're so ordinary and extraordinary at the same time and I don't know how you do it.
FIVE
He didn't know what to say. He really didn't.
Sherlock had outdone himself this time. What he had done, or rather, chose not to do, definitely topped his list of things 'A Bit Not Good' that Sherlock did.
Sod that. It was bloody outrageous and cold and completely, utterly Sherlock so why the hell was he so upset and disappointed?
He let out a bitter bark of laughter, worry (for their not-housekeeper landlady) and fury (at Sherlock) a tangled mess of black snakes choking the air out of his lungs.
"Alright, sod this, you stay here."
Mrs Hudson had been shot and the man was just sitting there, legs propped on the table like he didn't bloody care.
Yes, it had been hard on both of them these past few days, the weight of 'Consulting-Detective-Actually-A-Fraud' constantly hanging over them like a dark, heavy veil they were in a constant struggle to lift from their shoulders (the moment he ran off with Sherlock as fugitives was when he decided he was in it with his flat mate no matter what, but he found himself re-looking at his decision just a *little* bit). It was still definitely no reason to be so bloody COLD!
He was halfway out the door when Sherlock's words, quietly and defiantly uttered, slapped him across his face.
"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."
No.
He poked his head back into the room, hand clenching and unclenching on the doorknob.
"No. Friends protect people," he corrected in a cold voice before he strode out, slamming the door behind him.
The lone figure left in the room collapsed boneless on the table before him as soon as the door slammed shut with a dismal finality.
I'm sorry, John, that it had to be this way. Last words full of vitriol and venom.
Alone.
That was me before you came into my life. As much as I want you to prove my words wrong, I can't. This is something I have to do by myself.
Alone.
Alone may not protect me, but it just might protect you.
Geez, I have no idea how this fic, completely un-TRF related, got tangled with some angsty Reichenbach feels in the end. I'm sorry. Really I am.
Anyway, I hope you guys liked it. I might or might not write another part to this (the exception where John actually gets what Sherlock means) as a stand-alone chapter later on. It depends on whether you guys want it or not. That, and if I can get my fluff writing skills back instead of writing sad, misunderstood!Sherlock instead.
Don't forget to review! Thanks!
Cheers,
Rainflower