IT'S ALL FINE

JOHN

Warning: Child's death (no murder though).
I hesitated before writing and even more before posting this, but sometimes the worst things help you see the best in someone, sort of (and as a young mother my notion of worst is mostly child-related)

One early Saturday morning at the end of September, Sherlock's phone ringed while Sherlock was momentarily out of the room. Judging from the ring tone, it was Lestrade, so John took the call. The D.I. told him about a new case they could use Sherlock's help for and gave him the address. John noted it and was going to hang up when Lestrade added sadly: "It's a child." John winced internally but was grateful for the warning, and answered they'd be there quickly.

At that moment Sherlock came back. He saw right away his phone in John's hands and smiled — John would be just as inclined as himself to willingly talk to his brother, so it only left Lestrade as a possible caller whom John would know enough to take a call from his phone — then noted the change in John's mood and apparently couldn't find the link between the two, because though John wasn't bouncing around as he did himself when Lestrade called for help, he was normally somehow thrilled, at the least, even if guiltily.

John held up the post-it on which he had noted the address and sighed: "A child."

Sherlock's brows knitted. "And that makes it different?"

John couldn't help but cringe, even though he wasn't really surprised, and wasn't offended either. By now, he was accustomed enough to Sherlock's ways of looking at things not to be shocked anymore by his flatmate's happy outburst any time the D.I. called for help; and he also knew the difference between Sherlock deliberately being rude and Sherlock only making too bluntly a statement of a fact and getting people irked without him having intended to — his first experience of that particular trait being the remark about why the pink lady would kill herself over the death of her stillborn daughter so many years later, which hadn't sounded nice, but which John had realised made a point (after all, she could have killed herself long ago over it if that's what she had intended). Nevertheless, sometimes, still, his words were hard to hear and put into perspective.

Sherlock of course noticed. "Not good?"

John shrugged kind of apologetically. "Not exactly. But technically, you have a point." A corpse was a corpse, huh.

"You'd rather have me go alone?"

"No, I'm coming. If I can help to find the bastard who—" He turned, heading upstairs: "Give me two minutes."

Five minutes later they were in a cab.

Sergeant Donovan kept her mouth shut when they arrived — she must be really distressed, John thought. Sherlock surprisingly only nodded at her when he passed her by, and John understood those two got along, no matter the words they could exchange on a regular basis.

Lestrade came to them and escorted them to the place where the body had been found, sharing what they had: the little girl was still not identified officially, but there had been earlier this morning one report for a missing little girl, Lily, and the grandmother, who had reported her disappearance (the parents had gone on a week-end trip), should arrive soon. Several agents were already there, searching for clues, but there was a difference in the way they behaved; it was mostly hushed, quiet, and silent.

They were coming closer when Lestrade added painfully: "Her underwear—"

"—is missing; judging by Sally's face and silence, you had her check for it." The tone had been as 'why do you even bother to tell out loud the obvious' cutting as ever, and Sherlock had already turned and was advancing towards the place where the little girl laid before John had had the time to shake himself out of the shock at that particular piece of news and the blinding anger it had aroused.

John exchanged a look with the D.I., and they both sighed. It wasn't possible to know Sherlock's actual thoughts about this, under the usual show of lack of concern — if he had known it from the moment he had met Sally, he had had time enough to compose himself. And, even if it truly left him cold, and no matter how impossibly heartless Sherlock might then be, who were they to complain or critic anyway? The dissociation, the detachment, the distance Sherlock was capable of was probably the reason why he SAW so much more than anyone else to begin with, right. So, in a way, it was for them, and for all of London, a blessing that Sherlock was able to see a body as a puzzle to solve, and not as an actual person who had used to live, love, and be loved.

John started to walk towards Sherlock and had nearly rejoined him when he heard a gasp. Sherlock seemed shell-shocked, which was definitely a first. John swore he even saw him blink.

John unconsciously reached out, his hand coming on Sherlock's arm as he simply asked "Sherlock?" — wondering and even fearing what the world's only consultant detective might have seen to be rendered to this state.

"John… I can't see!"

The awkward and never-heard-before mix of marvel, confession, shame and irritation in Sherlock's voice was a first too, and it dawned on John: "It's the first time they call you for a child."

Sherlock nodded, still not looking at him, his eyes still unable to detach themselves from the body. John's gaze followed, and he finally had a look too at the little girl on the floor. His heart missed a beat. He had seen a few dead children before, unfortunately, but he had never grown accustomed to the sickening feeling in his guts it provoked. This time, it was even worse, knowing what the angel lying at his feet might have gone through. John closed his eyes and concentrated on calming himself. He explained sadly. "Children aren't supposed to die, and even less to be murdered. I understand that you hadn't thought it could affect you, but, you know, it's just nearly impossible not to care."

Sherlock awoke from his trance at that, and abruptly turned towards him, shouting, arms flailing around. "But I don't want to care!"

In the ambient nearly total silence, and being underground, it echoed loudly, and everyone seemed to freeze. Then someone behind them sniggered — Anderson must have arrived — but any further comment was cut off by Lestrade's sharp "Back to work, everyone."

John barely registered all this because, right then, he finally understood exactly who Sherlock was.

John had known right away that Sherlock wasn't a sociopath, even high-functioning. There were too frequent little slips in that self-declared persona: the childish 'I'm ignoring you' moves, which were evident cries for attention, no matter the obligatory show of indifference; the by-now usual awkward looks after any verbal faux-pas in John's presence; and of course, the undeniable fact that Sherlock was capable of caring, as he cared about him.

If John had to 'categorise' Sherlock, he might say that his friend might be a really high-functioning autist, with his bluntness, his lacking in being socially engaging, his visual abilities (not only his eye for details but his ability to visualise in his head the map of London and all), his tics, his obsessiveness, the huge mass of extremely specialised data's he collected… It didn't really matter though: to be honest, to John, Sherlock was just Sherlock, beyond any other definition.

But John now was able to realise how it all fit together.

Sherlock wasn't what he pretended to be; but he easily appeared to be devoid of feelings enough to pass for a sociopath, and had deliberately chosen to be seen as such. Sherlock wasn't unable to care; he just didn't want to care, and had built around him that hard carapace for the whole world to see, because it was how he wanted to be seen. It made sense, now that John finally knew exactly how to look at it: after all, Sherlock was nothing if not passionate in everything he did — even in doing nothing, for Christ's sake. So, it wasn't about being able to care less at all; it was even probably about being able to care more.

And so, Sherlock's asociality was probably not (entirely?) in his genes, but was acquired. Sherlock had decided one day to estrange himself from any human emotion — maybe because he feared the result if he let them affect himself; and it had just turned out perfect for his choice of 'career' later on. It might have been easier for him than for anybody else to achieve that level of detachment — with his innate skills of observation, practically everyone must seem more like a puppet on strings than like a human being — but it had been a deliberate process, and one that had most probably started a long time ago. The Holmes brothers had mentioned their mother a few times, but there had never been an allusion to their father; and knowing for a few weeks now how 'well' Sherlock had dealt with his mother's passing at an adult age, it wasn't difficult to guess what a huge trauma the disappearance of his father might have done to a younger Sherlock. (Did he leave? Die? The subject was obviously taboo between the two brothers, so something must have happened…)

Sherlock was looking at him once more with that air of uncertainty after what he believed might be a big mistake in human communication, and John placed evident reassurance in his voice as he softly answered: "Well, it's your bloody right, Sherlock."

Sherlock eyed him as if he had just grown two heads; he had apparently been expecting him to finally tell him that he was a monster or so…

John guessed what to say: "You're not HIM, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes went to the ground in a millisecond, and that was enough for John to know that he was on the right track. They both knew there was a similitude between Sherlock and Moriarty, and apparently Sherlock wasn't sure how he felt or how he should feel about it.

But John had always been able to see the difference too. Both 'consultants' might have the same skills, but their abilities were neither good nor bad in themselves — just like money, which you could use either to buy weapons or to fund research for new medicines — and the two men definitely weren't the same: Sherlock had gone to the police years ago offering to help solve murders; he hadn't killed a fellow teenager nor decided to open his own criminal agency. No matter if Sherlock's choice might have not been done per se out of the goodness of his heart but probably foremost because it was the easiest way to fulfil his own interests; the only important thing was that Sherlock had chosen 'the right path' — thus, he wasn't evil.

Sherlock was still silent, so John sighed, and then explained further. "You know I wouldn't still be around if I doubted that, right. And the fact that you regularly check in with your brother for new information on him is a definite lead that you're willing to stop him, and not join him for a tea party or whatever."

A moment passed, Sherlock still quiet at his side, so John decided to drop it for now. It was time anyway to bring Sherlock back to the matter at hand. It felt strange to be the one leading, for once, but it wasn't difficult. "Now, I get it that it's different this time, but we need you to focus, Sherlock. Lestrade needs you to see, I need you to see, and SHE needs you to see. Do it for her if not for you this time, but do it. Please. I can start, if it helps, all right?"

Sherlock unfroze at last, giving a little nod, so John went on his knees. "She's about 4 I'd say. She's barefoot and wears her own night gown — there's a tiny spot of chocolate milk here." He sighed. "She seems asleep, the poor angel." He heard Sherlock walking around, and was relieved to finally see the usual concentration on his features as he got his eyes up for a second. He focused on the little girl again. "I can see multiple bruises, mostly on her knees and elbows, but they are all clearly older than tonight, some are nearly totally healed — she must have been starting to bike without side-wheels. It doesn't seem that she fought at all… Maybe she was drugged somehow, but I don't see any needle mark and I can't smell anything except some kind of strawberry soap."

At that point, Sherlock kneeled next to him and got his magnifying lens out. He checked her neck, her arms, every inch of her exposed skin, until he finished with her feet. Then he met John's gaze and smiled; not the usual self-satisfied smirk, more genuinely, like out of relief.

"We've all been idiots."

John looked at him, incredulous.

"You said it yourself: it looks as if she's asleep. I couldn't see, because there was nothing to see. Natural death. It's the only explanation."

"But—"

"John, look at her! Don't think of what you fear has happened, it's what has blinded us all from the start. Clean hair, neatly combed and still a tiny bit wet at the back, where her head laid on her cushion. It has been pouring tonight, yet her bare feet are perfectly clean, and her own clothes, as you noticed, are dry too. And don't you think someone trying to erase possible clues would use a far stronger detergent than a strawberry soap for kids. No marks anywhere. She died in her sleep; apnea, aneurysm, heart failing, not sure what, but it's the only way for her to look that… peaceful."

"But her—"

"John, she had just showered, and was put to bed. I can't talk for you, but I know if I intend to just make it to bed after a shower I don't necessarily put everything on, right."

John couldn't help but nod and he felt relief finally making its way through him. It was still terribly wrong, terribly sad, terribly unfair, but at least it hadn't been a murder, or worse. It wasn't worth a lot, but it was still worth something.

There was just one thing left he couldn't place in the puzzle. "Why was she brought here?"

"Not sure; not enough data yet. Remember her grandmother was keeping her? Maybe she panicked? Maybe she feels guilty somehow? Or maybe she got afraid her daughter or son would end blaming her for it, and she tried to place the blame somewhere else? Anyway, we'll clear it up soon enough."

Of course, Sherlock was right. The moment it was mentioned that Lily's underwear was missing, the horrified (but not in the way you'd normally be expecting) look which appeared on the grandmother's face made it obvious how she hadn't even thought about that in her panic. She confessed finding her granddaughter dead when she went to check on her before going to bed and deciding to bring her here, crying and begging for her granddaughter not to be analysed and for her daughter not having to fear for the worst, apologising for having come up with such a stupid idea to avoid losing her daughter along with her granddaughter and all. Lestrade told her they'd only run a scan and keep the whole affair out of any publicity, and wished her strength. No one complained about having had to work a few hours on in fact nothing; every agents seemed relieved, and most of them felt obviously sorry for the old lady.

The rest of the day passed quietly; both of them weren't inclined to talk, even though their thoughts were obviously linked — Sherlock made only one comment, in the middle of the afternoon and out of the blue from the sofa he was lying on: "John, if it should ever strike you that I am getting a little over-confident in my powers, or giving less pains to a case than it deserves, kindly whisper 'Lily' in my ear, and I shall be infinitely obliged to you." (*AN); and John had planned to write their last case in his blog, but it didn't feel fine and he had stopped after mentioning only the date and "Lily".

Late that night, John still hadn't fallen asleep. Part of it was still being saddened by Lily's destiny, and part of it was a kind of guilty feeling which had grown over the day and which he couldn't shake: towards Sherlock, knowing that Sherlock cared about him while he had decided for himself long ago not to; and towards the world, weighing the chances about Sherlock caring with time interfering with his ability to see so much, after today's 'paralysis'…

That had brought John once more to thoroughly consider if he wasn't in fact too selfish for the world's sake and, what felt even worse to be honest, for Sherlock's sake — Sherlock should have run, John had told himself for what could be the thousandth time since that night.

John didn't want to be the weak spot of the fortress; but he knew that he had been used, and might most probably be used again, as a successful way to get to Sherlock. So: if his sticking around was bringing more risk than assistance to the man he had internally sworn to help and protect; if he rendered Sherlock vulnerable… well, then, John shouldn't stay around, right?

Suddenly, Sherlock started to play one of John's favourite pieces — he was hearing him rolling over and over for some time apparently. John knew Sherlock was playing for him, and it felt right then just… too much.

John got out of bed. Sherlock stopped playing when he reached the middle of the stairs, so it was silent when John got in their living area. Sherlock had put his violin down and was evidently trying to deduce why John had come down, which had never happened before, but John first went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water while trying to sort out what to say. It didn't really help though, and he just let out uneasily: "I don't want to become a burden."

Sherlock's brows furrowed for an instant, and then the trademark "Oh" echoed in the room. Sherlock gave him the kind of smile which John knew was reserved to him: "John, don't be an idiot." More seriously then: "Quit wondering about the value of me 'deleting' you, because I sure don't want to. You're not a burden at all; you're a trump card."

John was taken aback by the fact that Sherlock had just admitted caring about him and not bothering much about it, even if only because he was 'valuable' — they both knew Sherlock generally wasn't good at admittinganything.

Sherlock might have misread the wonder on his face for puzzlement, because he started to explain, holding up a finger: "You have no problem with the paperwork". He went on quickly, before John could roll his eyes at his first 'quality', adding up another finger: "And you're far better than me in dealing with witnesses — especially with the crying type."

John knew that Sherlock might have only been trying to lighten the mood, but he actually had to laugh at that one: he remembered a few times when Sherlock had been indeed most happy to let him do the talking while he just stayed behind in a corner — and fortunately the witnesses had never seen his 'please get to the point NOW or I'm going to be very, very, very rude even though I know it would be totally counter-productive for the case' expression. Sherlock could be very charming, and played that card with success quite often on anyone he needed to interrogate and who eyed him a certain way; but he generally couldn't keep it up for more than fifteen minutes, so yeah, the crying type was definitely not his forte.

Sherlock smiled again in response to his laugh then went on: "You are clever enough" — that got John's eyebrows up; except about his brother, Sherlock wasn't usually keen on recognising anyone else's capacities in that particular area — "and even though your thoughts are wrong most of the times" — John wasn't really hurt, he should have seen that one coming, really — "they might light things up in a way which leads me to the right perspective."

That ending surprised John: Sherlock actually meant it, and no matter the way it had come out, it definitely felt like a compliment.

Sherlock's arm went down then, and his voice got lower as he confessed, looking at his fingernails and not meeting John's eyes: "And on the few matters I might doubt myself, like moral principles and such, well, I know that I can always trust your conscience."

Again, John was dumbfounded. It wasn't that it was yet another compliment in a few seconds, but the facts that it was 'untainted' by any usual by-side remark, and that it ringed so obviously, achingly, honestly true. How he had been blinded at first this morning clearly hadn't been the only thought playing in Sherlock's head all day.

The silence stretched, Sherlock still watching his fingernails and John watching Sherlock, until John this time felt like lightening the mood, before he did something really, really stupid, like hugging Sherlock or so. He cleared his throat: "So, we're a team?"

Sherlock seemed to relax and met his eyes again, smiling. "Yes, we're a team."

John smiled back: "Great." Then he yawned, sleepiness coming at horse's speed apparently now that he was relieved, justified: Sherlock needed him around. He headed back upstairs, but remembered what exactly had gotten him downstairs to start with and turned to Sherlock: "Don't feel obligated to play your violin, all right?"

Sherlock playfully innocently answered: "But I want to play."

John rolled his eyes. "Fine." He amended: "No Beethoven though."

Sherlock now grinned: "If that's what you want."

John felt like bumping his head against the wall. "No, the point is that you play what you want. Mendelssohn, Bach, Sarasate; your usual…"

Sherlock seemed to ponder: "What I want…"

"Yes!"

Sherlock smirked: "Then Beethoven might make an apparition."

John finally gave up, sighing. "I'm not going to win this, huh. Whatever. Have a nice time." He turned one last time before leaving the room, and shrugged uneasily. "And well, you know, thank you."

"No, thank you. Good night, John."

One last smile and Sherlock went back to his violin, and John knew it was his cue to get back upstairs.

Next morning, there was the announcement about Lily's funeral in the paper for the following day.

They both didn't mention it, but when John got back from work, there was a bouquet of white lilies drinking in the sink — they had no vase, and Sherlock more than probably hadn't wanted Mrs Hudson to know he had bought flowers. John didn't comment, and Sherlock seemed to be happy about it.

John went to the service. Sherlock didn't, but he went to the cemetery later on — the bouquet was gone when John came home.

Later that week, John decided that he needed to know more about Sherlock's father. He didn't want to embarrass Sherlock, but he didn't want either to make one day a painful comment without knowing it. It would have been easy to ask Mycroft, but it didn't feel all right either — Sherlock might just see it as treason, from them both. So, that left only the archives…

John didn't get the time to put his plan to action though, because Moriarty chose this moment to make his come-back…

/

Years later, John found Lily's funeral announcement in Sherlock's wallet. He wasn't sure what to do about the memento: was it just a reminder for Sherlock that he should never deduce something without having checked all the facts? Was it a reminder that he wasn't Moriarty? Was it a reminder that it was all right to NOT want to care? John never asked. He just decided it was a mix of the three.

They had had a lot of cases by then, ranging from national security to criminal mastermind to neighbour's jealousy, but John knew Lily's had been for them both, in a way, one of their most important cases. And it hadn't even been a murder….

/

(AN) Yes, this is a literal quote from "The Yellow Face".