Friends are hard to come by today
Quite a time I've posted something here, I know. I've spent a ridiculous amount of time with that what follows under the cut, sorry. I'm also still working on the OTP Challenge, only moved to my Tumblr account with it because it really seemed out of character for me:) Next week I am about to start writing for the Modernize Doyle festival which should be HUGE. I don't think I'll manage. But back to the present.
This one is a fulfillment of a prompt given to me by the amazing swissmarg: Sherlock decides he has romantic feelings for John, but he wonders if that's just because John is his only friend. He sets out to make more friends in order to test the theory.
It's my very first fic hat's been actually betaed undying thanks go to AlwaysNifty who wasted two weeks of her life trying to fight off all the mistakes I've made - all those that remained are my own. She really did a marvelous job, you should see the original draft after it returned to me, all screaming with red. It made me rethink my writing ambitions altogether.
Yeah, and it got fluffy in the process. I apologize.
Sherlock was glad he was born an Englishman because it meant touching was frowned upon until strictly necessary.
Take, for example, the Southern-Europeans and their ridiculous cheek pecking between total strangers, or the way the French will throw themselves at you, and hug you with the enthusiasm of a Saint Bernard. Disgusting.
Sherlock barely even ever took his gloves down to shake hands. Sure, there was Mrs. Hudson, whom he would let hug him affectionately, and whom he would peck on the cheek with a loud smack of his lips, but Mrs. Hudson had always been an exception, something between a piece of furniture and a household pet. He didn’t feel like snails had been crawling up his skin when he touched her
Neither her, nor John. Interesting.
Sherlock’s notorious reluctance to touch never appeared to be a problem when it came to John. He could lay a hand on John’s back and shove him out of the door when they were in a rush. He could lean over John when he sat by his laptop, ridicule his blog entries, and accept a nudge of John’s elbow in the ribs without getting outraged. He could walk side by side with John on the street, the sleeves of their jackets brushing occasionally, and feel comfortable. He could even let John search through his pockets for his phone and remain still. He would never ask such a favour of Molly because he was sure that he would jump involuntarily away the moment she laid a finger on him.
What, exactly, was the difference?
He knew why he avoided the human touch: it simply provided too much information to process. It was like an automatic reaction of the irises, the way they contract when exposed to an excess of light. His brain obviously lacked the necessary filters to stop almost every touch of human skin on his own feeling like a branding iron. The question was, why did the same not apply to John? He treated John as if John was an extension of his own body, his own flesh and bone, but with skin a bit more tanned and wrinkled…
He studied the wrinkles on John’s forehead, kneeling in front of the sofa where his flatmate had fallen asleep and was now snoring lightly, head supported on his elbow, an expression of utter contentment and peace around his closed eyes. Sherlock found himself fascinated by those little lines on his friend’s face, imprinted there by age, laughter, and frowns. Such an expressive face, so unlike his own which was devoid of such lines because he was younger, and loathed to contort his face into useless emotions.
Sherlock wondered how that skin would feel when compared to the porcelain smoothness of his own. He stopped his finger, barely an inch from John’s temple, just in time. Not the best way to rouse him from his sleep. Army training was still ingrained deeply in John, and Sherlock had no intention of ending up in a headlock any time soon.
The urge to touch, however, to examine closely what was before him refused to dissipate. Sherlock felt like he did in the middle of an experiment that was fascinating and demanding of his attention. Suddenly, he knew that what he felt under his fingertips would never be enough; a much more thorough examination was needed. He felt an impulsive hunger for information; a feeling so closely affiliated to a real, physical hunger that it made his mouth water and he parted his lips unconsciously. Perhaps he could sample even more data with his lips? He moved closer to catch the faintest trace of John’s smell and wondered how his skin would taste, in what way exactly it would yield to the pressure and if his growing stubble would scratch…
He backed away abruptly, blinked several times before his surroundings returned back to its original level of brightness and exhaled cautiously. Did he really try to kiss his sleeping flatmate just now?
Of course not. He had merely got lost in his analytical reverie. He had been focusing so hard that his control had slipped and he had instinct control his actions. The instinct, in this case, was the rather annoying primal imperative to engage the senses he rarely uses with humans, touch, taste, smell, all at once. A stupid, degrading mistake, but of course logical in a way when one considered the greater number of nerve endings in human lips compared to those in the fingertips. The instinct of a newborn infant within first seconds after the delivery, pursing his little mouth to seek for the nipple. Sherlock wondered briefly if he would be more acclimated to the sensation of touch had he spent his first months latched onto his mother’s bosom, but Mummy Holmes entrusted the welfare of her sons in the capable hands of nannies equipped with formula milk.
Maybe this instinctive behaviour is what kissing is all about, he realized. He had never understood why people engaged willingly in such a tedious and unsanitary activity, but now the dots had started to align. The human brain is not of much use when it is flooded with hormones, so in such moments some basic instinct must take over that follows the procedures set up by mammal instincts.
Okay. No more dancing about the words. He really did try to kiss John. Now the next logical question was, why? Sherlock sighed almost imperceptibly and rose from the carpet; he felt a slight ache in his knees - how long has he been sitting here exactly? He retired to his bedroom to think. He needed to carefully outline the next steps.
On the sofa, John shifted his arm slightly to lie more comfortably and smiled to himself.
***
“So, how are you two doing? Any progress?”
Sarah was lovely, she had freckled cheeks that were flushed with a bit too much peach vodka, and she smiled so infectiously that John found himself laughing along.
Had anyone else asked him that question, even in his current state of inebriation, he would have been annoyed. When Sarah asked, however, he wasn’t overly bothered. She was the only one of his dates who remained on friendly terms with him after they had broken up. John thinks sometimes that it’s because she had her suspicions all along. She was a miracle of a woman, not to feel imposed upon, and he liked her all the more for that.
“Find me a man who knows what’s going on in that crazy head of his and I’ll call him a witch,” he said slightly incoherently. The beer had been taking its toll.
“I know I could do with a bit of progress, but he- he’s Sherlock. You know him.”
“Look, the man must have at least predilections.”
John was dimly aware that having such a conversation about his asocial friend was a bit not good, but there were worse things happening at the clinic Christmas party, as far as he could tell. The beer was getting to him, loosening his tongue, and he leaned in confidently.
“Actually, I’m about to throw in the towel. I don’t think he’s capable of fancying anyone. Even the Adler woman - and she was a stunner, mind you - lost any appeal she had on him the moment he cracked her password. Sometimes, I think that the only woman capable of turning him on is Marie Curie, and she’s out of play.”
Sarah nibbled at the lemon slice with delight and said casually:
“Has he ever shown any signs of being attracted to men?”
“As long as we’re all idiots to him, not a chance,” John sighed.
***
“I think I could go for lunch now as well,” Molly hesitated, eyeing the clock and the door to the morgue by turns. The new assistant assigned to her department had left through the door only five seconds ago, and she could see the irresolute shape of him through the milk glass, torn between leaving and waiting for her.
“Take your time,” Sherlock answered dismissively, “Though I’d say it should take him less than a half an hour to ask you out.”
Okay. So he had noticed too. Molly blushed almost gratefully, being glad that her impression of that assistant wasn’t just her wild imagination, but confirmed by the world’s most observant man.
“Office romances,” she giggled. “I can only hope that this one isn’t also just using me to get to you. That would be the death of me.”
Sherlock’s eyes didn’t leave the microscope, but his usual acidic lecturing tone was softened by an unmistakable smirk: “Based on the latest research, office romances are no good for the workplace atmosphere.”
“Oh, these things are just bound to happen,” Molly laughed.
“Why’s that?”
“Well, for one thing, how much time to date do we have outside the hospital? Here we are all in the same boat. Besides, it’s easier to have a romance with a friend. Sometimes, it’s inevitable.”
Oh. The question ‘why’ was suddenly answered.
Molly rushed away happily, following inevitably her obviously very interested young suitor, while Sherlock remained in, frowning deeply.
Maybe the reason behind all of his unusual tendencies of late is quite simple after all. John is his only friend. Then there’s, logically, only one thing that can be done to verify this hypothesis.
***
Despite the late hour, John wasn’t surprised to come home and find the flat empty. He checked all of the usual places for notes, but wasn’t surprised either when he didn’t find any. After all, it was nice to have the flat all to himself and his splitting headache - he really shouldn’t mix vodka and Guinness - and to be welcomed by blessed silence instead of the disapproving screech of the violin.
He paused to listen to the unmistakable noise of a roaring drunk horde moving down Baker Street later on after he emerged from the bathroom, rubbing his wet hair and feeling a tad better. It was a Saturday night, after all, and this end of Baker Street has always been a bit busy.
He was genuinely shocked when the noise did not get past their door, but stopped in front of it instead, and started ringing the doorbell repetitively. John thanked the Providence that Mrs. Hudson was staying at her sister’s tonight, and rushed downstairs to answer the door grabbing one of Sherlock’s golf clubs just in case.
“Sherlock! What the hell happened?”
Sherlock swayed back and forth on the step, supported by the rather unsteady hands of his laughing companions, and barely seemed to remember his own name, as he was sort of thrown, sort of collapsed into John’s unprepared arms.
“Ith obli…oblivi… oblivicious, John,” Sherlock hiccupped twice.
“You’re drunk?” John felt himself sobering rapidly. Sherlock was now oblivious to him pointing out the obvious, which was an almost vicious sign indeed
“Well! Home alright, mate! You owe us one!” shouted the least drunk of the lot. John didn’t recognize a single one of them. He wasn’t paying close attention to them anyway; too busy trying to prevent Sherlock from nestling under the stairs for the rest of the night.
“Thee you… next Thaturday, right?” Sherlock mumbled lazily, and was rewarded by another outburst of alcoholic laughter from the staggering bunch already on their way off. John slammed the door rather unceremoniously and bent over his flat mate who had managed to stretch himself languidly over the first few steps of their staircase.
“Well, that was tedious.”
The lisp was gone and suddenly John wondered how drunk Sherlock actually was. He had seen him pretending to be drunk before, so this wasn’t exactly new. John succeeded in hauling him off the floor, but navigation did not seem to be high on the list of Sherlock’s priorities.
“Got drunk for a case and overdid it a bit? You could have brought me… with you… at least for… the safety on the way… home,” he complained a bit incoherently; the solid weight of Sherlock over his shoulder was making progress on the stairs a bit difficult. His own balance issues were not helping either.
“Don’t exami…exagge…generate things, John. Been hanging out with friends, that’s all.” John almost dropped him all the way back down at this.
“The friends you don’t have, as far as I remember?” It was a bit mean of him and he knew it but he saw no reason for kindness having had a limp body of a half-unconscious detective hanging round his neck.
“Am I not allowed to get some?” was the rather annoyed reply. “I’ve tried… a well time-tested method, you see.”
John wasn’t sure if his hearing could get any better from just shaking his head, so he gave it up. He manhandled the wreck of a detective into his bedroom, managed to disrobe him of his coat, and tossed him on the bed, having had some practice with that at least.
“You went out to get drunk with a group of total strangers you ran into at a bar. Sherlock, what’s this all about? You lose a bet to Lestrade or what?”
“I’m not a betting man,” Sherlock groaned indignantly and buried his face in the mattress. Then he seemed to remember something and he fumbled through his pocket with uncoordinated fingers.
“They were frie-endly enough. One of them gave me his nu-humber at that.” He handed the scrap of paper over to John like a piece of evidence beaming triumphantly between the hiccups. John squinted on the number incredulously, then frowned and fished his phone out, and checked his phonebook to be sure. Oh God.
“I’m afraid they played an awful prank at you,” he said with just a hint of malicious joy.
“Hmmm-mm?”
“This number. It’s for the Psychiatry Clinic on Harley Street. I happen to know that because my therapist has her consulting rooms there.”
“Fuck,” Sherlock concluded with a disarming honesty of a drunk. “I need to get friends, John,” he announced prophetically and fell asleep in the next moment.
John held his breath and counted to ten.
***
“Off to get drunk again?”
Even John knew the absurdity of the question because he watched Sherlock brushing some non-existent specks of dust off the sleeve of his best suit, so Sherlock didn’t dignify that with a denial. He checked on his appearance once more and turned round, satisfied smirk on his impeccable face
“I’m off to the Conundrum, a club associating people with a passion for riddles and rebuses. I happen to be a member.”
John almost choked on his tea. “You- member of a club? When did hell freeze over?”
“I don’t know anything about the weather conditions in the underworld, but I’ve been a member of that club since yesterday. Actually, I got the invitation months ago from one of my clients, but I hadn’t deemed it worthy of notice then.”
The last eight words were the only that made any sense to John. Those before that, he simply failed to process. He focused on the plain facts instead.
“And you changed your mind- yesterday. Did I miss the National Torture Sherlock Week? If this is for a case, why won’t you tell me?”
Such loyalty would have been endearing under different circumstances but now, Sherlock only rolled his eyes
“I can assure you this is purely for pleasure, John. The company of friends with mutual likes can be stimulating.”
John wasn’t sure if he ever heard Sherlock utter the words “pleasure” and “company” in the same sentence. There was something strange going on and he decided to get to the bottom of it
“Sure. Fine. Whatever. Mind if I join?”
“If you must.”
John knew instantly that he indeed had to despite the sudden presentiment that he really shouldn’t want to
***
“Well, that was…”
“Disastrous?” John prompted swiftly as they walked the streets on their way home some two hours later.
“I am perfectly able to vocalize my own thoughts,” Sherlock snapped.
“I know, I know,” John murmured soothingly. “You just had three glasses of really good single malt not twenty minutes ago, and you have some funny articulation issues when you’re drunk…”
“For one thing, I’m not drunk, for another that is a preposterous insinuation you just mentioned and I expect not to hear about it again.”
“Okay,” John smiled to himself at the off-hand demonstration of Sherlock’s favourite multi-syllabic words. “It really doesn’t matter how you put it. It was a disaster anyway.”
“Quite true,” Sherlock sighed. “But I can’t see where I went wrong.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have guessed the word in Hangman before the rest of them found the first letter.” John suggested.
“I didn’t guess it.” John made a mental note that single malt Scotch put Sherlock in an incurable state of denial.
“I deduced it. It was obvious beyond measure that the man was ridiculously proud of his Welsh origin and that he would choose that infamous village name…”
“But the point of the game is to play, Sherlock; at least for a while. Get the stick man… you know… hanged a bit.”
“They shouldn’t pick such easily deducible words,” Sherlock protested. “Was I really supposed to sit there pretending that I hadn’t a clue?”
“You’re just too clever for them,” John patted his shoulder.
“With their claims that they value intelligence above all, I would have thought that they would have appreciated it.”
“Maybe they would have, if you hadn’t done it four times in a row.”
***
Sherlock would never admit aloud that he liked the variability of John’s facial expressions. His doctor didn’t have to employ flourish vocabulary as Sherlock often did because he could convey the same meaning, portraying various levels of surprise, dismay, exasperation, or shock, just through a few mundane phrases and an accompanying movement of his eyebrow. On the top of that, John had a strange habit of blinking repeatedly while the rest of his face remained fixed in some non-committal expression, whenever the things he saw brought the gears in his brain to a screeching halt.
John was making such an expression now where he stood in the doorway. His fluttering eyelashes seemed to be spelling out What the hell is that in Morse-code while waiting for his short-circuited brain to catch up.
It had looked like they had a friendly visit to their living room, judging by the state of things. There was a half empty bottle of wine and two glasses on the table, and the flat smelled of fresh home-made biscuits. Except John hadn’t been expecting anyone, and, on closer inspection, the respectable gentleman in the chair opposite of Sherlock looked rather… terrified.
Maybe this was due to the fact that Sherlock was positively beaming with cordiality.
“You’re early tonight, John.”
“Uhm, the hospital wasn’t very busy this evening, you know. Care to introduce me?”
“Of course, how stupid of me.” Did Sherlock really say that? With a smile?
“This is Professor Larson from the Royal Observatory in Greenwich. We just had a lovely discussion concerning the effects of libration on the intensity of the tidal wave.”
“Yes indeed, but now I really should be heading home…” the elder man snatched this opportunity to get up from his chair and shake John’s hand with something approaching gratitude.
“I’ll see you out,” John nodded, handed him his coat and accompanied him to the door, desperately trying to figure out what a Professor of Astronomy could be doing in their flat, apart from struggling to hold onto his sanity, obviously.
“I’ve never known Sherlock to be interested in astronomy,” he ventured at last.
“Oh, I could tell that,” the gentleman clicked his tongue. “But things got much easier to explain once he grasped the fact that the Moon’s revolving around the Earth and not the Sun.”
This just wasn’t happening.
“Though I must give him some credit for picking things up quickly. He does have a strange habit of addressing that horrible skull on the mantelpiece half of the time…” the man sighed.
“Yeah, you mean Rory?” John chuckled darkly. “A friend of his, and when I say friend…”
The Professor eyed him with the expression of a man that has found himself locked in an insane asylum. After the nightfall. With all the fuses gone.
“You’re in the same boat, aren’t you? Oh no.”
John closed the door after him, careful not to laugh while he was still in the earshot; this was only a short amount of time as the man fled Baker Street as quickly as he could.
“How do people ever make friends without causing irrevocable damage to their liver?” Sherlock muttered, swallowing the rest of his wine in one go and pouring the remaining wine in the Professor’s glass down the sink mercilessly.
“How did you even come across that poor man?” John leaned against the door frame. “By the way, could I have some? Smells delicious.”
“Serve yourself,” Sherlock waved his hand absent-mindedly. “And as to your inappropriately stated question, he’s one of Mycroft’s acquaintances.”
“You asked Mycroft to introduce you?” John never expected the evening to take such a funny turn. In fact it was rather cruel of him to be so amused by the pained face Sherlock made, acknowledging that yes, indeed, he owed Mycroft a favour.
“And you’ve let yourself be lectured about astronomy. I never took you for the masochistic type.”
“I don’t need your compassion, John, but I won’t suffer your ridicule either,” Sherlock warned angrily. “It was a logical path to take. It certainly should not have failed so spectacularly.”
“Your observational skills are getting better if you can see that it was indeed a failure,” John remarked dryly. “What exactly did you do?”
Sherlock folded his arms in self-defense. “After that fiasco at the club, I assumed that it was the fact that I am on a level of intelligence unattainable to the others that made my presence insufferable. Apparently, for a successful social interaction all parties must take turns listening to each other.”
John wondered how different Sherlock’s life had he figured this out some twenty-five years earlier.
“So you’ve picked up a topic that you don’t know a thing about so that it would force you to keep your mouth shut for a while.” John was sure that Sherlock would phrase it differently but the meaning would be the same.
“Basically, yes.” Sherlock seemed so frustrated that he didn’t bother about decency any more. He ran a hand through his already tousled curls and began to pace the room in his characteristic I’m-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-case fashion.
“I have tried everything to get myself some friends. Why can’t I succeed?”
“I am your friend, you know?” John volunteered softly.
“I am well aware of that fact, John.” Did Sherlock sounded just a bit disappointed?
“Then why are so keen on making others just now?”
“It was essential… to verify a hypothesis.” Sherlock muttered guiltily.
“I knew it would be something like that,” John sighed. “You wouldn’t go to such pains out of a sheer altruism. What hypothesis?”
“…”
“Tell me.”
Sherlock stopped dead in front of the mantelpiece and eyed the skull pleadingly as if asking it for help.
“It would seem… I think that… I’ve found myself attracted to you lately,” he blurted out finally, obviously angry with himself. The rest of the words followed more smoothly and with growing confidence, once the floodgates had opened.
“It has occurred to me that this romantic attachment might be simply an unforeseen side effect of you being my only friend. Thus, I set out to make some others to see if I would be able even shake hands with them without feeling nauseated but they all found me insufferable. How do you put up with me, John? How do you stand me?”
Sherlock paced the room again while he spoke, the speed of his aimless wandering growing with the desperation of his speech, and then he stopped by the window and turned his back on John, unable to look at him. This was for the best because John wasn’t sure if he could suppress his smile a second longer.
“Has it ever crossed your mind that it might be the other way round?”
John got up and wandered over to his friend, putting a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder and turning him face to him.
“You’ve tried to rationalize friendship. You’ve assumed that it could only exist based on the foundations of equality, with someone who has the same tastes that you have. But look at me- you called me an idiot before you knew my middle name. Why do you put up with me? Couldn’t it be… well… that you were attracted to me first?”
Sherlock’s state of mind was like a jigsaw puzzle with some pieces missing.
“Just let me tell you this: You are insufferable. I think that the only reason why I can stand it is that I might have… well… fallen for you right from the start.”
John never thought he would blush saying it aloud, so many times had he replayed this scenario in his head, but now he felt the heat rising to face, mirrored by the equal shade on the face of his friend.
“You did…?” The voice was so small that it went right to the bottom of John’s heart.
“Yes, I did. And so did you; though sometimes I thought you’d never figure it out.”
John smoothed the mess of hair from Sherlock’s temple and his touch wasn’t nauseating in the least. In fact, it was quite the opposite and Sherlock leaned into it as if he was a metal splinter trapped in the magnetic field of his friend, unable to move away. John’s eyes were full of warmth and understanding and Sherlock suddenly wished that he could not only touch him, but to mould onto him, fuse with him, make their bodies merge, he wished that he could seep into John’s skin and make himself a inseparable part of him, he wished that he could become ink and tattoo himself on John’s chest. He clung to him as if the world depended on it and he was dimly aware that his breath got lost somewhere, but he was more than sure he could breathe if only he could use John’s lungs. It was a glorious feeling.
This one is a fulfillment of a prompt given to me by the amazing swissmarg: Sherlock decides he has romantic feelings for John, but he wonders if that's just because John is his only friend. He sets out to make more friends in order to test the theory.
It's my very first fic hat's been actually betaed undying thanks go to AlwaysNifty who wasted two weeks of her life trying to fight off all the mistakes I've made - all those that remained are my own. She really did a marvelous job, you should see the original draft after it returned to me, all screaming with red. It made me rethink my writing ambitions altogether.
Yeah, and it got fluffy in the process. I apologize.
Sherlock was glad he was born an Englishman because it meant touching was frowned upon until strictly necessary.
Take, for example, the Southern-Europeans and their ridiculous cheek pecking between total strangers, or the way the French will throw themselves at you, and hug you with the enthusiasm of a Saint Bernard. Disgusting.
Sherlock barely even ever took his gloves down to shake hands. Sure, there was Mrs. Hudson, whom he would let hug him affectionately, and whom he would peck on the cheek with a loud smack of his lips, but Mrs. Hudson had always been an exception, something between a piece of furniture and a household pet. He didn’t feel like snails had been crawling up his skin when he touched her
Neither her, nor John. Interesting.
Sherlock’s notorious reluctance to touch never appeared to be a problem when it came to John. He could lay a hand on John’s back and shove him out of the door when they were in a rush. He could lean over John when he sat by his laptop, ridicule his blog entries, and accept a nudge of John’s elbow in the ribs without getting outraged. He could walk side by side with John on the street, the sleeves of their jackets brushing occasionally, and feel comfortable. He could even let John search through his pockets for his phone and remain still. He would never ask such a favour of Molly because he was sure that he would jump involuntarily away the moment she laid a finger on him.
What, exactly, was the difference?
He knew why he avoided the human touch: it simply provided too much information to process. It was like an automatic reaction of the irises, the way they contract when exposed to an excess of light. His brain obviously lacked the necessary filters to stop almost every touch of human skin on his own feeling like a branding iron. The question was, why did the same not apply to John? He treated John as if John was an extension of his own body, his own flesh and bone, but with skin a bit more tanned and wrinkled…
He studied the wrinkles on John’s forehead, kneeling in front of the sofa where his flatmate had fallen asleep and was now snoring lightly, head supported on his elbow, an expression of utter contentment and peace around his closed eyes. Sherlock found himself fascinated by those little lines on his friend’s face, imprinted there by age, laughter, and frowns. Such an expressive face, so unlike his own which was devoid of such lines because he was younger, and loathed to contort his face into useless emotions.
Sherlock wondered how that skin would feel when compared to the porcelain smoothness of his own. He stopped his finger, barely an inch from John’s temple, just in time. Not the best way to rouse him from his sleep. Army training was still ingrained deeply in John, and Sherlock had no intention of ending up in a headlock any time soon.
The urge to touch, however, to examine closely what was before him refused to dissipate. Sherlock felt like he did in the middle of an experiment that was fascinating and demanding of his attention. Suddenly, he knew that what he felt under his fingertips would never be enough; a much more thorough examination was needed. He felt an impulsive hunger for information; a feeling so closely affiliated to a real, physical hunger that it made his mouth water and he parted his lips unconsciously. Perhaps he could sample even more data with his lips? He moved closer to catch the faintest trace of John’s smell and wondered how his skin would taste, in what way exactly it would yield to the pressure and if his growing stubble would scratch…
He backed away abruptly, blinked several times before his surroundings returned back to its original level of brightness and exhaled cautiously. Did he really try to kiss his sleeping flatmate just now?
Of course not. He had merely got lost in his analytical reverie. He had been focusing so hard that his control had slipped and he had instinct control his actions. The instinct, in this case, was the rather annoying primal imperative to engage the senses he rarely uses with humans, touch, taste, smell, all at once. A stupid, degrading mistake, but of course logical in a way when one considered the greater number of nerve endings in human lips compared to those in the fingertips. The instinct of a newborn infant within first seconds after the delivery, pursing his little mouth to seek for the nipple. Sherlock wondered briefly if he would be more acclimated to the sensation of touch had he spent his first months latched onto his mother’s bosom, but Mummy Holmes entrusted the welfare of her sons in the capable hands of nannies equipped with formula milk.
Maybe this instinctive behaviour is what kissing is all about, he realized. He had never understood why people engaged willingly in such a tedious and unsanitary activity, but now the dots had started to align. The human brain is not of much use when it is flooded with hormones, so in such moments some basic instinct must take over that follows the procedures set up by mammal instincts.
Okay. No more dancing about the words. He really did try to kiss John. Now the next logical question was, why? Sherlock sighed almost imperceptibly and rose from the carpet; he felt a slight ache in his knees - how long has he been sitting here exactly? He retired to his bedroom to think. He needed to carefully outline the next steps.
On the sofa, John shifted his arm slightly to lie more comfortably and smiled to himself.
***
“So, how are you two doing? Any progress?”
Sarah was lovely, she had freckled cheeks that were flushed with a bit too much peach vodka, and she smiled so infectiously that John found himself laughing along.
Had anyone else asked him that question, even in his current state of inebriation, he would have been annoyed. When Sarah asked, however, he wasn’t overly bothered. She was the only one of his dates who remained on friendly terms with him after they had broken up. John thinks sometimes that it’s because she had her suspicions all along. She was a miracle of a woman, not to feel imposed upon, and he liked her all the more for that.
“Find me a man who knows what’s going on in that crazy head of his and I’ll call him a witch,” he said slightly incoherently. The beer had been taking its toll.
“I know I could do with a bit of progress, but he- he’s Sherlock. You know him.”
“Look, the man must have at least predilections.”
John was dimly aware that having such a conversation about his asocial friend was a bit not good, but there were worse things happening at the clinic Christmas party, as far as he could tell. The beer was getting to him, loosening his tongue, and he leaned in confidently.
“Actually, I’m about to throw in the towel. I don’t think he’s capable of fancying anyone. Even the Adler woman - and she was a stunner, mind you - lost any appeal she had on him the moment he cracked her password. Sometimes, I think that the only woman capable of turning him on is Marie Curie, and she’s out of play.”
Sarah nibbled at the lemon slice with delight and said casually:
“Has he ever shown any signs of being attracted to men?”
“As long as we’re all idiots to him, not a chance,” John sighed.
***
“I think I could go for lunch now as well,” Molly hesitated, eyeing the clock and the door to the morgue by turns. The new assistant assigned to her department had left through the door only five seconds ago, and she could see the irresolute shape of him through the milk glass, torn between leaving and waiting for her.
“Take your time,” Sherlock answered dismissively, “Though I’d say it should take him less than a half an hour to ask you out.”
Okay. So he had noticed too. Molly blushed almost gratefully, being glad that her impression of that assistant wasn’t just her wild imagination, but confirmed by the world’s most observant man.
“Office romances,” she giggled. “I can only hope that this one isn’t also just using me to get to you. That would be the death of me.”
Sherlock’s eyes didn’t leave the microscope, but his usual acidic lecturing tone was softened by an unmistakable smirk: “Based on the latest research, office romances are no good for the workplace atmosphere.”
“Oh, these things are just bound to happen,” Molly laughed.
“Why’s that?”
“Well, for one thing, how much time to date do we have outside the hospital? Here we are all in the same boat. Besides, it’s easier to have a romance with a friend. Sometimes, it’s inevitable.”
Oh. The question ‘why’ was suddenly answered.
Molly rushed away happily, following inevitably her obviously very interested young suitor, while Sherlock remained in, frowning deeply.
Maybe the reason behind all of his unusual tendencies of late is quite simple after all. John is his only friend. Then there’s, logically, only one thing that can be done to verify this hypothesis.
***
Despite the late hour, John wasn’t surprised to come home and find the flat empty. He checked all of the usual places for notes, but wasn’t surprised either when he didn’t find any. After all, it was nice to have the flat all to himself and his splitting headache - he really shouldn’t mix vodka and Guinness - and to be welcomed by blessed silence instead of the disapproving screech of the violin.
He paused to listen to the unmistakable noise of a roaring drunk horde moving down Baker Street later on after he emerged from the bathroom, rubbing his wet hair and feeling a tad better. It was a Saturday night, after all, and this end of Baker Street has always been a bit busy.
He was genuinely shocked when the noise did not get past their door, but stopped in front of it instead, and started ringing the doorbell repetitively. John thanked the Providence that Mrs. Hudson was staying at her sister’s tonight, and rushed downstairs to answer the door grabbing one of Sherlock’s golf clubs just in case.
“Sherlock! What the hell happened?”
Sherlock swayed back and forth on the step, supported by the rather unsteady hands of his laughing companions, and barely seemed to remember his own name, as he was sort of thrown, sort of collapsed into John’s unprepared arms.
“Ith obli…oblivi… oblivicious, John,” Sherlock hiccupped twice.
“You’re drunk?” John felt himself sobering rapidly. Sherlock was now oblivious to him pointing out the obvious, which was an almost vicious sign indeed
“Well! Home alright, mate! You owe us one!” shouted the least drunk of the lot. John didn’t recognize a single one of them. He wasn’t paying close attention to them anyway; too busy trying to prevent Sherlock from nestling under the stairs for the rest of the night.
“Thee you… next Thaturday, right?” Sherlock mumbled lazily, and was rewarded by another outburst of alcoholic laughter from the staggering bunch already on their way off. John slammed the door rather unceremoniously and bent over his flat mate who had managed to stretch himself languidly over the first few steps of their staircase.
“Well, that was tedious.”
The lisp was gone and suddenly John wondered how drunk Sherlock actually was. He had seen him pretending to be drunk before, so this wasn’t exactly new. John succeeded in hauling him off the floor, but navigation did not seem to be high on the list of Sherlock’s priorities.
“Got drunk for a case and overdid it a bit? You could have brought me… with you… at least for… the safety on the way… home,” he complained a bit incoherently; the solid weight of Sherlock over his shoulder was making progress on the stairs a bit difficult. His own balance issues were not helping either.
“Don’t exami…exagge…generate things, John. Been hanging out with friends, that’s all.” John almost dropped him all the way back down at this.
“The friends you don’t have, as far as I remember?” It was a bit mean of him and he knew it but he saw no reason for kindness having had a limp body of a half-unconscious detective hanging round his neck.
“Am I not allowed to get some?” was the rather annoyed reply. “I’ve tried… a well time-tested method, you see.”
John wasn’t sure if his hearing could get any better from just shaking his head, so he gave it up. He manhandled the wreck of a detective into his bedroom, managed to disrobe him of his coat, and tossed him on the bed, having had some practice with that at least.
“You went out to get drunk with a group of total strangers you ran into at a bar. Sherlock, what’s this all about? You lose a bet to Lestrade or what?”
“I’m not a betting man,” Sherlock groaned indignantly and buried his face in the mattress. Then he seemed to remember something and he fumbled through his pocket with uncoordinated fingers.
“They were frie-endly enough. One of them gave me his nu-humber at that.” He handed the scrap of paper over to John like a piece of evidence beaming triumphantly between the hiccups. John squinted on the number incredulously, then frowned and fished his phone out, and checked his phonebook to be sure. Oh God.
“I’m afraid they played an awful prank at you,” he said with just a hint of malicious joy.
“Hmmm-mm?”
“This number. It’s for the Psychiatry Clinic on Harley Street. I happen to know that because my therapist has her consulting rooms there.”
“Fuck,” Sherlock concluded with a disarming honesty of a drunk. “I need to get friends, John,” he announced prophetically and fell asleep in the next moment.
John held his breath and counted to ten.
***
“Off to get drunk again?”
Even John knew the absurdity of the question because he watched Sherlock brushing some non-existent specks of dust off the sleeve of his best suit, so Sherlock didn’t dignify that with a denial. He checked on his appearance once more and turned round, satisfied smirk on his impeccable face
“I’m off to the Conundrum, a club associating people with a passion for riddles and rebuses. I happen to be a member.”
John almost choked on his tea. “You- member of a club? When did hell freeze over?”
“I don’t know anything about the weather conditions in the underworld, but I’ve been a member of that club since yesterday. Actually, I got the invitation months ago from one of my clients, but I hadn’t deemed it worthy of notice then.”
The last eight words were the only that made any sense to John. Those before that, he simply failed to process. He focused on the plain facts instead.
“And you changed your mind- yesterday. Did I miss the National Torture Sherlock Week? If this is for a case, why won’t you tell me?”
Such loyalty would have been endearing under different circumstances but now, Sherlock only rolled his eyes
“I can assure you this is purely for pleasure, John. The company of friends with mutual likes can be stimulating.”
John wasn’t sure if he ever heard Sherlock utter the words “pleasure” and “company” in the same sentence. There was something strange going on and he decided to get to the bottom of it
“Sure. Fine. Whatever. Mind if I join?”
“If you must.”
John knew instantly that he indeed had to despite the sudden presentiment that he really shouldn’t want to
***
“Well, that was…”
“Disastrous?” John prompted swiftly as they walked the streets on their way home some two hours later.
“I am perfectly able to vocalize my own thoughts,” Sherlock snapped.
“I know, I know,” John murmured soothingly. “You just had three glasses of really good single malt not twenty minutes ago, and you have some funny articulation issues when you’re drunk…”
“For one thing, I’m not drunk, for another that is a preposterous insinuation you just mentioned and I expect not to hear about it again.”
“Okay,” John smiled to himself at the off-hand demonstration of Sherlock’s favourite multi-syllabic words. “It really doesn’t matter how you put it. It was a disaster anyway.”
“Quite true,” Sherlock sighed. “But I can’t see where I went wrong.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have guessed the word in Hangman before the rest of them found the first letter.” John suggested.
“I didn’t guess it.” John made a mental note that single malt Scotch put Sherlock in an incurable state of denial.
“I deduced it. It was obvious beyond measure that the man was ridiculously proud of his Welsh origin and that he would choose that infamous village name…”
“But the point of the game is to play, Sherlock; at least for a while. Get the stick man… you know… hanged a bit.”
“They shouldn’t pick such easily deducible words,” Sherlock protested. “Was I really supposed to sit there pretending that I hadn’t a clue?”
“You’re just too clever for them,” John patted his shoulder.
“With their claims that they value intelligence above all, I would have thought that they would have appreciated it.”
“Maybe they would have, if you hadn’t done it four times in a row.”
***
Sherlock would never admit aloud that he liked the variability of John’s facial expressions. His doctor didn’t have to employ flourish vocabulary as Sherlock often did because he could convey the same meaning, portraying various levels of surprise, dismay, exasperation, or shock, just through a few mundane phrases and an accompanying movement of his eyebrow. On the top of that, John had a strange habit of blinking repeatedly while the rest of his face remained fixed in some non-committal expression, whenever the things he saw brought the gears in his brain to a screeching halt.
John was making such an expression now where he stood in the doorway. His fluttering eyelashes seemed to be spelling out What the hell is that in Morse-code while waiting for his short-circuited brain to catch up.
It had looked like they had a friendly visit to their living room, judging by the state of things. There was a half empty bottle of wine and two glasses on the table, and the flat smelled of fresh home-made biscuits. Except John hadn’t been expecting anyone, and, on closer inspection, the respectable gentleman in the chair opposite of Sherlock looked rather… terrified.
Maybe this was due to the fact that Sherlock was positively beaming with cordiality.
“You’re early tonight, John.”
“Uhm, the hospital wasn’t very busy this evening, you know. Care to introduce me?”
“Of course, how stupid of me.” Did Sherlock really say that? With a smile?
“This is Professor Larson from the Royal Observatory in Greenwich. We just had a lovely discussion concerning the effects of libration on the intensity of the tidal wave.”
“Yes indeed, but now I really should be heading home…” the elder man snatched this opportunity to get up from his chair and shake John’s hand with something approaching gratitude.
“I’ll see you out,” John nodded, handed him his coat and accompanied him to the door, desperately trying to figure out what a Professor of Astronomy could be doing in their flat, apart from struggling to hold onto his sanity, obviously.
“I’ve never known Sherlock to be interested in astronomy,” he ventured at last.
“Oh, I could tell that,” the gentleman clicked his tongue. “But things got much easier to explain once he grasped the fact that the Moon’s revolving around the Earth and not the Sun.”
This just wasn’t happening.
“Though I must give him some credit for picking things up quickly. He does have a strange habit of addressing that horrible skull on the mantelpiece half of the time…” the man sighed.
“Yeah, you mean Rory?” John chuckled darkly. “A friend of his, and when I say friend…”
The Professor eyed him with the expression of a man that has found himself locked in an insane asylum. After the nightfall. With all the fuses gone.
“You’re in the same boat, aren’t you? Oh no.”
John closed the door after him, careful not to laugh while he was still in the earshot; this was only a short amount of time as the man fled Baker Street as quickly as he could.
“How do people ever make friends without causing irrevocable damage to their liver?” Sherlock muttered, swallowing the rest of his wine in one go and pouring the remaining wine in the Professor’s glass down the sink mercilessly.
“How did you even come across that poor man?” John leaned against the door frame. “By the way, could I have some? Smells delicious.”
“Serve yourself,” Sherlock waved his hand absent-mindedly. “And as to your inappropriately stated question, he’s one of Mycroft’s acquaintances.”
“You asked Mycroft to introduce you?” John never expected the evening to take such a funny turn. In fact it was rather cruel of him to be so amused by the pained face Sherlock made, acknowledging that yes, indeed, he owed Mycroft a favour.
“And you’ve let yourself be lectured about astronomy. I never took you for the masochistic type.”
“I don’t need your compassion, John, but I won’t suffer your ridicule either,” Sherlock warned angrily. “It was a logical path to take. It certainly should not have failed so spectacularly.”
“Your observational skills are getting better if you can see that it was indeed a failure,” John remarked dryly. “What exactly did you do?”
Sherlock folded his arms in self-defense. “After that fiasco at the club, I assumed that it was the fact that I am on a level of intelligence unattainable to the others that made my presence insufferable. Apparently, for a successful social interaction all parties must take turns listening to each other.”
John wondered how different Sherlock’s life had he figured this out some twenty-five years earlier.
“So you’ve picked up a topic that you don’t know a thing about so that it would force you to keep your mouth shut for a while.” John was sure that Sherlock would phrase it differently but the meaning would be the same.
“Basically, yes.” Sherlock seemed so frustrated that he didn’t bother about decency any more. He ran a hand through his already tousled curls and began to pace the room in his characteristic I’m-stuck-in-the-middle-of-a-case fashion.
“I have tried everything to get myself some friends. Why can’t I succeed?”
“I am your friend, you know?” John volunteered softly.
“I am well aware of that fact, John.” Did Sherlock sounded just a bit disappointed?
“Then why are so keen on making others just now?”
“It was essential… to verify a hypothesis.” Sherlock muttered guiltily.
“I knew it would be something like that,” John sighed. “You wouldn’t go to such pains out of a sheer altruism. What hypothesis?”
“…”
“Tell me.”
Sherlock stopped dead in front of the mantelpiece and eyed the skull pleadingly as if asking it for help.
“It would seem… I think that… I’ve found myself attracted to you lately,” he blurted out finally, obviously angry with himself. The rest of the words followed more smoothly and with growing confidence, once the floodgates had opened.
“It has occurred to me that this romantic attachment might be simply an unforeseen side effect of you being my only friend. Thus, I set out to make some others to see if I would be able even shake hands with them without feeling nauseated but they all found me insufferable. How do you put up with me, John? How do you stand me?”
Sherlock paced the room again while he spoke, the speed of his aimless wandering growing with the desperation of his speech, and then he stopped by the window and turned his back on John, unable to look at him. This was for the best because John wasn’t sure if he could suppress his smile a second longer.
“Has it ever crossed your mind that it might be the other way round?”
John got up and wandered over to his friend, putting a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder and turning him face to him.
“You’ve tried to rationalize friendship. You’ve assumed that it could only exist based on the foundations of equality, with someone who has the same tastes that you have. But look at me- you called me an idiot before you knew my middle name. Why do you put up with me? Couldn’t it be… well… that you were attracted to me first?”
Sherlock’s state of mind was like a jigsaw puzzle with some pieces missing.
“Just let me tell you this: You are insufferable. I think that the only reason why I can stand it is that I might have… well… fallen for you right from the start.”
John never thought he would blush saying it aloud, so many times had he replayed this scenario in his head, but now he felt the heat rising to face, mirrored by the equal shade on the face of his friend.
“You did…?” The voice was so small that it went right to the bottom of John’s heart.
“Yes, I did. And so did you; though sometimes I thought you’d never figure it out.”
John smoothed the mess of hair from Sherlock’s temple and his touch wasn’t nauseating in the least. In fact, it was quite the opposite and Sherlock leaned into it as if he was a metal splinter trapped in the magnetic field of his friend, unable to move away. John’s eyes were full of warmth and understanding and Sherlock suddenly wished that he could not only touch him, but to mould onto him, fuse with him, make their bodies merge, he wished that he could seep into John’s skin and make himself a inseparable part of him, he wished that he could become ink and tattoo himself on John’s chest. He clung to him as if the world depended on it and he was dimly aware that his breath got lost somewhere, but he was more than sure he could breathe if only he could use John’s lungs. It was a glorious feeling.