A/N Sorry for the slight delay, but here we are.

Thanks to Fayet, ThisDayWillPass, johnsarmylady, and muffinlover18

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XXII. Mother Nature

Nature has never served much purpose, from Sherlock's point of view. The most significant thing it does is alter the layout of a crime scene, corrupt it with rain and mud and whatnot. Some people may grow sentimental when presented with a particularly attractive arrangement of wildflowers, or a nice-smelling forest glen, but he prides himself in not being one of them. Such a fondness, after all, can only restrain more important energies. Bothersome at best, and the world's only consulting detective doesn't have time for bothersome.

Of course, his constant companion does.

John walks a couple of times a week—just walks, in one of the grey-green parks sprinkled across the black urbanization of London. He dubs them 'calming,' 'healthy,' and refuses to listen when Sherlock points out how the flat expanses of half-dead grass and cold benches are more or less the perfect opposite of natural. He finds some sort of peace in these small ventures, and, as interfering as Sherlock finds his sometimes impulsive departures, they still keep his mind fresh and his attitude even. Sherlock himself, on the other hand, fully prefers to stay in the flat, not polluting his mind with data such as the weather or the eating habits of the other walkers in the park. The darkened rooms of 221b are a much more suitable habitat for his thoughts to thrive.

"Come with me."

He initially does a double take, glancing up from the microscope slide he's polishing, wondering if John could be talking to himself. His voice is certainly quiet enough for such, but it's an uncommon habit for the doctor, and he's staring straight at Sherlock, as the latter now notes.

"Come with you? Why?" he questions, brow furrowing in puzzlement.

"It'll be good for you. You've been cooped up in here for days; fresh air would be nice, don't you think?"

"Hardly."

John sighs. "Then will you do it for me? To keep me company? I don't feel like going alone today."

Sherlock returns to his microscope slide, rubbing impatiently at an oily spot on the clear strip of glass. This is hardly an important enough issue to require eye contact. "Get one of your girlfriends to go with you, if you need a companion so badly. I'm sure they'd be all too willing."

"I'm asking you, Sherlock."

John's words—even, measured—are surprisingly effective. Sherlock's gaze drifts up again, meeting that of his flatmate. "How long will it take?"

"Quarter hour, if you'd like. Just enough time to clear your lungs out. It's not like you have anything on, after all. Come on, just this once. You'll like it."

"Doubtful," Sherlock mutters, but he's standing up anyways, for some reason he can't quite target—setting down the slide, pushing in his chair. He doesn't want to be doing this, not in the least. His actions cause John's eyes to brighten, though, ever so slightly, and something about that encourages him to go on. He makes to reach out for his coat, then hears a small note of objection from behind him, an unfinished word.

"What?"

"It's just… you don't need the coat, do you? Not really… it's spring, it's warm outside—"

"Has that ever stopped me before?"

He raises a hand in defeat, sighing. "Forget it. Okay? Just forget it. I'm perfectly fine with walking through a park accompanied by someone dressed like a vampire."

"I should hope so. Otherwise, it was a mistake to invite me to come with you," Sherlock growls delicately, ignoring the childish analogy.

"Like I said. Forget it."

He meets John's eyes for a single, level moment, frowning. It's things like this about people that he can never understand. "Why should I forget it? You just said that—"

"I just said that it doesn't matter, alright? Far from a big deal."

He nods, slowly. "Do you still want me to come?"

"…That would be nice, yes."

"Fine." He lets his hand drop slowly, fingers trailing along the fabric of his coat but not gripping it, leaving it to hand. A furtive glance is shot at his scarf, but nothing beyond that. "Let's go."