Chapter 4

"I need you to take me home."

John nearly chocked. "I'm sorry?"

Sherlock tried his damnedest not to grin, but he felt his eyes twitch. "No. I mean I need to leave. Go back to my home. I have someone waiting for me. You know just as well as I that should that service worker send me home with someone that I will run away. Help me cut the middle man."

John's face contorted into something Sherlock didn't quite recognize. The shorter man squared his shoulders a bit. "I…I can't do that. I'm not letting you go back there. Not after I've seen what they do to you."

Frustration flashed through those ice blue eyes. "Let me make something perfectly clear to you, Doctor Watson. I need neither your pity nor your help to get what I want. I am a man that utilizes my resources, but if my resources will not comply I will manage quite fine without the help of a man who is less qualified to practice civilian medicine than I am. Do tell me, Doctor Watson, how was your tour in – Afghanistan was it? Tell me how you're simply projecting your inadequacies onto me, the unfortunate symbol of your own failure."

John looked a bit taken aback that Sherlock knew about his military service but to Sherlock's surprise a grin broke against John's thin lips. "You want to play this game, do you? All right. I'd planned on being a bit more sensitive because of your situation but I can see you don't want coddling. Would you like to know why I refuse to help you? The injuries you've sustained are old. I can see from where I stand the ligature mark on your neck that's about, what? Just over a week old? And the bruises on your hands where you've been grabbed a bit too hard match the same ones on your hips. You've been dealing with this bastard, whoever it is, for a long time. Meaning he's probably familiar to you. But you're also, amazing for someone so young, a complete arse. You would take this shit sitting down. Ever. You hardly stand me telling you 'no', you threw a tantrum like a toddler. But you know what I don't see, on nameless wonderboy?"

John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's arm with surprising gentleness and brought it too his face, inspecting his hands briefly then meeting Sherlock's gaze once more.

"Where are your defensive wounds?"

The question hung in the air for a moment before Sherlock's upper lip twitched upward in what he could only imagine was a snarl.

"You attacked me today at the park when I saved you from that boy," John said matter-of-factly turning his head to show Sherlock the scratches, deep and long across the scruff covered cheek. "But you won't defend yourself against this…monster?"

John dropped Sherlock's arm. Well. More threw it back. Sherlock didn't really know what to say to that. He was suddenly embarrassed. This man, this Doctor John Watson, had read him with near perfection. And it was terrifying.

"You may have given up on yourself, kid," John continued with a hard voice, "but don't you think for one fucking second that just because you don't give a shit anymore means that I, or anyone else for that matter, are going to give up on you too."

John's blue eyes were hard set on Sherlock and the look the older man was giving him made Sherlock feel uncomfortable. "I need to leave; his people are looking for me."

The words were out of Sherlock's mouth faster than he could think and he wanted to punch himself in the gut.

"Tell me who is looking for you."

Sherlock stood a bit straighter and folded his arms over his chest, wincing at the movement as his ribs screamed for him to lie down.

"Alright," John said in a huff. "There are two options for you, Evan. Option one: you leave with Nichole and she takes you to a home with a wife, husband, three children, a few dogs, and you share a room with the youngest until we get you and your paperwork all sorted, which will probably take months since someone has wiped you off the face of the earth. Option two: you leave with me and you stay in your own room and I make sure you don't run away and try to stay out of your nose until you're sorted."

"Why do you care?" Sherlock asked quietly. There was no trace of sarcasm or irritation in his face. He was genuinely, and he thought rightly, curious.

"Because someone should."

There was another stretch of silence and they watched each other. Sherlock's eyes drifted over John's body for a moment and something like a grin tried to sneak its way onto his face. In truth, if Sherlock really had to make the choice between temporarily living with John or with a family nicked out of a home magazine he'd pick the doctor every time. John seemed challenging, and challenging was fun. He wasn't the type to cower whenever Sherlock threw a tantrum, as John had already shown. And he was not, by any stretch of the imagination ordinary. But Sherlock was already beginning to crave for another fix. It would be harder to sneak out of the flat of, Sherlock guessed, a former military soldier.

He could lie low for a day or so with whatever god-awful family this Nichole sent him to then make his way back to Jim. If Jim didn't come for him first. Knowing that madman his people were already searching the streets for him.

"I'll take the picturesque family, thank you very much."

John had, surprisingly, been spot on about the infuriatingly ordinary family that Nichole had set him with. Carla and Michael Sims had greeted Sherlock on their front steps with open arms. Quite literally. Sherlock had found himself snatched into tight hugs and he'd immediately frozen in his spot, partly because he wasn't accustomed to being touched in this way and because Carla had managed to get her arms right over his fractured rib. Their smiles, he thought to himself, were genuine if not laced with pity. It irritated him beyond imagination.

They had two children, a daughter nearer to Sherlock's age named Rebecca and a younger son that Sherlock had taken to calling 'hey, you'. Their dog, stupidly named Bear seemed to have taken a liking to curling into Sherlock's coat when he wasn't wearing it. He'd found the large dog twisted up in his coat three times in the past day and had spent the intervals between those finds picking the long brown hairs out of his coat.

And of course, they were all calling him Evan. Sherlock made a not to remember to strangle John the next time he saw him. Whenever that would be. He'd told the doctor to 'come round for tea sometime' as he stepped into the small gray compact car with Nichole. He wondered if he'd take him up on the offer. He'd already suffered two days with the Sims family, and though he would like to see John again Sherlock knew he could only last so much longer until he was tempted to murder one of the Sims in a withdrawal fueled rage.

He'd managed to keep his temper on watch these past two days with some of Michael's books that Sherlock had found decidedly not boring. One he'd read within about six hours, titled The Anatomy and Behavior of the Bombus. He found it rather fascinating and if not a bit whimsical for his tastes. Now, Sherlock was sitting on the bed that he and 'Hey, You' shared, his knees pressed to his chest, more looking at the words on the page than reading this book the title of which Sherlock had forgotten a few hours ago.

It wasn't until he felt the bed dip beside him that he realized someone had entered the room. He looked over and Rebecca sat leaning toward him a bit with a small shy smile. "Hi, Evan."

"My name's not Evan."

She giggled as if Sherlock had just told the funniest joke she'd ever heard. "Well maybe you could tell me your name?"

"I think not."

"Why so mysterious? I just want to be friends." Sherlock glanced over at her. She was certainly prettier than the girls who'd given him a cigarette were. She had a sort of natural attractiveness about her. But Sherlock was not interested in the least.

"I don't have friends."

"Well I think I can fix that."

Rebecca raised a hand to run a finger idly down the plain white t shirt Sherlock had been wearing for the past day. He suddenly felt ultimately uncomfortable. She was far too close to him and the room suddenly felt too small. Oh god, was she about to kiss him? She'd started to lean in when they both heard Clara calling Sherlock, or Evan, loudly from downstairs.

Sherlock couldn't leap up fast enough, even if he's body was protesting from his hips up to his split lip. He didn't look back at Rebecca as he threw the door open and hobbled down the wooden staircase to the sitting room where Clara was chatting with someone Sherlock couldn't quite see from behind her. Whoever it was began chuckling, a soft welcoming sort of sound that Sherlock immediately recognized.

"Ah Evan, you've got a visitor." Clara stepped aside and John smiled over at him. The scratches he'd made across John's face were healing well. Of course they were, Sherlock thought to himself, he's a doctor, don't be dim.

"Doctor Watson," Sherlock acknowledged with a nod, "to what do I owe this honor?"

"Tea," he said with a tone of mock reverence.

Clara set a small tray between them on the small table, two tea cups set out, the kettle, cream, sugar, a few biscuits. Their own little scene of simple domesticity, Sherlock thought with a small sigh of resignation. John sat across from him, rubbing aimlessly at his right thigh and fixing a cup of tea with his free hand. When Clara finally excused herself and John and Sherlock were finally alone John spoke.

"How do you like it here?" he asked, offering Sherlock the cup he'd prepared.

Sherlock snorted in response and grasped the small cup. "I'd liken it to living in a sanitorium."

"That bad?" John asked with a small grin.

"The daughter is a bit too friendly," Sherlock said blandly, sipping on the tea.

That made John's hands stop. He glanced up at Sherlock with an almost frown. "Did she…I mean…are you alright?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the doctor, and leaned back into the sofa. "You think I can't fend off a seventeen year old girl?"

"I think you've gone through a trauma and a girl who can't take no isn't going to help you get better."

"That's assuming there's something wrong with me to begin with."

"There is."

"Oh, I was unaware you had your degree in psychology. Please enlighten me, Doctor Watson." Sherlock grinned just a tad before returning the tea cup to his lips.

"How'd you know I was in the army?" John asked, brushing off Sherlock's mild attitude.

"I didn't know, I saw."

"What did you see, then?"

"Your limp, your bitterness, the way you carry yourself. You weren't on duty when you found me at the park. In fact you weren't even supposed to be at Bart's. You were fired, perhaps? Maybe on unpaid leave from your practice? Pairing all of that with the tattoo you have on the inside of your left wrist you keep trying to hide by pulling your jumper sleeve down. I'm guessing it reveals what your company was perhaps?" Sherlock reached for one of the biscuits and plopped it into his mouth, suddenly realizing he was starving. He hadn't eaten any real food in about four days.

John stared at him for a moment with wide eyes. He opened his mouth but snapped it closed before words could escape. Sherlock watched with mild amusement. "That was…rather brilliant," John finally said with a small shake of his head.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock couldn't have heard those words right.

"That was amazing."

There was a beat of awkward silence before Sherlock finally responded. "You think so?"

"Yes, of course." John watched as he shifted obviously uncomfortable with the compliment. "Hasn't anyone told you that before?"

"No. No not at all." Sherlock tried to remember when the last time he'd received a genuine compliment was. What did one usually say after they were complimented? Oh right. "Thank you."

John smiled and rolled his sleeve up revealing the tattoo he had been covering. It was simple, very basic. Much like John, Sherlock thought for a moment. In dark ink on John's forearm was a sort of emblem. Circling the edges it read 'Northumberland Fusiliers' and at the center was a soldier riding horseback.

Sherlock smiled, happy that he'd been right.

"I brought you something," John said reaching down onto the floor for his satchel. Sherlock's brows crumpled together in a mix of confusion and further embarrassment. Out of his canvas satchel, John retrieved a rather heavy looking book and held it out to Sherlock. "I've been talking to Michael, he said you took quite a shining to a book about bees?"

Sherlock took it, running his long thin fingers over the book cover that read Africanized Honeybee. "I saw it in a shop and thought you'd like it. Especially since this place seems deathly boring."

"Uh…yes. Yes, of course. I…thank you."

"What?" John asked with a curious grin.

"I just…don't understand it," Sherlock said gripping the book as if John were about to snatch it back.

"Well you see, this is called a book. On the inside there are words on pages and you read them and you learn things. It's sort of like a movie for your mind," John said.

"You know that's not what I mean, you prick." Sherlock could feel his face heating up and he looked down at the book in his lap and fingered the spine.

"It's a gift. You know, people exchange them with friends and family and such."

"Yes, obviously. But…you want something. What do you want?" Sherlock's breath was suddenly getting hard to maintain. He was feeling nervous and embarrassed and scared all at once. Surely John wouldn't want…that. He didn't strike Sherlock as that type. But what else could he want if he was giving him a gift?

John's grin faded slowly and he tilted his head, watching Sherlock avoid his eyes. "Hey," he finally said. Sherlock didn't respond. "Look at me."

Sherlock didn't. "Just tell me what you want."

"Look at me," John demanded a second time. Sherlock finally complied, his eyes floating upward to meet John's. "Why do I have to want anything to give you a book?"

"Because you giving me a book, without expecting anything in return, suggests you wish to have an altruistic relationship. The idea of altruism is the product of a privileged idiot without a solid grasp on the rather unfortunate reality of reality. You require something I have. Tell me what it is."

John felt like he'd been kicked in the chest. This kid was in too deep. Is this how he lived his life? Paranoid and afraid of everything even if he wouldn't show it? "Jesus," he whispered sitting back a bit. He felt like he should apologize but the look on the boy's face kept him silent.

"I just…want you to not be miserable."

Sherlock looked rather scandalized at that.

"I want…" John continued slowly, "I want you to see that you don't have to live like this." Sherlock watch john pull a tissue from his pocket and pass it to Sherlock who stared at it oddly. It wasn't until that he realized he had a small few tears trailing down his cheeks.

"I don't need your damn tissue," he said, wiping his face off with his hands.

"Okay. I'd best be going." John said with a stale voice. Sherlock was torn. He desperately didn't want John to leave him with these ordinary people and their daughter who clung to him like a flea. He wanted to go with him. Or for him to stay. But he also wanted to kick John's teeth in for seeing him like this.

John stood and idled his way to the door. "We'll do this again, yes?"

Sherlock caught his breath at out hopeful John sounded. Well, of course. It was up to Sherlock if John was allowed to come back or not. Sherlock gave a stiff nod.

"Good day, Doctor Watson."

"Just John."

"Good day, Just John."

John smirked and left, closing the door softly behind him. Sherlock immediately opened the book in his lap and flipped through the pages a bit. A piece of torn receipt fell out from between two pages and floated down to the floor. Sherlock bent as much as he could to pick it up. Scribbled on the back in messy handwriting that could only belong to a doctor the receipt had a mobile number written on it with a note reading "Call in emergency."

So I got chapter 4 written pretty fast. Snaps for me. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Personally it kind of hurt my heart that Sherlock is so sad and doesn't even realize it. I'd just like to say that I honestly have no clue where exactly this story is going to go... I've got ideas but it's all pretty fluid. So I hope you all are enjoying it so far! I know a lot of you wanted Sherlock to go home with John. Patience, my pretties. Patience.

Please review! Your reviews sustain me!