"Sherlock! SHERLOCK! Get your lazy ass of the couch and help me, will you?" John demanded from the kitchen, not bothering to turn around. No answer.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock inhaled sharply, then lazily opened his eyes and turned his head just a tiny bit in the direction of the kitchen.
"John. You disturbed my train of thoughts. I was on the verge of solving the case, so if you don't mind, I'd like to go back to my mind palace."
"I do mind. You promised me this morning that you'd help out. Can you just, for once, fulfill your promise?" John sighed irritably.
It was obvious that John wasn't going to leave Sherlock alone until he helped. So he swung his long legs off the couch and sauntered to the kitchen. His deep blue, silk bathrobe hung loosely over his shoulder, the belt untied, revealing a white T-shirt and checkered cotton pants. He stepped over the kitchen table, or rather on it, avoiding the cups and mugs neither of them had cleaned up for what seemed weeks.
"I never break my promises."
John raised his eyebrow.
"… To you." Sherlock sighed. John's lips quirked up in a small smile.
"That's better. Now, come here for a moment, would you?" Sherlock stepped in the kitchen, noting that he should order Mrs. Hudson to clean up afterwards, the kitchen was a mess already and he hadn't even begun yet.
"Here, you can cut the vegetables. Here's the plate, the knife, don't cut your fingers off, as intriguing as that may seem to you…" John muttered more to himself than to Sherlock. Sherlock stood before the counter, holding the knife in his right hand, a carrot in his left. He turned the carrot around for a few moments, tilting it up, down, to the left, to the right, eyeing it suspiciously. John was busy with the stove, stirring noodles in a large pan. He looked sideways to Sherlock, seeing him examining the carrot.
"Problem?" John inquired.
"No, no, not at all. I'm fine. I was just wondering, what was this called again?" Sherlock asked. His face flushed with embarrassment.
"A carrot, Sherlock. Note the orange colour." John chuckled a hearty laugh. "I'm sorry, er, if you don't mind, how can you not know that?"
"Never thought it'd be important, never learnt the names of vegetables, and if I did, I must've deleted it." Sherlock stated, trying to sound cross, offended, but failing miserably. The corners of his mouth were turned up, betraying him.
"Ah, okay, figures. Do you know what to do with it?"
"Yes. Of course I do."
"No, you don't."
"Okay, fine. I don't. Explain."
"Just cut the top off, that's not edible for us. Then scrape the outside layer off, it's usually not that clean, and cut it into pieces. Next, the cucumber, exact same process, scrape the dark green layer off and you get the light green, watery yet solid, cucumber. Cut it into pieces."
"Okay, not that hard. I can do this."
"Have you ever cooked before, Sherlock?" John asked, returning to the noodles.
"Of course." He replied hastily. John eyed him suspiciously, knowing he was either lying or failed.
"It was disastrous." Sherlock informed John.
"Ah, was Mycroft involved?" John asked.
"Yes. No. A bit."
"Well, if Mycroft is involved, it's bound to fail, huh?" John smiled, turning his attention to the noodles. They were making soup, as Mrs. Hudson and Lily, John's new girlfriend were coming over for dinner. They'd be here in fifteen minutes, just enough time for them to finish the soup.
Sherlock laughed for the first time in days. Hearing Sherlock laugh made John giggle like a little girl. It had happened too many times, so he wasn't embarrassed anymore. Sherlock hadn't had a case all week and had been incredibly bored, so John had thought of an imaginary case for him to solve. Sherlock had been on it all afternoon, and secretly, John was proud of himself that Sherlock hadn't solved it in five minutes.
John reached up for the top cupboard but he was too short. He turned around to get a chair, but Sherlock was one step ahead of him and reached for it himself. Opening the cupboard, all kinds of food, sauce and leftovers from abandoned experiments rained down on him. Sherlock fell to the floor, raising his hands to hold his head while pots and jars clattered to the floor, breaking in a million pieces.
"Sherlock." John breathed. John fell down to his knees by Sherlock's side, taking his hands.
"Ah… Am I bleeding?" Sherlock asked. He opened his eyes and looked at John. Scared. His eyes read 'scared'. Sherlock was never scared. John ran his fingers through Sherlock's long, black, silky curls, feeling the softness.
"No, thank goodness, no, you're not bleeding."
"Good." John continued to run his hands through Sherlock's hair, making sure there really weren't any cuts. He immediately pulled back as he hit a sensitive spot and Sherlock winced.
"Sorry, let me just get you an aspirin. Would you like a cuppa?"
"Sounds good."
John put the kettle on and practically flew to the drawer. After rummaging through the mess for a while, he found one last aspirin. Holding it up with a little pride, he went back to Sherlock, who was still sitting on the floor between shards of broken glass.
"Here, don't get up. Take it with a sip of water."
"I know how to swallow a pill, John." Sherlock looked at him, sounding irritated, but his eyes told a different tale. He looked.. pleading.
"I know, sorry. I know you do."
Sherlock swallowed the pill, then put the glass of water next to him on the ground and lay his hand down to push himself up. A sharp pain shot through his entire body. The glass. Fuck. He pulled back immediately, examining the cut. John's doctor instincts took over.
"Come on, let me see that." Sherlock hesitated. John shot him a look. He surrendered, holding his hand out to John.
"Ah, it bleeds a lot. Good, it looks bigger than it is, the glass has bled out of your hand already. I can stitch it, or I can put a band-aid on it. Although stitching it would leave a smaller scar."
Sherlock looked confused for a moment, then asked John to stitch it. John left to get his case from his bedroom, then returned. Sherlock still sat on the kitchen floor, pants covered in blood that dripped from the wound. He held his hurt hand with the other, trying his best not to let the tears escape.
"Oh, Sherlock…" John sighed. He knelt down beside him, holding him, letting his head rest on his shoulder, letting him sob.
"J-Johnn-nn."
"Ssht, I know. Let it out." John slowly patted the back of Sherlock's head.
"I-it doesn'-t even h-hurt, John." He managed to choke out.
"I know, I know. It's the fright, the adrenalin. The thumping heart in your chest. It's okay." John soothed.
Sherlock let himself go. He was no longer reserved. He was crying in John's shoulder, in Doctor John Watson's shoulder, and that was okay, because John was the kindest person Sherlock had ever met. John, Sherlock's best friend. John, who wasn't valued enough. John, comfortable, stable, John. He didn't deserve John, but he wasn't going to give him up, not for anything in the world. For a brief moment, he wondered why John put up with him, but he shook it off fast. John was here with him, and he wasn't going to leave.
"It's okay, buddy. It's okay. Every once in a while, it's good to cry. It's good. It's fine. It's all fine."
When the sobbing slowed down, and tears merely dribbled out of his eyes.
"Now, let me just, patch you up, hey?" Ever so carefully, John patched Sherlock up. While he worked mainly with his right hand, his left hand was busy stroking the back of Sherlock's hand. Probably unconsciously, but it still counted. More than anything.
Sherlock was still sniffing a bit, his face was red and his lips were swollen. Their peace was disturbed by a loud thump.
"Hello, good evening. Is dinner ready?" Lily's voice practically screamed through the apartment.
Sherlock looked at John questioningly. 'Lily' John mouthed. A seemingly loud 'Oh.' escaped Sherlock's lips. John returned to his work on Sherlock's hand. They heard the loud clicking heels make their way to the kitchen. John tensed immediately.
"Hello dear, Sherlock." She nodded curtly. Then her face fell.
"Oh. My. God. What have you done?"
"Uh, cut himself. Glass." John answered curtly.
"I meant the kitchen." She snapped.
John looked around. Shattered glass on the floor, half cut vegetables, soup and noodles dripping off the counter, apparently the pan boiled over. The glass was accompanied by the insides of the jars. Jam, blood, sauce, fingers everywhere.
"Oh. We were cooking."
"Cooking with John is apparently as disastrous as cooking with Mycroft." Sherlock stated.
"What happened to you? You ill?" She asked, fake concern. She didn't care one bit for Sherlock.
"No, I cut my hand."
"But you're face."
"What about it?"
"You look like… Oh my god, you've been crying. Sherlock Holmes, crying?! Call the papers, Sherlock fucking Holmes feels something!" She mocked.
"That's enough, Lily." John said, calmly. Sherlock looked at him, pleadingly, tears threatening to fall again.
"Haha, Sherlock, you look pathetic. Now, let me just clean this up." She bent down and picked up some shards.
"Are those fingers?" She asked, horrified. She pointed at the mess on the floor.
"Lily. One. Sherlock is not pathetic, he is brilliant. Two, yes, those are fingers. Three, get out."
"Sorry, what?"
"Anyone who doesn't appreciate the brilliance of this man gets out. Those are the rules." John replied calmly.
"What happened to you, John?" She asked, amazed. A mocking smile was still visible on her face.
A single tear rolled down Sherlock's face. John carefully wiped it away with his thumb, lingering on Sherlock's face longer than necessary. Sherlock grabbed his hand to hold it there.
"Hey! Hands off my boyfriend, you gay fuck." Lily ordered. She stepped forward.
"What?" John whispered.
"WHAT?!" He thundered suddenly. "Who are you to fucking say anything about Sherlock? Get out. Now. Run away now. Run away fast and don't you ever fucking show your face here again. Think of me, think of Sherlock, when you see his name in the papers again. Because he will get it all. He has it all, and you have nothing. You don't even have a boyfriend. Get. Out. Now." John roared.
Lily stood there, astonished. She was red, embarrassed. She fidgeted with her hands, and stared at her shoes. She reached down for her bag.
"Lily. Lily, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…" But John couldn't find the words anymore. Lily didn't wait for him to find them. She turned and left.
John sank to his knees.
"I fucked up. Again."
Sherlock still sat in the same spot. He didn't dare to move.
"I'm sorry, John." He whispered.
"No, It's not your fault. It's just… I… need to be alone. Are you alright? Need anything?" John rose again, and turned to Sherlock. Sherlock shook his head. John turned around, and made his way to his bedroom.
-
A gentle knock on the door disturbed the silence. John didn't answer. The door wasn't locked and Sherlock came in.
"Are… you alright?" Sherlock asked, reluctantly.
"No." John answered. He sighed.
"Why not?" Sherlock asked. He stepped into the bedroom, closed the door behind him and lay down on the bed next to John.
"I'm not normal."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. That's the problem.
"Oh."
"Why can't I be normal?"
"Because you like to run on rooftops with me. Because you invaded Afghanistan. Because you lay down your life for others. You think of yourself lastly, after the rest of mankind has been selfish and you have fulfilled their needs, you think of yourself. You are selfless. You are the best man anyone's ever known and they don't realize it. You're not normal, because you don't want to be."
John stared at the ceiling. Sherlock turned on his side and studied John's face. The lines in his forehead, indicating worry. The lines gracing his eyes, indicating kindness. The lines around his mouth, indicating a lot of laughter. Indicating joy in life. And yet, the sadness in his eyes.
"What do you miss the most? A girlfriend? Someone to talk to?"
"No.."
"Why do you keep chasing after them? Why can't you wait and see where you'll end up, instead of countless dates of which you know they're hopeless because they're either desperate, stupid or boring. Why won't you open your eyes to see the real person that loves you for who you are?"
Sherlock turned back onto his back, staring at the ceiling again.
"Sherlock."
"Hmm?"
"That's probably the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. Thanks."
"That's what… friends.. are for, right?"
"Yeah…" John smiled.
"Oh, don't worry about the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson and I cleaned it up. Well, she ordered me around, but that counts, too."
"You cleaned up the kitchen?" John asked, disbelievingly.
"Yes."
"Wow, okay, thanks, I guess."
"No problem."
"So, have you cracked the case yet?"
"Yeah, it was the mother-in-law, because she disapproved of her sons sexuality and figured it might go away if she killed the source, the boyfriend."
"Good. Very good."
"John, it was the Morgan case of 2004."
"Yep, that's it. Good."
"We've got a client coming in at ten o'clock tonight. He was desperate to see us. I bet he's in front of the door now, already."
"What time is it then?"
"Nine."
"Why did you say ten? Why delay it when you can have it immediately."
"You needed me, John. I didn't know how long it would take."
"Right, well, invite the poor man in, I'll put the kettle on."