Help. -SH
John smirked at his phone.
Of course you need it now.
Having a deep sigh as he took in all the stacks of files covering his desk, John slouched back in his chair.
Wouldn't mind getting out of here a bit sooner.
Glancing at his watch, he nodded a silent affirmative to himself.
30 minutes early wasn't so bad. He could make it up another day.
Grabbing his case, he stuffed a few things in before heading to the clinic doors. Nodding his goodbyes, John strolled into the pleasantly brisk evening air.
Having so much to do had kept him stuck inside the same sterile, windowless room all day. It felt nice to feel fresh air on his skin again.
Taking a deep, reenergizing breath John opted for a walk back to the flat.
No matter what the mad genius needed it certainly wouldn't be considered "urgent" by any normal standards. It never was.
John snickered to himself,
What's it going to be this time? Needs to send a text? More milk for tea? Needs a body there to show off some clever breakthrough in his latest experiment to?
John shook his head at his musings, it could be any of those things, or all of those things at once. Life with Sherlock Holmes was never dull.
And the storm that epitomized Sherlock hit him as soon as he opened the door to the 221 flats. The screeching of a violin had John instantly cringing and reaching to cover his ears.
Somehow Mrs. Hudson had impossibly heard the door over all the wailing sounds coming from the flat above. She came around the corner with Rosie in tow, a comically oversized set of headphones over the toddlers tiny ears.
"You better get on up there, Deary. He's been at it for a few hours now. And if you can't stop him, something very tragic is going to happen to that precious violin of his. You tell him that!"
John would have chuckled, but as it was the wallowing cacophony of noise from the flat above had already began to drive Mrs. Hudson back inside her own flat, Rosie, still looking slightly bewildered, in tow.
Dutifully, John charged up the stairs. Not ready for what he would face on the other side of the door, but needing the incessant noise to stop.
The sight that greeted him was entirely expected and completely outrageous at the same time.
Sherlock flew about the room, up on chairs, couch, table, anything he could climb onto, his blue dressing gown billowing behind him dramatically. His violin was clamped tight to his chin and his face was drawn in the most intense look of frustration. His eyes never left the strings he was abusing.
"John! What is this called, John?! John!"
The truly mad man shouted over the shrill sounds of his violin, not ceasing his violent pulls on the strings for a second as he whipped around to his companion expectantly.
John squinted at the mad man with a grimace on his face.
"Give me that bloody thing."
John grabbed quickly for the offending instrument and the lunatic controlling it.
He had barely reached out before the detective had anticipated his movements and jerked away, ceasing his playing abruptly, and falling from his already precarious stretch between the couch and coffee table.
"What was that for?" Sherlock looked accusingly toward the blogger.
"Sherlock, what is going on?" John's clipped tone countered as he reached a hand out to help his ruffled flat mate to his feet.
Sherlock huffed as he stood straight and tall again, trying to not look too frazzled by his unflattering slip.
"You'll help, you said you'd help."
John couldn't keep the confusion from scrunching his brows together. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed again, as if he was dealing with a forgetful child.
"This feeling. The emotion. I cannot place it, I have tried everything, and I cannot put a name to it. You said you would help me."
Sherlock looked forlornly to his friend, "I need you to help me."
John's head tilted up in recognition. He walked over to his chair and sat, needing something to ground him from the swirling storm he had faced since entering the flat.
"Let's hear it then. What pieces do you have?"
Sherlock swirled over to his chair, and began pacing in front of it with jerky movements.
"I had finished my experiment with the toes, and had a few other experiments in mind to try out with the extras I had left over. Then this,"
He paused and what sounded like a growl came from his throat.
"This, this, feeling" he spat out vehemently.
"Came over me and I couldn't figure it out. I didn't know what to do. I tried to decide to let it go and press into one of my experiments, but it kept nagging at me."
His voice began rising again and he ran and grabbed his violin from the place it had fallen on the ground.
"It sounds like this."
John instinctively leaned back farther away from the instrument, the abused notes still ringing in his ears.
But as Sherlock began to play this time, John leaned forward as the notes played sweetly from the strings. His eyes followed the detective as he moved gracefully with this sounds.
It sounded, well, sweet. Beautiful. Not unlike the man himself.
But before too long it was as if a flip switched in the great brain. Sherlock shook his head,
"No" he uttered under his breath.
A new tune started up instantly. A rather fast-paced, racy sound that one might claim was more fiddle than violin. John cocked his head to the side, trying to dissect the new sounds.
Energetic. Hearty. Fun. Unexpected really.
But as soon as it had been registered in his head, Sherlock again growled under his breath. John could feel the frustration rising in the man.
"No, no, not this."
Sherlock set full fledge into a rather dramatic and dark tune. One that was so completely opposite of the music thus far that John had to shake his head and stare at his feet a moment to try and clear out the clutter he felt was beginning to crowd his own mind.
Then it hit him.
He chucked.
Sherlock jerked immediately at the sound and instantly dropped the violin to the coffee table, dropping to his knees in front of the doctor.
"Yes. Yes, what is it?! Tell me, John!!"
John's chuckle turned into a full on giggle.
The detective stood up and stropped back to his plush chair. He flopped into it and curled his knees to his chin, looking very much like a child who was being laughed at.
"It's not funny, John. You said you would help!"
The army doctor tried his best to calm his mirth and settle into an explanation that the great mind would except. He leaned forward a bit in his chair, and Sherlock jumped at the action, leaning as far as he could towards John in return.
John thought a moment, how would this go over? He doubted that it would go over very well. This was an emotion that he greatly doubted the detective would except for himself.
"Nope, no, you're not going to like it."
John stood from his seat and quickly beat an exit toward the kitchen.
"John, John!"
John still couldn't help the small smile from making a home in the corner of his mouth even as he kept carefully turned away from the tall man now hovering over him.
Sherlock was not taking the silence well. The clattering of the cups and spoons and the hum of the kettle did nothing to cover his sounds of disapproval.
"Oh come on, John. Don't be shy."
John scoffed at that. He was not being shy. He just knew too well how the mad man would react to his diagnosis. He remembered Baskerville, Sherlock did not accept unworthy emotions being placed to his character.
"No."
But that was unacceptable. Sherlock pulled a pout and schooled his features to look as needy as he could.
Classic trick. You should remember I have said 'no' to this same trap many times, my friend. "John" Sherlock wrapped his slender fingers around the shorter man's arms and gently turned him around to facing him at the counter.
"I promise I will accept it. I will not laugh."
He must have seen the doubt in the deeper blue eyes.
"I need this. I need your help to do this."
John's resolve crumbled a bit. After all he had asked for his help. It wouldn't be his fault if Sherlock didn't accept what he had to say.
"Alright, fine, ok."
A look of relief and elation completely filled the pale eyes locked with his.
"Let me get the tea, and we will sit and discuss this like civilized men. Understood? No storming about. No shouting. You accept this."
Sherlock nodded enthusiastically and rushed to his seat. John took a deep, fortifying breath and carried the cups into the sitting room. He placed one at Sherlock's elbo, not expecting it to be touched, and sat with his in his chair.
After a calming sip from the strong brew, he began.
"I think it's uncertainty."
He looked carefully at his friend, gauging the reaction he would get.
Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking a bit like a fish.
"Uncertainty. Me? Are you very sure of your diagnosis,John?"
John shrugged, not allowing himself to be affected by his companion's doubt.
"You asked for my help. That is what I feel myself from the hints given me, and the" he pointed to the violin on the table, "abuse to your poor friend over there."
Sherlock sat back in the leather that cradled him, his thinking pose already assumed.
John nodded to himself, it would be a while before Sherlock would emerge yet. Time to check on his poor landlord and see how the two were faring in the flat below. The tired doctor took a few more swallows of his tea and stood to leave.
Before he had even turned and taken a step he felt a pull on his sleeve.
"Thank you, John."
John turned to see his dark haired companion actually looking him in the eye, completely aware and not remotely shut away in his mind palace.
John gave him a smile, "Anytime, Sherlock."
Sherlock looked down again a moment before reassuming his "prayer" and fleeing to his mind palace. John smiled tenderly at the younger man.
Oh the mess you would be in without me.
He shook his head happily and beat a path for the lower flat, leaving the genius to his musings.
Sherlock hadn't even heard the footsteps of his company retreat.
Uncertainty
How odd.
Never would he have imagined that term would ever be applied to him. Not in a thousand years.
His mind was clear. His mind was precise. Always knowing exactly what to do next. How could it ever be uncertain.
The feelings, what had he felt- torn, pulled in two directions, unsettled, lost.
It was beginning to sound more familiar.
A memory, when had these feelings met before? There was something familiar to them.
Baskerville. The moors. Seeing things he couldn't believe. Uncertain whether he had actually seen them, or if his mind had been tricked. Unsettled. Rattled.
Mary's death. John. What should he do, what could he do? He had felt so lost, so pulled apart. He had eventually gone to seek help over the situation.
Uncertainty.
He had felt it before. Rarely. But he had been subject to it. His great mind was flawed. He recognized it now.
Tucking the feeling away nicely alongside the others, Sherlock took his time strolling back through his mind palace towards the front doors.
Uncertain.
The great detective accepted it. Even he was not above certain emotions, no matter how loath he was to admit to them.
These discoveries of emotion were getting interesting.
A/N: Sorry this was such a long time in coming! My creative well ran dry for a while and it took bits and pieces coming together slowly to get here.
Please review! Let me know if you caught the subtle Hobbit line. ;) And what emotion Sherlock should explore next!