Chapter 12

'I am ready to go to the market!' Sherlock announced excitedly as he sprang out his bedroom where he had gone in to change, 'Where are the shopping bags?'

John raised his hand absently in the air to show him that he already had the handle bags, while he continued to stare at the television where the newsman was making a report. The criminal that they had been so diligently tracking yesterday before Sherlock's head accident, had struck again.

Grrrr!

John switched off the programme with an angry press of the remote. They had to get Sherlock's memory up and running again!

Head wounds that affected the brain were a tricky thing to treat. Normally after any trauma, he would recommend rest and good food, but after an injury like Sherlock's would it be better to get him back in the proverbial saddle, right away? John sighed miserably in his mind. He didn't know what was the right thing to do.

'We have to stop by the pharmacy too, ' the doctor announced quietly as he rose from his chair, 'Brian needs some cold medication.'

'Brian?'

'He's our neighbor,' John started to explain but fell silent, as he stared in astonishment at the other man's outfit.

Sherlock looked down automatically to check if his zipper was open.

'I didn't know you owned a pair of blue jeans,' John spluttered faintly.

The detective idly fingered the garment in question, 'I have two in fact, along with the some other items which I trust are disguises for the Work.'

'What now?' he asked in exasperation as John skewed him with an intense look.

'It's the way you said "the Work",' the smaller man explained, 'it's something you normally say.'

Sherlock patted his hair self consciously when John continued to stare at him, as though he was a museum exhibit. He had tried to slick down his long hair with gel, undecided if he really liked the mass of curls he normally sported.

'Are we going or not?!' he finally barked out, and John snapped out of his reverie; walking briskly towards the door. He was stopped as Sherlock hooked his arm.

'Wait,' the detective murmured, 'Sorry, sorry I shouted. I will go change clothes.'

John reached up to rest a strong hand on his shoulder, and waited for Sherlock to fully look at him. 'Do you want to wear jeans today? Answer the question, don't say what you think I want to hear?!'

Sherlock was again struck by the commanding tone John would sometimes adopt. One had to wonder what the good doctor was capable of when tested.

'Yes, I want to wear jeans and my trainers,' Sherlock finally admitted in a whine, as he held out one foot to point out the change in his foot wear too, 'why do I have to wear a pressed shirt and trousers, if we are not going in to work?'

John smiled and ducked his head, 'you don't understand. Those aren't work clothes. You dress like that all the time.'

The young man frowned as he digested this new information, 'I really am addicted to fashion, aren't I? Can you say diva?'

The doctor giggled at Sherlock's pained expression, before regarding him with a serious look. 'The way you dress, the way you look is just one sliver of what makes you, you. You are so complex; you are so much more than you know. I should not have said anything about your jeans because I can see the doubt in your eyes. I only said something because if we come across anyone we know, they are going to stop you and ask questions. And you really, really, hate that. '

'Tell me more,' Sherlock requested, one part curious, the other part nervous, 'tell me more about this complex person you know.'

'God, where do I begin?' John mused, not missing Sherlock's anxious look, 'well I have told you already that you are smart, and you have an incredible memory. You are secretive, and mysterious. You're funny and you are loyal. You're utterly annoying and disgustingly untidy. You're rude and...'

Sherlock frowned again not liking this downward spiral.

'...and you're brave in ways that I could never be.'

The detective narrowed his eyes in disbelief, wondering if John was joking. He had slept curled up at the foot of the man's bed, rather than sleep is his own room and face the awful blankness of his thoughts and memories.

'But I am not the one who invaded Afghanistan,' the young man retorted sharply.

John's lips curled softly upwards into a grin at the deja-vous moment. His Sherlock was inside there somewhere and it was a comforting thought. 'That wasn't just me, I assure you.'

Sherlock's nose twitched as he approached the bakery section at a fast trot.

He had abandoned John three aisles down, but really! How long did it take the average person to decide on a selection of canned soup?! The situation was made even more horrible by the presence of a vapid female, hanging off John's shoulder under the pretense of assisting.

The detective stood smack in the middle of the cake section; his eyes darting from left to right as he took in the sumptuous desserts. Deducing that John as a doctor would probably forbid him from too many pastries, he made a quick choice. It was with a sense of triumph when he opened his paper bag, and began eating.

The sudden sugar rush was mellowing out his mood quite nicely, which had taken a sharp dive when the attractive cashier ladies had said hello and good-morning to John only. For some reason, the women pretended to examine their manicures when he attempted to wave a greeting at them. One of the packers had even changed direction, when he noticed Sherlock coming down his aisle with the trolley.

What the bleeding hell was that all about? He had been thoroughly put out by the attitude of the staff of a shop he presumably visited all the time!

But Sherlock didn't care, not as he chomped happily on his powdered sugar donuts.

Nom nom nom.

He had eaten four donuts before John came galloping around the corner, completely out of breath.

'Didn't I tell you, not to wander off?! the doctor hissed as he clutched at the stitch in his side. 'You almost gave me a heart attack.'

Sherlock thought back on the events of last night when he realized that his brother had stationed guards in the street outside their flat all night, 'Is my life so dangerous?'

'No, you're just that valuable,' John informed him in such a serious manner that it left no room for doubt. He truly believed what he said, and Sherlock was at a loss of how to respond to such a flattering comment.

Gone was earlier mood of irritation, when he felt as though all the staff of the market were avoiding him. He didn't need any of them, not when he had a person in his corner like John Watson.

Sherlock held out his paper bag and offered him the last donut.