John suppresses the urge to call Sherlock on his obviously faked recall and shrugs his right shoulder, 'Just that something happened and he was worried that you'd gone off in a mad rush.' Falling gently into "parade rest" John watches and waits as Sherlock's keen eyes dart about his flatmate's person to validate his story.

'Right… Good, I…' Much like John's first visit to 221B, Sherlock flits about; he takes his coat off and throws it at the chair in the corner, picks up a random book from the coffee table and tosses it onto the table under the cow skull, a few strides later is grabbing up some loose scraps of paper and collapsing in his chair staring at - and yet through - the papers in his hands.

John watches every move while making the tea, something Sherlock would have called him on if he was in a better state of mind. Wordlessly he puts away the groceries while the tea steeps and lays a tray with their mugs and a plate for each of them with biscuits. And if Sherlock's plate has twice the amount, well it'll tell John exactly how bad things are if he doesn't notice.

Thus armed he heads into the room and distributes the small meal, placing everything on the tables beside their chairs. Settling in his with his mug in hand John looks carefully at his friend again, 'Sherlock, don't forget the tea is there till it's cold, yeah?'

Sherlock nods once, his eyes not loosing that look of being focused on a point somewhere down in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, and picks up his tea and drinks a bit down. 'John, under what circumstances would you make an obvious romantic gesture to a paramour at their place of work?'

John's eyebrows dance up and back down in a flash, 'Hmm, I'm not sure, I've never done it.' Shrewdly he avoids his friends eyes as sets aside his tea in favour of a biscuit, 'Why do you ask?'

Sherlock is trying too hard to appear nonchalant, as he shifts his cup from hand to hand, 'It happened at the Met today, a large number of roses were delivered and I don't understand why one would do that.'

'Ah,' John nods, 'it does seem a bit of an odd timing, to do so today, but mostly people do that to let a person know they think they are special enough to make a fuss over.' He watches as Sherlock nods once and starts consuming his biscuits in a distracted, yet compulsive, manner.

Knowing this isn't just a case of social convention, long ignored, confusing his friend again, John pauses before asking, 'Was there anything else?' Sherlock startles slightly less this time, so John just gazes deeply into his flatmate's beautiful sea-glass eyes, as a flicker of worry, shame and fear dance through them.

For long moments they don't move and John feels a pleasant warmth uncurl in his stomach, same as always, spreading through his body as he watches his friend struggle to respond to a simple question, a deep and compelling affection.

In a reassuring tone John comments,'I'm not trying to wind you up, mate.' he waits a moment to see if the comment even registers, then; 'Look Sherlock, why don't you just tell me why your brain seems to be hovering on the edge of needing a "cold boot", to borrow a term, and cut all this shit.'

Those alluring eyes flit to the floor as Sherlock's shoulders slump slightly, 'I'm just tired of being their portable punching bag. I've been trying to break it down into lessons I can learn and use for the work, but there is nothing more to learn from their hatred.' he sits there, for all the world looking like he expects John to ridicule him for missing something "normal" about the confrontation.

John's world becomes misted and red, as though a scarlet veil has been drawn over his eyes, with the speed his "fight" response is triggered. He knows Sherlock being preyed upon has this effect on him, but this occasion is especially bad due to the long standing bullying from the Met Homeside Devision. Hands clenching into tight fists, his frame hums with the need to dent someone for causing his best friend to feel this way. He pulls in an enormous breath, expanding his lungs as much as he can and then exhales to a thirty-count; watching as the veil lifts a bit and John can see his best friend looking towards him with a fear-tinged, wide-eyed look. Wordlessly he pulls out his mobile and rings Lestrade, but it rings out so he leaves a short, blunt message, 'What the fuck Lestrade?'

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sherlock flinch at the tone of voice, so sharp and snappy, one could easily believe it would draw sparks, like a hammer pounding iron. Standing he throws the mobile behind him to land on the chair, as he, leaning forward, rests his right shin up against the chair between Sherlock's spread knees, gathers his friend into a tight hug.

His face half buried in the soft inky curls he feels the ramrod straight back quivering with tension. Smiling he waits a breath, 'You should not have to put up with those plonkers, you are above them in every way.'

John's words bring a sharp jolt to play in amongst the shuddering, then a subtle relaxation happens and John knows Sherlock will tell him now. 'They sent me the flowers, easily 100£ worth, and I couldn't think straight. I fell right into their trap, thinking who on earth would tolerate me enough to send me flowers.'

John just tightens his arms and waits, he knows, in his gut, Sherlock isn't done explaining, 'And then the note said Happy April Fool's Day and I was so angry. I felt like they were all laughing at me, and yet a part of me was angry that the flowers weren't fro…'

Cutting off mid-word, Sherlock falls silent, but John picks up the narrative with a inquisitive statement, 'You were angry that they took something, hopefully appreciated and anticipated, and made it a vehicle for humiliation. You were mad that they weren't maybe from me?' Slowly, so as not to allow his friend to over-react and think John would be upset by the notion, he draws away enough to take the weight off his knee and look Sherlock in the face.

Blindly with his left hand he reaches behind himself to find the armrest of his chair, hauling it a touch closer, so he can sit and still be in Sherlock's personal space, his right hand still lying on Sherlock's forearm.

'You should know by now, Sherlock, I do think you deserve to be fussed over, but I also know you despise public fussing. Unless I'm fawning over your deductions, it is not something you want to have brought up in front of anyone else.' Not shifting one bit John locks his gaze with his friend, to keep Sherlock from ducking his head, 'But if you want someone to show those people your special, say the word and I'll tattoo it onto their fucking foreheads, I'll be so obvious.'

And just like that the confusion and tension bleed out of Sherlock, as John found and tapped the keystone of his worry smashing it through! Sherlock revels for a moment or two, but then a little voice starts up in his mind palace with questions, eventually he voices the most insistent. 'But why?'

Unsurprised by the query John relaxes back into his seat a bit, 'Which "why" would that be now?' Ticking them off one by one on his fingers, John makes his suggestions, 'Why would I exercise restraint? Why would I make my opinion of you known, or Why would I care for you?'

Swallowing reflexively, his eyes widening, Sherlock tracks back and forth between John's eyes looking to see if he is being serious, or taking the piss. He assumes his friend wouldn't do that to him, but he's so very insecure that Sherlock has to question it. 'No one cares for me John, I am a sociopath and nothing can change that.'

Snorting his disagreement, John grabs one of Sherlock's wrists, pulling as well as twisting slightly, he positions Sherlock's hand, palm up, on his own knee and slots his own wrist into the open palm. When the detective hesitates in closing his long dexterous fingers, John uses his other hand to close his friend's grasp around the wrist.

Sherlock for his part is surprised by the whole manoeuvre, but when he feels John settle his first two digits over John's pulse point, his eyebrows vanish up towards his hairline. "John, what…' comes the partial question.

Shoulders squared, manner calm and positive John smiles, 'Ask your questions Sherlock. Ask me and you will know.'

Sherlock grips the wrist a bit hard at first, but then finds his feet in the maelstrom of emotion and gentles his fingers. 'Why would you exercise restraint if it was something you would normally do?'

John's open face crinkles as he smirks at his flatmate, 'Because, more importantly than my wishes Sherlock, is the fact that you have always seemed to dismiss sentiment as something without use. I would not involve you in sentimental behaviours that you seemed to have little interest in; I'm happy to keep my wishes to myself.'

The solid beat of the heart under Sherlock's fingertips actually slows down, as though answering these questions is relaxing. John smiles as he continues to answer, 'Not to say I'd suffer in silence, I am happy to defer to another person's comfort level, but if I truly felt I needed to express myself I will. Like now.'

A long pause filled with steady thumping, then, 'Why would you make your opinion of me known to anyone?'

Nodding along with himself, John looks down at their hands, 'Because, not even touching what your family life was like, society does not treat intelligent people very well. Either they learn very early to pretend not to be as smart as they are, to feign fitting in, or they are ostracised, you my friend do not deign to pretend.'

At that Sherlock smiles a tiny bit, 'No John, I couldn't see the point in pretending I was less than I am and as you surmised, this did not go over well. But what does that have to do with anything, your evading my question John.'

Chuckling John's fingers grab onto Sherlock's hand, 'Because, if this is true, as you admitted, then I believe strongly, you deserve to have someone tell those asshats that you are amazing and shame on them for not seeing it.'

'I see.' Sherlock murmurs as he listens to the slow study thrum. He knows that if John was feeling his pulse it would be thready and quick now, his worry over this conversation clear.

'Well then, most obviously, why do you care at all for me. By all accounts I am an awful person to you, I do not understand why you are protecting me and not in their ranks making fun of the person you have to live with.'

'Because I think people should treat others as they wish to be treated, and I am happy to show them that they are getting what they deserve from you.' His pulse not quickening a whisker, 'If you want me to, I will treat you the way I believe you deserve to be treated, but that is up to you.'

Feeling the even thrum of John's steady heart Sherlock is surprised, eyes still locked with John's he sees a warmth in his friends expression he didn't expect. Playing for time he pulls away and looks on as John too pulls back, calmly scooting his chair back to where it usually rests. Eventually he nods once to himself, "Do I have to respond to that now?"

John's smile blooms and widens, 'Of course not.'

xxxx