No Man is an Island

Rating: K+
A/N: I know, I know, I promised cows. But that chapter is still in the pipeline and is becoming long and slow and I like it, but I've not finished it so I'll upload it when I have. It is coming, I promise. After that, I'm afraid I've sort of run out of ideas; if you could drop me a line and give me a prompt or an idea of some kind I'd appreciate it. Greatly. For now, here's a standard hurt/comfort fic that started off lighthearted, became disturbingly emotional, and then grew legs and ran away.

-for you!

John storms up the stairs. He's angry. He'd really like to be angry. Being angry would be pretty satisfying right now.

He's not angry. A well-trained ear would notice that the slams of the doors and heavy footfalls on the stairs are a little too loud, and the voice that apologises to Mrs Hudson for abusing the front door a little too soft.

But he should be angry, by rights, so he's trying his best. Or is it upset that he should be? He's not really sure, because he's thinking with all the anger he can muster about how Sherlock Holmes should be the last person he wants to see right now. That thought carries him right up to the door to the flat he shares with the aforementioned Sherlock Holmes.

Mention the contradiction in that last paragraph and he might just take a swing at you. Sherlock's not paying attention anyway, sitting on the settee in the dark, pale face illuminated by the light of his phone, with which he is furiously stopping a murder. To get his attention – to show the detective just how angry he is – he switches the light on without warning and slams the door for good measure.

Sherlock doesn't look up. He's in the middle of a text and an alien invasion couldn't make him put the phone down, much less a desperately BAMF Doctor John Watson. "Another one gone?" he asks idly.

And that does make John a little bit angry. Angry enough to throw his jacket on the floor and snap a little bit. "For God's sake, Sherlock, they're people, not bowling skittles! Stop lining them up like I'm knocking them over one by one!" Sherlock arches an elegant eyebrow because this is John's metaphor, not his, but he doesn't say anything, which perhaps makes John a little bit angrier. "I can't stand the way you objectify women, Sherlock! It's sick! Most of them are actually really nice to be with – not that you'd know, would you, Sherlock Not-really-my-area Holmes? You know why it's not really your area? Because you've never tried! You think you're so much better than everyone else that every other person in the world is boring – well, here's news for the world's only consulting detective: you need other people to survive, Sherlock. You can't do everything by yourself or you end up a sour old man muttering into his bedpan – will you PAY ATTENTION WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU!"

John's too angry by now – properly angry this time – to notice the creases around the consulting detective's mouth from where he's trying not to laugh as he slowly lifts his grey eyes from his phone. "This is your fault, Sherlock," he says forcefully. "Hannah, Rebecca, Jessica, Sarah – they all ended because of you. They don't understand why I stay with you – I don't understand why I stay with you!"

Having said that, John calms down somewhat. Sherlock's face is expressionless, and his eyes don't leave John's until the good doctor starts to worry that maybe he hit a soft spot in there somewhere. Then Sherlock blinks slowly. "Better?" he asks.

John realises that yes, he does indeed feel much better after that little outburst, and nods sharply. "Thanks."

Sherlock returns the nod, concise, clinical. He casts his phone aside like it was never important and gets up. "Tea?"

"Please."

After this somewhat non-verbal conversation John sits down on the settee and massages his eyes with the heels of his hands, listening to the rare sounds of his flatmate making tea. He feels slightly guilty about his outburst, mostly because he knows that Sherlock knows how true everything he said was. He doesn't understand why he stays. It doesn't matter; what's important is that he does.

The detective emerges from the kitchen and passes John a cup of tea. He notices how religiously it has been made: strong and sweet, just the way he likes it. Sherlock clutches his own cup in his spiderlike hands and hovers awkwardly at the arm of the settee. The doctor sighs and shifts over. Is it strange that all he wants now is to relax into the other man's predictability and his scolding of crap television?

"I'm sorry about Hannah," Sherlock says softly, and it sounds so wrong coming from his lips. John sighs and pats the settee next to him so the consulting detective will sit down.

"It doesn't matter," he says gently as Sherlock settles his rear beside him. "It was going to happen eventually." He's still not sure how he feels about this development. Relationships with women are now completely off the table; he hasn't had one in th last nine months that progressed past the peck-on-the-cheek stage before they got fed up with the amount of house room the world's only consulting detective has in his head. He may as well pack it in.

He lets his body curl sideways and relax into Sherlock's; the detective slips an arm around his shoulders comfortably. John finally voices the thought that's been worrying his head all evening. "I'd rather have you than them anyway."

That's strange, isn't it? Sherlock leaves heads in the fridge and acid in the bath, he comes into John's room at three am with a plaintive cry of "John, I'm bored," he runs off without telling anyone and the good doctor has lost track of the number of times he's had to leave clinic duty to bail his flatmate out of the London penitentiary system. Sherlock doesn't understand about people and manners and what shouldn't be said out loud at dinner parties. But it's the consulting detective he wants to see when he's had a long day wiping noses and bandaging knees; it's Sherlock he needs when he's upset or angry or neither, really, only just a little put out.

Sherlock sighs. "I don't want them either," he says offhandedly. "I don't want other people. I just need you."

And that about sums it up, doesn't it? John's had a pretty decent run of sex through his eventful life and Sherlock's never cared; to have each other's company is enough. Other people don't matter.

John reaches for the remote; Sherlock sees the direction of the movement. He doesn't make a noise or anything, but he lets his head fall back in disgust. John chuckles gently. "All right," he concedes. "We won't watch anything."

Sherlock chuckles too, and John can feel it, a rumbling in his ears pressed against the detective's chest. "It's all right, if you want to."

John shakes his head. "I've had a hell of a day," he defers. He hasn't, really, not compared to a few of the days he's had with Sherlock, but it has been a long one and he's tired. "I should probably hit the hay." It's true, he should, and he doesn't want to watch television, he only made the move for the remote to nudge his flatmate back into his usual sarcastic persona. Sensitive, caring Sherlock is not someone even John sees often, and sure it's nice until you've finished the first cup of tea, but when he offers you a second it starts to get a bit disconcerting. But John doesn't move, which Sherlock realises after a few silent seconds, the knowledge bubbling another chuckle from somewhere deep in his stomach.

Yeah, it's ridiculous and anyone watching or being told the story might call it ever-so-slightly pathetic, but they don't know. John laughs too, until he actually can't get up whether he wants to or not. Laughs because he could never let Sherlock go, laughs because why would anyone want to, laughs because out of all the people in the world – believe me, there are billions, plenty of them must be more worthy than him – Sherlock chose John to care about, to need when the rest of the world can turn its back.

Finally he sits up, disentangles himself from Sherlock's arm and stretches. "Thanks," he says to the detective as he downs the last of his tea.

"For what?" Sherlock asks idly, picking his phone up again to find that Lestrade has the murderer behind bars.

"You know," John says vaguely. "For being there."

Sherlock frowns. "You know I'll always be there, John." He sounds almost scolding; how can the doctor still not know that?

The two both sleep in John's bed that night, not holding each other, just lying side by side, Sherlock's prominent anklebone gently touching John's thigh, each reassuring the other that they're still there, there forever, there to stay.

It's like Jon Bon Jovi said, isn't it? No man is an island.