Fic: Sherlock, "The Definition of Not-Normal"
Title: The Definition of Not-Normal
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John (UST)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2035
Summary: There's a lot of things about Sherlock Holmes John Watson is having to get used to, including his own feelings for his new flatmate.
A/N: A special thanks to lozenger8 for the beta.
Returning to civilization had one indulgence that John took great pleasure in exploiting: sleeping in. No more early-morning duties, no more uncomfortable cots. He could wake-up whenever he wanted, usually past breakfast. His therapist thought that his skipping breakfast was some sign of self-neglect. Mycroft was right, he needed to fire her.
He rolled out of bed around 10:30. Too late for breakfast, too early for lunch. He shuffled down the stairs to find a kettle already on the stove. If John was a late sleeper, his flatmate seemed allergic to sunlight. The tea being started came as a surprise. The kettle was starting to whistle, and John reached to take it off the burner when a voice cried, "Don't touch!"
John snatched his hand back and Sherlock was suddenly at his side.
"I just want some tea."
"Tea? You don't want tea with what it's in there."
John tapped the lid. "Do I want to know?"
"No."
"Right. No tea then?"
"You could always heat a cup in the microwave."
Apart from the very notion being against everything British that John fought to defend, there was also the matter of, "The eyes are still in there."
Sherlock managed to look apologetic. "Ask Mrs Hudson?"
"You know what she'll say."
"And you know she'll do it anyway."
John looked around their kitchen: The table covered in beakers and tubes, the questionable substance in the tea kettle, the eyes in the microwave... ever since Lestrade's "drug bust," John couldn't bring himself to find out what white powder was really in the flour jar. For his own digestive safety, John sighed and trudged downstairs to Mrs Hudson's rooms.
"I'm not your housekeeper."
"I know. If I could just borrow your kettle, maybe?"
"It's electric."
"That's fine."
She failed to mention it was also pink. John took the kettle to his own room and plugged it in. From downstairs, Sherlock could be heard banging around and swearing. Not wanting to get in his way, and risk having Sherlock's ire directed at him, John decided to hole-up in his room with the tea and his laptop. Eventually, the frantic ramblings stopped.
John thought of trying to go downstairs and ask if his flatmate would care to go out to lunch. The sudden silence was soon broken with the first strings of some classical piece that John recognized, but could never name.
Sherlock had mentioned it, the day they met, that he played violin. John crept down the stairs, not wanting to interrupt the music. From the doorway of the living room he watched him play. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room. His lithe frame swayed slightly to the tune created by long fingers touching string and bow. His eyes were closed, his expression the most serene John had ever seen on Sherlock’s face in their short acquaintance.
Damn him. John could not help but think. He was already a brilliant detective, did he also have to be bloody musical as well? There had to be a limit to one man's talents.
Sherlock's eyes opened a crack, and spotting John, halted his playing.
"Don't stop on my account."
"Didn't mean to bother you."
The usual moment of awkwardness followed after talking over each other.
"You were - it was lovely. Really."
"If you liked that we could always take in a concert sometime."
"Yeah, that'd be..." Boring. A waste of an evening? "Fine." John peeked in the kitchen. The kettle now had some kind of yellow stains streaking down its sides. The eyes were finally out of microwave, but now bobbing in a bubbling beaker. "I was going out for lunch. Wanted to see if you'd like to come along."
"Not hungry," Sherlock said, plucking at the violin strings.
John was nearly out the door before Sherlock called down the stairs, "Bring me back a sandwich!"
Speedy's was right next door, but John needed to get a little further away from the flat than that. He found a reasonably priced café holed away in some corner of Dorset St. The place was quiet, past its lunch-hour rush. He sat by the window, watching the people on the street, then eying the traffic and security cameras, now painfully aware of their presence.
The pretty, dark-haired waitress was just refreshing his tea when his phone beeped.
Tell her coffee. Black. 2 Sugars.
He looked back out the window. There was Sherlock, just crossing the street. Seeing he had little choice, he added the coffee to his order. Sherlock breezed in, removed his scarf, and slid into the seat across from John.
"How did you... You know what? Don't tell me. Because you'll make it sound simple and be smug. I thought you said you weren't hungry."
"I wasn't then. I am now. What do they have here? What are you having? Fish and chips? Dull." He grabbed the little laminated menu from its stand and didn't even acknowledge the waitress when she came back with his coffee. "Pies." He wrinkled his nose. "Will just make a meal of the coffee then."
Sherlock took his mobile out and started typing a message. Why did he come if he was going to just ignore everyone around him, John wondered.
"You know, phones were invented for talking."
"Yes, and now there is texting." He pressed one more button, message sent, and slipped it back in his coat.
"What is that? Is there some kind of officially recognised phobia for talking over phones? How did you cope ten years ago?"
"It's not a phobia. I just don't like it." Sherlock's annoyed look put the conversation to a halt.
John tried to lighten the atmosphere a bit. "Well, as long as you don't text and drive."
"Doubly illegal for me since I don't have a license."
"Why not?"
"No point in London. Why the personal questions?"
"Are they personal?"
"They are attempts to map my psyche and history. Yes, I'd say that's personal."
"Sorry, but I'm not like you. I have to ask questions. Normal people can't determine someone's past and family tree just by looking at them. Hell, I couldn't even tell you and Mycroft were brothers."
Sherlock shrugged a little. "He always did take more after father."
Mother must have been rather pretty. John knew the thought was inappropriate and found his chips to be suddenly much more interesting than his friend's face.
"Contrary to what you believe my powers to be, I cannot read a person so entirely and immediately in one meeting. I can only make conclusions from what is observed at any given moment. And sometimes my observations do not form conclusions. For example, a minute ago you blushed suddenly and I cannot figure out why. And now you're doing it again."
John cleared his throat. "I think I'm done." He pushed his plate away and motioned for the waitress.
Outside, it had started raining, only very lightly, but Sherlock opened his umbrella anyway and held it above the both of them as they headed back to Baker St.
"So you agree with Sgt. Donovan, then. That I'm a freak."
"What? No!"
"You said, 'Normal people' in contrast to what I am. Isn't that the definition of freak? Not-normal?"
"That's not what I meant. I just meant that you're different. 'Freak' makes it sound like you're a monster."
"I'm sure that's exactly what Sgt. Donovan intends."
"I didn't realise you cared so much about her opinion of you."
Sherlock stopped and sharply turned to face John. "I don't. But I do care about yours."
John was frankly gob-smacked. The confession was so unexpected and sincere, he didn't know how to respond. He just stared up at Sherlock, mouth opened, surely looking like the idiot he often accused him of being. The image was not helped by the "Uh..." that finally made it past the block in John's throat.
Sherlock walked on. John had to hurry a bit to catch up with him once he returned to himself and noticed just how wet he was getting without the protection of the umbrella. The exchange was never commented upon again.
A couple months after John moved into 221B, Winter was nearing its end, but the days were still short enough that it was dark once John came home after a day of job hunting. Sherlock had hit another dry spell, and they needed money. Most irritating was that there were several clients with lucrative offers, but their cases were not "interesting" enough for Sherlock's taste. John wasn't having much luck on his end besides. The usual "Overqualified" excuse was tossed at him. He wondered if bringing up his whole wounded vet thing could guilt-trip someone into giving him a job.
There were no lights on in the apartment. Only the blue glow of the laptop screen provided any illumination in the living room. Sherlock was hunched over it, his fingers furiously tapping away at the keyboard. John reached for the light switch.
"Don't," Sherlock said without looking up or stopping.
"What are you doing?"
"Shh."
"Is that my jumper you're wearing?"
"I was cold."
"Are you all right?"
Still, he didn't turn or stop typing. "Marvelous."
John grabbed him by the shoulders and spun the chair around. Sherlock blinked rapidly at the darkness beyond the computer screen. Even in the dim light, John could see his eyes were wide and dilated. "My God, you're high."
Sherlock smiled. "I find a seven-percent solution is transcendentally stimulating and clarifying to the mind."
"While at the same time permanently damaging probably the most brilliant brain in Britain, you idiot."
Sherlock batted John's hands away, shaking his head. "My mind rebels at stagnation."
"Then work a crossword!"
Sherlock just scoffed at the idea and turned back to the laptop.
"Right. Where is it then?" John started for Sherlock's bedroom. He flung opened the door and Sherlock flung himself from the chair.
"You just can't start tearing about in there! I have a very intricate filing system!"
John curled his lip up at that remark. His "filing system" looked more like an explosion of paper and books all over the floor, bed, and any available surface.
"You're not going to find it anyway."
"Oh really?" John started tossing papers aside and pulling out drawers.
"Oh, look at you. All judgmental. It's the God complex all doctors get. It's not enough to feel in control of life and death. Oh no. You start feeling you need to control our morality. You glare at the smokers, sneer at the obese. They're all doing something wrong, sinful."
John lifted the mattress, the books atop clattering to the floor. "Oh please, you think I'd be that obvious?"
"I refuse to share a flat with a junkie." He started taking books and checking to see if any had been hollowed out.
"Hypocrite. You knew full well the day you moved in. And maybe I don't want to share a flat with someone who aggressively invades my privacy."
"Fine then!" John shouted, slamming the closet door shut.
"Fine!"
The quiet that fell after the shouting was almost nauseating. There was only the rustling as the last disturbed pieces of paper settled into a new haphazard pile, and the heavy breathing of two men highly agitated.
John shoved past Sherlock back to the living room and dropped into a chair there. Sherlock followed, a bit slower, and seated himself more delicately. "Are you really going to leave?"
John sighed. "No."
"Good."
"It's just that I've never had anyone-"
"You know I'm upset only because I-"
"Yeah...."
"Yep."
"You can have your jumper back." He pulled it over his head. Underneath he wore only a T-shirt. John flinched at the row of red dots revealed on Sherlock's right arm. It seemed even sadder that the affects weren't only marring the brain, but also the otherwise flawless pale skin.
Having the jumper land on his face broke not only John's train of thought, but the rest of the tension in the room. John laughed. "One thing's for sure. You need a bloody minder."
"I think I'd rather have a friend."
"I think I can do that."
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John (UST)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2035
Summary: There's a lot of things about Sherlock Holmes John Watson is having to get used to, including his own feelings for his new flatmate.
A/N: A special thanks to lozenger8 for the beta.
Returning to civilization had one indulgence that John took great pleasure in exploiting: sleeping in. No more early-morning duties, no more uncomfortable cots. He could wake-up whenever he wanted, usually past breakfast. His therapist thought that his skipping breakfast was some sign of self-neglect. Mycroft was right, he needed to fire her.
He rolled out of bed around 10:30. Too late for breakfast, too early for lunch. He shuffled down the stairs to find a kettle already on the stove. If John was a late sleeper, his flatmate seemed allergic to sunlight. The tea being started came as a surprise. The kettle was starting to whistle, and John reached to take it off the burner when a voice cried, "Don't touch!"
John snatched his hand back and Sherlock was suddenly at his side.
"I just want some tea."
"Tea? You don't want tea with what it's in there."
John tapped the lid. "Do I want to know?"
"No."
"Right. No tea then?"
"You could always heat a cup in the microwave."
Apart from the very notion being against everything British that John fought to defend, there was also the matter of, "The eyes are still in there."
Sherlock managed to look apologetic. "Ask Mrs Hudson?"
"You know what she'll say."
"And you know she'll do it anyway."
John looked around their kitchen: The table covered in beakers and tubes, the questionable substance in the tea kettle, the eyes in the microwave... ever since Lestrade's "drug bust," John couldn't bring himself to find out what white powder was really in the flour jar. For his own digestive safety, John sighed and trudged downstairs to Mrs Hudson's rooms.
"I'm not your housekeeper."
"I know. If I could just borrow your kettle, maybe?"
"It's electric."
"That's fine."
She failed to mention it was also pink. John took the kettle to his own room and plugged it in. From downstairs, Sherlock could be heard banging around and swearing. Not wanting to get in his way, and risk having Sherlock's ire directed at him, John decided to hole-up in his room with the tea and his laptop. Eventually, the frantic ramblings stopped.
John thought of trying to go downstairs and ask if his flatmate would care to go out to lunch. The sudden silence was soon broken with the first strings of some classical piece that John recognized, but could never name.
Sherlock had mentioned it, the day they met, that he played violin. John crept down the stairs, not wanting to interrupt the music. From the doorway of the living room he watched him play. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room. His lithe frame swayed slightly to the tune created by long fingers touching string and bow. His eyes were closed, his expression the most serene John had ever seen on Sherlock’s face in their short acquaintance.
Damn him. John could not help but think. He was already a brilliant detective, did he also have to be bloody musical as well? There had to be a limit to one man's talents.
Sherlock's eyes opened a crack, and spotting John, halted his playing.
"Don't stop on my account."
"Didn't mean to bother you."
The usual moment of awkwardness followed after talking over each other.
"You were - it was lovely. Really."
"If you liked that we could always take in a concert sometime."
"Yeah, that'd be..." Boring. A waste of an evening? "Fine." John peeked in the kitchen. The kettle now had some kind of yellow stains streaking down its sides. The eyes were finally out of microwave, but now bobbing in a bubbling beaker. "I was going out for lunch. Wanted to see if you'd like to come along."
"Not hungry," Sherlock said, plucking at the violin strings.
John was nearly out the door before Sherlock called down the stairs, "Bring me back a sandwich!"
Speedy's was right next door, but John needed to get a little further away from the flat than that. He found a reasonably priced café holed away in some corner of Dorset St. The place was quiet, past its lunch-hour rush. He sat by the window, watching the people on the street, then eying the traffic and security cameras, now painfully aware of their presence.
The pretty, dark-haired waitress was just refreshing his tea when his phone beeped.
Tell her coffee. Black. 2 Sugars.
He looked back out the window. There was Sherlock, just crossing the street. Seeing he had little choice, he added the coffee to his order. Sherlock breezed in, removed his scarf, and slid into the seat across from John.
"How did you... You know what? Don't tell me. Because you'll make it sound simple and be smug. I thought you said you weren't hungry."
"I wasn't then. I am now. What do they have here? What are you having? Fish and chips? Dull." He grabbed the little laminated menu from its stand and didn't even acknowledge the waitress when she came back with his coffee. "Pies." He wrinkled his nose. "Will just make a meal of the coffee then."
Sherlock took his mobile out and started typing a message. Why did he come if he was going to just ignore everyone around him, John wondered.
"You know, phones were invented for talking."
"Yes, and now there is texting." He pressed one more button, message sent, and slipped it back in his coat.
"What is that? Is there some kind of officially recognised phobia for talking over phones? How did you cope ten years ago?"
"It's not a phobia. I just don't like it." Sherlock's annoyed look put the conversation to a halt.
John tried to lighten the atmosphere a bit. "Well, as long as you don't text and drive."
"Doubly illegal for me since I don't have a license."
"Why not?"
"No point in London. Why the personal questions?"
"Are they personal?"
"They are attempts to map my psyche and history. Yes, I'd say that's personal."
"Sorry, but I'm not like you. I have to ask questions. Normal people can't determine someone's past and family tree just by looking at them. Hell, I couldn't even tell you and Mycroft were brothers."
Sherlock shrugged a little. "He always did take more after father."
Mother must have been rather pretty. John knew the thought was inappropriate and found his chips to be suddenly much more interesting than his friend's face.
"Contrary to what you believe my powers to be, I cannot read a person so entirely and immediately in one meeting. I can only make conclusions from what is observed at any given moment. And sometimes my observations do not form conclusions. For example, a minute ago you blushed suddenly and I cannot figure out why. And now you're doing it again."
John cleared his throat. "I think I'm done." He pushed his plate away and motioned for the waitress.
Outside, it had started raining, only very lightly, but Sherlock opened his umbrella anyway and held it above the both of them as they headed back to Baker St.
"So you agree with Sgt. Donovan, then. That I'm a freak."
"What? No!"
"You said, 'Normal people' in contrast to what I am. Isn't that the definition of freak? Not-normal?"
"That's not what I meant. I just meant that you're different. 'Freak' makes it sound like you're a monster."
"I'm sure that's exactly what Sgt. Donovan intends."
"I didn't realise you cared so much about her opinion of you."
Sherlock stopped and sharply turned to face John. "I don't. But I do care about yours."
John was frankly gob-smacked. The confession was so unexpected and sincere, he didn't know how to respond. He just stared up at Sherlock, mouth opened, surely looking like the idiot he often accused him of being. The image was not helped by the "Uh..." that finally made it past the block in John's throat.
Sherlock walked on. John had to hurry a bit to catch up with him once he returned to himself and noticed just how wet he was getting without the protection of the umbrella. The exchange was never commented upon again.
A couple months after John moved into 221B, Winter was nearing its end, but the days were still short enough that it was dark once John came home after a day of job hunting. Sherlock had hit another dry spell, and they needed money. Most irritating was that there were several clients with lucrative offers, but their cases were not "interesting" enough for Sherlock's taste. John wasn't having much luck on his end besides. The usual "Overqualified" excuse was tossed at him. He wondered if bringing up his whole wounded vet thing could guilt-trip someone into giving him a job.
There were no lights on in the apartment. Only the blue glow of the laptop screen provided any illumination in the living room. Sherlock was hunched over it, his fingers furiously tapping away at the keyboard. John reached for the light switch.
"Don't," Sherlock said without looking up or stopping.
"What are you doing?"
"Shh."
"Is that my jumper you're wearing?"
"I was cold."
"Are you all right?"
Still, he didn't turn or stop typing. "Marvelous."
John grabbed him by the shoulders and spun the chair around. Sherlock blinked rapidly at the darkness beyond the computer screen. Even in the dim light, John could see his eyes were wide and dilated. "My God, you're high."
Sherlock smiled. "I find a seven-percent solution is transcendentally stimulating and clarifying to the mind."
"While at the same time permanently damaging probably the most brilliant brain in Britain, you idiot."
Sherlock batted John's hands away, shaking his head. "My mind rebels at stagnation."
"Then work a crossword!"
Sherlock just scoffed at the idea and turned back to the laptop.
"Right. Where is it then?" John started for Sherlock's bedroom. He flung opened the door and Sherlock flung himself from the chair.
"You just can't start tearing about in there! I have a very intricate filing system!"
John curled his lip up at that remark. His "filing system" looked more like an explosion of paper and books all over the floor, bed, and any available surface.
"You're not going to find it anyway."
"Oh really?" John started tossing papers aside and pulling out drawers.
"Oh, look at you. All judgmental. It's the God complex all doctors get. It's not enough to feel in control of life and death. Oh no. You start feeling you need to control our morality. You glare at the smokers, sneer at the obese. They're all doing something wrong, sinful."
John lifted the mattress, the books atop clattering to the floor. "Oh please, you think I'd be that obvious?"
"I refuse to share a flat with a junkie." He started taking books and checking to see if any had been hollowed out.
"Hypocrite. You knew full well the day you moved in. And maybe I don't want to share a flat with someone who aggressively invades my privacy."
"Fine then!" John shouted, slamming the closet door shut.
"Fine!"
The quiet that fell after the shouting was almost nauseating. There was only the rustling as the last disturbed pieces of paper settled into a new haphazard pile, and the heavy breathing of two men highly agitated.
John shoved past Sherlock back to the living room and dropped into a chair there. Sherlock followed, a bit slower, and seated himself more delicately. "Are you really going to leave?"
John sighed. "No."
"Good."
"It's just that I've never had anyone-"
"You know I'm upset only because I-"
"Yeah...."
"Yep."
"You can have your jumper back." He pulled it over his head. Underneath he wore only a T-shirt. John flinched at the row of red dots revealed on Sherlock's right arm. It seemed even sadder that the affects weren't only marring the brain, but also the otherwise flawless pale skin.
Having the jumper land on his face broke not only John's train of thought, but the rest of the tension in the room. John laughed. "One thing's for sure. You need a bloody minder."
"I think I'd rather have a friend."
"I think I can do that."