A/N: Short one, from John's perspective.

Still not British, a writer or anything other than myself. -csf


5.

As soon as I'm crossing 221B's threshold, I'm catching whatever Sherlock has just thrown my way, without even a second thought about what it might be. A Newtonian apple, an American baseball or a grenade. I trust Sherlock that much. Catching is easy. Rubbing my fingers against the hard, textured surface and glancing down at it I recognise a game set piece, in the shape of an angry looking, dwarfish Viking wrapped in a cloak. He just grabbed the nearest ammunition, for sure! Like the figurine, I too find myself curling my shoulders and becoming angrier by the second.

'So you just attack me in my own home now?'

Sherlock's response is as odd as it is tantalising. He beams a huge smile, and I rewind my words. My home. Our home. Sherlock is the sweet child, sometimes. He got in his head that one day he'll be too weird – the freak – and I might leave 221B forever.

In all honesty, dealing with Sherlock is often like dealing with a child with a self-fulfilling fear of abandonment. He keeps pushing me away to make sure I refuse to go, that I stick around.

Of course I stay. I will always stay, so long as he'll have me here.

'Sherlock, what was that?'

'A flying Viking.'

'No, I don't care about that, I mean the smarty pants client and the case that wasn't the real case.'

'Oh, that. He's an idiot, never mind him.'

Sherlock is frantically clearing the breakfast table. Now I really know he's hiding something from me.

'Well, aren't you going to tell me about it?'

'No. It's your case, remember? I'll be here to steer you in the right direction, should you go wildly astray. You have a tendency to get yourself in danger, John, and require rescuing. Other than that, it is your case to solve. It's a natural Two, maybe a Three on my scale, but for you it's a...' he eyes me thoughtfully. 'I'll let you come up with your own scale, John.'

'But—'

'You might want to pack, John.'

'Pack? Why? Where are we going?'

He hums.

'You'll figure it out in your own time. Have a seat in my chair. Deduce away. I'm going to shower and get dressed.' And in a swirl of dressing gown, the pyjamas clad detective stomps barefoot feet across the wooden floorboards of the bedroom corridor.

I find myself leaning towards the table for moral support. Looking down, I see the plates, cutlery and mugs piled high in the brass tray, in the most absurd, haphazard way. A game piece floating inside cold tea in a mug.

Is Sherlock playing the homely assistant, has he just cleared the table because that's what I would do?

Have we... swapped places?

Pack a bag to where?

.

I take my best friend's personification to heart. Lying across the sofa, eyes closed, fingertips united (in some awkward plead for divine intervention, perhaps), I try to summon all I observed in our client earlier.

Middle aged man, polite yet with a clever tongue. A busybody, nosing over his neighbour's affairs, and laundry, after a shared history involving driveway parking, cars and dogs.

Turns out the man with black socks only (never a tough time matching socks) is indeed a spy, one of Mycroft's spoofs, according to some deduction Sherlock has made. Not knowing all about how Mycroft might brand his most secret intelligence men, I may have to take Sherlock's word on that. Let's guess it's a tattoo. I hope it's a tattoo, that's always fun. And black socks? Normal socks, ankle socks? High enough to cover the secret tattoo. Yet, there are times a man will take his socks off. So maybe it's some sort of invisible ink tattoo? Visible only under black light? That will be the MI5's new entry passcode, scan your ankle under UV light?

What does any of this got to do with an actual case?

Maybe it is about the dog after all. The curious incident of the dog snuffing about somewhere it shouldn't be found, and the spy had to keep him away for a while.

Something in the garage? Is the garage the secret headquarters of a new terrorist group?

And what was that about the tie up on a tree anyway, the original case the client was bringing Sherlock?

Speak of the Devil!

Sherlock bursts into the room – sudden noise and distraction unwelcomed – appearing agitated, breaking my train of thought, shattering it to a million scattered pieces.

I start to understand how my interruptions might annoy Sherlock. Outwardly he seems so peaceful, so quiet, so ready to hear me out, that I never considered myself an interruption. With a care that is so touching to perceive, I realise he's never treated me as such.

I blink my way back to 221B, to Sherlock.

Well, then. The frustrated thespian has equipped himself with a 1960s version of a scholarly professor, from the tweed jacket to the prim shirts of usual partially hidden by a knitted vest, dark brown trousers too (since when does Sherlock know the colour brown), and a leather shoulder bag big enough to carry school books.

Professor Sherlock. I'll bet he's not done yet, and he'll carry a long warlock cape in that shoulder bag. To replace his beloved long coat if nothing else.

He studies my stunned reaction with a touch of raw vulnerability.

'You look... nice,' I offer spontaneously. He does. Sherlock could model for a men's clothes magazine, he always looks nice.

'Thank you, John. You've not packet yet.'

'No, I—'

'Of course!' he shakes his curls in sudden derision, banging an open pal against his forehead. 'I'm supposed to pack your bags! Honestly, John, you do a lot more for me than I've been giving you credit for. Don't you get tired? No, don't answer that, just think – deduce – or we may miss the eleven o'clock train from Kings Cross. It'll be another half-hour until we get another train to York.'

'We're going to York?'

He smiles brightly.

'I knew you'd get there in the end, John!'

'What's in York?'

'What do you mean, what's in York, you just said—'

'You said it first!'

Sherlock's face falls at that. He let it slip his tongue.

'That's cheating, John!'

'No, gimme time, I'll figure out how come York is where we need to go. Don't you have my bags to pack, and yours too?'

He huffs, and decidedly presses his lips together, not willing to risk giving me further information. He turns to leave and pack our bags. I stay behind, feeling a bit unsure about this business for the first time.

.

We took the eleven-twenty-seven from London's King Cross to Edinburgh, stopping at York along the way. As I embarked the train, ushered by an insistent Sherlock, I still didn't know the purpose of our journey. Some things never change.

I decided we wouldn't go past Cambridge without having Sherlock fill me in on my expected deductions. It won't do to have too much classwork to catch up on.

I'm not giving up. Sherlock needs to know he's not an isolated genius, far removed from the rest of us. He'll always be the best at the profession he's chosen, created and developed, yet he's not a freak of nature, incapable of ever finding his humanity reflected in another being. This is not about proving myself clever in Sherlock's eyes, for me. This is about proving to the best man I've ever met that he is one of us.

.

TBC