fic: Keep Your Enemies Close, But Your Friend Closer (Sherlock)
Title: Keep Your Enemies Close, But Your Friend Closer
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock, John
Rating: PG
Summary: So in anger and frustration, misplaced and not, he snarled, "I don't have friends."
Notes: Originally written on tumblr for the lovelies that wanted to see a Sherlock breakdown during the Reckless Nor Hurt preview. Also posted on AO3.
He stormed into the flat, ripping his coat off and discarding it wherever it may fall. His mind was a disaster zone, thoughts coming and going too fast to process, and all he wanted was to figure it out, to make his life's work make sense again. But he was being beaten, yes by an equally brilliant mind (and could it be even more brilliant?, his traitorous mind supplied), but this was with deliberate and painful humiliation, designed to lay him low for the sin of attempting to play the dangerous game he found himself in with Moriarty.
As a fresh surge of troublesome emotions hit him (damn the things, he could work so much more efficiently without them, why didn't anyone understand that, why couldn't anyone see?), he threw himself onto the sofa and buried his fingers into his hair. It had to stop, he had to figure out a way, to solve this before he lost anymore of himself to impending defeat.
Seeing Sherlock in such obvious discomfort, John closed the door quietly behind him and sat across from him in his chair. "Sherlock," he began tentatively as he leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees. What he had to say certainly wouldn't be welcome, but with the tone of voice he used when calming a disgruntled patient (and really, isn't that the best way to describe Sherlock on any given day?) he pressed on. "Perhaps you should let the police takeover this case. Or better yet, Mycroft. You'll run yourself ragged at this rate."
Sherlock didn't bother raising his head to reply harshly, "Oh yes, go running to big brother to solve all my problems, hmm? I don't think so, John, I was the one to ferret Moriarty out in the first place and I intend to finish what I started." When he did finally sit upright, he added with renewed fervour, "And I don't need you telling me what to do, Doctor, I'm well aware of my limitations and I've not even gotten started yet."
John gave a slight smile and slouched comfortably against the back of the armchair. "Ah, of course. Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend," he said good-naturedly.
Friend. His friend! Sherlock remembered quite vividly to when he thought that was true, that he wanted it to be true. He'd even introduced him as such to one of the many people who thought him completely incapable of such a relationship; most regarded him as either a necessary annoyance or a waspish benefactor if the favour was interesting enough, but never as a friend. Until John, he had once hoped (and what another useless emotion that was, worthless), but the truth slammed his feelings back into the pit they'd dared try to crawl from when John corrected him without a thought to a mere colleague. Once again relegated to the borders of social contact, never fit to encroach upon the inner circles people (even the most idiotic of people) formed so fluidly.
So no, he would not accept John's casual use of the term, not as a placation, not as anything when everything hurt and he just wanted to hurt something back, even if it wasn't the target he wished it was. So in anger and frustration, misplaced and not, he snarled, "I don't have friends.
The silence that followed was loud and painful. Sherlock stared into the middle distance, hands curled so hard into fists the nails bit into skin. Any moment now, John would say or do something in retaliation and Sherlock couldn't predict what it would be, didn't even want to try. What he said was true, why should he be punished for it?
He took steadying breaths as he observed John peripherally, but all the other man did was look down and off to the side, his reaction written clear across his face: shock, surprise. Disappointment. And then, one word uttered, sotto voce, "Yeah." And then, his gaze, as if he knew Sherlock didn't mean it, that he was just lashing out, and did it make him feel better to talk about it or would he rather sulk?
No. No, it was enough that Moriarty knew where the few remaining soft parts were to pry into with claws, John would not be another to do so.
"Do stop pretending you can understand me, John," he said calmly, unfurling his fingers to straighten his cuffs. "I would have expected that you would have learned that by now, but it always was a bit too much to think you could elevate yourself above the rest of the morons that fill this world."
Sherlock stood suddenly, not looking at John, not seeing his long face, meeting his sad eyes, just made his way to the window, hands clasped behind his back. John's pinched face was reflected in the dark glass, mouth a thin angry line. But John had no right, no right at all, he can't be upset because he turned Sherlock away first. So before he could start in on Sherlock, he tersely finished, "I'm the only one that can find him, no one else is even close to his level, and friends would just slow me down. So whenever you want to get back to concentrating on the work, you can assist me, but don't make the error of thinking you can use sentiment to manipulate me."
In the window, John's face twisted in ways Sherlock had never seen from a maelstrom of emotions. He saw him stand, his own hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. His mouth opened once (pure hostility), and twice (guilt, uncertainty, sublimated shame; useless, all of it!), then clamped shut on all the words Sherlock could read in his eyes: you're a bastard, Sherlock Holmes. you're stressed, we all are, but what is your problem? why would you say that? I shouldn't have expected differently, either. The last before John turned and left without saying was You can say you don't have friends, but I have been for the longest, and will always remain so.
He didn't say it, but Sherlock could hear it all the same in the soft tread of his footsteps to his bedroom (instead of the heavy footfalls out of the flat entirely he'd expected) and the quiet latch of his door. It didn't matter though, that John had remained. It shouldn't matter. It wouldn't, if Sherlock had anything to do with it.
In front of him, he blankly noticed the city was still bustling about in the distance so late at night. And somewhere out there Sherlock had to steel himself against a man that didn't even need to be present to destroy him. So how could he forget to do the same for a man metres away that could do just as much damage (possibly more), and in ways from which he could barely protect himself?
He paced back to the desk, laptops up and files open. The work had waited long enough, and though his brain buzzed like a kicked hive, he had to put himself to the task at hand. He had to end this, and fewer and fewer satisfactory solutions were becoming feasible. He scrubbed his hands across his face roughly before he began and they came back wet.
Damn you, John Watson. You've ruined me. His lips bent in distaste at his own sentimentality, and with that last thought spared on the issue, settled in for yet another night of no rest.
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock, John
Rating: PG
Summary: So in anger and frustration, misplaced and not, he snarled, "I don't have friends."
Notes: Originally written on tumblr for the lovelies that wanted to see a Sherlock breakdown during the Reckless Nor Hurt preview. Also posted on AO3.
He stormed into the flat, ripping his coat off and discarding it wherever it may fall. His mind was a disaster zone, thoughts coming and going too fast to process, and all he wanted was to figure it out, to make his life's work make sense again. But he was being beaten, yes by an equally brilliant mind (and could it be even more brilliant?, his traitorous mind supplied), but this was with deliberate and painful humiliation, designed to lay him low for the sin of attempting to play the dangerous game he found himself in with Moriarty.
As a fresh surge of troublesome emotions hit him (damn the things, he could work so much more efficiently without them, why didn't anyone understand that, why couldn't anyone see?), he threw himself onto the sofa and buried his fingers into his hair. It had to stop, he had to figure out a way, to solve this before he lost anymore of himself to impending defeat.
Seeing Sherlock in such obvious discomfort, John closed the door quietly behind him and sat across from him in his chair. "Sherlock," he began tentatively as he leaned forward slightly, elbows braced on his knees. What he had to say certainly wouldn't be welcome, but with the tone of voice he used when calming a disgruntled patient (and really, isn't that the best way to describe Sherlock on any given day?) he pressed on. "Perhaps you should let the police takeover this case. Or better yet, Mycroft. You'll run yourself ragged at this rate."
Sherlock didn't bother raising his head to reply harshly, "Oh yes, go running to big brother to solve all my problems, hmm? I don't think so, John, I was the one to ferret Moriarty out in the first place and I intend to finish what I started." When he did finally sit upright, he added with renewed fervour, "And I don't need you telling me what to do, Doctor, I'm well aware of my limitations and I've not even gotten started yet."
John gave a slight smile and slouched comfortably against the back of the armchair. "Ah, of course. Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend," he said good-naturedly.
Friend. His friend! Sherlock remembered quite vividly to when he thought that was true, that he wanted it to be true. He'd even introduced him as such to one of the many people who thought him completely incapable of such a relationship; most regarded him as either a necessary annoyance or a waspish benefactor if the favour was interesting enough, but never as a friend. Until John, he had once hoped (and what another useless emotion that was, worthless), but the truth slammed his feelings back into the pit they'd dared try to crawl from when John corrected him without a thought to a mere colleague. Once again relegated to the borders of social contact, never fit to encroach upon the inner circles people (even the most idiotic of people) formed so fluidly.
So no, he would not accept John's casual use of the term, not as a placation, not as anything when everything hurt and he just wanted to hurt something back, even if it wasn't the target he wished it was. So in anger and frustration, misplaced and not, he snarled, "I don't have friends.
The silence that followed was loud and painful. Sherlock stared into the middle distance, hands curled so hard into fists the nails bit into skin. Any moment now, John would say or do something in retaliation and Sherlock couldn't predict what it would be, didn't even want to try. What he said was true, why should he be punished for it?
He took steadying breaths as he observed John peripherally, but all the other man did was look down and off to the side, his reaction written clear across his face: shock, surprise. Disappointment. And then, one word uttered, sotto voce, "Yeah." And then, his gaze, as if he knew Sherlock didn't mean it, that he was just lashing out, and did it make him feel better to talk about it or would he rather sulk?
No. No, it was enough that Moriarty knew where the few remaining soft parts were to pry into with claws, John would not be another to do so.
"Do stop pretending you can understand me, John," he said calmly, unfurling his fingers to straighten his cuffs. "I would have expected that you would have learned that by now, but it always was a bit too much to think you could elevate yourself above the rest of the morons that fill this world."
Sherlock stood suddenly, not looking at John, not seeing his long face, meeting his sad eyes, just made his way to the window, hands clasped behind his back. John's pinched face was reflected in the dark glass, mouth a thin angry line. But John had no right, no right at all, he can't be upset because he turned Sherlock away first. So before he could start in on Sherlock, he tersely finished, "I'm the only one that can find him, no one else is even close to his level, and friends would just slow me down. So whenever you want to get back to concentrating on the work, you can assist me, but don't make the error of thinking you can use sentiment to manipulate me."
In the window, John's face twisted in ways Sherlock had never seen from a maelstrom of emotions. He saw him stand, his own hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. His mouth opened once (pure hostility), and twice (guilt, uncertainty, sublimated shame; useless, all of it!), then clamped shut on all the words Sherlock could read in his eyes: you're a bastard, Sherlock Holmes. you're stressed, we all are, but what is your problem? why would you say that? I shouldn't have expected differently, either. The last before John turned and left without saying was You can say you don't have friends, but I have been for the longest, and will always remain so.
He didn't say it, but Sherlock could hear it all the same in the soft tread of his footsteps to his bedroom (instead of the heavy footfalls out of the flat entirely he'd expected) and the quiet latch of his door. It didn't matter though, that John had remained. It shouldn't matter. It wouldn't, if Sherlock had anything to do with it.
In front of him, he blankly noticed the city was still bustling about in the distance so late at night. And somewhere out there Sherlock had to steel himself against a man that didn't even need to be present to destroy him. So how could he forget to do the same for a man metres away that could do just as much damage (possibly more), and in ways from which he could barely protect himself?
He paced back to the desk, laptops up and files open. The work had waited long enough, and though his brain buzzed like a kicked hive, he had to put himself to the task at hand. He had to end this, and fewer and fewer satisfactory solutions were becoming feasible. He scrubbed his hands across his face roughly before he began and they came back wet.
Damn you, John Watson. You've ruined me. His lips bent in distaste at his own sentimentality, and with that last thought spared on the issue, settled in for yet another night of no rest.