Oliver reminds me of myself.
John stared at Sherlock for a longer amount of time than was strictly necessary.
Sherlock, who John could hardly believe had ever been a child at all, was reminded of himself by the sleeping six-year-old upstairs. How on Earth was that even possible?
The detective sniffled, burying his face back in his knees.
"Hey," John said softly, not really sure where to begin. "Do you want to elaborate on that for me?"
"Not particularly," the figure on the bed mumbled sadly.
John ran a hand through his hair before deciding to press onward.
"What is it about him that reminds you of yourself?"
Sherlock let out a breath, not bothering to go to the effort of lifting his head. "Mainly… circumstances," he began. "However, there are certain other traits he possesses."
"Don't tell me he keeps human body parts to experiment on," John joked gently.
"No," said Sherlock, not catching the humor – or perhaps just ignoring it. "He's highly intelligent. I suspect mild to moderate autism. Perhaps Asperger's Syndrome."
"What, and this affects you so much because you are autistic?"
John got no response.
"Wait, you're actually autistic?"
Sherlock, had he been facing John, would have given him a withering look.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I saw no real reason as to why it would be important."
John looked frustrated. However, Sherlock, who was still buried deep within himself, couldn't see this. John curled his fingers inward, and counted to ten.
"Sherlock," he began, "your well-being is extremely important."
His flatmate mumbled something that might have been "No, it isn't."
"Really? You really think that?"
A definite answer. "Yes."
John deflated. He moved over to the bed and sat beside his friend once more. From up close, John could see the toll this latest job had taken on him. Sherlock was as skinny as ever, the bandages making him look even thinner. His skin was several shades paler than healthy. Even his hair seemed limp and dejected.
John's frustration evaporated. This man needed taking care of.
"You matter, Sherlock," John said. He placed a hand on the injured man's arm. "You do. Truly. To a lot of people."
"Not any more than those children mattered."
There was a pause.
"Your worth as a human being isn't judged on a sliding scale, you know."
"Perhaps not, but you imply that it is still judged, regardless of the 'scale.'" He curled more tightly into his little ball.
"I'm not going to argue rhetoric with you."
The detective made a noise.
John, after a moment's hesitation, moved his hand down to cover Sherlock's own. Sherlock finally looked up, a strange expression on his face.
"You matter. All right?"
"John…"
"You matter to me, and to Mrs. Hudson, and to Lestrade, and to Mycroft." Sherlock scoffed halfheartedly. John continued, "And you matter to the little boy sleeping upstairs."
"Oliver has learned to distance himself from the world," the detective said, a hint of sour on his tongue.
"You really think that, Sherlock?"
"That's the second time you've asked me that within the span of five minutes. You might consider adding other questions to your repertoire."
"You might consider not being an arse," John muttered. "Answer me honestly."
Sherlock's eyes were unreadable. "His actions show that he has successfully distanced himself from caregiving figures in his life. Back at the orphanage, he grew stiff and unresponsive when the matron took his hand to lead him to supper. He did not play with the other children at playtime, and he most certainly did not interact with any of the prospective parents."
"But he interacted with you."
"I do not consider myself to be a prospective parent."
"And yet you're letting him sleep in your flat."
"Where a child sleeps is irrelevant."
"You're right. Where a child is comfortable, that seems to be the trick. Isn't it?"
Sherlock stared at John. "He's comfortable here?"
"He fell asleep on you. I'd say that counts as comfortable."
The consulting detective let his legs fall over the edge of the bed, coming to a more open position.
"You care about him," John said. It wasn't a question.
"Nonsense. I've only known him two weeks. There's no possibility of-"
"Hush." John absentmindedly adjusted one of Sherlock's bandages. "I've seen how you look at him. Like a firefly has just landed on your arm, and you might be able to catch it, if you can only move slowly enough."
Sherlock looked mildly offended, and opened his mouth to say so. John, however, cut him off once more.
"Sherlock, you've already caught him. He's been wrapped around your finger all week."
Sherlock's mouth twitched, then closed. His infinite aquamarine eyes bored into John's, something resembling hope flickering inside.
"Is that really what you think?"
John smirked. "You might consider adding other questions to your repertoire."
The younger man took a breath, closing his eyes.
"I do. Want to keep him," he said, quietly enough that John had to lean in to catch the end of his sentence.
"Then keep him," John said simply.