It was weird, the lack of animosity in the air. Only the scent of rose tea lingered, a brand advertised for giving skin a "healthy, goddess glow" that John was always embarrassed to buy but did anyway because Sherlock liked it. They'd been couch-ridden for hours, maybe more; the only reason this was even evident was that John found himself looking out the window and wishing he lived in a city with less light pollution because, goodness, tea and starlight sounded like the perfect cure for whatever it was they were enduring. But he wasn't angry, and Sherlock seemed to sense this. Both knew they had reached some sort of crossroads, or at least a mile marker. Maybe the technical term was rock bottom, alright, that could be conceded, but nevertheless a shift was evident, a taste sticking to the air and on their clothes. Exhaustion was the best word John could come up with—but the kind that would end with a sleep more satisfying than anything on this confusing planet.
A word hadn't been spoken since they arrived from the station. None was needed. Not yet. Sherlock's calves and feet found their natural position, resting on John's thighs, and two sets of eyes were closed as though synchronized, John feeling the coarseness of Sherlock's hair brush against his forearms, Sherlock as always amazed at how warm John was.
"You know what I find fascinating about our professions," Sherlock started, finally, as the last bit of sunlight escaped from the day, his voice so calm and low that it barely registered in John's ears, "is that we are successful only if we believe there is something corrupt to be found."
John watched a sad handful of stars force themselves upon the night sky before he answered. "Searching for sickness or crime, you mean?"
A nod answered. Then: "The core of who were are, I think, of being doctor and detective, relies on flaw. Chaos. Evil. Whatever vague term you want to apply to it. We're attracted to it. A craving."
"My identity isn't in my profession," John said, looking away from the window. Sherlock was staring at the ceiling, not peeved like he usually was during these sorts of conversations and deductions. Merely contemplative. Trying to get at something deeper, John sensed. "Yours shouldn't be either."
A flick of the wrist. "What is life but what we do?"
"What we think. Believe. Who we love."
"Awfully romantic, John. Join us in the age of reason."
He smiled, but it was a sad one. "You're more than a detective."
"You're missing my point." Sherlock sat himself up, but only as far as his elbows would take him. "I'm not looking for the 'you're more than a party trick slash addict' angle. I'm aware of that—not to the level you seem to believe, but enough."
"What are you getting at, then?"
Sherlock sighed and let his body fall back down. "I think I'm hungover."
"I don't doubt it. The tea'll help."
He paused. "My thesis, John, is that we are attracted to decay. You, Doctor, wish to prevent it, or at the very least slow it down; I want to understand why it already happened. It draws us. You wouldn't be a good doctor if you believed everyone was healthy; I wouldn't be a good detective if I refused to see the evil society is capable of."
John let the words roll around in his head for a few silent moments. "You think I stick around because I want to fix you."
"Oh, don't make it sound so mundane as that. That's for normal people, John, and neither of you fit that category."
John took this as a compliment.
"No, John, what I mean is that you are not attracted to the idea of tending to my wounds. You are drawn by the wounds themselves."
"Now hold—"
"I like you because you were shot in Afghanistan." Sherlock was up again, this time sitting with his legs crossed. He looked like he was discussing an intriguing math problem, one that wasn't necessary to solve and had no effect whatsoever on his life but was interesting nonetheless. "Maybe that makes me a terrible person, but I do. It meant you weren't perfect, right, because you had scars. Wounds, and real ones. PTSD, psychosomatic limp, bullet holes. Throughout the entirety of our relationship, John, I have never tried to make you better or healthy. Only happy."
"Our first night, at…I didn't need my cane after that first chase. And you planned that."
"Sure, but not because I wanted you to get better. I needed you to be fast—that was part of it. But I also saw that your happiness largely depended upon your physical health. Do you see the difference? It wasn't that I wanted you to be fixed. If you would have been happiest broken, I would have left you that way. I like imperfect."
John shook his head. "You're making this more complicated than it is. Happiness and 'fixed' are the same thing, Sherlock, if not, I don't know, highly correlated."
"There are plenty of people who are healthy and unhappy, and vice versa."
"Yeah, but…"
"But?"
"But we're not talking about that, are we?"
"Well." Sherlock looked out the window long enough to make John wonder if he could see more than he could. "Same principle."
"Do you think I'll be bored with you once you're 'fixed'? That I like you this way? You're not some project for me, Sherlock."
"No, I just…"
"Hey. Look at me."
"I can't make deductions like I used to, right? And at first I was afraid that I wouldn't be…valued anymore. Without my skill. And I see—I really do, John—that you've stayed. And that I was wrong. But now I fear the opposite is true, that once I lose this huge flaw…what if that's what's keeping you here?"
"Sherlock…" John started, and at the mention of his name the detective's mind switched from theoretical to practical, his body shaking under the weight of wondering why, why, John had stayed. "Sherlock," he said again, letting his head find his shoulder. "Sherlock. You've got to stop this question. How many times do I have to tell you the answer? It's you. You're the reason I stay, alright, not your highs or your lows, not your tricks or your scars. Just you. Period. Can't that be enough a reason?"
"I…I'm too…"
"You're not the only one with flaws. You said so yourself. Look at me, look at Mycroft, Lestrade. This perfect ideal you're trying to live up to doesn't exist, not in any of us. We're not trying to heal you in order to make you a different person. There's no grand standard that you won't attain. We just want you back. You. That's it."
Sherlock shook his head, again and again, dispelling thoughts. "I can't live up."
"You don't see how imperfect we are, do you?"
"I—"
"Let us show you."