3. Teddy Bear

Sherlock looked at the bear which was now sitting across his legs and looking back. He had a sense that his territory was being invaded. He was observing. His hard drive was not functioning at its normal speed right after the fever. But that also did wonders, to say the least, the immediate boredom that accompanied his usually supersonic deduction was prevented.

At 9:22, the sun tilted to gold plate the ward floor. The doctor was sleeping on the sofa under cozy blanket; the detective was leaning against the hospital bed, studying the dubious teddy bear in absurd jumper which resembled the doctor's absurd jumper

Idiot.

Sherlock eyed the ball on the sofa. The ball had repeatedly cooled him with towel in his semi coma. John Watson is an idiot.

He knew John was different from the very start of their encounter. He had known it so that he forced his show-off impulse to make way to the flat-tour invitation the next evening. As they became flat mates, Sherlock, as arrogent as he had always been, found himself constantly marvel at his wise choice and good luck. The good doctor would not be shunned away from surveillance and kidnaps, and bonus he would block Mycroft. He would not mind when his privacy was ticked away, and bonus gape idiotic and heartfelt amazings and brilliants.

For someone who had been to war and had trust issues, it was simply odd how it never occurred to him that he should move away for the sake of privacy when his roommate, busy or bored or having nothing better to do, regularly decoded his computer password, checked his emails and pointed out what he had done with whom where and how. To make it odder, however raged he looked at the exposure of his privacy; he left the password and the girlfriends' mail box unchanged. Never had he attempted to hide his sentiment, his date or his trace. For Sherlock, John was transparent. Either he was a total idiot, or … he trusted Sherlock…

To the point, whatever Sherlock had done and did and would do, he trusted that the detective meant no harm. Or maybe, when he indeed hurt him, he trusted that the detective really, unquestionably and absolutely, did not do it on purpose.

That was why he would follow him on adventures and kill for him and stay with him in hospital. After so much he had done, John still stayed above blackmailing Sherlock with his sacrifice "Since I have saved your life, can you save the kitchen?" "Since I have attended you a whole night, can you leave me in peace for a minute?" He always had but simple requests - "If you don't sort the kitchen out, I'll cram whatever I find in the fridge into your sandwich." "I am taking the sofa, so the bear stays on yours."

No words, no compliment, no rewards for his bit. All John needed was adventure and perhaps some other proofs to declare his existence. Maybe he never realized what he had done had made him apt to be returned and allowed with anything. The complete trust brought Sherlock a better sense of accomplishments, far better than case solving. It was something beyond the case, the drugs and Mr. Skull - what he once defined as indispensable of his life

At 9:25, the rightful owner of toy bear showed up, a boy in hospital gown just tall enough to reach the doorknob. He popped his head in and saw at once his toy on Sherlock's bed.

"Johnny！" The little boy cried and jogged forward.

That is his name? Sherlock smirked at the coincidence.

"Andy, no!" The lady who followed in must be his mother. She took him in her arms at a distance from the toy. "We have talked. You cannot stay with Johnny before you recover."

Just one look and Sherlock built the connection between the gasping boy and the odd presence of bear: respiratory disease, contact with fluffy toys must be prevented in case of further infection; the kid has to be hospitalized yet cannot leave his teddy bear. He took it with him, which his mother later handed to John with excuses like "this mister will look after him for you." He is not assured, so he came over to check on John.

Not a difficult leap. The difficult leap was how John managed to gain attention and trust from ladies with such ease and took the treasured bear in less than, say, a breakfast time.

"Mom!" the boy struggled in his mother's arms. "I want to stay with Johnny just for a while, the last time."

"No, darling, you always rub your face against Johnny. That doesn't help with your recover. Or you want to keep Johnny waiting even longer?"

"Your bear loves to stay here."

Sherlock frowned a little before he decided to be bent to the social nicety called wooing children. Not his area at all. But John might be wakened up.

He lowered his voice and continued, "He, Johnny just told me he likes this room, because he could see the sycamore trees through the window, which has reminded him of when you two rolled around on the lawn. And he also said he would wait for you right here so that you could celebrate your 3rd birthday together. "

"Really?" The boy asked with wild eyes.

" Isn't it?" The bear smells grass and dirt; and besides there are the crumbs of sycamore leaves; then the texture of jumper and the age of colors. His sore throat saved him, for the first time, the trouble to go into harangue. He winked at the mother, suggesting that it was merely a random guess in case that she might mistake him for a stalker. The little boy finally let go of his bear. As she withdrew from his ward, the mother was still amazed at how a random guess wooed her boy.

"Thank you, really…" She said, "You know, he and his Teddy bear, they are …the inseparabLЕS."

When a child finds his beloved toy, he clings to it and never let go. Sherlock looked at the bear occupying his bed and thought about, not entirely, the story between that boy and his toy bear.

It's just...

He and his Teddy bear, they are …the inseparables.