Disclaimer: still not owning anything.
The following morning it's Christmas, and John should have left for Harry's home about a hour ago. But he can't make himself leave. Yes, yesterday ended in a light-hearted tone, but he's learned long ago what a marvellous actor Sherlock can be when he wants. It remains that his flatmate did see his (beloved? crush? Fascinating enemy? What the ever-loving fuck?)'s dead body. And even if this trip has been planned for a long time, John is loath to leave without having seen his friend – checked on him, if you want.
Sherlock, unless he's been sleepless for days because of a case, is usually up by now (well, bit earlier, actually), and the doubt that he might be sulking in his room and waiting to hear John's departure so he'll be able to (to what? Here is the crux, really) has been detaining the doctor for the last hour. He doesn't want to leave without saying goodbye – without knowing that it is safe to do so.
Reaching a compromise, he prepares a cup of tea, and a toast with honey. Most times, Sherlock is not really up to beans, eggs or other hearty foods freshly awakened, which the sleuth blames on a supposed French heritage, but the doctor suspects is just a result of sweet tooth. For all his quips about Mycroft's partiality for food, the younger Holmes does have a considerable fondness for sugary treats.
John lays it all on a tray and enters Sherlock's room after knocking, but without awaiting permission. It's a bet, true. The covers are up well past the curls, which means his flatmate is sulking. Even in the dead of winter, nobody sleeps like that. "I come bringing peace offerings," he announces softly.
The curls emerge, but it's still the back of the sleuth's head towards him. But at least the great toddler has his nose out and won't suffocate. "Shouldn't you be gone already?" the detective mumbles sourly.
"I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye," the doctor admits. It's the truth. The naked truth – if at all acceptable to disclose – is always the better option when talking to him.
"You said it. Now go," the consulting detective orders callously. Well, though luck, mister. If John Watson let himself be pushed around this way, he'd have moved out after Donovan's first warning.
"If you need me to…" the blogger offers, in the same level, kind voice.
This time Sherlock turns towards him, which should count as a progress, but he does so only to glare angrily. But angry at what? "I'm not broken," he growls. Oh, that. "And you can go and bring your nursing instincts were they're more needed if, I suspect, not more wanted. Shoo, John. If you have to go, just go. I'm not going to shoot up today, if it's what you're worried about. You and Mycroft should really know better." Is he angry at John for listening to Mycroft's concerns, too? Well, they both care for him. Is that so hard to understand?
"Fine. I'm going, then. I'll be back…well, that depends. Late tonight or tomorrow morning, depending on how much nursing Harry's going to need. Goodbye, Sherlock," the doctor says, turning to leave, 'peace offerings' and all. If his flatmate wants to be a git, he can walk to the kitchen for it.
"Leave the tray." There's no please, and it is worded like an order, but the consulting detective's voice is small.
John hides a smile – thank God he has his back to the man – and lays the tray on the bedside table. No matter the amount of sulking, his friend won't go entirely without food today. It's a relief, despite the sleuth doing his outmost to be a jerk.
Christmas with Harry goes as well as one might imagine. There's a reason John would have rather survived in a shitty, microscopic bedsit than live with her, and believe me, it has nothing to do with male pride. She starts harping at him as soon as she sees him. "You've never cared for me, have you, Johnny?" God, he hates when she calls him Johnny, and she knows it all too well.
And yes, it's petty, and he should know better than do that, but he still replies, "You know I do love you, Harriet."
She scrunches her nose, just like him, and that means she's already oh-so-angry. They've both inherited that twitch from dad, and the best thing you can do, when you spot it, is to duck and start grovelling. The problem is that John doesn't feel like apologising now, and he can be stubborn as a mule in his own right.
"What did you call me?" his sister hisses. Another thing they've learned at home – angry yells mean nothing. It's angry whispers you really have to fear.
"Come on, Harry, you started it. You know I hate that nickname. And I really mean that, by the way. I do love you. I'm sorry I'm late, but I was worried about Sherlock…" he explains, placating.
She sniffles. "Oh – of course. Never mind that you never call, that I've been slaving around trying to make everything perfect. I'm just your flesh and blood. What does it matter when your precious soulmate needs you. What was it this time? A paper cut?" Harry whines bitterly.
John sighs deeply. "For the last time, Harry, Sherlock is not my soulmate. He's a puzzling, brilliant madman of a friend and flatmate…who told me outright that *his* soulmate is deceased. Do I look dead to you, sis?" He felt dead for a while… in that awful interim between being discharged and finding Sherlock, actually…but he's pretty sure contemplating death would not erase the soul mark from someone's partner wrist.
His sister snorts incredulously. "Not your soulmate. Of course. Keep telling yourself that, if it helps you sleep at night. What I want to know is, whose fault is it that you won't accept the truth? Dad's? He's really and truly dead, and can't flip shit because Sherlock is a lad like he did for me and Clara. Or…oh, no, I got it!"
She looks at him gleefully, and the doctor knows that whatever will come from her mouth now will be cruel and baseless and make a surprising amount of sense at first thought. Maybe he should ask the detective how to delete things too, when (well, if) they start mind bunker lessons. Whatever she's about to say, it would really be best erased from his mind.
"He's told you his soulmate is dead. But he hasn't showed you, has he? You've not seen a name blob? Oh my! He doesn't want you, baby brother. Too damaged for your own soulmate to accept you? Ouch. At least I can pretend Clara was a homonym…Though you know, sometimes I wonder." There. Her cruel streak mixes with an apparent astounding amount of logic. But she's never right. Never.
Luckily, he finds the weak point in her reasoning immediately. Bless his flatmate for being an incurable asshole. "That simply isn't possible, Harry. There's no way that he would lie…why would he? To spare my feelings? You don't know him. He's never told a white lie in his life, I'd bet my life on it. If you were right, after we met – in the first three minutes or so – he'd say, 'You're my soulmate. Don't start getting ideas now. You're not up to par, and I don't do relationships anyway. Moving on from that – you can still be my flatmate, if you want.' And probably not winked, yeah."
That was a pretty good imitation of the consulting detective's usual deduction tone, if he said so himself, but apparently Harry hears only the first word. "He winked at you?" Her furiously raising left eyebrow says clearly, "And you're still denying your bond? Are you kidding me?"
"Only once, and to be honest, it was more…weird that anything. Sometimes I suspect he just got something in his eye," her brother explains hurriedly.
"Yeah sure. Really, how many lies do you need to build not to face the truth, awful as it might be?" she growls, clearly too happy with her pick of adjective. "S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K and John, not sitting in a tree for some reason…but you can't tell me he's not the one," she singsonged.
"He might be a homonym," her brother stubbornly insisted. "We're fucking billions in the world, Harry. You can't be sure that even the most absurd name is truly unique."
"You fucked billions of people? Maybe that's because he doesn't want you. Wouldn't want to catch some STD," Harry mocks, making a face.
"That fucking wasn't what I fucking meant and you fucking know it," John growls. Why is it that he can soothe clients and patients and be polite all day long, take Sherlock's insults in stride, but one obvious joke from his sister and he loses all composure?
"Geez, calm down, Jay," she huffs, using the one nickname from their childhood that didn't drive John round the bend. "Fine, I'll stop, I think I milked it out enough anyway, and honestly, your situation is sadder than mine, so ta for that. I needed you to cheer me up. And now, I'll feed you a proper Christmas luncheon, so you'll cheer up too, won't you? You're always temperamental when you're hungry."
John breaths deeply, trying to rein himself in. He'd like to refute her claim, and really, he's not being 'temperamental' now, but as a general statement, it's true. Not that he holds much faith in his sister's cooking prowess, but then again, he eats anything.
He's pleasantly surprised by the fact that there is indeed food. Lots of food. Very tasty food. None of their ma's traditional dishes, though. Whether it depends on Harry not wanting to be reminded of home or not having dared to ask her for the recipes while she was alive, John can't help the stab of sadness. He chases that away with more food. He makes sure to praise her cooking ability plenty, until – just before dessert – his sister starts irrepressibly giggling, until there are literal tears in her eyes. "Got you, Jay," she quips.
Harry leads him to the kitchen – she'd strictly refused any help until now – and shows him the cartons. Everything has been bought. Well, now that puts a different spin on the lack of ma's cooking. "Did you really think I could do all that? You're so gullible," she teases, still snickering.
John smiles back. "Well, then thank you, Harry. I appreciate you not attempting to cook. I get enough hopefully accidental food poisoning from my flatmate," he quips. That's actually proof that Harry's wrong and Sherlock is really a homonym, isn't it? Who in their right mind gives dubious substances (he's rather suspicious about how accidental some of these instances have been) to their soulmate? Then again, he's dubbed Sherlock 'the madman' since clapping eyes on him… No, no. He knows how things are, and he doesn't need to let his sister's teasing influence him.
"I tricked you! This calls for a toast, don't you think?" she crows, gleeful.
He can see her point. Despite being two years younger, he's always been acknowledged as the smarter of the two. Case in point: they're both reckless at heart, but John managed to find government-approved, and even praised, ways to get his adrenaline kick – war and Sherlock. Mycroft allowing him as a flatmate means that his civilian high-risk behaviour are, if possible, even more sanctioned by the government than his stint in Afghanistan. Harry instead never outgrew her wild teen years' rebellious attitude, and ended up falling into addiction.
So yeah, fooling the smart one of the family is worth celebrating. But… "A toast, of course, if you want. Let me make a bit of eggnog?" he queries.
She glares at him. "So you can prepare the non-alcoholic version? What am I, a child? John, you should know better than that. It's a great day! This calls for champagne!" She opens the freezer, where a double magnum bottle is resting. It might be worth to point out that there are no other guests.
"Harry, please…" John entreats. She'd done so well, been sober when he arrived (or at least sober from enough that her dependence wasn't obvious) and even not put any wine on the table through the meal. More specks of the 'fooling John' plan, he supposes. But why?
"You don't get to do it, John Hamish Watson," she hisses venomously. "You don't get to tell me how I should live my fucking life!"
"I only want you to be healthy," her brother pleads. Being harsh has never had any effect on Harry, if not make her more stubbornly determined to persevere. That was true for anyone in the Watson family, to be fair.
"Said the man who went to get shot at," Harry rebukes, holding the bottle tightly next to her breast, as if afraid that John might attempt to rip it from her hand. He wouldn't – the only result would be lots of glass fragments (there's no way to pry it out of her hands without breaking it) and a puddle of alcohol…Possibly even Harry lapping it from the floor, heedless of the shards. It happened once, and the doctor never wants to go through that again.
"Not my brightest moment, I'll admit," he says instead, hoping that agreeing with her will appease his sister. "You've proved that you're smarter than me today, Harry. Don't belie that."
"Do you really think I'd fall for these stupid psychological tricks?" she growls, trying to loom over him. Not that any of them can do that very well. Silly genetics. She should know that John is not one to be intimidated, though.
"I hoped that you might show a modicum of common sense and self-preservation, sister dear. This is going to kill you eventually. And if you are determined to hurt yourself, at least I won't stay to watch you go through with it," he huffs.
"You always think you know better than anyone!" Harry complains, her voice a high-pitched whine.
"I am a doctor, sis. There are a million studies on the effects of alcohol's excessive drinking on the liver and the other organs. So yes, in this regard I do know better than you. I would help you if you were willing to stop, Harry, but you won't even admit you have a problem!" he blurts out, exasperated.
"Because I want a toast on Christmas? You're ridiculous!" his sister objects, having the gall to appear outraged.
"Because for 'a toast' among two people you thought a bottle of a fucking galloon and half was right," he yells back.
"A galloon and a third," Harry points out, scrunching her nose the same way he does when he's annoyed. "It's not like I bought a Goliath, you know."
"I don't even want to know how big that one is," John huffs. "Anyway, merry Christmas, Harry. Call me if you want to get better. I wish I could be a good sober companion. Draw you out of your problem, kicking and screaming if need be. But that's not my branch of medicine." He's sad, and yes, probably a coward, but he can't stay and watch Harry destroy herself. He's so intimate with death – the death of good people, of friends, too – and trying to stave it, sometimes uselessly, that he feels like the least one can do is not invite the reaper with an irresponsible behaviour.
"Yeah, run, Johnny, why not, you always run," she grumbles, and she might be right – when he finds himself helpless to help, he'd rather run than stay and watch people get hurt. Of course, his whole career – both as a soldier and as a doctor – ensures he will not be helpless. That he will be capable to fix the problem (pretty much any problem)…and if John has the ability to right the situation, you can bet that he fucking will.
Still, addiction – and Harry's goddamned stubbornness – are too much for him to deal on his own. Clara got out of this, broke all ties, and as unable as the doctor is to do the same, he understands her. She didn't leave because she didn't care. Clara left because she truly loved Harry, very much so, and it was killing her to witness what was happening and be unable to stop her.
No matter how bitter and angry his sister is, she still cares for him, sort of. Still holding onto her bottle, she marches into the sitting room. John follows because, well, when Harry has a purpose you better check what said purpose is. She takes a tiny parcel from under the fake Christmas tree and throws it at him. After years of rugby practice, John catches it on instinct. Oh right. They haven't exchanged gifts yet. They aren't kids eager for them anymore, and quite like extending the anticipation.
"Merry Christmas," she growls at him. "And now you can run away if you wish. I have all the company I want," she declares, brandishing the bottle.
"Merry Christmas, Harry," he answers, taking a just as small gift from a pocket.
Never mind that, since Sherlock suddenly insisted on sharing the fees from the cases they worked together with him in October (just in time for even the most organised of Christmas buyers, come to think of it), size is not indicative of value in this case. He tried to object, of course he did. But Sherlock had threatened to cut him off from the cases unless John behaved like the proper colleague he'd claimed to be, and the doctor had caved in. There was no way he would let the sleuth work on his own. He's reckless enough to get himself killed.
"Though I do wish you would rather have my company than Lanson's here," he sighs. As if Harry would ever pick him over alcohol.
She glares at him, so he lays the packet on a table and turns his back, hunched from grief. "I do wish you happiness, Harry."
"Run to your not-soulmate, then. Maybe he'll cheer you up," his sister hisses.
Like the coward John sometimes can be, he does, without another word.
"It's not as late as I thought you would be," Sherlock welcomes his flatmate, and it's evident from his look that John suspects the sleuth very much of having being interrupted during something he should not do. Well, he's not. Unless you count submerging himself deep in his mind palace to have A Serious Talk with the man now in front of him as a bad thing. Usually John's comings and goings would not register when he's in this state. Then again, usually he's worried over a case or other not-blogger-related matters. He must have realised that there would be more data he needed to take into account in the real world now.
"It turns out I'm worse company than the biggest champagne bottle I've ever seen, and that I don't want to see Harry give herself alcohol poisoning. Go ahead, tell me I am a coward. She did already, after all," the doctor grumbles, his shoulder sagging with an unseen but enormous weight.
"Really, John, you should know that I am the least qualified human being to pass judgement on anyone else," the detective points out quietly. If he ever relapses, his…flatmate will walk out on him. He's known this since the start, but any further confirmation is a valuable reminder.
"Odd sentence for someone who made a living catching criminals," John remarks, but he's smiling – not one of his many angry, disappointed or polite (fake) smiles, either. He's a bit cheered up. Perfect.
"As you said, I catch them, I don't judge them. I'm just letting people know what they've done – and having my share of fun and exercise in the process. Much better than going to the gym and having to pay for it to boot. Anyway, laws are flighty things – they change easily," Sherlock drawls, body purposefully relaxed to hide his worry.
"And can be downright ignored most of the time when your brother is the British government, right?" his friend quips, "You know, sometimes I wonder if Mycroft would get a law changed for you, if you asked him."
"I don't think I could afford the number of favours needed to obtain that. Besides, it's more funny to break them and not get caught," the sleuth admits, sitting upright. Which is not an unspoken invitation for his soulmate to join him on the couch and cuddle a bit. It's emphatically not. Sherlock Holmes does not cuddle.
"You as a criminal? Now that's a scary thought." There's still gentle tease, in his blogger's voice, but with a shadow of…uneasiness? Something else?
"A spot of break-in here, a petty theft there…I'm not going to murder anyone, John. No matter how tempting Anderson might make the thought," the sleuth declares, mouth quirking, but the oddest urge to reassure.
If John started believing the likes of Donovan and Anderson, who have preached his descent into serial killing since the very day they met him…it wouldn't change anything, would it? He's never cared what any idiot could think about him. It's not like he really would start spree killing because his soulmate lost whatever little faith in him he has. If anything, the detective should do anything to prove his blogger is as much of a blind idiot as anyone else and be relieved the man refuses to be properly bonded with him. God forbid his dumbness should be contagious.
Still, he finds he wants to keep his mate's good opinion of him (pathetic, really). And it seems his random musings have had at least one positive effect, because suddenly John is laughing – loudly, uncontrollably – and all his worries have melted away. It unknots something in the detective's guts, too – something that had cramped without even his awareness, much less his permission.
The doctor practically falls into the recently vacated spot on the sofa, cackle too wild to let him keep his limbs' coordination.
Sherlock grins too, and for the first time in the day, Christmas looks actually not grim. Mrs. Hudson has been in and out from the flat a few times during the day, trying to engage in conversation and feed him up, but without success.
Being overlooked by his soulmate, in favour of someone he can barely stand (bless Harry for being so frustrating in person that she drove him away) smarted too much for him to be willing to make pointless small talk. And the answers he needed, he couldn't get from Mrs. Hudson.
The woman has never found her match, and the detective can't help but regret it, because if anyone ever deserved perfect happiness is their sweet landlady. Though if she had, maybe she wouldn't have lived long enough to meet Sherlock – look what happened to his parents – so everything turned out for the best, he supposes. His own selfish best at least.
To his surprise – but certainly not to his displeasure – after a moment, when John can breathe properly again, the consulting detective finds his long legs trapped against the sofa by shorter ones. His mate is imitating the sleuth's favourite stretch, but doesn't seem to have found necessary to ask him to move.
"What?" the consulting detective blurts, voice lightly choked.
"You promised to help me build a mind something, remember? I thought this was a good start. Do I need to put my hands in the praying position too?" John asks.
"Ah, no, that's…my habit. Otherwise I wouldn't know what to do with them, and I can get…fidgety, and people might think I'm gesturing to them, and interrupt me, so…" Sherlock explains – well, more like blabbers. But he isn't ready to take on his teaching role, so abruptly. "Technically speaking, not even laying is necessary, you can do it sitting, standing," he continues, but at the same time, without his saying so (probably his teen self again, the boy can be so frustrating) his hand clutches at John's legs, as if afraid they'll leave his lap, and starts gently rubbing. "Anyway, you can do whatever helps you relax and focus. And no, they're not opposites…relax your body, you're safe here, and focus your mind."
"Fine. I can do that," John agrees, voice already soft and as if coming from some distance. Smart man, and great apprentice. He simply moves his legs minutely more fully on his friend, as if afraid he might be slipping otherwise, fidgets awhile with his hands and opts to clutch a pillow he takes from under him. He's not fully copying, and that's good, as his momentary tutor's smile confirms. He needs to develop his own structure, not be a monkey.
"Though I don't think a Gravel Gertie would be fitting," the detective remarks, voice soft despite the critique. "I researched it, and it does stop contamination from spreading in case of a nuclear mishap…by collapsing on top of the faulty weapon. You don't want your mind palace to collapse if you're going through trauma. Why, it might be the moment where you need whatever knowledge you have stored the most."
He did research the nature of a Gravel Gertie – after the first time Mrs. Hudson tried to force food in him, and before deciding that he could try having a mind Serious Conversation with John to hopefully prepare himself to a real life one. Never mind having been interrupted midway through that one, what he has figured out is that it will be too awkward to possibly end well.
John chuckles softly. "Well, you might have a point. A collapsing mind bunker wouldn't be very useful. So, what's your suggestion?"
"Any place…or it can be a mishmash of places, too, if it helps…that you know very well. Places that have stuck in your memory. Rooms whose walls' shade you could describe to me. That you could navigate in without a light and without bashing into anything. It can be your camp in Afghanistan. Bart's. Anything," Sherlock explains, shrugging but keeping his lower half utterly still, afraid to dislodge accidentally his clearly cosy blogger.
"The flat, then," the doctor decides, and it is…flattering, in a way. Of course, it's home – easy pick. But it's their home, not the home of his childhood, or the camp, or anything else, and while the sleuth might not have explained it aloud, he's only too aware of the emotional value you always end up attaching to your mind palace. For the simple reason that places you don't care for fade easily, even for people who don't delete things on purpose – maybe even more, because they don't consciously choose what to keep and what to discard.
"Mmmm," the detective vaguely agrees. "Picture it in your mind. In as much detail as you can, please. Then take the knowledge you mean to keep – and attach it to some place in here. I guarantee you won't ever lose it."
"I don't think I get it," John admits immediately.
"For example, take your medical knowledge. Bind it into books – the books you studied on, I guess. Then put the books on our shelves. From then on, if you need some minor medical information you know you read but you can't remember immediately, because you haven't needed it in years, you just retire to your mind flat, pick up the pertaining book, and read it up. It will be just like googling. And you won't have forgotten it, no matter how long ago you learned it," his mentor expounds, still instinctively petting the ankles on his lap.
"Of course, you don't have to use books and shelves," he adds quickly, "just…whatever form of association between physical places and data you find easier." He doesn't want to make John feel compelled – that would ruin the endeavour entirely. His soulmate's brain needs to be free to make the most natural association, no matter how quirky they might look to anyone else. Otherwise it would clutter his head further instead of organizing it.
"That's all?" his blogger asks, sounding surprised…and maybe a tiny bit disappointed. (Oh gosh – now he's disappointed John further, he didn't know it was even possible. What possessed him to offer to share mind palace technique?)
"Well, not all, of course, there are a few extra tricks…" the consulting detective assures hurriedly, eager not to lose the other's admiration, "but I thought we'd start with the basics. For the first lesson, at least. Building a mind palace,"
"Mind flat, let's not start by being too ambitious," John cuts in, voice soft and fond, and yet the chiding comes clearly through and – Sherlock can't do anything right, can he?
"Yes, of course," he agrees, chastised. "Anyway, building it can be a bit time consuming. So I thought I wouldn't overwhelm you with instructions. Let's keep it simple, at least today."
"Yeah, sorry, I wasn't…objecting, or anything. If you need anything, I'll be up…here…for a bit," his blogger remarks, tapping his temple, and the fact that while he's right across his lap, John has just located himself inside his own head, unexplainably warms Sherlock's chest. Having something more in common with his reluctant soulmate should not mean anything. It certainly won't change the man's opinion of him or their bond. And still, teen Sherlock is overexcited over so many details of this that he can't quite decide what to be enthusiastic about.
The sleuth only nods his acceptance, not wanting to distract the man from his Very Important endeavour, but apparently his limbs work on autopilot. To his shame, it's only a few minutes when he's called out on that. "Is the… petting…necessary? Or helpful?" his pupil croaks, rather hoarsely.
Sherlock's hands go back to his side as if burned, and he blushes brightly. "Ah…no …I'm sorry… I was just…" and his voice tapers into silence, because for the life of him he can't figure out a lie quickly enough to make any possible sense.
"No, no, I wasn't… criticising. It was nice. I was just checking if I'd been remiss all this time. whenever you are in your mind palace, I just leave you be,. If the whole caressing thing is going to make you solve cases faster, or reorganise the shelves more efficiently, or whatever you do while you're in your mind palace…You know you only had to ask, right? I would have done it," John says, and then mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, "It was tempting enough."
But it can't be, he hates being bonded to the consulting detective, if he actually desired to touch him – not that he would, Mr. Not-Gay Watson – he wouldn't balk at their shared destiny. Still, the sleuth needs to curb a moan at the mental image – their positions reversed, him in John's lap (his head – definitely his head; his curls can be very sensitive, but his blogger would be gentle, and…that's the point), his hands playing absentmindedly with Sherlock's hair. That would never happen, not in a million years, but…it is such a nice dream.
A low chuckle draws him out of his vision – and not a moment too soon, if he'd indulged much longer, John's calves on his lap would risk to feel something that would disgust the man entirely. "I thought the point was to get me to build a mind flat, not for you to slip into your palace. You never answered me, you know?" his flatmate points out, sounding fonder of him than he probably is (oh, please no, John shouldn't possess much acting prowess, he must have some fondness for him).
"What was the question?" the detective asks. Honestly, the last image running in his mind deleted everything else – but that must have been an insane wish fulfilment dream, surely?
"Next time that you slip into your mind palace, would it be helpful if I cuddled you?" his friend queries, and there's no mistaking it. This is not mindpalace!John. He didn't dream it up.
Sherlock blushes, and angles his head away from his blogger, trying to hide it. He should have better control over his transport, damnit, but he's still human, and when he's caught off-guard (which he shouldn't have been, the man is repeating himself for God's sake, but if things make no sense he will assume he's misheard, obviously) his pale skin makes him no favours. At least his voice does not waver, when he replies, "It's not necessary."
And his flatmate, a smile evident in his voice, even when the sleuth is not looking at him, remarks, "That's not what I asked."
Only Sherlock cannot ask aloud to be cuddled, and petted, not when his soulmate doesn't want to bond him, and anyway that would probably make the mind palace explode. But he cannot demand not to be touched either, because that's a bit more masochism than he can subject himself to, so he's in a quandary. After ten long seconds of pondering a way out of it, he blurts out petulantly, "Oh, just do whatever you want!"
"Because you won't feel it at all? Is that how mind palaces… flats… whatever are supposed to work? Getting someone so focused that there might be an explosion in the flat and you wouldn't notice?" John asks, and by now the consulting detective is marginally calmer, so he turns to watch his disciple. One of the doctor's eyebrow is raised in wondering, and there's a lopsided, fond grin on his lips.
"Well, maybe not an explosion," he admits, smiling back, "not if you mean to survive. Explosions, fires, shootings, break ins… All these things certainly should yank you back to reality. And I don't think you will have problems with that, not with your training. Minor annoyances, though, certainly. Slight touches, common noises – the telly, or the traffic…"
"Or the married ones next door getting particularly noisy?" John cuts in, mirth in his eyes.
This time he doesn't blush. Their neighbours' activities do not even register. "Certainly. Anyway, anything that should not be cause for alarm you should be able to filter out and ignore when you're in your mind," he declares, shrugging slightly.
"You do realise that now I'll have to test what would bring you out of your mind palace and what I can get away with when you're focused, don't you? For science. And as a template to see if I'm properly focused when I'm trying to build my own," his…friend states, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Sherlock knows he will regret it, he knows, but there's only one possible comeback to the challenge. "Bring it on."