(no subject)
Title: Trust Issues (7/9)
Series: BBC Sherlock
Word Count: 2,972
Category: Angst, friendship (but you can certainly don your slash goggles if you wish)
Rating: G
Warning: None
Summary: A heart-to-heart, an incorrect hypotheses, and a minor revelation.
Beta: verityburns, who is made of awesome
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
His two objectives met -- annoying Sherlock until he went to bed and giving John his gift -- Mycroft departed 221B, reminding John that a car would be there at six in the morning to transport him and Sherlock to hospital. Mycroft assured John that he would meet them there well before Sherlock went into surgery.
John hardly needed to show Mycroft out and so he remained in the kitchen, listening to the elder Holmes’ footsteps recede down the stairs followed by the opening and closing of the front door. He knew he should go to bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Once he fell asleep, there would be nothing between him and the following morning. He would next open his eyes to the inevitability of the surgery, and he found he wanted to hold that moment off as long as possible.
He sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around his now cold mug, and tried very, very hard to think of absolutely nothing at all.
The voice was quiet, but John heard it nonetheless, perhaps because it was the one he knew better than any but his own.
“John?” Sherlock’s voice drifted out from his bedroom on the other side of the kitchen. John had not realised the door was open. It was not immediately visible from his present position. He wondered if Sherlock had heard the exchange between himself and Mycroft, but this was a secondary consideration. He was up and at Sherlock’s door in seconds.
“Are you all right? Do you need something?” John asked anxiously.
“I’m…” Sherlock paused, considering. “No, I don’t need anything,” he finished, but the hesitation had already set alarm bells off in John’s brain.
He stepped into the darkened room and moved toward the bed. Sherlock had closed the blinds tightly. No light from the street outside penetrated the room, but John’s eyes adjusted relatively quickly thanks to the ambient light spilling in through the open door behind them. Sherlock was lying on his back, hands steepled together in his characteristic contemplative pose.
“Is it all right if I sit?” John asked, indicating the area next to Sherlock.
One of the hands loosed itself from the steeple and gestured to the space, which John took as agreement. He tucked one leg under himself and settled next to Sherlock.
Neither man spoke for a moment.
“What will happen if it goes wrong, John?” Sherlock said.
“The operation? I wouldn’t worry about that, Sherlock. I think we’ve caught this early enough that they’ll be able to get the entire tumour. Really, the radiation is more a precaution than a necessity, strictly speaking.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
John knew exactly what he meant.
“It will not go wrong,” he said, definitively.
“But what if it does?” Sherlock insisted.
He had rolled over onto his side and was looking at John, his expression grim, eyebrows knitted together, creating a deep furrow in his brow.
John sighed.
Sherlock rolled back over so that he was once again looking at the ceiling. “I apologize. I don’t mean to irritate you. You've already done more for me than one would expect, I'm aware.”
“Irritate me… What on earth are you on about?” John gaped and then realised how his sigh had been interpreted.
“No, Sherlock," he said emphatically, his hand instinctively shooting out and grasping the arm of the man beside him. "You’re not irritating me. It’s just that I’m not sure what to tell you. Even if you do” -- he forced himself to say it -- “lose some of your abilities, they may return in time.”
“I notice you’re not mentioning the other possibility. That I will lose ‘my abilities,’ as you put it, and they will not come back at all.”
“Honestly, I don’t think that will happen. The odds are so slim…”
“But you’re afraid it will. I can see it in your face.”
John knew it was useless to lie. “Yes. I’m afraid. But I’m more afraid of what will happen if you don’t have the surgery.”
Sherlock took a deep breath. And then another. The exhalations were unsteady, as though he were struggling to control himself.
“Sherlock? Are you all right? Are you in pain?”
Sherlock gritted his teeth, then very carefully and deliberately replied, “I’m not all right, John.” He stopped. Then, with immense effort, he went on. "I'm afraid. I don't know what…" He took another deep breath, this last even shakier than the first two, then turned his head away and started to roll over onto his other side, away from John.
John felt his heart clench. Sherlock had been so self-contained these last few days. It was as though, having made up his mind about the surgery, he had lost any sense of fear about its outcome. His reaction in the bathroom after having his head shaved had convinced John, at least on one level, that his friend had applied the logical, clinical outlook with which he was so comfortable to his own situation. Admittedly, thoughts that Sherlock was perhaps not as okay as he seemed had risen to the surface, but John, for all his concern, did not know how to broach the subject. He knew Sherlock well enough to guess that when the man didn't want to talk about something… well, just look at what it had taken to get him to open up about the tumour in the first place.
How foolish John felt to realise that, almost certainly, Sherlock had been struggling to contain his fear for the entire week. Was perhaps even doing so, at least in part, for John's sake. John had worked very hard to maintain a positive attitude, keeping things lighthearted and trying (though this was definitely the more challenging task) to keep Sherlock busy. He berated himself for not pressing the issue, realising that his own fears were at least partially to blame for his reluctance to bring things out into the open.
He tightened his grip on Sherlock's arm, preventing him from turning away. To his surprise, Sherlock did not fight him. John could see that his eyes were shut, the brows still knit tightly together.
"Sherlock," he said, gently. "Listen to me. This is outside of your control. It is outside of my control. But if I truly thought that there was more than a minor -- and I mean really minor -- chance that you would come out of this any less than the person you are right now, I would have advised against the procedure."
Sherlock opened his eyes but looked at John suspiciously.
"Then why are you so afraid?" he asked.
John took a deep breath. Why was he so afraid? He knew, as a medical professional, that what he had told Sherlock was the truth. The odds of anything going wrong were slim. Of course, things could always go wrong in a surgery. And yes, this was brain surgery, obviously more high-risk than, say, having one's gall bladder removed but still…
“I know you, Sherlock,” John heard himself say. And now that he’d started, he saw that the answer had always been sitting there, just waiting for the question to be asked.
"If something were to go wrong, if you were left with your faculties dulled or lessened in any way… Well, I know how difficult that would be for you. To live in this world having been something extraordinary, and then to be brought down amongst the rest of us poor sods. I can't see that lasting very long. From your standpoint, life would be permanently dull. And wherever you've got those things hidden, those things you used to take to make your world less dull… Well, I doubt they'd stay hidden for long. And what then, Sherlock? What could I do for you, then? I don't know how I could leave, but I don't think I could watch that either. That's why I'm afraid. I know the statistics, but I can't make the ugly 'what ifs' shut the bloody hell up."
There was a moment of silence before Sherlock responded. "You are probably right. I would be lying if I said that I hadn't considered how I would cope with…." He let the sentence trail off. "I did check into some… sources." He paused. "But it would not be ongoing, I assure you. I wasn't thinking of prolonging my situation." John's head shot up at the implications of that, but Sherlock ignored his reaction, "But setting that aside, I'm not sure I understand you, John. I imagine you would be long gone by then."
"Gone? Where would I go?" John was completely perplexed by Sherlock's statement.
"I think the question is, why would you stay?" Sherlock answered. "What would be left for you? No more danger. No more excitement. That is why you are here, after all. You crave it as much as I do. I know I'm not an easy person, John. I don't pretend to think that you are here simply for the pleasure of my company."
Gobsmacked didn't begin to cover how John felt as the full weight of Sherlock's words settled upon him. Was this what the man really thought? That the only thing keeping him at 221B was the adrenaline rush of the "game." John found himself getting angry, though he was self-aware enough to realise that the underlying emotion fueling that anger was pain. After all that they had been through together, the sacrifices John had made, had been willing to make? The thought that Sherlock saw their partnership as more a loose agreement than a friendship, and therefore easily breakable should inconvenient circumstances present themselves, well, that stung. More than stung. John felt as though he might be sick. He dropped his hand from Sherlock's arm, letting it fall to the space between them on the bed.
"I am here because you are my friend," he said, his voice quiet but heated. "I may have stayed at first for the danger and the excitement. I won't lie about that. But I'm not a sadist. And I don't have a death fetish. I didn't kill that cabbie or offer to die for you because it was thrilling for me." He felt the words pushing up out of him, and he feared he might say something he regretted, but now that the words were coming, he couldn't stop. "You are… Damn it, you are absolutely the most important person to me. I can't really explain that. I've tried, and frankly, I've more or less given up. Because I don't understand it. Not one bit. I just know that I don’t want to be anywhere else. Or with anyone else."
Sherlock's eyebrows rose, both surprise and confusion evident on his features.
"Yeah, I know." John said. "But I don't mean it like that. I don't fancy you. Not like that, anyway." He stopped, considering. "Or maybe I do. I don't really understand where you fit, Sherlock. I don't think about us like that. I never have. But the longer I'm with you here, the less I want something else. With someone else. I do miss… well, I miss sex. I do. But honestly, that's the only thing missing here for me. And don't think that doesn't weird me out, because it does. It's like I don't have a hook to hang you on. There's no neat box. Which I suppose is to be expected with you. You'll never fit into any box, neat or otherwise. But I can't leave. I don't want to leave. No matter what happens tomorrow or the day after. But if things don't go well? And you turn to… whatever it is you think will help you cope with that? To watch you destroy yourself? That… well, that I don't think I can do. Short of that, Sherlock, I will be here. So long as you want me to be here."
John had closed his eyes, not entirely sure he wanted to see Sherlock’s reaction to his words. He felt Sherlock shift on the bed and thought for a moment that he was getting up. But no, he was merely rolling toward John. And then John felt the warmth of Sherlock’s hand close over his own hand lying flat on the duvet between them. The long fingers curled slightly, barely squeezing, almost asking permission to be there.
“I… I am sorry. I didn’t realise.”
John turned his hand and intertwined his fingers in Sherlock’s. He squeezed hard, and Sherlock returned the pressure. He opened his eyes to find Sherlock regarding him with curiosity.
“I don’t understand you, John. I thought… well, clearly I was incorrect.” Sherlock stopped, an expression of distaste on his face.
“All that data and you got it… got me… wrong.”
Sherlock huffed in irritation. “Yes, well, that’s hardly fair. I wasn’t trying to deduce anything, was I?”
“No. I suppose you had no need.” John was aware of the sadness in his voice, but he didn’t try to hide it. “I would have thought you’d give me a bit more credit, though, after everything… the cases, Moriarty.”
The man holding his hand was quiet for a long moment. “I’m not used to this, John. I’m not accustomed to someone wanting to be with me. Wanting to spend time with me, that is. Of their own free will. People need me. The police. Clients. Perhaps they grudgingly respect me. But they never like me.”
“So, what, then? You thought I didn’t actually like you but was staying just for the adrenalin fix?”
“Not entirely, no. But you don’t always like me, John, you can’t deny that.”
“No, I don’t. Sometimes you’re a right bastard.” He took a breath and let it out slowly. “But I love you, for whatever that’s worth. I don’t quite know myself what it’s worth, but there it is. And most of the time, Sherlock, most of the time, I do like you.”
Sherlock looked stunned. It was the first time John could recall seeing the detective genuinely speechless and he took the opportunity to return to the subject that had brought them to this point in the first place.
“Look, you’re not alone. Whatever happens, we’ll handle it together. I may not have your brains, but there’s a lot I’m quite good at. Mostly things you’re not good at, interestingly.” He poked Sherlock in the ribs and ignored the resulting frown. “That works out well, I think. So, together? Deal?”
He poked Sherlock again and Sherlock batted at him, the frown smoothing out slightly, though he struggled to maintain it.
“Yes. Fine,” Sherlock said. And then, more quietly, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And…”
“Yes?”
“I am sorry. You’ve never been like other people with me. I do know that. It was a disservice to judge you alongside other people. I should have trusted that you are exactly as you seem to be. You’ve never given me reason to do otherwise. I am grateful to have you as a… as my friend, John. I don’t say it, I know. But I do value your friendship. Very much.”
It was John’s turn to be stunned, but he managed a rough, “Thank you.” Clearing his throat, he took his hand from Sherlock’s and started to get up from the bed. He had said all he could and Sherlock had said more than he would ever have expected. Plus, the younger man needed to sleep. They both did. But Sherlock touched the sleeve of his jumper, and he immediately stopped.
“What did Mycroft give you?” Sherlock asked.
It took John a second to process the question. The previous 20 minutes had pushed Mycroft’s gift from his mind and he was now suddenly aware of the corner of the small box cutting into his upper thigh.
“You heard that, did you?”
“Parts of it. My ears started ringing. I never thought I’d be annoyed at not being able to hear Mycroft’s voice.”
John chuckled, but he reached out a hand and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder, now fully aware of the fear underlying his friend’s seemingly cavalier attitude, and left it there, realising it was a comfort to him as well.
“How is it now? The ringing?”
“Annoying. But not as bad. Answer my question.”
John dug the box from his pocket with his free hand. He held it out to Sherlock, who took it. John saw a fleeting expression of surprise cross his features as he held it up in the dim light.
“Mycroft didn’t actually give them to me. I mean, they weren’t from him. He said they were from your mother,” John clarified.
Sherlock glanced up at the statement, understanding replacing the surprise. He opened the lid and made a small noise, as of some supposition being confirmed.
“Do you want the light?” John asked, already reaching for the bedside lamp.
“No,” Sherlock replied. “I don’t need it. I recognise them.”
“You recognise them?” John asked, puzzled.
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “They belonged to my father.” He let out a short laugh and John caught a murmured, “Oh, Mummy….”
He handed the box back to John, flashing the same quirk of a smile that John so frequently saw on Mycroft’s features. “Welcome to the family, John.”
John opened and closed his mouth. And then did it again. “God help me,” he finally said, and looked at Sherlock. The tension that had been sitting in the pit of his stomach uncoiled then and John began to laugh. He lowered his forehead to the pillow next to Sherlock as it bubbled up and spilled uncontrollably from him. There was a brief moment of silence and then Sherlock’s rich, deep laugh -- his true, full laugh, so rare that John was nearly shaken from his own outburst by it -- joined in.
Series: BBC Sherlock
Word Count: 2,972
Category: Angst, friendship (but you can certainly don your slash goggles if you wish)
Rating: G
Warning: None
Summary: A heart-to-heart, an incorrect hypotheses, and a minor revelation.
Beta: verityburns, who is made of awesome
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
His two objectives met -- annoying Sherlock until he went to bed and giving John his gift -- Mycroft departed 221B, reminding John that a car would be there at six in the morning to transport him and Sherlock to hospital. Mycroft assured John that he would meet them there well before Sherlock went into surgery.
John hardly needed to show Mycroft out and so he remained in the kitchen, listening to the elder Holmes’ footsteps recede down the stairs followed by the opening and closing of the front door. He knew he should go to bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Once he fell asleep, there would be nothing between him and the following morning. He would next open his eyes to the inevitability of the surgery, and he found he wanted to hold that moment off as long as possible.
He sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around his now cold mug, and tried very, very hard to think of absolutely nothing at all.
The voice was quiet, but John heard it nonetheless, perhaps because it was the one he knew better than any but his own.
“John?” Sherlock’s voice drifted out from his bedroom on the other side of the kitchen. John had not realised the door was open. It was not immediately visible from his present position. He wondered if Sherlock had heard the exchange between himself and Mycroft, but this was a secondary consideration. He was up and at Sherlock’s door in seconds.
“Are you all right? Do you need something?” John asked anxiously.
“I’m…” Sherlock paused, considering. “No, I don’t need anything,” he finished, but the hesitation had already set alarm bells off in John’s brain.
He stepped into the darkened room and moved toward the bed. Sherlock had closed the blinds tightly. No light from the street outside penetrated the room, but John’s eyes adjusted relatively quickly thanks to the ambient light spilling in through the open door behind them. Sherlock was lying on his back, hands steepled together in his characteristic contemplative pose.
“Is it all right if I sit?” John asked, indicating the area next to Sherlock.
One of the hands loosed itself from the steeple and gestured to the space, which John took as agreement. He tucked one leg under himself and settled next to Sherlock.
Neither man spoke for a moment.
“What will happen if it goes wrong, John?” Sherlock said.
“The operation? I wouldn’t worry about that, Sherlock. I think we’ve caught this early enough that they’ll be able to get the entire tumour. Really, the radiation is more a precaution than a necessity, strictly speaking.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
John knew exactly what he meant.
“It will not go wrong,” he said, definitively.
“But what if it does?” Sherlock insisted.
He had rolled over onto his side and was looking at John, his expression grim, eyebrows knitted together, creating a deep furrow in his brow.
John sighed.
Sherlock rolled back over so that he was once again looking at the ceiling. “I apologize. I don’t mean to irritate you. You've already done more for me than one would expect, I'm aware.”
“Irritate me… What on earth are you on about?” John gaped and then realised how his sigh had been interpreted.
“No, Sherlock," he said emphatically, his hand instinctively shooting out and grasping the arm of the man beside him. "You’re not irritating me. It’s just that I’m not sure what to tell you. Even if you do” -- he forced himself to say it -- “lose some of your abilities, they may return in time.”
“I notice you’re not mentioning the other possibility. That I will lose ‘my abilities,’ as you put it, and they will not come back at all.”
“Honestly, I don’t think that will happen. The odds are so slim…”
“But you’re afraid it will. I can see it in your face.”
John knew it was useless to lie. “Yes. I’m afraid. But I’m more afraid of what will happen if you don’t have the surgery.”
Sherlock took a deep breath. And then another. The exhalations were unsteady, as though he were struggling to control himself.
“Sherlock? Are you all right? Are you in pain?”
Sherlock gritted his teeth, then very carefully and deliberately replied, “I’m not all right, John.” He stopped. Then, with immense effort, he went on. "I'm afraid. I don't know what…" He took another deep breath, this last even shakier than the first two, then turned his head away and started to roll over onto his other side, away from John.
John felt his heart clench. Sherlock had been so self-contained these last few days. It was as though, having made up his mind about the surgery, he had lost any sense of fear about its outcome. His reaction in the bathroom after having his head shaved had convinced John, at least on one level, that his friend had applied the logical, clinical outlook with which he was so comfortable to his own situation. Admittedly, thoughts that Sherlock was perhaps not as okay as he seemed had risen to the surface, but John, for all his concern, did not know how to broach the subject. He knew Sherlock well enough to guess that when the man didn't want to talk about something… well, just look at what it had taken to get him to open up about the tumour in the first place.
How foolish John felt to realise that, almost certainly, Sherlock had been struggling to contain his fear for the entire week. Was perhaps even doing so, at least in part, for John's sake. John had worked very hard to maintain a positive attitude, keeping things lighthearted and trying (though this was definitely the more challenging task) to keep Sherlock busy. He berated himself for not pressing the issue, realising that his own fears were at least partially to blame for his reluctance to bring things out into the open.
He tightened his grip on Sherlock's arm, preventing him from turning away. To his surprise, Sherlock did not fight him. John could see that his eyes were shut, the brows still knit tightly together.
"Sherlock," he said, gently. "Listen to me. This is outside of your control. It is outside of my control. But if I truly thought that there was more than a minor -- and I mean really minor -- chance that you would come out of this any less than the person you are right now, I would have advised against the procedure."
Sherlock opened his eyes but looked at John suspiciously.
"Then why are you so afraid?" he asked.
John took a deep breath. Why was he so afraid? He knew, as a medical professional, that what he had told Sherlock was the truth. The odds of anything going wrong were slim. Of course, things could always go wrong in a surgery. And yes, this was brain surgery, obviously more high-risk than, say, having one's gall bladder removed but still…
“I know you, Sherlock,” John heard himself say. And now that he’d started, he saw that the answer had always been sitting there, just waiting for the question to be asked.
"If something were to go wrong, if you were left with your faculties dulled or lessened in any way… Well, I know how difficult that would be for you. To live in this world having been something extraordinary, and then to be brought down amongst the rest of us poor sods. I can't see that lasting very long. From your standpoint, life would be permanently dull. And wherever you've got those things hidden, those things you used to take to make your world less dull… Well, I doubt they'd stay hidden for long. And what then, Sherlock? What could I do for you, then? I don't know how I could leave, but I don't think I could watch that either. That's why I'm afraid. I know the statistics, but I can't make the ugly 'what ifs' shut the bloody hell up."
There was a moment of silence before Sherlock responded. "You are probably right. I would be lying if I said that I hadn't considered how I would cope with…." He let the sentence trail off. "I did check into some… sources." He paused. "But it would not be ongoing, I assure you. I wasn't thinking of prolonging my situation." John's head shot up at the implications of that, but Sherlock ignored his reaction, "But setting that aside, I'm not sure I understand you, John. I imagine you would be long gone by then."
"Gone? Where would I go?" John was completely perplexed by Sherlock's statement.
"I think the question is, why would you stay?" Sherlock answered. "What would be left for you? No more danger. No more excitement. That is why you are here, after all. You crave it as much as I do. I know I'm not an easy person, John. I don't pretend to think that you are here simply for the pleasure of my company."
Gobsmacked didn't begin to cover how John felt as the full weight of Sherlock's words settled upon him. Was this what the man really thought? That the only thing keeping him at 221B was the adrenaline rush of the "game." John found himself getting angry, though he was self-aware enough to realise that the underlying emotion fueling that anger was pain. After all that they had been through together, the sacrifices John had made, had been willing to make? The thought that Sherlock saw their partnership as more a loose agreement than a friendship, and therefore easily breakable should inconvenient circumstances present themselves, well, that stung. More than stung. John felt as though he might be sick. He dropped his hand from Sherlock's arm, letting it fall to the space between them on the bed.
"I am here because you are my friend," he said, his voice quiet but heated. "I may have stayed at first for the danger and the excitement. I won't lie about that. But I'm not a sadist. And I don't have a death fetish. I didn't kill that cabbie or offer to die for you because it was thrilling for me." He felt the words pushing up out of him, and he feared he might say something he regretted, but now that the words were coming, he couldn't stop. "You are… Damn it, you are absolutely the most important person to me. I can't really explain that. I've tried, and frankly, I've more or less given up. Because I don't understand it. Not one bit. I just know that I don’t want to be anywhere else. Or with anyone else."
Sherlock's eyebrows rose, both surprise and confusion evident on his features.
"Yeah, I know." John said. "But I don't mean it like that. I don't fancy you. Not like that, anyway." He stopped, considering. "Or maybe I do. I don't really understand where you fit, Sherlock. I don't think about us like that. I never have. But the longer I'm with you here, the less I want something else. With someone else. I do miss… well, I miss sex. I do. But honestly, that's the only thing missing here for me. And don't think that doesn't weird me out, because it does. It's like I don't have a hook to hang you on. There's no neat box. Which I suppose is to be expected with you. You'll never fit into any box, neat or otherwise. But I can't leave. I don't want to leave. No matter what happens tomorrow or the day after. But if things don't go well? And you turn to… whatever it is you think will help you cope with that? To watch you destroy yourself? That… well, that I don't think I can do. Short of that, Sherlock, I will be here. So long as you want me to be here."
John had closed his eyes, not entirely sure he wanted to see Sherlock’s reaction to his words. He felt Sherlock shift on the bed and thought for a moment that he was getting up. But no, he was merely rolling toward John. And then John felt the warmth of Sherlock’s hand close over his own hand lying flat on the duvet between them. The long fingers curled slightly, barely squeezing, almost asking permission to be there.
“I… I am sorry. I didn’t realise.”
John turned his hand and intertwined his fingers in Sherlock’s. He squeezed hard, and Sherlock returned the pressure. He opened his eyes to find Sherlock regarding him with curiosity.
“I don’t understand you, John. I thought… well, clearly I was incorrect.” Sherlock stopped, an expression of distaste on his face.
“All that data and you got it… got me… wrong.”
Sherlock huffed in irritation. “Yes, well, that’s hardly fair. I wasn’t trying to deduce anything, was I?”
“No. I suppose you had no need.” John was aware of the sadness in his voice, but he didn’t try to hide it. “I would have thought you’d give me a bit more credit, though, after everything… the cases, Moriarty.”
The man holding his hand was quiet for a long moment. “I’m not used to this, John. I’m not accustomed to someone wanting to be with me. Wanting to spend time with me, that is. Of their own free will. People need me. The police. Clients. Perhaps they grudgingly respect me. But they never like me.”
“So, what, then? You thought I didn’t actually like you but was staying just for the adrenalin fix?”
“Not entirely, no. But you don’t always like me, John, you can’t deny that.”
“No, I don’t. Sometimes you’re a right bastard.” He took a breath and let it out slowly. “But I love you, for whatever that’s worth. I don’t quite know myself what it’s worth, but there it is. And most of the time, Sherlock, most of the time, I do like you.”
Sherlock looked stunned. It was the first time John could recall seeing the detective genuinely speechless and he took the opportunity to return to the subject that had brought them to this point in the first place.
“Look, you’re not alone. Whatever happens, we’ll handle it together. I may not have your brains, but there’s a lot I’m quite good at. Mostly things you’re not good at, interestingly.” He poked Sherlock in the ribs and ignored the resulting frown. “That works out well, I think. So, together? Deal?”
He poked Sherlock again and Sherlock batted at him, the frown smoothing out slightly, though he struggled to maintain it.
“Yes. Fine,” Sherlock said. And then, more quietly, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And…”
“Yes?”
“I am sorry. You’ve never been like other people with me. I do know that. It was a disservice to judge you alongside other people. I should have trusted that you are exactly as you seem to be. You’ve never given me reason to do otherwise. I am grateful to have you as a… as my friend, John. I don’t say it, I know. But I do value your friendship. Very much.”
It was John’s turn to be stunned, but he managed a rough, “Thank you.” Clearing his throat, he took his hand from Sherlock’s and started to get up from the bed. He had said all he could and Sherlock had said more than he would ever have expected. Plus, the younger man needed to sleep. They both did. But Sherlock touched the sleeve of his jumper, and he immediately stopped.
“What did Mycroft give you?” Sherlock asked.
It took John a second to process the question. The previous 20 minutes had pushed Mycroft’s gift from his mind and he was now suddenly aware of the corner of the small box cutting into his upper thigh.
“You heard that, did you?”
“Parts of it. My ears started ringing. I never thought I’d be annoyed at not being able to hear Mycroft’s voice.”
John chuckled, but he reached out a hand and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder, now fully aware of the fear underlying his friend’s seemingly cavalier attitude, and left it there, realising it was a comfort to him as well.
“How is it now? The ringing?”
“Annoying. But not as bad. Answer my question.”
John dug the box from his pocket with his free hand. He held it out to Sherlock, who took it. John saw a fleeting expression of surprise cross his features as he held it up in the dim light.
“Mycroft didn’t actually give them to me. I mean, they weren’t from him. He said they were from your mother,” John clarified.
Sherlock glanced up at the statement, understanding replacing the surprise. He opened the lid and made a small noise, as of some supposition being confirmed.
“Do you want the light?” John asked, already reaching for the bedside lamp.
“No,” Sherlock replied. “I don’t need it. I recognise them.”
“You recognise them?” John asked, puzzled.
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “They belonged to my father.” He let out a short laugh and John caught a murmured, “Oh, Mummy….”
He handed the box back to John, flashing the same quirk of a smile that John so frequently saw on Mycroft’s features. “Welcome to the family, John.”
John opened and closed his mouth. And then did it again. “God help me,” he finally said, and looked at Sherlock. The tension that had been sitting in the pit of his stomach uncoiled then and John began to laugh. He lowered his forehead to the pillow next to Sherlock as it bubbled up and spilled uncontrollably from him. There was a brief moment of silence and then Sherlock’s rich, deep laugh -- his true, full laugh, so rare that John was nearly shaken from his own outburst by it -- joined in.