Words, part 2
More word prompts. Trying to get the juices flowing from all of the plot bunnies currently attacking me. Of course I am still working on "The Equation" since its my baby but I love to flesh out and explore Sherlock and John's friendship.
Can be pre-slash if you squint but definitely more bromance.
Good
"Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day, if we're really lucky, he may even be a good one." DI Lestrade, "A Study in Pink"
Good was not a word that Mummy or Mycroft would ever associate with young Sherlock. At an early age his intellect had far surpassed everyone's around, including nannies, teachers, tutors, the list went on.
At first it made him moody and anti-social, his frustration at not being able to communicate with others obviously disturbing him.
He never threw tantrums, however. He stopped crying at an early age, neither seeking nor giving comfort.
Their home was a comfortable one, even with an aristocratic, distant type of parenting, but Sherlock paced in it like a caged animal,
Autistic would be something to characterise him, his endless, constant energy, his inability to relate the proper emotions, his slow but sure isolation.
Mycroft watched him, watched as he started to implode before Sherlock came to a decision. Even now, over twenty years later, Mycroft's not sure the decision was for the best.
And some of those scars still existed, became physical track marks on the skin. Sherlock became acerbic, sarcastic, even downright cruel. He pulled further and further away from emotions, even going so far as to describe himself as a sociopath.
*Sociopath indeed* An individual with no concern for his/her actions and no understanding of or complete manipulation of those actions on others.
The manipulation he could see, the lack of understanding was more Sherlock's determination _not_ to understand.
He was lonely, he wouldn't admit it.
So he burned away the tension and his last remaining vestiges of _caring_. The drugs gave him an excuse to slow down his mind when it skyrocketed beyond even his control, and to finally push him into a complete emotional void.
Even with Lestrade and Mycroft's interference, both knew it was only a matter of time.
He was standing on a precipice.
He had a great mind and solved amazing crimes. He saved lives (not his ultimate goal), he solved murders (no empathy towards the victim, the families), he helped the police (civic duty was as foreign a word as any to Sherlock Holmes).
Mycroft Holmes didn't believe in miracles. Lestrade, imaginative man, believed somewhat in fate but the the elder Holmes had seen and machinated too much to know that everything had a purpose and a cause and effect.
So where did that leave Dr. John Watson?
Mycroft was determined to find out, not even 24 hours into the two's co-habitation. He sneered at the shorter doctor (no reaction), he tried to intimidate (no backing down).
And by the end of a surprisingly short interview, Mycroft Holmes was _not_ surprised that John Watson said no.
But he would figure out why if it was the last thing he did.
Not two days in and John Watson shot a murderous cabby (stopping Sherlock from doing something phenomenally stupid and reckless, that in of itself was a miracle).
"The making of my brother, or make him worse then ever." He still didn't quite understand what that meant, at least the first part.
Sherlock was already set, the clay emerged from the kiln. The drugs were slowly chipping him away and he didn't care about anything except occupying his mind until even that failed him.
Lestrade, Mycroft knew, still held out hopes that Sherlock could 'soften', that was the best term he could think of.
Become a good man, as if such things still existed.
He pitied the Detective Inspector, he had forced himself to give up such hopes a long time ago.
As time passed, however, Mycroft became more and more mystified.
On cases, in public, Sherlock would say something typically, well, Sherlock, and in the stunned silence, he actually reacted.
"Not good?" Always, always turning towards John Watson who would, with only a few words, _affectionately for god's sake_, let him know where he went wrong.
"_Why_ was she killed, Sherlock?"
"Oh for...doesn't matter John, only the method and if the killer will strike again."
"You've never asked why?"
"I ask why you're constantly badgering me."
John refused to give up, case after case.
"The father is over there."
"What for, he's nothing to do with the investigation? I've already ruled him out as a suspect."
"He wanted to see his son one last time."
"His son is dead, the effort is futile."
"Not to him."
Sherlock continued his recklessness and John continued to patch him up, berate him and continue the chase.
"Remind me, again, what possessed you to jump from that fire escape?"
"I could've reached it, just because your limbs are abnormally short."
"You _didn't_ reach it, Sherlock, hence the cracked ribs and twisted ankle. Hell, do you even realize what could have happened?"
"I could have caught the suspect if you hadn't distracted me."
"You went flying off of a FIRE ESCAPE! I'm not apologizing for being scared to death! You could've been impaled, broken both legs, how...oh, just take the damn pills before I shove them down your bloody throat."
"Always the need for such language, John."
And then, a breaking point. For John.
The row, from what Mycroft's cameras viewed, was spectacular. John completely lost his temper, throwing Sherlock's stash, needles, etc., out of the _window_ of 221b.
Mycroft made sure a team cleaned them up immediately but still the furious arguing went on.
Sherlock sat there, carved from stone. He would occasionally sneer at John, saying things that made the older man even more furious.
Finally, and Mycroft actually wished to hear what was said instead of just watching it, John clenched his fists, hung his head and walked out the door.
He was done.
Sherlock's only reaction was a flicker of the eyes and he sat there, arms folded, not caring. Mycroft cursed himself, later, for watching his petulant younger brother instead of the proper CCTV cameras trailing John.
There would be no way to tell if it was Moriarty (too random, but with the spider you could never tell) or just a random accident (John and Sherlock seemed to have too many of those for coincidence.)
The taxi flipped, the driver had been impaired. Sherlock would have known, could have deduced it if he'd been there.
That knowledge weighed his younger brother down like an anchor.
John slipped in and out of consciousness. His injuries weren't too severe, just severe enough to keep him under close observation for some time and to badly scare those who cared for Dr. Watson.
He'd called out Sherlock's name when coming to and Sherlock's face, still carved from stone, held agonized eyes.
Mycroft had thought he would need to pull strings to allow his younger brother into the good doctor's room, but no.
John Watson had signed Sherlock over as his next of kin, responsible for all medical decisions in their risky lifestyle. The date? Two months after they had met.
What had John seen and held onto that Lestrade merely hoped for and Mycroft had nearly given up on?
When John was released, Mycroft waited a week before dropping in at Baker Street. He was received with John's usual friendly reserve and Sherlock's hostility.
Some scrapes and a cast were all that remained of John's injuries but Sherlock's eyes kept flipping over to him.
Mycroft wondered if his brother knew it.
There was a slight tension in the air and Sherlock grumbled under his breath when Mycroft asked.
"The form, he thinks its some case he has to deduce." John said, shaking his head ruefully.
"I deal with _logic_ John and logically there is no way you should have done that." Sherlock snarled. Fear, Mycroft saw the fear. He hadn't seen it, that confusion of being out of his depth, for so long on his brother's face.
John was out of danger but Sherlock was still afraid.
"Are you sorry I did it?" John asked quietly, not breaking eye contact. "I can change it back."
"Of course not you idiot!" Sherlock snapped. "For god's sake would your inebriated sister have been a better choice?"
John's face flashed annoyance then settled. "The only choice, for a long time."
Sherlock froze. "I-I'm not...Mycroft don't you have some third world country to overthrow somewhere?"
Mycroft just sat twirling his umbrella. He realized that...he'd waited a long time for this, but his smooth features didn't show his, hope.
John sighed deeply. Sherlock wouldn't make the connection, once again John would try to show him. And hoped it would stick.
"You're my friend. I trust you, trusted you even then and I know you wouldn't let me down. Had the tables been turned, form or no, I would've done the exact same for you. You are a good man, Sherlock Holmes. Stop trying to fight it."
It was like a verbal bomb had gone off in the cramped room.
"G-good?" Sherlock sneered.
"Good." John answered, his deep blue eyes never breaking with Sherlock's icy ones. Mycroft sat there, wondering why he wasn't more stunned at the doctor's courage and faith.
Didn't need to wonder, truly, he'd seen it after only a few hours. *Very loyal, very quickly, indeed.*
"That's naus-"
"Good." John cut him off, wincing at he sat up straighter. Sherlock moved to help him instinctively, then froze.
John's smile lit up the room. "Good, for an egotistical, self-centered, socially inept, drama queen."
Mycroft later, safely in his own car and with Anthea's apathy, laughed so hard tears streamed down his face.
Days later, a body was found. A teenage girl, rape and murder. Open and shut case. She'd been missing for days, that was Sherlock's hook to even come and observe.
The parents were there, young themselves and the mother was weeping. John shoved his hands deep in his pockets, wondering not for the first time, why all of modern medicine couldn't cure a broken heart.
Sherlock walked over to the mother and the entire crime scene froze.
"She didn't suffer. It was quick, in the end." He mumbled actually looking, uncomfortable?
"I'm sorry." He stomped over to John without waiting for a reply.
A chill wind picked up. "Good?" Sherlock asked John quietly and John grabbed his elbow, squeezing.
"Good."
Kitten
(AN; Okay, this wasn't even planned and its a bonus. I got the idea after reading KCS's _wonderful_ stuff about kid!John. If you haven't read it, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? It's so amazing. She's very nice about answering feedback and her live journal has accompanying art.
The second, obvious inspiration is Mr. Martin Freeman himself who, as we all know, is a kitten in a jumper wrapped up in adorableness for us all to enjoy.
Gotta love Mycroft's constant meddling, hee...)
Something was amiss.
Usually Mycroft didn't take this much time when he hauled the hapless doctor in for 'questioning'.
His _dear_ older brother wasn't answering his texts either.
Sherlock was getting suspicious and a suspicious Sherlock could mean an apocalypse forthcoming.
Then he got angry. Then he was just out and out concerned.
Finally the door to 221b opened and Sherlock jumped up, ready to explode or pump the hapless doctor for information.
Instead he saw...Anthea. Holding John's jumper. Sherlock's heart jumped into his throat and time seemed to slow down.
"Where is my brother?" He growled, fists tightening.
"Hiding." Anthea said, completely calm.
Sherlock blinked.
Mrs. Hudson, surprisingly, was right behind the striking PA. She was holding a bowl and her feather duster.
Sherlock, for the first time he could remember, could deduce nothing from the situation.
"Sherlock, dear. Perhaps you should sit down."
Sherlock felt his heart skip another beat, but Mrs. Hudson didn't seem sad, or even upset. Her mouth kept twitching, she kept shooting John's jumper side glances.
Anthea sighed, a long suffering sound, and held it out.
"Lab, he was bored waiting, asked for some tea. The assistant got the wrong milk. It'll wear off as soon as it passes through his system, but you'd better get some clothes on him before then."
Sherlock's jaw dropped.
"Mycroft made the young idiot drink the same milk as punishment and your brother is now out of the country. In case you're wondering."
She marched out after handing the jumper (gently, very gently Sherlock noted) over to Mrs. Hudson who took it with a soft look on her face.
"John...?"
She pulled a fluffy, yellowish cream kitten out of John's jumper. The kitten meowed at Sherlock, it's huge blue eyes wide.
"Oh my..."
Mrs. Hudson cuddled the kitten to her, cooing.
"Isn't he the most precious thing?"
Sherlock Holmes was without words.
"Of course, looking at your dear doctor, one wouldn't be surprised. I wonder what you would be Sherlock?" The landlady actually looked mischevious.
"I'm sure you'd make a very cute porcupine."
The kitten meowed loudly and moved up on Mrs. Hudson' shoulder. Her expression melted.
"Mrs, Mrs. Hudson...you do realize, that's JOHN?"
The kitten arched its, no his, *oh gods this cannot be happening to me* back at Sherlock.
"Now Sherlock, you're upsetting him." Mrs. Hudson cuddled the kitten to her and kissed him repeatedly on the head.
"Mrs. Hudson! I don't, no I'm sure that John does not appreciate that."
The kitten started purring traitorously.
Mrs. Hudson motioned for Sherlock to take the bowl of, Sherlock sniffed, milk? Cream? and the feather duster.
"And what, pray tell, am I supposed to do with these?" Sherlock asked, the height of damaged dignity in his posture.
"Put the bowl down for him to drink and use the feathers to play with him, just until it wears off."
"And when in God's name will that be?" Sherlock shouted.
The kitten, John, narrowed its eyes and Sherlock could almost see his flatmate's glare in the fluffy face.
"Now, Anthea was kind enough to provide some necessities, John's clothes that were, ahem, left and even a litter box."
"A What?"
"Litter box, dear." She said slowly. "Surely you can't expect the poor thing to just go anywhere?"
Sherlock gaped. "He's a thirty-nine year old man! I'm not putting him into a sand box!"
Mrs. Hudson shrugged. "Fine, but don't expect me to clean up after him. The formula has to pass through y'know."
She held the kitten up to her face, made some kissy noises then set him down.
Sherlock felt like his head would explode. "Where are you going?" He yelled, his voice desperate.
"Down to get your supplies, then out for tea later. I'm sure you and the doctor will sort this out eventually."
She gently placed John into Sherlock's waiting, outstreched hands. He held the kitten, no, JOHN, as far from him as possible.
Guileless blue eyes stared back before the kitten started to squirm.
"What on earth do you want?" Sherlock moaned before sharp little claws broke his skin.
"Ouch, you wretched puff..." John landed on his feet, typical cat. Sherlock wondered ungraciously why human John couldn't be as graceful.
Mrs. Hudson caught him dropping his flatmate. "Honestly Sherlock!" she tutted, "he's still your doctor you know."
"He's not _my_ doctor and that, thing, is definitely not...wait, where is he?"
Sherlock actually felt a touch of panic before the kitten re-emerged from under the sofa, tearing around the legs.
Mrs. Hudson giggled then moved to set the litter box *gah* into the bathroom.
Sherlock couldn't keep track of the hyperactive little fur ball. He was tearing around 221b as if he owned the place.
Mrs. Hudson re-emerged and started downstairs.
"Wait, I, he won't stop running around!"
"Not your pet-sitter, dear!" was her final parting shot.
Okay, first things first.
Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted, I WILL KILL YOU twenty times to Mycroft.
No answer. Coward.
He looked up to the sounds of scratching. A small kitten had its claws sunk into Sherlock's coat and was climbing its way up to his scarf.
"Oh no, get down immediately, cat, you, JOHN!"
He went to grab the kitten but John bolted through his legs and headed for the mantle.
He was just about to knock the skull off when Sherlock grabbed him (gentle for all of his frustration.)
"Here, here!" He grabbed the feather duster and started poking John with it. John looked less than amused at first but finally began attacking it ferociously.
Sherlock just turned his back for a moment but returned to feathers all over the flat.
"That is it. Until you return to a _slightly_ less annoying version of yourself, you stay here."
He dumped John into the bathroom and went to close the door. Two minutes later he put Mrs. Hudson's bowl inside and left it at that.
It truly was the oddest thing. Even here, in this utterly unbelievable and ridiculous situation, he could still feel John's presence.
An annoying, mewling, crying, scratching presence.
And Sherlock did _not_ feel guilty. Not one bit. John finally quieted down, with only a few sad mews every few minutes.
Then a small paw reached under the door and grabbed.
Sherlock grit his teeth. For the love of all that's rational...
"John Hammish Watson, you will regret this if its the last thing I ever see to." He grumbled, then opened the door
John looked at him, it was just, weird, that the eyes were so similar.
"Well? You wanted out, now what? Since you've already made a mockery of me."
The kitten started rubbing against his legs.
"Stop that immediately!" Sherlock nearly stumbled over his own feet backing up.
The kitten knelt, shook its little, _behind_ and came after him charging.
Sherlock landed with an *umph* on the couch and suddenly John was on his leg.
"Ouch! Damn you John, I should have you de-clawed right now before you turn back, would serve you right."
The kitten looked at him, still kneading.
Sherock sighed deeply. "If you were going to turn into anything, _doctor_, did it have to be so abominably, cute?" He shuddered on the last word.
He brought his face close to the kitten's and suddenly, without warning, a little pink tongue scraped against his nose.
"GAH! John, that is disgusting!"
Unperturbed, John hopped off Sherlock's lap and flopped on his back, stretching, obviously wanting his belly rubbed.
"Honestly, dignity John. I am _not_ doing that"
John started purring, a small motor boat of sound. He rested his little head against Sherlock's leg, yawned and fell asleep.
Just like that.
Sherlock felt some deducing was in store. One minute the cat was mistrustful, then hyperactive, then needy, now finally...
Oh gods, it really and truly _was_ John all over then. Sherlock grinned and before he could even think to stop himself, he reached over and began to strock the silky soft fur.
Trust. The little animal trusted him completely.
Sherlock felt something odd build inside of him.
Hours later, (and a few un, rest breaks for the kitten, thank goodness the formula was apparently, exiting, his friend) Sherlock was at a crossroads.
He finally decided to put a sleeping John under the table *inner smirk* and covered the little body with a blanket.
Five more hours later and Sherlock was roused by a loud, "OUCH!" with the sound of a head hitting the bottom of the table.
He waited.
"Sherlock! What the HELL is going on?"
He was almost tempted to tell him.
When the sun rose John (still rubbing the top of his head) refused to look at Sherlock until the detective explained that he had gone out drinking, must have had too many and that was the reason for the, ahem, embarassment of waking up completely starkers.
John, although he could usually see right Sherlock, bought it. Probably because he desperately wanted to.
Sherlock spent the rest of the morning buried behind the paper.
"Sherlock, _why_ does it smell like cat in here? And why does it feel like I slept with a horse blanket in my mouth?"
John didn't notice the newspaper mysteriously shaking.
He glanced up to see John staring at the mutilated feather duster thoughtfully. Horror crossed his face and a bright red flush crept up his neck.
"I am going to _destroy_ your brother." He finally stammered.
"Only after I'm through with him." Sherlock said calmly. "Oh, and _you_ are getting rid of that litter box."
This was one of the funnest things I have ever written in my life. I hope you enjoyed it too. Martin Freeman is _made_ of kittens!