So basically I procrastinated a lot, got a shit load of tests and assignments (funnily enough, one of the assignments is on cocaine) and then freaked out and spawned this. Take away, insomnia, sheets, violins, creepy Sherlock and some other things I really can't even remember. Beta'd by gbheart.

Chapter 3 - The Problem with Sociopathy

The cashier at the takeaway, John decided, was so overly exuberant, that it was just a little bit scary.

This particular takeaway seemed to have a system for loyal customers who'd been ordering with the place for longer. Once they'd asked him which name to put the order under, he said Sherlock Holmes. He'd been rather unprepared for the woman to beam at him, shuffle away with a shouted word in Chinese, and bring her husband to meet him. They asked if he and Sherlock were friends, and he shrugged and said, "maybe in the future."

The couple smiled so wide, that he thought their faces might break.

Eventually, after a few minutes of mutual chatter, his order was complete, and he waved them goodbye.

"We made sure to give him interesting fortune cookies again!" The husband shouted out behind him, and he gave them a bemused nod.

Not only was he fairly sure that they had given him extra food, but, after looking at the receipt, it was fairly clear they had undercharged him too, unless this was their 'loyal customers' system. As unexpected as it was, he went with it, heading to a local Tesco to grab a few extra things he'd need to survive whilst visiting 221B. A succinct text from Sherlock reminded him rather bitterly that 221B was really an easy address to remember, and that it should be within his capabilities to hire a taxi to and fro. He jiggled from foot to foot, at the cash register, and made a low, mournful noise, when a cab passed him mockingly. Another annoyed text later, he was finally on his way back.

Instead of revealing that he had a spare key, he buzzed himself up, and then had Mrs Hudson open the door for him. She made a very motherly cluck at the sight of food and recommended to always keep tea and coffee in the house.

Sherlock was still hidden away in his bedroom, when John walked in, arms laden with shopping bags.

"You went food shopping."

"Brilliant deduction," he quipped, and dumped one armful of the bags next to Sherlock. "You put away that bunch – I'm not going to be here three quarters of the time, and it'd make sense for you to know where the food is."

Sherlock glanced at the bags with a thick look of disdain, as though they had personally wronged him previously, and he'd been unable to prove it or exact some sort of revenge. When John didn't move from his spot, he sighed and grabbed the bags, sweeping out of the room on long limbs, and a fairly unnecessary dramatic flair. John quickly pulled something from one of the bags and placed it on the bedside table, before making his way out nonchalantly.

"Domesticity suits you," John noted with an amused tone, as Sherlock began sorting food into different cupboards and drawers, seemingly at random. Apparently his humour wasn't good enough for a verbal reply.

He grabbed his own bags and placed the food – bread, milk, and some canned fruit – next to Sherlock, so that he could hide it wherever he pleased. Sherlock seemed to pause at the bread; he looked the packet over once, and then removed three slices, before gingerly placing them on the corner of the countertop. John tried to look at the pieces, to make sure there was nothing remarkably different or wrong about them, but Sherlock blocked his view with crossed arms and a stern look.

"We can eat in the lounge." John said. Well, asked really, since Sherlock seemed a little overly defensive about the bread. The table was unavailable, due to destroyed scrap metal, though the armchairs and sofa looked relatively clean. Sherlock moved towards the armchair, instead of answering, seating himself Indian-style, before languidly settling back and waiting for him.

He gave Sherlock a box and a set of chopsticks, before taking some for himself and sitting opposite him.

Sherlock stabbed at his noodles, drawing one out and twirling it around his pair of chopsticks, before speaking.

"If I leave you to your diagnoses, and Mycroft's file on my medical history, are you likely to draw unnecessary conclusions?"

He opened his own box of food. "Yeah, probably."

Sherlock's face was perfectly blank, however, it translated his disdain well. He paused for a long moment, chopsticks still hovering in the air, aimlessly spinning in concentric circles, before finally re-joining the conversation.

"Contrary to my previous doctor's beliefs, I do not have anorexia nervosa or bulimia nervosa. Food, as previously mentioned, is a distraction, one I do not require most of the time." He gave John a pointed look, and then nibbled sensibly at his food. "Asperger's syndrome and antisocial personality disorder were the first two things they could pin on me, both I do display symptoms of but do not agree with."

"You don't have to agree with your doctor for it to be true."

He was fixed with an unwelcome stare. "Nonetheless," Sherlock said, already ignoring his interruption. "I instead work under the label of sociopath."

John opened his mouth to say something, to comfort or assure that it isn't true, when it hits him that he doesn't actually know enough about Sherlock to do so. If a doctor diagnosed him with Asperger's or ASPD, then Sociopathy seemed to lead on directly from that. People that spoke wrongly about themselves were often fishing for compliments, looking for someone to make themselves feel better, and yet he could tell neither were what Sherlock wanted. He had accepted, even proclaimed, himself as a sociopath, and it worked for him.

"Another cursory assumption is that I'm either bipolar or severely depressed," Sherlock rolled his eyes and took another bite. "I assure you, both are wrong. The moods I fall into are caused by intense boredom."

Something Lestrade had said stood out for him again: 'throwing himself into anything to distract himself.'

"You did drugs because you were bored."

The admission seemed to shock Sherlock; he stopped his small movements with the chopsticks and slowly lowered them. "Yes, I did."

They seemed to have a knack for causing pure, undisturbed quiet. Every conversation seemed to hold its own weight, and it felt like a test. 'Can you take Sherlock Holmes without going absolutely stir crazy?'

He coughed to bring Sherlock's gaze, from the food, to him. "So, doctors apparently suck at getting your medical history right." He's given a nod. "Anything they did get right?"

"I've had intermittent chronic insomnia since I was 14."

Years. Sherlock was 23 and he'd been suffering from insomnia for years. John had had acute insomnia once, coming up to some of his important exams: a week and a half of restlessness, and the frustrating fact that his body couldn't shut down; it had driven him up the wall, driving him to every single stupid little remedy he could think of. One of the most simple things his body could do was being stopped by his minds endless whirring and worrying.

"Why haven't you tried curing it?" He asked neutrally.

"It's not something I can fix!" Sherlock snapped, pushing himself away from the chair.

He grabbed Sherlock's wrist, as he passed him, and pulled him back. There was something akin to a snarl aimed at him, but he ignored it, focusing instead on forcing Sherlock back into the chair. An oppressive miasma of barely restrained rage and helplessness hung around him.

"Explain," he said, pushing Sherlock back down into the chair, when he tried to get up.

He crouched down next to Sherlock's feet, with his hands on the armrests – a warning that if he tried to get up, he would push him back.

"I constantly think," Sherlock hissed at him, "I can't shut down – my mind eschews sleep, the same way it does with food. The necessity of it is ignored for something more interesting, and thus the inability to sleep is spawned. I haven't 'cured' it because it doesn't work. Medications had side effects, and, eventually, I became tolerant of their effects. Relaxation techniques were useless, and then they tried to teach me new behaviours – ways to act to promote sleep. They sent me to a therapist to talk about my problems. It doesn't work."

Their food lay forgotten: Sherlock's hand was limply holding onto his box and John's abandoned on the seat of the other armchair. Sherlock gave off waves of contempt, whereas John was sat calmly, waiting for another flare of unpredicted anger to rear its ugly head.

John gently tugged at the carton of food still in Sherlock's hand. "So," he whispered, finally tugging it away and placing it on the ground near their feet. "The things you see and think about in real life keep you awake at night?"

"You're neither my handler, mother, nor therapist."

"True, but I am your doctor, and, if you have insomnia that bad, then I want to know about it. It's only going to get worse during the withdrawal, and it's going to make you a hell of a lot worse to work with. Just because you think you get everything right, doesn't mean you get to treat me, the person who's trying to help you, like shit."

Sherlock didn't deflate but he did loosen, his shoulders slumping inwards a little and the discontent crease between his brows disappearing. "What did I get wrong?" He asked. "You said I thought I got everything right, and, to my knowledge, everything I've discovered about you is correct. There's something wrong, there must be."

John smiled, "It's not wrong per se, and, if you were given the right information or didn't assume, then everything would be spot on." Sherlock looked at him expectantly. "Harry's my sister."

"Sister," Sherlock repeated. It was like he was testing the word on his tongue, repeating it again to make sure that the information is corrected, and the knowledge pathways he followed to reach his conclusion were changed from brother to sister. "Presumptions on gender and sexuality are always dangerous." He whispered grandly. "You are bisexual, yes?"

He nodded sagely and gave Sherlock back the box of Chinese, wiggling it under his nose, until the man finally acknowledged it and took it from him. "So… a riding crop. Care to explain?"

A small smile appeared on Sherlock's lips. It was so unexpected, that John smiled widely back.

"Occasionally, when the situation calls for, I whip cadavers."

He can't help the small choked breath he took, either.

"Relax," Sherlock said a little too smugly, sarcasm oozing from the word. "It was just a regular BDSM case."

They talked for over half an hour. John had grabbed his own takeaway, before sitting back down at Sherlock's feet – no more escaping, if they stumbled upon something sensitive.

The sky was already tingeing darker when they were cracking open their fortune cookies. John had almost cried from laughter, when Sherlock read, in the most stoic voice ever heard by mankind, "Pigeon poop burns the retina for 14 hours, you will learn this the hard way." It was even worse when Sherlock began hypothesising about how a pigeon would make its way into 221B, and somehow they ended up blaming it on Mycroft and an evil force of carrier pigeons.

The rest of the fortune cookies were boring, in comparison. They saved the leftovers in the fridge, and John couldn't help but marvel at how remarkably well the two of them fit – an antisocial withdrawing addict and a previously broke med student – once they surpassed the initial awkwardness. He left with another ignored goodbye, but he really just couldn't stop thinking about how easier things would be, if they stayed at that level.

He was just five minutes into the taxi ride home, when he got his first text from Sherlock.

(7:22pm) (Sherlock Holmes) - Why? -SH

He was surprised at the bluntness of it. Was it really so unexpected? John pondered.

(7:22pm) (Sherlock Holmes) - Are you
expecting favouritism? More money? Was it
a request of Mycroft's? -SH

(7:24pm) (John Watson) - Jesus Sherlock.
It was the nice thing to do, nothing else.

(7:24pm) (Sherlock Holmes) - Ah. Very
well. -SH

(7:24pm) (John Watson) - Though I
really wouldn't mind being mates.

A card. A simple well-wishes card, left on Sherlock's bedside table, had riled him up this much? Was it really so unexpected for him to want to be friends with the other man? The face Sherlock made, when John complimented him, suddenly stood out in his mind strongly. Yes. Maybe it was that difficult for Sherlock to comprehend. He was obviously a man of little social graces and even less friends, potentially zero. He wondered if Sherlock would refer to Lestrade as an acquaintance or a colleague. What did he call Mycroft?

He paid his fare and climbed god-knows-how-many stairs, to reach his little rented flat. Toeing off his shoes, he threw his bag a little unceremoniously onto the bed, before sitting down next to it. Ding! The awaited text finally arrived. He pulled his phone out a little too quickly to seem calm.

(7:47pm)(Sherlock Holmes) - Thank you. -SH

Number of friends Sherlock Holmes now had: 1.

It was day two of... He was still looking for something suitable to call his adventures to 221B. 'Job' really didn't seem to cover the complexity of what he was being fronted with. So far, he had just settled for 'Day two of the continued association with a very strange man'. It had a certain ring to it that really stuck in his mind.

Keeping in mind that Sherlock didn't even seem to care, he, for the first time, used his own key to unlock the door, when the idiot didn't deem him important enough to invite him inside.

Once he walked in, the reason seemed a little clearer.

"Are you wearing any pants?" He asked, as he slipped his bag off and crossed his arms over his chest.

A lazy yawn overtook Sherlock. "No."

'Day two of continued association with a very, very strange man.'

He was pretty aware of the image the two of them would strike, if anyone decided to walk in now – him standing next to the sofa, in a defensive position, and Sherlock in the middle of the room, holding a sheet loosely around him with one hand, as he scratched lazily behind his ear with the other. Really, who welcomes their doctor like that?

Anyone who walked in two minutes later would find them giggling in an unhinged manner.

Sherlock's laugh was as deep as his normal voice. It was a little strange how the man seemed to sport an extra chin, as he giggled, and it only made John laugh harder. The extra moment that he laughed was enough time for Sherlock to approach, once again entering his space without any hints of discomfort. It was disconcerting, except for the fact that, if he wanted to, he could bundle Sherlock up in those blankets, so that he couldn't move and would be forced to sit like a caterpillar in a cocoon.

"Do you have any mud on your shoes?"

"No." He said, as Sherlock's eyes fixated on his shoes. "Why?"

"If I had my microscope, then I could test the pollen to see where you've been."

He took a calculated step away from Sherlock and gave a little huff of relief when attention was returned back to his face. "That sounds like a very stalker-ish approach to finding out where I've been. You could just ask."

Sherlock sat down on the sofa. "That defeats the purpose. Testing where you'd been would be amusing for some time, whereas asking would be a split-second venture."

Right. Testing mud for pollen – how would that even help? – was considered a fun activity to Sherlock. What else did the man do for leisure? Couldn't he at least clean the place up a little, before going on about mud and microscopes and his other scientific pastimes?

"So, what else do you do for fun?"

"I don't do anything solely for amusement. However, I do play the violin."

"Really?" It was unexpected, when it shouldn't have been. Sherlock had an aristocratic air about him; he walked proudly and spoke eloquently. "Would you play for me?"

"The moment it's relinquished from my brother's hold, I will play, whether you'll be in hearing distance is unknown."

It was fair enough, although it was a little annoying how the situation circled back to Mycroft again. The man didn't even have to be there to impose himself on most of Sherlock's actions. Checking to see if Sherlock had anything hidden was all well and good, but taking all of his possessions was just untactful and plain rude. If Sherlock had taken drugs to stop himself from being bored, then the next couple of weeks, or however long Mycroft planned to keep him here, would be hell for him. Consequences be damned, he grabbed Sherlock's phone from where it was sitting on the table.

"What do you have him named under?"

While Mycroft had his number on private for John, he was sure that the same wouldn't apply to Sherlock. He could text the girl called Anthea, but that just wouldn't hold the same weight.

"His name – I don't feel the need to bring petty names into my phone."

He nodded and scrolled through the list of names. There really weren't many. There was a girl called Molly, next to Mycroft, but the name was so unassuming, that he thought nothing of her. Then again, his name wasn't too awe-inspiring either.

He was all too aware of the fact that Sherlock was staring at him with unbridled curiosity; it didn't seem to end. He began typing out his message.

(3:04pm) (Sherlock Holmes) - Violin and
microscope back now. -JW

(3:04pm) (Mycroft Holmes) - Doctor Watson,
always a pleasure. Has my brother demanded
you carry this out or is this your own incentive?
Whatever the answer, I won't think less of you. -MH

(3:05pm) (Sherlock Holmes) - None of your
business. Give him the stuff back. The skull too. -JW

(3:05pm) (Mycroft Holmes) - Anthea will be there
within the next ten minutes. I do hope Sherlock has
remained 'amiable' so far. He is in the habit of scaring
away most people. -MH

(3:06pm) (Sherlock Holmes) - Yet I'm still here. I
don't see why you're trying to frighten me away from
him, after hiring me. -JW

There must have been some expression of distaste on his face, because Sherlock snatched the phone, his upper lip curled in contempt, as he rapidly punched out a message. He threw the phone back down and stalked into his room with practiced anger. It was a little difficult to ignore when the sheet slipped down to cover just his lower half, and a canvas of scars was bared to him. Even though he only saw it for a few seconds, the image was imprinted on him mind. John had the urge to follow him and lay him down, so that he could study the scars on his back with careful hands and gentle pressure.

He'd never seen scars like that, in real life, at least.

The one on his lower back was a thin graze from a knife; the scar is too clean for it to be anything but. However, the vertical stripes running down his back, almost parallel to his spine, were what held his interest. They were obviously new, judging by the raw, pinkish undertone to them. He wondered why there were three of them, almost identical, on Sherlock's back. He wondered if there was any scarred skin marring the rest of him, and if it had blended to be soft like the skin around it or stayed warped and tough to touch.

Once he caught himself musing the muscle definition on Sherlock's back, he stopped and got off the sofa. He followed Sherlock to his bedroom and knocked on the closed door. There was no answer, and, after a minute, he knocked again. He could hear the muffled sound of clothing and wasn't exactly sure what his feelings were about it. He was bisexual in the sense that he found sex with men enjoyable; attraction wasn't usually too strong a factor, in that he didn't really have a type, but he could appreciate Sherlock's features and the masculinity of his body.

Definitely not the right type of thoughts to have, when you can hear the guy you're thinking about getting changed.

The door opened, and John knew that he was blushing when Sherlock's eyes paused for too long on his face, and his nervous lip-licking habit really did seem to come out at the wrong time.

Not that Sherlock didn't look good in his suit, no – he pulled it off really quite nicely, with the black and white perfectly complimenting his skin – oh, god, stop he's right there.

"Anthea will be here in a couple of minutes."

"Yes."

They maintained eye contact, until John finally shuffled to the side, and Sherlock coolly passed him. He hadn't observed Sherlock's arse before, but, considering his previous thoughts of cataloguing skin, he didn't feel too bad giving it a quick glance.

He was jolted out of his thoughts, mainly revolving around the idea of Sherlock looking amazing in finely tailored trousers, by the sound of keys jingling in the doorway. Of course Mycroft would provide Anthea with keys, too.

Sherlock had positioned himself in his armchair again, watching the doorway with half-lidded eyes, as his hands resumed their prayer-like position. It's a protective façade of cool intellect and superiority that he had donned, just for Anthea.

When the door opened, Anthea stood in the doorway, avidly texting with one hand and twirling the house keys skilfully in the other. She pushed a cardboard box inside with the point of her shoe, before closing the door again. John was rather impressed at how her eyes never left the screen.

Sherlock didn't move, until the front door audibly closed. When it did, he lunged for his things in a comical manner. John found himself associating the move with that of an addict going for a drug, when it hit him that that's almost exactly what it was: an addict going for something to distract themselves. It was a sobering thought.

He crouched next to the box. Sherlock had already lifted out Cranium and was passing it to him with infinite care. The violin case came out next; there was a single scratch on it, from the knob on the microscope, which Sherlock tutted over. The microscope was the last thing of importance, in the box. A few little bits and bobs were left, at the bottom, but the violin grabbed his attention first. It felt a little personal, when Sherlock lifted the violin out and skimmed his fingers over the strings, plucking notes out at random and murmuring soft words only for himself to hear.

John was transfixed when the bow was dragged across the strings, for the first time, and watched with fascination, as Sherlock twisted the tuning pegs rapidly. He relocated to the sofa, and his sudden movement seemed to bring Sherlock out of his reverie.

When Sherlock stood and placed the violin against his neck, the image looked right. The suit, his stance and the look of honest content on Sherlock's face worked well, in tandem. There was nothing crazed about it, with the bow taking its place and the music soft and sweet. He was not sure how long the melody stayed delicate and ethereal, but, somehow, it lulled him to sleep.

The violin, thankfully, did not have a single scratch on it, except from two years ago, when it was hit against something that he could not recall. The case suffered a minor abrasion in its move, but that didn't particularly faze him. He was pleased with the fact that it was still mostly in tune – the strings taut to just the right amount to not only make sound, but music. There was no direct formula for music. There was duration, pitch, dynamics and all the rest, but it is talent and passion that bring it together, stronger than all the others combined. The violin was the medium of expression, and, right now, he cannot help but feel pleased.

He was a little startled when John stood and made his way to the sofa, seating himself in a way that said he expected to be there for some time.

Sherlock stood and began. His fingers had long become accustomed to how they must manipulate the strings. He wondered, if he showed John the calluses on his fingers, would the doctor be able to identify which were caused by his violin-playing?

His actions were romanticised: the soft steps as he walked round the room, how his eyes eventually drifted shut, because muscle memory would carry the music through for him, and how he could hardly help but feel the music and picture notes drifting in the air. Clef, minim, tie, diminuendo. He could hear the music, John's breathing, and his own. The outside traffic was forgotten, the music demanding its very own stage and spotlight.

He circled the room and stopped where he knew the sofa would be, a long pure note filling the air, as he finally reopened his eyes. John had slumped over, somewhere in the time he played, head lolling peacefully against the shoulder, Cranium, in his lap, tilted the same way. Sherlock was truly curious about it. John had fallen asleep and not falsely, either. His breathing was deep, no little twitches of energy running through his body, and limp limbs were twisted a little uncomfortably. Did music often ensure sleep for John? Was it a trait that most people carried, or those who singularly enjoyed this type of music?

He was tempted to launch into a difficult piece filled with crescendos and forte moments, however, the slack expression on John's face was interesting. His thin lips were parted in constant breath, and the back of his hair was uneven from where his head had slid from upright to the side. The left hand that been cradling the top Cranium was now lying against his thigh, after having lost its grip.

Was he meant to play host to a sleeping John now? Was it him who had to remain quiet and attempt not to wake him, or could he carry on as normal, moving from piece to piece on the violin before the pads of his fingers were sore, and he went and set up the microscope?

Neither John nor Cranium deigned to answer, both silent save for the little snuffles John made when breathing in. He has a mild cold, mucous present in the airways, making breathing more audible.

He placed the violin on the floor and sat next to John slowly, body turned so he faced him. When his breathing pattern remained stable, he began exploring.

He first touched at the skin where stubble should be present. True enough, the skin was rougher there. John likely shaved daily, most likely a morning ritual, although he could pass one or two days stubble off well. The skin on John's lips was finely chapped, much like his own. The temptation to dip his fingers into John's mouth and explore the inside was strong, but the likelihood of John waking up was even stronger, and he had no gloves with him, at that current moment.

His fingers followed the creases in the skin, the lines where wrinkles would develop deeper. John had a very expressive face: laughter lines, wrinkles on his forehead and bags beneath his eyes. His hair had an odd blond colour, brown weaving in with lighter golden tones.

Is this unacceptable? He retracted his hands, folding them in his lap. Was he allowed to touch a human being so alive: lungs still taking in air; heart still pumping blood; brain, though currently resting, still working? His touch was often reserved for the dead and their cold, lifeless bodies. John was so alive, beneath his fingertips, his warmth a very real and not all that unpleasant feeling. Would John's body be this interesting if there was a stab wound, or if poison had coursed through his veins? Truthfully, Sherlock didn't know. Having run his fingers placidly over this face, a part of him considered the possibility that the answer was no, but work had always been more important than any other human. Was it because he had never had someone willingly sleeping in his presence? After sex, he had always left. Sleeping with the person afterwards encouraged more communication, something he keenly did not want. Was it because John was the first person to praise, listen, laugh and understand? It was an unprecedented turn of events.

He knew John wanted him, on some level, sexually – the truth was written in his body language in a way that could not be erased – but why did he want to touch John without the clinical sense that he often applied to touching? The idea of cataloguing John because he could, rather than for data, was more pleasing than expected. John's presence was one that would be with him for the coming weeks regularly, his imprint already minutely felt in the flat, via the takeaway in the fridge, the food in the cupboard, the bag on the sofa, and currently John himself.

Could this be mere curiosity, because of the novel experience it was, and would he toss John Watson away, at the end, like he had done with sex, cigarettes and adrenaline? Technically, this was wrong. He was a sociopath; the need to want human touch was profound and utterly new to him. When he discovered the little well-wishes card, after John left yesterday, the first thing he did was examine what John would gain by leaving that card. The admission that John wouldn't mind a friendship between them was ridiculous.

Just as the feeling of warmth, after John complimented him, was also ridiculous.

How pleasant would it be if John would be a constant with him? Another person who understood, or at least tried to, his deductive process, to treat him as another human being and not a freak, to demand things from Mycroft as he had done today, and to listen when he was angry.

How strange that he should crave the carnal want for companionship, when it was him who abandoned such ideals years ago.

AN: So basically I made Sherlock really lonely. I've decided that insomnia is going to be a key plot point in the story (I read a fic where Sherlock had insomnia and really it just suited him so, hopefully, I can bring that realism here too). If there are any glaring mistakes feel free to point them out and as always reviews are welcome.