Disclaimer: I own nothing.
John shouldn't let the end of the relationship with Sarah make him blue, or awkward, or Sherlock will hound him for other reasons beside these he has already unearthed for his discomfort, and then things will be simply impossible. Thank God that the detective is known to occasionally miss things – as Harriet's phone demonstrated – and once he embarrassed John sufficiently, he didn't think to delve deeper.
If he discovered that he's a homonym – well, then every word or act of John (as if he isn't confused enough by his own feelings) would be examined. "Are you doing this because you're misguided by my name?" John honestly doesn't have an answer to that. He doesn't think so…most of the time. But the things he instinctively does for Sherlock go a bit further than the best of friendship, do they not?
In the end, with his mood being all over the place, he settles for frustrated. He should still be fucking Sarah in New Zealand. Instead, he's back home and without a prospect of future sex unless he picks up someone in a pub or something. He's allowed to be frustrated – sexually frustrated – surely. Sherlock won't question that.
After half a day during which John is maybe more grouchy than he should have (but he's still haunted by the name that slipped out in New Zealand and afraid that his bloody omniscient flatmate might somehow read it out of him, so better not be too friendly), the detective declares loudly, "We need a case."
The wording strikes John as unusual. For the first time, it's not, "I need a case." Or, "My brain is rotting." No, this time Sherlock recognises that his friend might need a case as bad as he – and to take his mind off recent failures, he certainly does. A shot of adrenaline will stop him from thinking back to what happened during that ill-fated holiday.
"Well, what do we have? Anything on your blog?" the doctor asks, moving to check his own. Hopefully there will be something good. He's not hoping for a locked door mystery, but at least something that keeps them running for the rest of the day – maybe the following day, too. He's becoming fond of not sleeping with Sherlock, though it doesn't entail any of the things that used to keep him awake at night (which might or might not involve a bed – or a table – or a wall).
They are lucky, because – through John's blog, which is – whatever Sherlock might think of it – the way more popular of the two – they find a nice murder waiting for them in Brixton. An apparent drug overdose, with the victim self-mutilating in a drug-induced fit, but the victim's sister is adamant that her brother had never been an addict. "Not even a joint! Ever! You have to restore my brother's good name and find his murderer, please," Gillian Pond says vibrantly, when she's invited to the flat. She looks on the brink of crying, and John knows that that's his cue for tea. Before Sherlock can say something insensitive.
Anyway, Sherlock takes the case – though he suspects that it will not pass a five, probably even lower in his personal scale, but hey, John needs cheering up so he's willing to take anything at the moment. After a short exam of the crime scene, he has to confirm Gillian's words. The man was not an addict – if only the police had taken a look around it should have been painfully obvious. Ergo, they have a nice murder. Plus torture. Couldn't hope for better (though better not to say so to their client).
They start to investigate their victim – Gary Pond, accountant – to try and discern which motives could drive anyone to such violent acts. At first, John suspects the mafia. He could have had shady dealings, and tried to dupe his own bosses. Both drug and torture would be congruous with the mafia's style. When he tries to tell as much to Sherlock, though, he's immediately shot down.
"Mafia might have plenty of drugs on hand, but they wouldn't try to pretend that one of their executions were an overdose or another accident of some sort. They'd want everyone to know that the traitor has been dealt with accordingly," the detective counters, shaking his head.
"Then what are you doing?" he queries.
"Checking his Facebook. He's gushing over a girl he's met – a certain Deb Evans, barista. They hit it off famously, apparently," the sleuth relates with a grimace – no doubt at said sentimental gushing.
"And do you think she could be involved?" John asks, curious.
"I won't think anything until I've met her, preferably – or at least managed to find much more information about her. It is a capital error to make theories without having all the facts first. One always ends up twisting the new data to make them fit into one's preconceived theory. And that's what judicial errors are made of, John," Sherlock scolds him, shaking his head. "Say, do you fancy a coffee?"
"I could go for a latte, maybe," the blogger agrees promptly.
They do not find Deb at the café she works at, apparently her shift starts later, but instead of going away in a huff, Sherlock leans in and turns up the charm when the barista, a buxom redhead, whines, "Why do all the attractive boys want Deb?"
"We do not want her, per se," the detective says, with a blinding smile, " she's just a friend of a friend and we thought we might chat a moment."
"Your friend doesn't happen to be Gary, is he?" the redhead queries, raising an eyebrow.
"And if he was?" Sherlock bits back, not affirming nor denying. John, at his side, metaphorically perks up his ears.
"Tell him to dump her. Whichever Gary he is. She doesn't deserve him," the barista grouses bitterly.
"Whichever Gary?" John asks, one eyebrow shooting up in surprise.
"She's dating at least three of them. All named Gary – oh she's clever. She won't moan the wrong name that way. But I hear her chatter, and she's definitely not talking only of one Gary – there's the accountant," she explains, eager to ruin her colleague's relationships, "and the computer programmer, and the trainer. Now tell me they could be all the same man. It's not fair, that's what I say."
"Very unfair," John agrees, nodding.
"We will certainly tell Gary, the accountant," the detective assures, gaining a smile. "But we should give him some evidence. Do you know anything else about these people beside their profession?"
The woman is only too willing to tell them everything she knows – and something she supposes besides. Sherlock hears her out with rapt attention. Too many murders he's know of were born from people with multiple, mutually unaware relationships.
Afterwards, they try to find these other Gary. After all, one of them might have realised and had a fit of jealousy…now, imagine John's surprise (he won't speak for Sherlock, though) when a day later, when they finally narrow it down, they discover that the second Gary – the computer programmer – 'committed suicide' a couple of weeks ago.
"She's cleaning up after herself. Eliminating all the Gary she lured in at first," Sherlock declares, eyes shining.
"Sherlock? You haven't even seen her yet. How do you know it wasn't the third one?" John queries, uncertain.
"The gym trainer? Unless he's very much different from his colleagues, he wouldn't have staged accident or suicides. They are the type who tends to bash heads in – passionate but mindless. I'm more afraid he might become our third victim, if he isn't already," the detective states. "Anyway, whether I'm right or you are, we need to find him posthaste."
They certainly do. But he's the one they have less clues about. They might simply follow one Deb waiting she brought them to him, but they discover she's left her apartment. They slip in after Sherlock opens the front door (both of them, for once, Sherlock allowing John with him) and it's too empty for Deb to mean to return here.
She could have simply just moved, but it seems too much of a coincidence that she'd move after two of her boyfriends have been killed. Neither John nor Sherlock believe in this kind of coincidences. "She's gone to him, now," the doctor grits out, suddenly realising it – just like he understood that Sherlock was in a cab with a serial killer.
"I know!" the sleuth yells. There must be some way he can figure it out, some clue, something.
John tries to console himself with "Well, at least he might fight back." From what they heard, the gym trainer was some sort of martial arts expert.
"Fight! Right, John!" the detective exclaims, frenetically searching martial arts tournaments results in search of some Gary Londoner.
They do find a name, and soon an address. A cab, with the promise of double the fare if they can be there in under ten minutes, and after running a few red lights they are in front of Gary Ellsworth's house. All is quiet. Very quiet. They fear it might be too late.
Once again, Sherlock puts his picklocking skills to good use. They enter the house silently, moving from room to room. Empty. All empty. Maybe she'd taken him and brought him somewhere? But then they finally started to hear an angry whisper.
"You're all identical. Right from the first one, the one who raped me. You only have one thing in mind, all of you. Well, I have to get rid of you before you hurt someone else, don't you see?" It comes from the bedroom.
Sherlock slams its door open, hoping to attract the clearly insane murderer's attention and divert it from the victim who's not responding, so it's at least gagged, more probably drugged as he doesn't hear even a mumble. Hopefully not already dead. John very much doesn't want to be too late again – and he knows Sherlock feels the same.
Now, John is sure that Sherlock didn't expect the gun. He hadn't expected it either. He hadn't thought a martial artist would feel the need to buy one, and as these have been pretend accidents or suicides he hadn't factored the possibility of a gun in today's job. Which is why he hadn't even brought his along. With his military training, he was amply sufficient to protect Sherlock from criminals (even knife or syringe wielding criminals).
The slam of the door mixes with the bang of a gun, and for all that Sherlock is in front of him, it's John that reacts quicker to that, instinct taking over. He tackles his companion, slamming him to the floor and covering his body, or as much of his body he can manage being shorter than him. Enough, at any rate, because the bullet finds its way in John's body instead of Sherlock's, and that's fine, that's good, that's…ouch.
Sherlock rolls out from under him to lunge at the deranged Deb (a fake blonde with a nose product of a plastic surgeon), and before she can shoot again (it's not an automatic firearm) much less aim he's on her, disarming and hurling her against the wall, her head hitting it with a loud thump. She barely manages to moan, when he starts to strangle her. In seconds, she's unconscious. Sherlock still doesn't stop.
"Sherlock," John calls, and then, more forcefully, "Sherlock! She's not a danger anymore, so a little help, please?"
That seems to go through the detective's brain. He lets the wannabe-serial killer go, to fold ungracefully on the floor, and gets back to his wounded friend. "What do I do, John?" he queries, voice shaking.
"Put pressure on the wound. We're ruining your scarf, I'm afraid. Oh, and call 999, will you? I don't think I can sew myself up this time," the doctor grits out, in pain but trying to lighten up the situation. He's been caught in his left side, and it shouldn't be too bad, just painful, but it could have gone decidedly worse if the bullet had caught only a little bit closer to his heart. (As bad as Sherlock was.)
Sherlock somehow manages to do both at the same time, and insult the 999 operator to boot, then lets his mobile clatter to the floor and mumbles, "If you'd been killed I would have murdered her. I almost did anyhow."
"But you didn't," John points out gently.
"Because you stopped me. If you hadn't – well. I'm never going to become good, am I?" the sleuth wonders quietly.
"Do you think I'm good?" the doctor asks, holding back a moan of pain.
"Of course, John! You're the best!" Sherlock assures vibrantly.
"Then relax. You're good, Sherlock, no matter what anyone says. After all, you're still very far from my body count," the doctor bits back, trying his best not to be bitter about it. He had bad days. But he always, always did it to protect his own. That had to count for something, right? He feels faint though, so very faint, so he whispers, "Sherlock? I'm going to sleep a mo now. Don't panic, ok?"
"John? John? Are you sure you should be sleeping? I don't think you should," the detective whimpers. Despite his friend's words, panic mounts without him being able to push it down. More than asleep John looks fainted and that's not good and what the hell is the ambulance doing – he's sure he must have called the ambulance at least three minutes ago.
He tries to keep his friend from bleeding out on the ugly laminate wood floor. There's John's blood on his hands, when it should be the opposite, because John is the bloody doctor out of the two of them and what was his friend thinking taking a bullet for him – doesn't he know that's not good. Very not good. He'll have to firmly scold John when he's awake to hear it. (Because John is going to be awake and well again – the opposite is simply not an option.)
One hand still pressing the scarf against the wound, he lets the other trail down John's arm to his wrist to take his pulse. He needs to feel the soft beating – to know John's not slipping away from him yet. Instead of his friend's skin, he finds his soulname-covering wristband. Of course. John's always been very private about that – though now that his soulmate is dead, it should appear nothing more than an unreadable blob.
Well, Sherlock does not care about his friend's privacy (and maybe – just maybe – he's a tiny bit curious, too). He discards the bracelet in one swift move and his hand finds warm, inked skin under it – and a still steady pulse, thank God. If he glances at the name it's just because he noticed it's definitely no blob from the corner of his eyes and – well, he needs to know the secret John has guarded so well. The secret John has lied to protect. And – John's partners have had all the names under the sun, never one recurring more often. It's odd. He would have sworn that one with his friend's partiality for romantic entanglement should be searching for his own soulmate if he still had the chance to find her (statistically probable it's a her, given John's choices).
What he sees he never expected (though part of him had always known). Sherlock, he reads, in his own elegant cursive. He traces the letters with his fingers, incredulous, but there is no doubt. For the first time in decades, Teen Sherlock slams open the door to the attic of his mind palace, all the bolts falling down like autumn leaves, and runs to the sitting room, screaming, "What was I saying, you idiot? My John. Always been my John – and always will be!"
"John," he croaks, and it's like he's never said that name before, no matter how many time he's worn it down, because it's never been his John before, and he is, he is, he's found him, he has the right one, together forever, perfect happiness and all the rest, and Mycroft is going to be so jealous now, and – That train of thought is brusquely interrupted by his brother's likeness in the mind palace. "How can you be so childish? For God's sake, read the clues, Sherlock! They're going to bite you on the nose if you ignore them much longer!"
Because there's an undeniable fact: John has known all along. He must have known, Mummy's idea was singular, but effective...and John has. Not. Said. A. Word. In fact, he has denied – loudly, consistently, and repeatedly – to be interested in Sherlock like that, when anyone hinted or misconstrued. Dr. John-I'-m-not-gay-Watson. After meeting Sherlock, he has dated other people. Again and again and again. Seriously, Sherlock, how much more rejected can you get?
It's unheard of. Soulmates never finding each other? Well, the world is big. It happens more often than it should. Soulmates barely missing each other? Merely a corollary on Murphy's Law (John did teach him about that, oh God). Soulmates dying (before, upon, after) meeting each other? Sad, sometimes tragic, but people die all the time. Bound to happen. Finding your soulmate and spurning him? What's so wrong with Sherlock that would bring John to that? (He should ask Sally; she could probably offer him a fifty pages essay on the subject.)
Sherlock's hand slips limply from John's wrist, and he blindly reaches for the bracelet, which has always covered his name, to put it back. John can't even stand to see his name. That's how much he doesn't want to have Sherlock as his soulmate. And he's right, of course. He's right. Who would want to be saddled with Sherlock forever? It's only natural that John dates, searching desperately for someone who'll take him away from Baker Street. Why should he stay by the freak's side? He can do so much better – pretty much with anyone.
Soulmates are a myth anyway. Yes, his parents seemed happy, but what does he know? He was so young when they died. That's the only sure consequence of having a soulmate – death. He's half tempted to bond here and now, with John unconscious, because there's so much blood and what if John dies now. He doesn't, though. If he didn't really die, John would be beyond livid once he discovered it.
The ambulance finally arrives, as well as the police –somewhere amidst his almost incoherent ramblings to 999, Sherlock must have mentioned he had a murderer here, too – and Sherlock just looks while they each take their own. The ambulance offers him a ride, too, if he wants to be near his friend (and an orange blanket he once again fights against – he wonders if he looks in shock). Ten minutes before, the detective would have fought teeth and nail for the right to be near John while he was in such a precarious condition.
But now, he refuses to follow. There's no reason to impose his unwanted presence on John any longer. His…soulmate must have it hard enough living with him. Should he offer to leave the flat? Fuck that, he decides a minute later. He's rather fond of Mrs Hudson. John can be the one to move out when he's got enough of him. That's the actual aim of all that dating, isn't it? Find a girlfriend to live with, happily ever after. (The one they should have had, if only Sherlock hadn't been such a freak.)
He decides to walk home. He doesn't care if it's far away, he doesn't care the odd looks his bloodied scarf garners (he doesn't even notice it's brown-red with John's blood when he mechanically folds it around his neck), he doesn't care about anything. He's only trying to wrap his mind about being rejected – justly rejected, obviously rejected, what was he even thinking dreaming that someone might possibly love him as he is, hadn't Mycroft taught him well – and that will take time to process. And if he's distracted by his own deliberations and ends up run over, well, it's not like anyone is going to care (well, Mrs Hudson will lose his rent, she might care about that).
So he walks, and walks, and when he finally arrives home – surprisingly whole, given London traffic and his level of attention – he's exhausted, bedraggled and wet to the bone. It's started raining midway through and he hasn't even noticed – might be because, despite having run back to his attic and slammed the door behind him, teen Sherlock has been once again in control of him since he's discovered his soulmate's identity and, just like him, the sleuth has started quietly crying.
Mrs Hudson must have noticed him, because she's there in the hall murmuring, "Oh, Sherlock!"
"Sorry about trailing water, Mrs H," he mumbles – that's what she's sad about, right?
"Forget the water! Is that blood?" the old woman queries, voice tremulous. So not even the rain managed to wash out John's blood from his scarf. It's logical, after all. There was so much…
"Not mine," the detective hurries to reassure, even if just talking about it makes him nauseous. "John's…" he admits, choking on the word.
"John's? Where is he, dear?" his landlady asks, peering around as if she expects to see the doctor trailing behind his friend as ever.
"In hospital," Sherlock explains. At Mrs Hudson's shocked look, he volunteers, "He's been shot. Where else should he be?"
"Shot?" the old woman echoes, her voice a high-pitched yelp. "Well then that begs the question, mister, why aren't you with him?" she adds sternly.
The detective hates that Mrs Hudson is so much like his own mummy at times. Always ready to call out his bad behaviour, when there's a need for it.
"He'll like this better," he whispers, defeat in his voice.
"Now don't be ridiculous, dear. Of course John will want company in that dreadful hospital," the landlady objects, laying a hand on his arm in comfort.
"No he won't, at least not mine," the sleuth insists, with dejected certainty.
"Even if you've had a quarrel during the case, I'm sure that John will forgive you, love. He always does," she replies, grasping at straws. Sherlock is heartbreaking to watch – and he's making no sense at all.
"There's nothing to forgive," he hisses back. If anything, he should be forgiving John for scorning him, rejecting him – and he does. He understands that no one sane could ever want him. But it rankles that even Mrs Hudson automatically assumes he's the one who messed up. As if it's always his fault (but it is, isn't it? even that John doesn't like him, it must be his fault).
"Then why don't you come with me to the hospital? John's going to want company," the old woman presses on, stubborn. Everyone is stubborn in that house.
"I'm simply not going to. Cease your nattering," he growls, tired and frustrated and – he'll apologise later for being rude. He just can't explain, and can't take the well-meaning nagging now.
"Fine," she agrees at the end. "I'm going alone. Just tell me where they brought him. When you are in this mood you won't be of any comfort to poor John after all."
Sherlock trudges up the stairs to 221B, murmuring the requested information without adding anything else. How can he be expected to be of any comfort when he himself needs it desperately? And why does Mrs Hudson not see it? She's much more perceptive usually. But then, of course, now she's worried over John. (He's worried over John, too, but he's too exhausted to panic again.)
He's chilled to the bone, so he opts for a quick warm shower, dropping everything as he goes. He'll tidy up later. He better do, otherwise John will yell at him if he comes back to find such a mess. Assuming he comes back. He has to, it won't be the first bullet John survives, his unwilling soulmate is too stubborn to die…right? Mycroft will get him the best doctors. His brother won't let him die, if only because they cooperate in handling Sherlock.
He thought he was too tired to have feelings again, but he's apparently not. He hates this. In the end, he quietly steals into John's room and lays on his bed, over the covers. Just a few minutes. Nobody has to know… He's not even ended that thought that he's out like a light, breathing John's smell in with every sigh.
He's awakened by a text from Lestrade. What does the inspector want? He's gotten his murderer already. He wouldn't have let her escape, would he? Sherlock will be seriously pissed if he has. Instead, he reads, What the fuck are you doing? John's asking after you – and he's a patient just as awful as you are. Drag yourself here before someone is tempted to put him out his misery.
Oh. So John does really want his presence. Why, though? Unless – he's read one of John's medical journals in a fit of boredom once, and there was some study about people who had their soulmate having a higher success rate after major surgeries, but he thought an accomplished bond was needed to obtain these benefits, and John very much doesn't want him.
Or does he now? Would the bullet be enough to persuade John to finalize the bonding between them for its healthy effects? Would he be expected to not care if John still dated and eventually left Baker Street with their soulmate bond recognized?
Before he can delve more in such reflections, he receives another text from Lestrade. Sherlock! Do you want to solve his murder, too?
Coming. SH, he relents in the end. At the very least he owes John to let him explain what he wants instead of trying to deduce it alone.
So he dresses (the mess on the floor from before will have to wait) and takes a cab to the hospital. He actually hovers outside John's room, unable to believe he's really wanted in there. Until Lestrade comes out to get him – he doesn't know how he's felt the detective's presence – and pushes him inside, with a, "Finally. I'm going to get a coffee."
Sherlock stands awkwardly, just past the door, waiting for a sign.
"Come here, you git," John says weakly, waving him close.
The sleuth obeys, stopping by the bed, but not making a move to touch his soulmate. If he wants to bond, John will have to initiate it.
"Where the hell were you?" the wounded man queries, a shadow of unreasonable hurt in his voice. As if Sherlock had been the one deserting him, or something, instead of being the rejected party here.
"Sleeping," he replies noncommittally, not volunteering any further details. (That'd be way too embarrassing.)
"Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep," John teases, with a charming grin, "but I need someone to take responsibility for me. They'll grumble about me leaving, but if I tell them I have a flatmate at home that will ensure I won't keel over they'll be more incline to let me go. Of course, you don't have to actually take care of me, don't worry. I'm perfectly able to do that myself."
"You called just for that?" Sherlock replies, half surprised and half…disappointed? Is he, really? But not even a bullet wound can make him desirable as a soulmate, despite the proven effects of a successful soul bond, and it hurts. The detective was uncertain about how he'd respond to such a request, but he can't help but be upset by the umpteenth evidence of his unlovableness.
"No, I called because I wanted a violin concert!" his blogger huffs, exasperated. "Of course I called for that. I want to go home, Sherlock. Come on!"
Sherlock's not entirely certain that is such a great idea, because if the other doctors will not be pleased – as much John has admitted – maybe they should follow their opinion, and give themselves a bit more of space too. But John doesn't apparently want space at all, he wants 221B (and possibly violin concerts, was he sarcastic a moment ago? Sherlock is never sure reading people moods).
The least the detective can do for his soulmate (not to prove he's an adequate choice, he can never be, just – to make their cohabitation a bit more unbearable for John, he guesses) is to give into his wishes, so the sleuth leaves, in search of the documents he has to sign to have John released into his care. And to call Mycroft – one of his limos will be decidedly more comfortable for John to ride on that a random cab. Mycroft likes John (but he doesn't know, right? He can't – Sherlock would be too ashamed to look him in the face otherwise) and will agree without much fuss. Though he will undoubtedly tease Sherlock for his partiality for his flatmate (if only he knew the full extent of it – it'd be so much worse) and probably try to extort some sort of favour in compensation. To which he might actually agree this time. A mission for Mycroft in Afghanistan sounds very nice at the moment, if only because it'd put some miles between him and John. And the first place that came to mind was Afghanistan, which is very John-related and…aargh. Sherlock is doomed.
When he gets back to John's room, promising all is taken care of and they can go home soon, his soulmate offers him a brilliant smile and a heartfelt thanks, which is really more than he deserves for so little. Sherlock's heart soaks up that smile and is elated (John needs so little to make him happy, despite having rendered him miserable up to a second ago).
They get home, to Mrs Hudson's welcome. She had already visited John and been sent back on accounts of mother henning by a rather frustrated patient. She perfectly understood the frustration, though. The detective had not been around yet, and for some reason John had been so worried for him despite being the one hurt (well, Mrs. Hudson's report on his tenant hadn't been pleasing, after all), and his proverbial patience had suffered.
Now she has both her adoptive sons home and she can fuss some more over them. They are together – all will be well soon enough. And in the meantime, her suppressed maternal instincts are allowed to come into play.
Sherlock is grateful for his landlady's interference, because it keeps him from being alone with John. Sure, his soulmate hasn't behaved any different than he would have before the sleuth discovered the truth, showing him that bit of fondness that must be an act, because John must hate him if he rejects him entirely as a soulmate.
Or not? John is so confusing. Can the detective believe that John has at least a mite of honest affection for him, despite all the obvious flaws that have made John shun him as a life partner? He can't figure it out – when his own blasted feelings are on the way, any power of observation he possesses gets skewed like that of any other idiot out there – and he most certainly can't ask John and what is he supposed to do now?
Maybe he can…do absolutely nothing. Take his cues from John, who's behaving normally – well, what passes for their norm anyway – and pretend he's not discovered anything. Yes, that looks like a plan. Because if he confronts John with this, the only thing that can come from it is a lengthy rant about everything that is so utterly wrong with him, to which he won't be able to object anything, because that's, you know, all true. And then John might very well decide to leave Baker Street if he feels cornered by his disappointing soulmate.
There's no way he can make him change opinion about him. He's going to take care of his hurt soulmate – of course he's going to, it's a need that itches under his skin the instinct to care for John, see him back to full health – but that's only what any decent individual would do, especially being the cause for his wound in the first place. And he'll probably manage to botch up that too. The more he offers to help him, the more suspicious John looks, actually. He obviously suspects the detective is trying to turn him into an unaware guinea pig once again, clearly.
Sherlock doesn't even protest against such unfair suspicions. He spends hours locked in his mind palace, trying to make sense of the situation, and to determine if anything he can do could turn John's attitude – make it favourable to him. He tries being unobtrusively helpful. He tries stopping the nightly concerts – besides for the times John has nightmares, because it's proven Sarasate helps then.
Hell, he tries even going up to the attic, metaphoric tail between his legs, and asking his teen self's suggestions on the matter. After all, he'd been the first to unerringly recognize John as the other half of his soul. But the only thing his teen self can choke up is, "He was supposed to love us no matter what – no matter what we were." True, John has never called him freak – or one of the countless variations thereof practically everyone uses (with the exception of Lestrade, who at least is bloody professional, and Molly, who's too polite for that). But from this to actually loving him there's an abyss Sherlock himself has apparently dug with his awful behaviour and now can't move past and why is it always his fault?
He hates this. Hates this. Hates this. If he turned himself entirely around and became normal (the word leaves a bitter taste in his mouth)… Oh, well, then John would leave him even faster, because his soulmate is at least a bloody adrenaline addict – and normal Sherlock (or playing to be normal) would be too strained to go on cases. He can't deduce and behave, he really can't.
No, his only option is to make do with whatever measure of affection John can spare for him and prepare himself for the moment the love of his life (he can admit that much, if only to himself – the soulbond's pull has always been strong on him) will decide to leave. Which is going to happen sooner rather than later. But until then, Sherlock will have John's company – if nothing more – enjoy it and carefully not reproach John, should he drive him away all the faster.