Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John Watson had a very, very bad day.

First, he woke up three hours prior to his usual wake up because Sherlock seemed to think 4am was an appropriate time to practice his violin.  John continued to lie in bed, trying to go back to sleep.  Eventually, he dosed off and woke again, only to find that he was by then late for work. 

Upon arriving, he was chewed up and spit out by his supervisor for being late.  His first patient of the day chose to spend their appointment telling John their life story.  By the end of that appointment, John was already an hour behind schedule.  All of his remaining patients that day were nagging and groaning from "pain" every chance they could get whether the pain existed or not.  They wanted John to treat illnesses and injuries that simply weren't there.  Then, when John told them this, they insisted that something was, in fact, the matter, and that he must be blind not to see it.  He had to skip lunch to get back up to schedule. 

By the end of the day, he was ready to collapse into bed and take a few hours' nap.  

No such luck.

When he opened the door to the flat, he saw the place in a state of utter disarray.  Books were strewn everywhere, body parts sitting on the couch, the chairs, the counters, the shelves, the table, everywhere.  Beakers containing who knows what hazardous chemicals were spilled across the carpet.  Then he saw Sherlock, standing in front of the window, casually playing his violin.  John felt his blood boil.  Rage built up in his chest, causing enough pressure that he felt the need to let it out on the nearest thing.  Which happened to be Sherlock.

"What the bloody-" John glanced around the room, "What on earth is this mess about?!"

"I got bored," Sherlock sighed dramatically.  "Criminals these days, so boring, the lot of them..." John ignored the latter half.

"You got bored," John nodded, voice short and clipped. "So you did this here, huh?"

"Ye-p," Sherlock held out the Y and popped the P.  Something about that infuriated John even more than he already was.  

John tried to remain calm, he really did.  But he failed.  

John exploded. 

"Humans don't do this when they're bored, Sherlock!" John yelled, face twisting with anger. "They don't leave chemicals all over the floor, they don't leave books all over the furniture, they don't leave body parts in the blender, toaster, oven, freezer, or refrigerator, and they certainly don't stand in the middle of the mess and act as though they see nothing wrong with it!  High functioning sociopath, yeah, right!  You're low if I've ever seen it!  Want me to add narcissism to that list?!  What in the world is wrong with you, Sherlock?!  Why do you have to be such a know-it-all!?  You can identify 246 different types of tobacco ash, but you can't keep the flat clean for just one day!?  Can't you do anything for yourself?! Little gods, you can't even remember to feed yourself, can you!?  Talk about infantile!  You need a babysitter 24-7 just to make sure you eat, drink, and sleep enough you won't get yourself killed!  I leave for just a few hours and I come back to you and your worthless 'transport' standing in front of the window, while your stupid little mind focuses on writing that screeching music that I'm forced to listen to, instead of considering that maybe, just maybe, you could clean up the flat a bit before I got back from working so that you could have a place to live!" 

John's rant left him breathless, and he stared at Sherlock as he regained it.

"Well, now that you've gotten that out, I've found a private case that could possibly be worth our time," Sherlock stated.  "Coming?" 

John stared at Sherlock, anger rising once again, but this time with disbelief and exasperation joining it.

"That didn't even affect you, did it?" John shook his head. "You don't give a flying fuck what I said?  Not even the tiniest bit?"  Sherlock didn't respond, instead kneeling to tie his shoes.  "Maybe Sally and Anderson were right," John muttered.  "Maybe you are just a bloody freak."

John was about to say more, but was cut off by a text alert on Sherlock's phone.

"Saved by the bell.  How typical," John's anger seeped through his words like blood in a steak.  Sherlock picked up his phone and opened it.  IT was a moment before he spoke.

"Lestrade has a case," Sherlock said, in a strange monotone that contradicted his usual excitement upon receiving a case.  Sherlock grabbed his coat and walked out the front door.

John sighed and put the kettle to boil.  

After making himself a cup of tea, he walked over to his chair and sat, only then noticing that it was the only clean thing in the entire living room.  Everything else was covered in clutter from Sherlock's many experiments.

John's chair remained untouched.

Chapter Text

Straight off, Lestrade sensed something wasn't right.

John wasn't with Sherlock, which was unheard of since he first made an appearance with the detective.  That, and Sherlock seemed to be ever-so-slightly less arrogant than usual.

He didn't deduce anything about Sally or Anderson, and he didn't state his deductions aloud.  It then occurred to Lestrade that, without John, no one was interested enough in Sherlock's deductions to want to know how he managed them.  

When Sherlock finally spoke, it was cold.  Rid of the enthusiasm he'd long grown accustomed to.  

Lestrade looked him over closely, checking to see if Sherlock was perhaps ill or injured, the pain making him act as he was. 

Lestrade could see nothing. 

Sherlock told Lestrade his final deductions, but did not state his process.  Lestrade took down his findings in a notebook.

"Something wrong, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

"Bad day," Sherlock mumbled.  Sherlock never mumbled.  It was strange enough for him to admit the day wasn't the greatest, let alone to mumble it.

"Experiment gone wrong?"

"No," Sherlock dismissed.  He looked back to the crime scene, squinting at a particular scrape on the floor.  He brought out his pocket magnifier, examining the scratch for a few moments before looking up and thinking.

He looked back to the body.  Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but then hesitated.  He looked back to the scrape, then to the body.  

Sherlock Holmes does not hesitate.

Sherlock Holmes is always sure of his what he is saying.  

Lestrade soon found out why.  

Sherlock rubbed his forehead with one hand, starting at the temples and moving towards the center of his forehead.  Then both hands came up and covered his mouth momentarily before going back down in front of him and rubbing together before finally resting in his usual thinking position.

"Can- can you please get Anderson?" Sherlock asked. "Due to John's absence, it seems I will be in need of his professional opinion."

He said it as though it pained him to admit it.  It probably did.  Anderson was an arse, even by Lestrade's standards.

"Sure," Lestrade nodded. "Speaking of which, where is he?"

"Don't know." 

"Really?  Figured he would have told you."  

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak again, but then pursed his lips and looked back down to the body.

"You blokes fighting or something?" Lestrade tried to broach the topic gently, knowing feelings and everyday things were not something Sherlock enjoyed talking about.

"He's angry at me," Sherlock answered, voice steady.  Lestrade could tell his focus was still on the body.  "Nothing I don't deserve." The latter part was quieter.  Lestrade wasn't certain he was meant to hear it.

"Why is he angry?"

Sherlock shrugged slightly, eyeing a specific piece of gravel on the floor.

"I don't know."

"Then what makes you think you deserve it?"

"I always deserve it." The words were out of Sherlock's mouth before he realized he'd spoken them.  Upon the realization, he looked up sharply and moved to a different position to get a better view of the body. Lestrade sensed that would be the end to the conversation.

"Where's Anderson?" 

As if on cue, Anderson walked through the door, closely followed by Sally.

"So John's finally come to his senses then, eh?" Sally commented slyly.  "Left you where you belong.  By yourself."

Sherlock closed his eyes for just slightly longer than it would take to blink.

"I am not in the mood for your annoying banter today," Sherlock stated. "Just do your jobs then extract yourselves from the premises." 

Sally and Anderson complete disregarded this order and continued to poke and prod at the consulting detective.  For awhile, it was just the occasional eye rolling.  When Sherlock didn't respond, they upped the ante and began making up stories to explain John's absence.  

Some of the stories had Sherlock killing John, stashing his body in the Thames, others had Sherlock's not noticing John had been shot and was bleeding out, and it was that that had done the trick.  Still others put John getting sick and tired of Sherlock's complaining of boredom and just flat out leaving.  Theories revolved around that.  Under normal circumstances, Lestrade wouldn't have been worried.  He'd let Donovan and Anderson spin a web of ideas, then let Sherlock tear them both down in it, kicking and screaming.

But this time, Sherlock wasn't responding.  He was thinking, but Lestrade was sure he wasn't entirely in his mind palace, and most definitely could hear what Anderson and Donovan were discussing.

"Time of death," Sherlock demanded, out of the blue, during one of their more brutal theories.  Anderson seemed to realize for the first time that they were at the scene of a crime.

"7-8 hours ago."

"Hmm..." Sherlock stood from his crouched position, walked to the window and pulled the curtains back, looking through the glass.

"Got something?" Lestrade asked.

"Maybe," Sherlock answered.  Sherlock looked closely at the windowsill, frowned, then looked at the top of the window.  He stood thinking a moment.

"How-" Sherlock cut himself off, lips forming a silent "Oh"

He took off towards the victim's bedroom.  Lestrade followed him, jogging to keep up with the long legged detective's gait.  Sherlock threw open the closet doors and stared at the clothes.  After a moment, he closed his eyes and nodded to himself.  He quickly pulled out every single shirt and pair of trousers within it.  

Sherlock pulled out a pocket magnifier and examined each article closely.  After about 15 minutes, Sherlock had finished.  He immediately set out about the flat.  He walked to the bed, bending over and breathing deeply through his nose. 

He smelled around the room.  Sherlock walked back to the clothes and smelled them, then went to their bathroom and smelled every shampoo, body wash, and conditioner they owned.  He then proceeded to smell all the perfumes and colognes in the cabinet, then smelled the one existing bottle of aftershave.  

It was then the lightbulb seemed to go off in his head.  One could nearly see his eyes brightening. 

He hurried over to the trash can and peeked in.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked.

"Just a hunch," Sherlock muttered. "I'm not certain yet."  

Sherlock took off back towards the laundry room and smelled the detergents.

"And... Solved." Sherlock announced, as he sniffed the last dryer sheet.

"Your conclusion?" 

"The wife was cheating on her husband.  Her boyfriend is the murder," Sherlock said.  "He came in through the window, and left through the window after changing into the husband's clothes.  The wife washed the blood out of the clothes, then gave them back to the boyfriend.  Thus the reason the case wasn't reported until later."

"Motive?"

"The wife wanted to run off with her boyfriend but wanted her husband's money.  Together the wife and the boyfriend cracked the plan.  Husband gets killed, leaves money and life insurance policy to wife, and she and the boyfriend go off and start a new life.  You're looking for a man in his late 30s with dark hair and facial hair.  About 6' tall, roughly 15 stone.  He wears glasses, and his first and last initials are T and W."

"I see," Lestrade nodded, copying down Sherlock's evaluation.

Sherlock sighed and started to walk out of the house.

"Wait-" Lestrade said, then paused awkwardly.  "Need an excuse to stay out of the flat?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "Possibly."

"I'm just saying it might give him some time to cool off."

"What's you're suggestion?"

"I've got a cold case we just found some new evidence on," Lestrade said. "Want to take a look?"

Sherlock made a noise of agreement.

"Alright then," Lestrade said. "Meet me at the yard.  Say... Half an hour?  I need to finish up here."

Sherlock gave a brisk nod, then left the scene.

As soon as he was gone, Lestrade immediately phoned John.;

"Hello?" 

Lestrade skipped the pleasantries.

"Did you have a fight with our resident encyclopedia?"

"Bad day at work; came back to a messy flat and an uncooperative flat mate, which resulted in me exploding a bit and saying something I ought not," John sighed. "It's not his fault, I overreacted."

"Well, that's not how he sees it."

"Mm?"

"Seemed pretty torn up about it," Lestrade answered. "He's not sure what he did, but he was very clear in stating that it was his fault.  Seems to think he deserves whatever you told him."

"Gods, course he was actually listening this time," John bemoaned. "Figures it'd be the one time I actually lost it.  I thought he'd just tuned me out like he usually - bloody hells - I might have actually hurt him this time, haven't I?"

"Hate to be a bummer, but don't think there's much of a 'maybe' about it," Lestrade stated dryly.  "He wasn't himself during this case."

"How so?"

"For starters, didn't turn his deductions into a bloody performance like he usually does.  Then he didn't hardly respond to Donovan and Anderson's taunting, and even asked for Anderson's professional opinion due to your absence."

"Well, shit."

Chapter Text

"We need to talk about this in person," John said.

"Alright, meet me at the coffee shop in thirty minutes," Lestrade said. "I've got to get Sherlock started on the cold case I promised him, first."

"Cold case? He can solve those in fifteen minutes!"

"Which is exactly why I'm giving him thirty-six of them," Lestrade answered.  "You know his work calms him down.  Anyway, he's walking in the door.  I've got to go, see you soon."

Lestrade set the phone down and pretended to be doing paper work as Sherlock walked into his office. 

"Lestrade?" Sherlock questioned.

"Just a moment, let me finish this up..." Lestrade scribbled in his report of what had happened, loosely describing the events at the scene of the crime.  He was also making sure Sherlock bought the idea he'd been doing paper work the whole time.  So far as he could tell, he either seemed to, or didn't care enough to question it. 

"And... ready," Lestrade said, after signing his name at the bottom of the page.

Lestrade dug through his bottom drawer.

"I found these earlier.  They're some of the more interesting cold cases, I figure they're worth your time." Lestrade said, "There's thirty-six odd cases here, so that'd buy you... two hours? Maybe three?"

Sherlock glanced through the first folder, "Two and a half, if they're similar in difficulty," he said.  "Good guess, Greg." 

Lestrade tried to keep his eyes from bugging.  Sherlock just... called him by his first name.  And he'd gotten it correct.

"Well, I know I don't have to tell you where everything is or what not to touch, and you'd ignore me even if I did, so-" Lestrade shrugged. "Consider yourself free range.  Just try not to irritate my officers too much."

"I'll endeavor not to, but no promises."

"I need to get going," Lestrade said, snagging up the papers from his desk. "I've got to meet with someone.  Just uh- write down your conclusions in my notebook and I'll get them to the chief.  Thanks, mate."

Lestrade walked out the door towards the coffee shop.

Chapter Text

Lestrade appeared behind John in the coffee que. 

"Sorry I'm late, got out just in time for the traffic."  

"It's fine, Greg," John said. "Thanks for meeting with me."

"Yeah, about that, I think we might have a bigger problem than I thought," Lestrade said. "When I met him for the cold cases, he called me 'Greg'."

John and Lestrade reached the front of the que and ordered their coffees.  They were ready but a moment later, and they both picked them up from the counter and then made for a booth in the back of the shop.

"He called you 'Greg'?" John questioned.  "But he doesn't- I knew it would hurt him, but I didn't' think it would-" John cut himself off mid sentence.

A clicking sound.  One that both Lestrade and John were intimately familiar with.  ONe they would recognize anywhere, given the regularity with which they heard it.

"Mycroft," They both sighed.  Mycroft came walking up at a pace unusual for him.

"My cameras don't have audio.  What happened?" He demanded.

"HE has cameras in your flat?" Lestrade asked.  "Why would you let him-"

"I don't like it, but it's saved both our lives more than enough to justify it." John turned to Mycroft.  "Nothing much, I just... I had a really bad day at the practice and-"

"I know, get to the point," Mycroft said bluntly. "What happened at the flat?"

John raised an eyebrow and sighed once again.  "I'm going to ignore how creepy it is that you had me stalked."

"Not stalked, just... watched." Mycroft refuted. "Now, we have bigger things to worry about."

"Listen to me, John," Mycroft continued.  "Sherlock has placed you in a very high position within his life.  You are his friend.  His best friend, in fact, and that's given even more weight by the fact that he actually admits it.  Now, you are one of the few people that can actually hurt him.  The fact that he has made that possible to you is a gift, one of which I'm certain you do not want to abuse.  HE's allowed you into his life now, but don't think for a second he won't take that privilege away just as swiftly as he gave it."  Mycroft paused to take a breath, and Lestrade took advantage.

"As much as I hate to agree with him, this is a big deal, mate." Lestrade agreed.

"Slip ups like this can't happen, John," Mycroft said.  "Despite my warnings, my brother seems to have developed some sort of sentiment for you."

"I've known Sherlock a long time, and he's more sensitive than you might think.  Whatever went down between you two today, that can't happen again, yeah?  I know he's a pain sometimes, but you're the only friend he's got and it'd kill him to lose ya."

"Yes, yes, I've made a huge mistake, that's all fine and well, but we've already established that!" John said.  "I've got what the problem is, what I need help with is the bloody solution!"

Lestrade and Mycroft looked at each other for a moment, John staring at the both of them.

"I've got nothing." Lestrade said helpfully.

John looked to Mycroft hopefully.

"Don't look at me, I've never once done so much as apologize to him." Mycroft scoffed.

"My, what a big help the both of you have been to day, yeah?" John said sarcastically. "Thank you so very much."

"You're welcome." 

Seems Sherlock comes by it naturally, John supposed.  Lestrade couldn't hold back a snicker.

Mycroft tried not to look between the two of them, hating the unusual feeling of cluelessness accumulating within him.

Chapter Text

John walked up to the door of 221b.  

Taking a deep breath, he unlocked the door and opened it.  Not seeing Sherlock in the living room, John moved to the kitchen, which was the second most likely place to find is flatmate. 

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, his eyes to his microscope.  Sherlock did not address John, but glanced at him momentarily to verify his identify.  This is it, John thought.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry," John started.

"For what?"

"For earlier," John clarified. "I said some things I didn't meant."

"You have no reason to apologize, John," Sherlock said resignedly.  "You were merely stating the truth." 

"It's not the truth," John insisted, "I was just angry.  Sometimes people say things they don't mean when they're angry."

"I don't understand, It wasn't a lie, John," Sherlock stated.  He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head a few degrees to the side, making it seem as though he honestly didn't understand.

"All the things you've said about me, they're true.  I'm not normal, I am, in fact, on the lower side of the high functioning side of the sociopathic scale, I am an addict, I am crazy, I can't do much for myself, or at the very least I don't, and I am a freak.  So... What's the problem?"

John felt a stabbing pain in his chest when Sherlock uttered that last bit.  

I am a freak.

"I don't think you're a freak, Sherlock."

"Not in your conscious mind, I don't think, no," Sherlock agreed.  "But your subconscious mind has clearly categorized me in that way.  That was made evident in that it wouldn't have even occurred to you to say it had you not. It seems to be a general consensus all around.  The definition of 'freak' in relation to humans is 'out of the ordinary, eccentric, or unusual.'  Then when you add the negativity that comes in from an insult, it means 'strange, disliked, unaccepted, lack of relation to societal norms, and unpleasant,' amongst other things.  As you well know, being my flatmate, all of those apply to me.  Therefore, by society's standards, I am a freak in both definitions of the word.  I was born that way and I will always be that way."

John was uncertain of how to answer, so he didn't for a long moment.  Sherlock went back to his work.

"And what of your own standards?" John asked, having finally found his voice. Sherlock glanced back up.

"I haven't given much thought to it, why?" Sherlock answered.  "It doesn't really matter."

"Of course it does, you know better than that."

"Why? If the majority agrees on something, it is treated as truth.  People will believe what they want giving no regards to whether or not I believe it as well.  It's simply fact, John."

Chapter Text

"I'm going to the lab."

"Want me to go with you?" John asked.

"No, thank you, John," Sherlock answered, picking up his coat and fluffing it as he slid it on.

"It's fine, if you do want me to go, I mean," John states.  "I don't have anything planned."

" 'No, thank you,' is generally considered a phrase implying that the person currently speaking does not want the service offered."

"Al- alright then..." John nods, confused by Sherlock's unusual sharpness with him.  "I guess... I'll just stay and make a cuppa then.  Maybe invite Mrs. Hudson up for tea later, once she wakes."

"What you do in my absence is of no consequence to me," Sherlock said, wrapping his scarf securely around his neck.

"Sherlock..." John began, but had no idea what to say.

"I'm not mad at you, John, no," Sherlock said suddenly.  "If that's what you were wondering.  I apologize for anything I've done leading you to believe I was, I just - " Sherlock took a breath, and rubbed his temples.  "I need to think."  Sherlock exited the room, and shut the door.

John sighed, and sat down in his chair, wondering if things would ever return to normal.  

The world of Sherlock Holmes' emotions was far larger and more tangled than he'd ever imagined. It didn't seem to have been tended to much.  Ever.

John got up and made himself a cup of tea then settled back down in his chair.  John decided to go through what he knew about Sherlock.  In his mind, he thought of all of Sherlock's favorite foods (or rather, the foods he would actually eat,) all of the tiny, almost imperceptible tics that could tell you what he was thinking, all the different 'Hmm's of the Sherlockian language.  John had yet to learn the entire language, but had already learned to identify over 47 different types of 'hmm's.  John realized just how strange it was that he knew all this about Sherlock, but also just how necessary it was to live with him.  What's more, John liked to think he had helped make Sherlock a bit of a better person.  With John around, Sherlock had at least a few manners, and he wasn't entirely reckless anymore (though still mostly, even Sherlock would admit.)

I could write a book about Sherlock, John mused.  He thought awhile before settling on a title.

"How to Train your Not-so-Sociopathic High-Functioning Sociopath."

John chuckled aloud at the thought of the name, as well as how astonishingly applicable the title was.  The name was a mouthful, but fit all the better for it.

John reflected on the chaos moving into 221b had caused in his life. 

He wouldn't trade it for the world. 

Sherlock was a pain.  That much was decided.  He was also quite often annoying, inconsiderate, and irritating.  But he was also quite caring, protective, and fiercely loyal.  John trusted him to have his back in many life-threatening situations, and Sherlock had yet to let him down.

Sherlock was sometimes thoughtful, in his own interesting, if unusual way.  He was always concerned when John got hurt, and never hesitated to help clean him up.  Sherlock had stitched John's injuries many a time, just as John had stitched Sherlock's.  

Both of them had many scars.  John's from the war, Sherlock's... John liked to think of what they were doing now in London.  A war fighting for justice and peace.  Or a lack of boredom, in Sherlock's case.

But either way, it was a war, and one that would not end no matter how long they kept fighting.  

Sherlock had always said that heroes don't exist, and even if they did, he wouldn't be one of them.  John disagreed.

While Sherlock claimed the reason he solved cases was just to prevent boredom, John knew better.  John saw past that.

There was something about Sherlock, something about him that was so obvious to John, yet he couldn't put a name to it.

Perhaps it was a secret maturity hidden amongst a sea of immaturity, or perhaps a wider view of the grand scheme of things than given to the average man, or a greater understanding of just how small and insignificant each and every one of us really are.  It was one of these things, or perhaps a mixture of a thousand other things that made Sherlock so different from every other person in the world.  Whatever it was, it gave Sherlock a peace at watching the world, knowing he could change it, but not really.

But the same knowledge that gave him peace also frustrated him to no end.  There was nothing he could do that would change things entirely.  There was no magic button he could press no matter how hard he tried to find one.  He could investigate, inspect, solve, and protect as much as humanly possible, but there would always come a time when he made a mistake, or when he was too late.  There would always be times when he would fail.

The conflicting feelings in relation to that failure were what gave him the view he had.  In his mind, the failure was both so large and so small.

It was that chaos, that contradiction, that brilliance, as well as slight insanity, that made Sherlock Holmes who he was.  

He was frustrated with just how little his actions mattered, but bound and determined to affect as much as he could.

Sherlock's existence was a lonely one.  No matter how much he tried to explain what he saw to John, to Mycroft, to Lestrade, they would never understand him.  It was this that caused his ambition, as well as his madness.  This prompted him to try and make the world make sense.  But the world never would, and he knew it, so he settled for trying to make it more beautiful.

He saw the complex and everchanging patterns of the world as artwork, while at the same time appreciating the underlying, simple, enduring patterns which make up the foundation of human existence.  

Both were beautiful on their own, but Sherlock liked to mold them, make them even more interesting. 

He knew the impact each solved case made on his clients' lives.  He knew how the closure would help them adjust to their new, changed lives.

He wrote the end of the melody composed by the criminal.

He left no symphony unfinished.

Sherlock was no angel, that much was positive.

But he was on the side of them.

Chapter Text

Sherlock relished the cool crispness of the winter air.  It stung his face with a pleasant pain so he decided to walk to St. Bart's instead of taking a cab as he'd originally intended.  So many thoughts and emotions passed through his brain, moving quickly enough he didn't have time to process and understand them.  This resulted in Sherlock attempting to turn them off, but it didn't work.  Not like it usually did.  

John's words were on repeat in his mind.  John had already apologized.  Why did John apologize?  The things he had said were true.  As much as Sherlock wished they weren't he couldn't change the nature of reality.  

He'd tried, in the past, to be normal.  He really did, but he just wasn't.  If being normal meant not experimenting on dead pigs with harpoons, then Sherlock simply didn't want to be normal.  But, though he would never admit it, it did hurt, just the tiniest bit, to be a misfit wherever he went.

Sherlock brushed these thoughts from his mind and started off walking.  He'd learned to love the little things in life.  How the ice cold air felt when he pulled it into his lungs, how it looked when he breathed it out.  It was fascinating to him, how something previously invisible became visible in just a few short seconds due to some menial change in temperature.  He knew the chemistry behind it, of course, he knew the 'how'.  It was the 'why' that intrigued him.  Why was it that chemistry happened as it did.  This gave him a constant wonder about everything.  An insatiable curiosity.  But there were bigger things to think of as of now.

Case. Case. Case. Think about the case, Sherlock prompted himself.  There is a case.

He struggled to ignore the niggling sense of wrongness without the good doctor at his side.

I've solved them before without him, for years I did.  Sherlock reminded himself. Now if you'll excuse me, you illogical idiot, I've got a missing child to find.

Sherlock huffed at himself.  It wasn't that unusual for him to insult himself within the protective depths of his own mind.  In fact, he often did it when he decided he wasn't thinking quickly enough.  It didn't speed him up of course, but it made his lack of speed feel justified.

Case. Case. Case.  Sherlock went over what he'd already figured out in his mind, piecing together the pieces of the puzzle as he walked.  Everything made sense, it looked like he had all the pieces and they fit together pristinely.  But there was still something nagging at him, chewing at the back of his mind that told him something wasn't quite right.  Telling him that there was more to the case than met the eye.  He was still missing something.  Something big. 

Sherlock walked into the doors of the empty morgue.  It was dark, and he briefly considered turning on the lights before deciding against it.  There were slivers of light coming from between the slats on the window shades, and it was light enough to see.  He shrugged off his coat and lie it over the chair.  The only noise heard was the sound of the rollers of the body cabinet, as he pulled out the missing child's father.  Sherlock unzipped the bag and pulled it down.  He searched the body for any clue he might have missed the first time.  He went over every square inch with his magnifier, leaving no spot uninvestigated.  

Sherlock sighed.  Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  Not an oddly placed bruise or strange scab in sight.  Nothing underneath the finger nails or toenails, nothing in the scalp, there was nothing.  Not a thing that he hadn't seen last time. 

He stood there staring at the body, deducing it.  He hoped letting his mind wander might produce some brilliant burst of insight.  But none came.  There was truly nothing there.

But there has to be! Sherlock thought There has to be something! No crime is unsolvable. 

He continued observing it, going over it again, and again, and again with his eyes.

There must be something. There must be something. Why can't I just think?!?

Sherlock nearly had himself in a panic.  He couldn't find anything.  There was nothing.  Not a single thing.

But there was something.  In his mind.  Playing with it.  Something was toying with the back of his mind, making him unable to think as clearly as usual.  He was certain he could figure this case out immediately if only it wasn't there.  

He felt as though he had music playing in the back of his mind.  Just barely loud enough to notice, but not so loud he could figure out what song it was.  But he knew it wasn't music.  What was it?! It was gnawing at his brain, it wouldn't let him loose.  He couldn't get away rom it, it was his mind, but he couldn't find it either, he just knew it was there.  Sherlock felt fear and frustration building up in his mind, along with anger and helplessness.  

It was his mind, there had to be away for him to stop it.  But whatever this was, it wasn't in his mind palace, everything was in order there.  It was outside of it, surrounding it.  Sherlock felt as though he were drowning in a lake and couldn't swim back up for a breath of air.  His lungs began acting appropriately.  No matter how deep of breaths he took, it never felt like enough.  His chest heaved, but he received no relief. 

Idiot!  You're not underwater!  You're not drowning! Sherlock's mind told him.  It felt like he was.

A pain came to his chest, a sharp one, tearing through his body.  It pulsed throughout him, the word 'nothing' accompanying it every time.  He felt his body shaking, trembling, as if he were operating heavy machinery. His fingertips tingled and he felt a drop of cold sweat leak down the side of his face.  His stomach ran laps in his abdomen and his heart raced to match it.

Sherlock recognized these symptoms.  It had to be something he'd read of before.  What was it called? Oh yes, a panic attack.  Hmm... why was he panicking again?

He had no clue, really.

If there's no reason to panic, Sherlock thought.  There's no reason I can't calm myself down.

The thought alone gave him some peace of mind, and he began to calm.  Every bit of this was in his head.  Panic was a common weakness sin humans, along with anxiety, which was often the precursor to panic.  Sometimes humans just stupidly did it on their own for no reason.  Sherlock preferred to picture it as the same thing as testing tornado sirens. HIs body was making sure it could react correctly if the time ever came for it to happen for a reason.  Sure, it wasn't a scheduled drill, but it was a good enough explanation for now, Sherlock decided.

He turned his attention back to the body, examining it for what felt like the thousandth time. Whatever it was, whatever he was missing, he would find it.

"I'm surprised you're here," Molly said.  "You don't usually come in this early."

Sherlock turned and looked at her, surprised to see her standing so closely behind him.  In his concentration, or perhaps his emotional turmoil, he must not have processed the clicking sound of a type of shoe made distinctly for females.  Noticed, yes, but it hadn't seemed important enough to consciously think about apparently.  She had caught him off guard.  Interesting.

Molly set her bag down next to the chair Sherlock's coat rested upon.

"You and John must've been up awfully early this morning," Molly continued.  When Sherlock didn't answer, she frowned and looked at him more closely.

"Are you alright?" She asked. "You're looking a little peaky."

"Fine, Molly," Sherlock said, forcing his mouth to obey the his command to speak.  "I'm just...

Chapter Text

"What is it, Sherlock?" Molly asked, gently.

"It's nothing, it's just..." Sherlock hesitated, looking for a way to frame his thought. "All the pieces are here, and they fit, but I still... I- I feel like I'm missing something..."

Molly tried not to show her surprise at Sherlock's use of the word 'feel' relative to his work.

"My mind understands exactly what happened, why it happened, how it happened, and when it happened, but something's just off," Sherlock explained. "I can't help but think that there's something about this case, something big, that's just staring me in the face.  That's so close to my eyes I cannot see it correctly."

"How long have you been working on this?"

Sherlock glanced back at the clock on the wall.  It read 7:45am, but that didn't tell him much given that he hadn't bothered to check when he'd arrived.

"I don't know, a couple of hours?"

"No," Molly shook her head. "That's not what I meant.  Let me rephrase, how long has this been bothering you?"

Sherlock sighed, rubbing his temples as he met her eyes.

"Days," He admitted.

"Maybe you should take a break from it then? Come back at it from a different angle?" Molly suggested.

Sherlock's blood ran cold.

"No."

He realized he'd answered much too quickly, enough to cause suspicion.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. If Sherlock could have paused time and slapped himself he would have. Now she's going to inquire more! Doesn't she realize that'll just make it worse?!  No, of course she doesn't, she doesn't know anything's wrong.  Because there is nothing wrong.  So why would she have to find out?  But I can't deal with John right now.  That can't happen.  Stupid conflicting unnecessary emotions!  I need a solution.  OR a cover up.  

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock forced himself back to reality, only to realize that his body was once again showing signs of panic.

Not again.  Not again.  Not in front of Molly.

As much as he had liked to think he had the attack under control, it had truly scared him quite a bit.

You got it under control last time, you can get it this time too.

But he couldn't get his mouth to respond this time.  It wouldn't say anything.  HIs mind started overloading again, images, sounds, facts rushing through his brain at record speed.  HIs heart began racing once again; he could feel it pounding in his chest.

Stop it stop it stop it.

These signs weren't visible from the outside.  He was merely motionless.  

His brain was moving so quickly he was no longer able to recognize what it was he was thinking.  It was as if someone was controlling his mind, making it swirl faster faster faster faster. 

Then it stopped. 

"Angles," Sherlock whispered.

"What?" Molly asked, withdrawing her hand from his.

"Angles!  That's it!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Thank you, Molly!  You're brilliant!  The best!"  He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her, grinning with excitement.

"Angles!" He said again, nearly shaking with energy.

He quickly made his way tot he door and was already opening it when Molly stopped him.

"Sherlock, your coat" 

"Right!" Sherlock took the coat from Molly's hand, still with that expression he only gets when he's figured something out.

He started walking back towards the door, but then paused for a moment, his face sobering to a sweet, calm smile.  It was an expression Molly had never seen before, but it fit his face well.  She'd never seen him look more beautifyul.

"You've helped me so much today, in more ways than you'll ever know," Sherlock said.  "Thank you."

He looked at her a moment, before gently raising a hand to her cheek, thumb caressing.  

"Thank you," He repeated quietly, then kissed her softly on the cheek.

He smiled again and then left the room.

Chapter Text

John sighed.  Sherlock had left about 5:30 this morning, and still wasn't back at 10:00.  John wished he knew where Sherlock was.

Hmm... He may as well go locate the smell that had been bothering him all morning. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence for one of Sherlock's unattended experiments (usually the ones he declared "boring") to start to smell.  He did experiment on human body parts, and they didn't always make it to the freezer. 

John followed his nose, and to his alarm and surprise found that the odor was not coming from the kitchen, but rather Sherlock's room.

Sherlock had never been all that good at keeping the flat clean, but generally kept his bedroom at least relatively tidy.

John wasn't allowed in Sherlock's room often, as Sherlock tended to be an intensely private person. John couldn't help but be curious exactly what he kept in those desk drawers, and searching for the smell would be the perfect excuse. 

John had a mischievous side, and it wasn't like he was lying, he was genuinely searching for the smell...

John looked to the stairwell of the flat, then out the window.  No Sherlock in sight.

Feeling oddly triumphant, he opened the door to Sherlock's room.  

Sherlock always said that if you wait until the right opportunity, you can get into anything.

John gauged what he imagined Sherlock's response might be if he was caught.

If Sherlock wasn't insanely angry at John for invading his privacy, then he would be very proud of John for recognizing the opportunity.

So... neutral? John thought hopefully. He knew Sherlock's reaction would probably be the first he'd thought of.  

So I make this quick.

As soon as John stepped past the doorway, he got the feeling he shouldn't be there.

However, the smell got much stronger, and John knew if he was ever going to rid the flat of it, he'd have to go in, because there was no way Sherlock would bother to look for it.

John decided he must continue on his quest.

He looked on Sherlock's bookshelves, where his experiments usually were.  He found a few, but none of them seemed to be the source of the smell.

He investigated under Sherlock's bed, and was surprised to find absolutely nothing there.  Sherlock had a surprisingly small amount of things in his room, and almost all of what was there was in plain sight.  John checked Sherlock's closet for the smell, but found only neatly ironed shirts and perfectly pressed trousers, as well as an ironing board.  John wondered when Sherlock was in his room long enough to iron his shirts. 

John checked the top of the closet, and again, found nothing at all.  Two more places to check.

After the night table yielded nothing, John set about going through the drawers of Sherlock's desk.

There were only stacks of case files and several ink pens on top of it, so he looked through the drawers.  Nothing there either.  On the other side of the desk, there were some shelves that had books on them.  John knelt beside them and read the names on the spine of them.

'Inspector Greg Lestrade'

'Mrs. Hudson'

'Miss Molly Hooper'

'Dr. John H. Watson'

'Me'

Out of curiosity, John pulled down the one titled with his own name.  He opened it and immediately recognized Sherlock's beautiful handwriting.

When he was in a hurry, Sherlock's hand writing came out as a hieroglyphic scrawl, but when he wasn't, he actually had excellent penmanship.  John occasionally wondered whether Sherlock had studied calligraphy, as the way he wrote some of his letters often resembled it.  John came to the conclusion that Sherlock likely had at some point for the purpose of a case.

John read the first page. 

'January 28, 2010

Entry 1. 

Day 1.

John H. Watson

- Thirty-five to forty yeras old

 - Army doctor

 - Went to Afghanistan

 - Shot in the shoulder 

 - PTSD

 - Limp is psychosomatic

 - Friendly, social

 - Unusually fond of jumpers

 - Potential flat mate.

Place of meeting:

Mike Stamford and he were mates in school.  They saw each other after 1-+ years at the park and took him to meet me at the laboratory at St. Bart's.

Reason for meeting:

Stamford seemed to think that Dr. Watson and I would make good flat mates.

Notes:

Going to show him the flat tomorrow at 10:00.  I need to clean up a bit.  At least I'll have to take the intestines off the table.  Also, get the upstairs bedroom prepared.'

John flipped through the journal to see more entries about himself, experiments Sherlock had done on him without him even noticing.

Sherlock had recorded exactly how much John's intake of tea increased depending on the difficulty of the case, exactly what angle John seemed to prefer his coffee cup, how long between the times John required sleep and sustenance, and how many times Sherlock could complain before John became annoyed. 

There were also a little les scientific entries, such as how John preferred his tea (no sugar, a little crème), and which songs Sherlock played on his violin that he liked most.  Sherlock also stated that there was one particular song that he would play when John had nightmares, because it seemed to help them stop.  

'He also seems to like it when I ask him how things went at his practice, after he gets off work.  Texting him while he's working seems to be not good unless it's very important, in which case texting John is vital for him not to get angry,' John read.

Some sketches of John with different facial expressions were in the notebook, describing exactly how John's face would change depending on what emotion he was feeling.

'Eyebrows lower and eyes squint when angry.'

'Eyes widen and mouth parts slightly when surprised.  Often accompanied by his calling my name (continue to study later)'

John continued reading for quite awhile, and skipped the books titled 'Molly', 'Lestrade', and 'Mrs. Hudson' as he assumed they held similar things. 

He opened the book titled 'Me'. 

It occurred to him that he ought not to read this one, but his curiosity overruled any common sense he had. 

It seemed Sherlock had recorded his thoughts on certain things, as well as his body's response to it.

So this is how he avoids showing emotion when he doesn't want to... John realized.  He learned how he reacts to different things and watches himself for those specific reactions.

Sherlock also recorded that he seemed to have an unusual level of sentiment for both Molly and John after meeting them only once.

'After but one meeting, I felt as though I were accepted by Dr. Watson, just as it was with Molly Hooper,' John read. 'I rarely miss anyone, but I seem to always look forward to the next time I'll see the both of them.'

John continued reading and was so pulled into the words that he didn't notice the sound of someone walking into the flat.

After seeing a shadow come over the book, John finally looked up.

"John?  What are you doing?"

Chapter Text

John stared at Sherlock's form, outlined in light from the doorway. 

For some reason, it seemed to be taking a second to process that, yes, Sherlock was standing there, and yes, he'd most definitely been caught.

"I was just - uh -" John stumbled for words as he stood.

Sherlock walked towards him and saw the notebook in John's hand.  He snatched it from him and glanced at the label.

The surprise on his face melted to hurt, then to anger.

"Why are you in my room, John?" Sherlock asked. "Why are you snooping through my things?"

"I was uh- uh -" John tried to bring his brain back online. "I was looking for a smell."

"A smell?" Sherlock repeated.  It was obvious that he didn't believe John.

"Yeah, don't you smell that?" John asked.  "Smells like... paint," John blinks as he places the sent for the first time.

"You don't think that could possibly be because Mrs. Hudson is repainting her kitchen?" Sherlock said sharply.

"I didn't think of that... I forgot her kitchen is beneath your bedroom.  The smell must've come up through the vents..."

"You don't say?" Sherlock said sarcastically, as he looked around to see what had been meddled with.

"You apparently found it necessary to search my entire room, even though you could have followed the smell directly to its source."

"I..." John didn't have an answer to that.

There was a tense silence, and Sherlock walked to the door after taking a deep breath.  He'd nearly begun to leave when John spoke.

"You're always so private..." John said.  "Can you really blame me for wondering about you?  Wondering what's going on in that big head of yours every time we go on a case?  What you do when you're alone?  You knew almost everything about me from just one glance, and you filled the rest in so quickly," John paused, then spoke again.  "But I can't read people like you do," John said. "You keep every single important thought, opinion, and feeling all crunched up inside you."

Sherlock didn't answer.

"So honestly, I was just hoping to get to know you, Sherlock," John said.  "Because I don't.  Not really."

Chapter Text

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it, hesitating.

"Did it ever occur to you, that you may not want to?"

Sherlock looked once more at John, then left the room.

He walked into the living room and grabbed his violin.  He started to play, his fingers roaming the strings without a specific song in mind.  Improvision, as it was.

It was a simple tune, yet there was depth to it.  There was a complexity in its simplicity, one that couldn't be easily described or explained.

John was left standing in Sherlock's room, alone, as Sherlock played the mealncholy song.

It nearly brought him to tears just thinking about the mess he'd made of all this.

He'd tried to fix things, but all he'd succeeded in doing was make them worse.  Breaking Sherlock's trust? Not once, but twice?

John groaned, putting his head in his hands.

After allowing himself to wallow in self-pity for a moment, he walked out into the kitchen.

He put the kettle on for tea and made two cups.  One for Sherlock and one for himself.

As it steeped, he thought of how he might make it up to Sherlock.  But all too soon, the tea was finished and he'd still not thought of an apology.

John slowly walked out into the living room, tea in hand, and stood near by until Sherlock stopped playing. He held out the cuppa in offering.

"I'm sorry," John said. "It was wrong for me to snoop through your things without asking, even if I was curious, and even if I was truly looking for a smell.  It was stupid and inconsiderate of me.  I'm sorry.  Please forgive me." 

Sherlock considered him for a moment before accepting the cup.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, John," Sherlock sighed as he sat down. "Just know that I keep my thoughts inside of my mind for a reason."

"You said that earlier, or something similar..." John said, following Sherlock's lead and sitting in his usual chair. "What did you mean?"

"I meant that you don't want to know what goes on inside my mind, if you often don't like what comes out of it," Sherlock said. "I know both, and I don't care for either.  I figure I best spare you the pain.  Don't worry about missing something good.  I already do my best to show you those.  You know me as far as my contentment and happiness extends."

John considered Sherlock's words for a moment before coming to a decision.  He spoke his next words carefully.

"Paintings are often of war, or fighting.  Songs are written for those times as well.  The most beautiful works of art, the masterpieces are the ones born during hardship..." John said. "I like to think people are the same way.  The other side of you may be dark and hard, but if you share with me the good side, it's only fair that I bare a piece of the other as well."