Aligned perception

AN: I don't own Sherlock, its characters or any related property. I don't own the Sherlock books or its related property. I write to entertain and make no profit from this work.

Warnings: depression, eating difficulty, grief, reference to suicide.

Pairings: Sherlock/John friendship at start then Sherlock/John relationship

START

It was long past dinner time and Sherlock had only just emerged from his room. Watson had fallen asleep on the lounge. Sherlock noted that the surfaces were just as dusty as before and no cutlery or plates were sitting in the sink. Watson hadn't eaten.

Sherlock felt a rush of anger. Where was Lestrade or Molly helping his friend not starve himself into a twig shaped corpse? Even more so, where was his all seeing brother? Surely his surveillance would have seen this. Sherlock grabbed Watsons phone.

Why aren't you helping him? - SH

Almost immeaditly the phone beeped back.

Sherlock? -MH

Your deductions amaze me. - SH

John refused my help. He spoke only of you. Without you, he had nothing left to live for – MH

You have never let anyone refuse your requests before – SH

Maybe I respect him. Maybe I'm not to blame.- MH

How can I help? - SH

I'll send a car around – MH

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWVVSHJWSHJWVVSHJWVVSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWVSHJWSHJWV

Sherlock was back home, looking nervous but less lost. He held a bag of Chinese takeaway with purpose. He would get John eating again. Maybe even get a smile...maybe that was too much to hope for.

John had finally moved from his spot. An empty cup sat in the sink, remnants of tea in it. The tv was quietly running but Johns eyes were not focused on it. He looked pained, as if Sherlock's very presence was too much for him to stand. Sherlock couldn't understand why. Shouldn't John be happy?

Of course he could be wrong...human emotion was always complicated. One of the few things he found difficult to predict. He hoped his offering would be enough.

He had expected Mycroft to laugh at him when he confessed his confusion. Yet his brother had merely smiled and tried to explain what little he knew. He had advised Sherlock bring peace offerings...of course he didn't understand why. Why wouldn't they still be friends? But he would try Mycrofts way. If it worked, what did it matter?

John looked up, smelling the familiar takeaway. For a moment he closed his eyes, lost in a memory of before Sherlock had "died".

Sherlock tried to look confident. "I bet you have never had dinner with a ghost." he joked weakly, half concerned he has gone too far.

John gave him a half smile before joining him at the table. "Why are you being nice?" he asked sharply.

Sherlock flinched at the cold tone. "I guess I feel guilty, I confess I don't understand why but I am trying to find out." he said in a quiet whisper, going for honest.

John seemed to accept that reply.

Sherlock reached in the bag, pulling out a box. "I got your favourite. I remember that you liked it..."he said uneasily. "If it still is."he continued softly.

John's harsh glare seemed to soften as he took the container. A smile crossed his face as he seemed lost in memories again.

When they finished, John started cleaning the table but Sherlock stopped him. "I can do it. Just shower, you might feel better" he said before he could help himself, the tone sounding oddly...caring? Sherlock, motherly?

While John was showering, he grabbed his phone to text.

Your advice may be working. He actually ate. I got him to shower too. I even got a smile. - SH

I'm glad. You must stay strong for him. - MH

I don't know what you mean...-SH

You care about him. This can't be easy.- MH

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWVVSHJWSHJWVVSHJWVVSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWVSHJWSHJWV

John made a hasty retreat to his room. It was almost too much...the memories of when Sherlock was alive. Well before he knew Sherlock hadn't died...the distinction was too painful. John had managed to separate his life into 2 parts. Before Sherlock and After Sherlock. Then he had entered a new chapter of his life After Sherlock's Death. As long as the parts did not mix, he was okay. Life made sense. Life wasn't great...far from even good but it was consistent.

Sherlock was Sherlock. Sherlock was brash and arrogant. Sherlock was that know-it-all kid everyone hated at school.

Sherlock didn't do nice...not even for his own brother.

Sherlock being nice, or maybe just the memories of After Sherlock, was stirring his old feelings. When he say the arrogant brash man, he saw more than that. Why couldn't he leave well enough alone? It was frustrating!

He should know better. Really...

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWVVSHJWSHJWVVSHJWVVSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWVSHJWSHJWV

John knew what he had to do. He had to get these feelings off his chest so to speak. Confess his feelings. Wasn't that what his psychiatrist said he should do? Face the feelings. Tell the imaginary Sherlock that he loved him. Of course that was when Sherlock was dead. When it was his ghost that haunted the place not the real deal...

What was the worst Sherlock could do? He knew Sherlock enough to know that he would still be accepted. Hell, Sherlock probably knew! So what was the harm?

That thought sounded good until he realised something. He was assuming that Sherlock would not feel the same...wasn't that true enough? The only person Sherlock had shown any interest in was The Woman. Despite turning the heads of the ladies and the men (of all ages too), he had shown no more than a cursory glance as he read their life story. Hardly love...

Was Sherlock even capable of love? It was cruel to ask but it was not entirely unsupported. He seemed to have little affection for anyone, family or friend. Sure he felt concern and care but love?

John knew he needed to say it. Sherlock probably wouldn't even listen or if he did, he would merely qualify the feelings as nothing more than behaviour conditioning and brain chemicals...or something else sciencey (and probably well above his comprehension).

When he came downstairs he saw Sherlock watching the tv but not focussing on the program at all. Something was bothering him.

"Can I tell you something?...you don't need to react but I just need to say it." he said, his disused voice sounding odd to him.

Sherlock seemed to jump to attention, his sharp silver eyes assessing John. "Well?" he inquired in his smooth baritone voice.

John steeled his nerves. He had faced a war for fucks sake! A simple matter of words should not frighten him. "When I returned to see my psychiatrist, it was after..." he stopped unable to voice the words.

"After my fake suicide" cut in Sherlock's soft voice, holding some measure of guilt.

"Yes, that. She asked me some things. What would I say to you if you were alive. I decided that along time ago but...its harder to say. The thing is...well you changed me. For the better. I was depressed with no purpose. Just another old broken soldier, useless to the army and even more so to civilian society. It was great at first...but it told me why I would never be useful to society and why the army had been so homely." he paused.

Sherlock was still staring intensely at him.

"Your brother was right. You hang around you long enough, you see the battlefield. That I craved the battlefield. No normal person would be so...wrong. Now I can't seem to stop seeing it. I see a mother on the bus and I read her life story too. I know she is running late to mothers and that the baby daddy is an abusive drunk that hasn't paid child support in at least 6 months. I see the happy couple and I know he is cheating on her. Its not easy. But there is something more important than any of that!" he paused for breath.

Sherlock looked surprised at all this. Maybe a little guilty too.

"Sherlock you arrogant sod, I love you. Its easy to see your faults but I see more than that. I see the good, the beginnings of a good man.

AN: R and R as always.