A/N Wow, so the reception both here and on Tumblr makes it look like you guys really enjoyed that last one. Awesome! On to the second half, then...
Thanks to 265, Guest, johnsarmylady, Maniacal Mittens, total-animal-lover, innenlebenaussenwelt, bazingaitsshamy, and MapleleafCameo
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
LI. Sport
"Have you ever played a sport?" John asks one morning.
Sherlock shakes his head with surprising amiability from his position on the sofa, his hands propped under his chin and his feet pressed against the pillow on the other end. "Pointless. That sort of game, just running in circles… it's useless, repetitive. And it never achieves anything." His tone is almost vehement, and John's rather surprised.
"Dislike them?"
"Hate them," Sherlock replies darkly. "They're absurd. One of mankind's weakest inventions, on the exact opposite side of the spectrum from microscopes and guns."
"Microscopes and guns," John repeats, and he can't help but grin—just a small grin, to himself—because those words sum up Sherlock so perfectly. Microscopes and guns. And perhaps a bit of violin music interwoven between the two. That right there is an accurate enough description of the man he lives with.
"You?"
"Hm?"
"Have you ever played a sport?"
"Football, in school," he admits almost guiltily. "God, I was awful at it, though. Suited me much better to sit at home in front of the telly with my action figures, apparently."
"And yet you ended up going to the war."
"Well—yeah, I suppose I did." There's a long moment of silence, and he looks away, frowning slightly. "Not like I was a combat soldier or anything, though. Even there I did a lot of sitting around." A lie—those had been the most exhausting months of his life. Still, he didn't want take credit for the much braver foot soldiers, whose entire lives seemed to consist of running and ducking. The drills were hard enough, in his opinion.
"You were still brave, though." Sherlock makes the comment casually, as though it's the most trivial thing in the world, and John freezes, a surprising warmth coming into his chest.
"Not—not really…"
"Don't deny the obvious, John, it just makes you look like even more of an idiot than you already are," Sherlock grumbles.
"Well—then, yeah, I suppose so. You know, your brother told me on the first night we met that 'bravery is the kindest word for stupidity.' I've never forgotten that." It's true—Mycroft's words have haunted him, in all honesty, followed him day and night and tormented him wherever he walked or slept. Stupidity. Was that all that his efforts amounted to, in the end? Just a blind struggle to establish some sort of heroic identity for himself?
"My brother has no right to talk about stupidity," Sherlock retorts.
John snorts with laughter, lifting up his tea mug. "Yeah, you would say that, wouldn't you? Whereas he's one of the most intelligent people I know."
"The most intelligent person you know."
"Actually, I—"
"Don't," Sherlock objects, raising a hand. "As painful as it may be to say, I don't match up to him on that scale. I'm close, but he's superior. However, Mycroft also manages to be an idiot at the same time, a trap that I luckily evade."
John just laughs again and shakes his head. "Yeah, right."