So...BBC Sherlock is pretty much the best thing since ever. Who can't like a guy with a name like Benedict Cumberbatch? Honestly, that can't be his real name. Really. He's quite gorgeous in an intelligent, intense way. Not traditionally attractive. But that's the same for Martin Freeman. In any case, BBC Sherlock is pretty much the best thing since ever. The gay subtext is not really subtext. It's great!
Set after The Great Game. Can be read as gen or pre-slash...I, obviously, prefer to read it as pre-slash ;-)
Hero
It didn't happen too often. Often enough, though, to remind Sherlock (and John) that the detective was quite detached from social understandings and normal human emotion.
And it was only the long horrified silence that would clue Sherlock in to the fact that he had indeed said something quite Not Good. Anderson scoffed, Donovan always looked surprised at the extent of Sherlock's 'freakishness' and Lestrade would wince and shake his head. Usually he didn't care a great deal – feelings and understanding them was, generally, a waste of time and got in the way of more important things – but this time John had cringed along with Lestrade.
This had Sherlock mentally backtracking frantically, but he had no idea what he said to cause the reaction of his colleagues in the first place, let alone attempt to keep track of his stream of thoughts.
Still, he didn't ask until Donovan and Anderson had moved away.
"Not good?"
John smiled weakly. "Bit not good, yeah."
"Which..." Sherlock hesitated, and could see that he had John's complete attention with his uncertainty. "Which part? I mean, which part was Not Good?"
The detective was generally immune to feeling small, but beneath both John and Lestrade's surprisingly intense stares, Sherlock could feel heat rise in his face and the almost involuntary want to fidget.
"Good luck with that, doctor," the inspector slapped John on the shoulder before walking away.
"Ah well," John tried, before falling helplessly quiet for a long moment. "You know, that the victim was murdered during sexual intercourse with his wife."
"Yes," Sherlock latched on to what he understood immediately. "Their relations clearly got out of hand and-"
"Rape," John interrupted bluntly, and the detective's mouth hung agape for a split second. "Yes he was murdered, manslaughter really in defense of the wife, but it was rape."
"But-" Sherlock started, and fell silent just as quickly.
Even with his limited grasp of human behaviours, a man could not rape his wife. There was an inherent agreement between a married couple, wasn't there? That one willingly has sexual relations with their spouse? Or, perhaps not even particularly willingly? That, once married, sex was a right? That two married because they cared enough to know not to hurt each other?
But if what John said was true, then Sherlock's admittedly basic understanding of marriage, and perhaps even sex, was a little skewed.
"Are you saying," the detective said finally, "that non-consensual relations between spouses is regarded as rape?"
"Any non-consensual sexual intercourse is rape, Sherlock," John answered patiently. "It doesn't matter who is involved."
"I see."
And Sherlock did understand, but that meant-
"But that means the pizza delivery boy's actions weren't to kill Peterson, but to save Mrs Peterson!"
John nodded with a grim smile.
Sherlock's elation at correctly understanding what had happened soon ground to a halt.
"That still doesn't add up, John," he frowned, deep in thought once more. "Judging by the size of the tip Mrs Peterson had set aside for the pizza, it's obvious this wasn't the first time the boy had delivered her order, though even taking in to account that they knew each other, that hardly constitutes much more than an acquaintanceship, so that doesn't explain the boy's movement to rescue her."
Sherlock looked to the doctor expectantly, knowing John would likely have more insight in to this behaviour.
"Okay, well consider it this way," John said slowly. "How often might an early thirties, married-but-no-kids woman like Mrs Peterson order home-delivered pizza?"
"Once maybe twice a week, at most."
"And how often before she would notice that the same boy was delivering it?"
Sherlock knew he would have noticed on the next visit, but what about a boring, unobservant, normal person?
"Over the course of four or five deliveries," he imagined, "so about a month. Not enough time to build up a connection more than a pleasant, mutually beneficial acquaintanceship."
"But you agree that it would have been enough to forge some sort of connection?"
Sherlock knew now what John was getting at.
"So, Mrs Peterson orders her pizza (Friday nights, practically a tradition now) but her husband returns from the pub earlier than usual and events get out of hand," Sherlock waved a hand, eyes closed as he thought. "The delivery boy feels comfortable enough to enter when Mrs Peterson doesn't answer the door like normal. He hears her panicked screaming down the hall, picks up the first thing in sight to use as a weapon (which turns out to be the fire poker) and rushes to the bedroom to rescue her. Flinging open the door, he correctly deduces what is occurring and moves to protect the woman in any way possible, which results in Peterson's death."
"But still," Sherlock continued in the same breath, "why would he care?"
"Why didn't he just quietly leave, you mean? Call the police straight away instead?"
"Yes," the detective's frown was fierce and slightly baffled. "It's a proven fact that base instincts of humans lead them toward a survival of the fittest mindset, to avoid situations where they could get hurt, to not involve themselves in perceived trouble if they can avoid it."
John smiled, and then laughed.
After a short moment (Sherlock spent much of it glaring) the doctor sobered.
"There's always exceptions to the rules, Sherlock," John grinned again. "Such as yourself."
Sherlock couldn't disagree with that.
"And you once told me that there's no such thing as a hero. You're right, of course," John added when the detective looked to say something, "but there are always ordinary people doing extraordinary things, like our humble pizza delivery boy."
And Sherlock supposed that he really couldn't disagree with that either. But then-
"But you're not ordinary," said the detective, looking down at his flatmate curiously.
"I- what?"
"Oh yes, I imagine you look ordinary to the dull and pedestrian," Sherlock clarified, "but I, of course, know better."
"I can see why everyone finds you so charming," John deadpanned, but Sherlock didn't miss the slight smile.
They were interrupted by Lestrade then, who seemed relieved that Sherlock had a much better understanding of the motive for the murder (but if the inspector had his way it would be manslaughter, preferably defense).
Though John seemed to have forgotten their conversation in the busyness of a crime scene, Sherlock couldn't forget (he had, in fact, been unable to forget since the pool).
It was surprisingly difficult to keep in mind that there were exceptions to the rules despite, as John had pointed out, Sherlock himself being an anomaly. But John Watson was quite the rule-breaker too.
Had known the detective for less than a month, and still launched himself at Moriarty.
"Go Sherlock! Run now!"
Had been willing to exchange his life for Sherlock's, without hesitation (ordinary person doing something extraordinary, but John wasn't ordinary).
But then...Sherlock supposed he was another exception to yet another rule (every time a new red dot appeared on John's chest he felt his own heart stop and start erratically, couldn't quite keep all of his attention on Moriarty, "Are you alright?" before doing anything else, doing nothing to endanger John further; sociopath indeed).
Warmed and worried that his flatmate thought Sherlock's life worth saving (he knew that it was, but had – up until now – not found someone else who thought so too; and now that John shared the sentiment, Sherlock was of the opinion that John's life was worth rather a good deal more than his own, and oughtn't be risked so carelessly).
"That, er...thing that you did that...you offered to do...that was...good."
Now the detective watched his flatmate (friend) inspect Peterson's body one more time, jotting down notes for Lestrade's team.
John was a bloody big exception to the rules, Sherlock knew.
He knew there was no such thing as a hero.
But, if anybody came even remotely close, it was Doctor Watson.