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The Baskerville's case terrified Sherlock. He shouldn't have taken it, really. He had no intention to. But it was the first interesting matter he'd come across in a month. (Was he really expected to care for lost pets, however glowing? He shuddered at the thought of ever stooping so low.) So to Dartmoor it was.
He supposed he should have felt at home inside the Baskerville base – it wasn't that different from the place where he'd spent his first years. But he'd mostly deleted that time, and now the only thing remaining was the utter disquiet at the thought of these scientists figuring out what he was, no matter how perfectly tailored his clothes were.
Maybe they'd decide that he was worth running a few more experiments on, after all. The heavy doors would close for good behind him and leave him at the mercy of these people. He'd lose his name, get assigned another number, and have absolutely no say on the experiments being run on him.
He shielded himself with Mycroft's ID – nobody would have dared touch Mycroft Holmes – but it wasn't enough to put him at ease. Nor did it seem enough to smooth the situation, for the first time in Sherlock's experience.
Then John pulled rank and ordered that pesky soldier about. Sherlock had never seen John act like that. John apologized. John cajoled. John comforted. John, as far as Sherlock knew him, didn't order you about implying, "and be quick about it...or else." (Else what?)
Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, expected complacence because it was due to him (that was how it worked in the army right) and would hear no excuses. Captain Watson was utterly hot (wait, no, file that away for later...we're investigating here, don't get distracted) and John had loved giving orders (inconsequential, he's not gay for God's sake, Sherlock get your act together).
The detective's feelings were a jumbled mess, and if only he could have dismissed them altogether he'd have been a happy man. Being drugged on top of it didn't help his mood any. He was sure of it because, though similar to what Henry had described, the hound looked too much like something out of the horror movie John had inflicted on him last Halloween not to be the product of his mind . And he really should start deleting more John-related things before he cluttered his mind inescapably.
In an attempt to forget about his fears, Sherlock was harsh with John too. And apparently his flatmate got offended. Which the sleuth shouldn't have cared about, but he did. The point was – though not in so many words, John's attitude clearly showed that he thought he was Sherlock's friend now.
Well, how was the detective supposed to know John had changed his mind since the Blind Banker case? He wasn't a mind reader, no matter how the doctor made him look on his blog (and now he mentally used John's names for the cases too...the thing had ruined him). And honestly, he didn't examine the matter in depth since then. He'd only find all the perfectly sound reasons for John's refusal to be his friend, and no matter how logical they were, they still stung.
So he'd discovered that he did have a friend when he'd been careless enough to upset and, in all probability, lose him. Whatever John would have thought of that day in the future ( Sherlock * did * need someone normal to test his theory on – how could he assume he had ordinary response to the drug, with his genes all scrambled like that) not everything coming out of his mouth that day was a careful ploy.
He was quite desperate to get back in John's good graces, and if to make him happy he copied John's own technique, with its random superlatives, it was only because he knew firsthand how it warmed people's hearts even when they didn't mean to succumb to it. Even with his less than satisfactory (for some mysterious reason) delivery, the praise worked its magic.
Pity that using it in such a spot of trouble had a side effect Sherlock hadn't foreseen that was totally undesirable. No matter how honest he was, that or any other time ( John * was * amazing, if only because he hadn't forsaken the sleuth yet), the doctor grew inexorably wary of Sherlock's commendation. He couldn't offer an honest compliment without John being immediately suspicious of what the detective had done or was going to do. Lucky him that with Mycroft he'd had a long training of wrapping praise in insults. Hopefully John would understand the brothers' code.