The terrified cabbie sped away from the front of 221B Baker Street. He had been used to picking up Sherlock Holmes, and usually didn't mind the austere eccentric man and almost liked his more down-to-earth colleague. Today however, it seemed that the normally kind, average man had a creepy sinister aura and he just had to get away from him.

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After shucking their coats and shoes, John and Sherlock made their way up into their flat. Sherlock quickly was up the stairs, ignoring the called greeting of Mrs. Hudson. John, adopting his friendly persona momentarily, briefly greeted her as he steadily walked up to the second floor.

Once in the living room with Sherlock, the façade remained. John smiled genially at the younger man and offered to make them some tea, as was his custom after any case. Without waiting for a reply, he headed to their small kitchen, dodging vials and beakers along the way, and started heating up the kettle.

"John," Sherlock's voice was deep and serious, "you've been hiding something from me. How you managed to display a farce for such an extended period of time is astounding. You must have held it all through college for Stamford to have befriended you. There's no record at all of any suspicion, is there? Well of course not, or else Mycroft would have intervened for my so-called 'safety'. But how did I not see through it? I see practically everything!" What had begun as a calm, serious statement had nearly dissolved into panicked, or as close to panicked Sherlock ever got, rambling.

John poured the tea and fixed cups to both of their individual preferences. His demeanor didn't change at all as he went through the familiar routine. However, once he took his place in his comfortable armchair and took a sip of his tea, the mask disappeared.

"Don't act like it's anything special, Sherlock," the cold response came, "I kept this from everyone. I didn't deliberately choose to withhold this seemingly ever-so-vital information from you. You just happened to be another person to fall for my acting."

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In all actuality, John had not been surprised by the fact that Sherlock was oblivious to his true personality. The detective very well could figure out the tiniest details of someone's lifestyle; on the other hand, he couldn't decipher the minutest aspects of their personality. When one's personality traits have no physical evidence, the man who figures everything out using the slightest details cannot see them.

In his first look at John, Sherlock had observed many things. He had known the limping man's limp was psychosomatic. It was clear that he'd been in a hot country for some military excursion. He'd known about the stop made with Mike Stamford at the café and the scone the doctor had which was blueberry—no, blackberry— and not been quite satisfied as he'd hoped for the price. He knew about the estranged, obviously alcoholic older sibling.

What he hadn't been able to see was what he inevitably missed. He couldn't see into the kind eyes of the man who had stood in front of him and read condescending cold thoughts and opinions that crossed behind irises that were a deceiving hazel. He couldn't see the neurons firing away as details, deductions, and conclusions were stored away for further reference. A mind just as fast as his own; disguised as a boring and ordinary one.

Pair that with an ability to lie ever-so-convincingly with his words and body, and the older man had the perfect hiding place: plain sight. Any actor would be seething with jealousy at the performance John put on every day, even as a child. Pity for them, they would never know the genius of a show he gave. Or rather, good for them, never to see the fearful icy mind beneath the calming gaze that might pass them by.

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"I should have been able to see through mere acting."

"Yes, of course you should. You would have, had I been just an ordinary, boring, invalided soldier." John stood and walked to stand in front of where Sherlock had taken a seat at the couch. As he gazed down at Sherlock he continued to speak. "I've held a façade my entire life and it's nearly become my personality, more of a default than what you see here and now. You had seen through some of it at first, as did your brother, who pointed out that I missed the war when we first met. I'd succeeded in fooling that bland therapist I was seeing; she believed I was haunted by the horrors I had seen on the battlefield."

"What does it matter, this character you play for everyone? Why not just allow your true personality to show?"

John laughed, for just a moment sounding as happy and harmless as he ever did, and returned to his chair. Of course Sherlock wouldn't understand why he wanted to conceal the workings of his mind. Then again, the younger man didn't really care what other people thought of him, it didn't interfere with anything he wanted to do. His voice remained cold as he spoke again:

"What does it matter, you ask? It's just as well that all you want to do is pore over corpses and crime scenes. The people who can stomach those kinds of things almost have to be somewhat strange; no normal person could just look at something like that and be apathetic. How would you have been accepted had you tried to enter the medical field? I would never have become a doctor if I had scared off all the patients as an intern. It's much easier just to let everyone assume you're the slightest bit slow, and almost extraordinarily ordinary. They forget you, they don't accuse you of anything, and you can just allow yourself to fade into the background."

"And you began reasoning on this early enough that nobody noticed?" Sherlock disliked having to ask so many questions. "A child has no knowledge of what society will expect from them, they start as a clean slate. How did you know to disguise your attitude towards others before it was noticed?"

"I only had part of that reasoning as a child. I realized that I was almost under more scrutiny from adults because I didn't react as expected. I was a quiet child; I spent much time before primary school observing my older sister and her friends. They all quite enjoyed bullying other children, including myself. When I would just stare, unaffected by their taunts, adults were quite unnerved. I often noticed them watching me and couldn't think of what was missing. One day I realized that they expected the normal reaction to bullying, which was crying and upset. They didn't know how to react to my uncaring attitude, and it made them wary of me. I didn't desire to be closely observed, and I had found the way to stop it."

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In his mind, John could remember that day. It was fuzzy, as are all memories from that age, but he still pulled up those memories every once in a while in fleeting moments of sentiment.

His mother had been very busy that day. She was catching up on paperwork of some sort and didn't have time to keep an eye on John. Deciding the best way to keep him occupied was some cartoons; she turned on the telly to some kids' cartoon and set John on a blanket to watch. While later he couldn't recall what exactly happened in the show, he remembered at some point noticing the little boy wailing with his face all scrunched up and turning red, and immediately receiving comforting attention from adults as a result. The character had been bullied by an older sibling in the show and was quite upset by it. Said older sibling was receiving attention of the negative sort, dragged off by an upset parent and returning with a tear-streaked face, and sullen composure.

At first, John thought the reaction to be quite extreme. As he compared it to his normal reaction, it crossed his mind that the adults also reacted differently to the child in the show than the way they reacted to him. Thinking about it, he realized that this was the missing ingredient: he needed to be noticeably affected by things that happened around him. Then, anyone around wouldn't view him as unusual, and would not scrutinize him unduly. As his incredibly non-childlike logic put two and two together, he realized he just needed to wait until a time to test the theory.

Later that day the perfect opportunity came up when Harry and her friends decided to go to the park. Despite vehement protests, the girls were forced to take John along with them, as his mother felt he'd been sitting in front of the telly long enough and could use some fresh air. While at the park, the girls played together while John toddled after them. Attempting to draw a small amount of attention to himself, he called after the girls, who were leaving him behind, to wait for him. Fed up with his cries, Harry turned to the boy and began to yell at him.

"Stop bothering us!" She shouted, "Just because Mummy made us take you along doesn't mean we want you here!"

Seeing his opportunity, John willed big, fat tears to well up in his eyes and began to sob.

"You're so mean!" He cried, and broke off scrunching little hands into balled fists. Then he really burst out in the anguished wailing, internally rolling his eyes at his own theatrics. Plopping down on the grass he continued to cry.

A group of teenagers had been sitting in the nearby grass, gossiping and laughing as teens do. The wails of little John caught their attention. Looking over, one of the girls motioned to the child. Then the rest of them also turned to look. Seeing as no adult was stepping in, she decided to get involved.

"Oi! What are you lot doing then? Don't be bullying the child, he's so much smaller than you, can't fight back!" Kneeling to get closer to John's level she softened her voice, "Are those girls being mean to you, sweetheart?" John had at one point been bewildered by people's desires to speak so strangely to him, especially when it was only some people, and infrequently. "They'll leave you alone now. There, there, stop your crying. It's okay now. You're alright."

John felt it was an appropriate time to recover from his distress. He wiped his fisted hands over his eyes once more and then looked up at the girl and gave her a tentative smile. Hidden behind those guileless eyes was the triumph of a successful experiment.

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Sherlock didn't want to admit it to anyone, but he was impressed. As a child he hadn't bothered acknowledging anyone, he preferred to observe them in their natural setting. Sherlock had wanted to know what made them tic. While he too acknowledged that his differences unnerved people, he didn't care. He just continued to act the same way, and just observed the reactions of others.

"You observed others, and came to a logical conclusion. I suppose you aren't an idiot then."

Amusement filled John's voice as he replied, "No, I'm not."

"Well then," Sherlock jumped to his feet, "now that that's over with I'm going to work on my experiments. Don't bother me while I'm doing them."

"Of course, Sherlock." John thought the sudden subject change quite quaint.

It really hadn't changed anything. They still would do cases together. They would still giggle at inappropriate times and places, like crime scenes, and investigate together. They just would be evenly matched in intellect, and temperament.

And just like that, life went back to normal.