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There are certain things that you should know about him. First, he's unemployed. Second, he hates his therapy sessions. Well, 'hate' may be too strong a word to describe his sessions with Ella, but the point still stands. He doesn't like it when she reminds him that the nightmares are due to PTSD; he can't stand it when he has to remind her that nothing ever happens to him; and he wants to break something every time she tells him that he's the one who has the power to make things better.

Because he damn well does not, and she's a bloody terrible therapist.

Of course, rather than tell her how he feels, he continues his weekly sessions with a polite smile on his face, pretending to agree with her assessments, all the while loathing every single second he spends there.

The only thing that he looks forward to is the 46 minutes he spends in the tube on his way to Ella's office. In order to spend the 46 minutes wisely, he writes about his fellow passengers. He notes down their clothes and belongings, tries his best to describe the individuals he has chosen, and he lets his imagination make out what their story is.

Because if there is anything that John Watson believes in, it's that everyone has a story of their own. Fascinating or not, that's another point altogether.

(His other belief is that tea cures all pains in life. Come on, you know it's true.)

John knows that he's not capable of accurately retelling their life story (accuracy has never been something that he excels in, unless a gun is involved), so he does the next best thing. He uses the minor details he collects from thorough observation of the passengers to form his version of the kind of lives they lead. In that duration of time (the aforesaid 46 minutes), John chooses one individual, notes down whatever he deems is necessary to describe them, and proceeds to write a story about them. Once he is done with that person, he moves on to the next. Time passes fairly quickly, when one is occupied.

Feel free to laugh at him all you want, but the good doctor is devious and he knows it. Not only does he find this exercise interesting, but all that he has written in his notebook, he types in his blog. You know, the one his therapist insists on?

She's pleased by the fact that he's blogging, and as long as he can avoid blogging about himself, John's more than willing to continue. He finds that by doing this, he is allowed to think about the lives of others rather than dwell on his own.

His life. What exactly can one say about his life?

Captain John Watson, former army doctor, a thrill-seeker with a psychosomatic limp in his leg, and an intermittent tremor in his left hand. A man who misses the war and battlefield; and now thinks of himself as a self-proclaimed storyteller.

The writing helps him to forget about how lonely he is, and his weekly 46-minute journey becomes something he enjoys.

Right now, as John sits on one of the worn-out seats of the tube that was offered to him by a young girl who had noticed his limp (the leg's not even injured — YEAH BUT IT DOESN'T MEAN THAT IT DOESN'T HURT — John you are imagining the pain it's not real — I'M A BLOODY DOCTOR OF COURSE I KNOW IT'S NOT REAL — get a grip it's not real — SOD OFF IT HURTS LIKE HELL), he takes his time in choosing someone to write about. He settles on the young man sitting across him, and begins scribbling all of his observations in his notebook.

- Ring on left hand: Married.

- Dumb-arse cap (ew ew ew): Values the thoughts and opinions of others. Someone must have told him the cap was cool.

- A man purse like the one Indiana Jones had.

- Pink backpack, with cartoons on it.

John gleefully notes that the backpack must belong to the man's daughter, and he concludes that the man must adore his daughter very much to be willing to be seen with such a flashy bag. Looking up again, John then notices that the man looks absolutely crushed, with a blank expression on his haggard face, and his eyes are visibly red but there is no sign of tears, and those sad eyes are directed towards the ground.

The man is holding on to the backpack very tightly, and a wave of sadness hits John. He realizes that something terrible must have happened to the girl, and John grimly writes that down. He avoids looking at the man for more clues, and uses whatever information he has already obtained to write out his version of the man's story. John's heart wrenches when he settles on one of the many possibilities of the girl's situation, and ignores it by diligently letting his imagination run free.

He's so engrossed in writing that he doesn't notice when someone sits beside him. When he hears an unfamiliar voice speak, John jumps in his seat, and is utterly confused.

"Not his daughter, it's his sister. And she didn't get kidnapped, interesting though that might be; but she is, however, dead. Based on the medications sticking out from the front compartment of the backpack and from the fact that they're used to treat septicemia, she obviously wasn't given her medication on time, nor was she taken to the hospital quickly enough. Judging by the way he's clutching the bag—his knuckles have turned white—he's either feeling guilty or he's still in shock. Can't see why the backpack matters so much, though."

The stranger finishes his monologue with a huff, and glares at the man as if the man has done him a wrong for acting in a way that he doesn't comprehend.

John, in spite of himself, whistles softly, completely awed by the explanation.

"Sentiment." John offers. "If what you're saying is true, then the backpack is probably the last thing he has of her, or it was something that reminds him of her."

"If?" The stranger repeats the word like it's something revolting and continues. "There is no 'if'. I'm sure of my deductions. I'm always right."

"Good on you, then." John mutters.

The stranger peeks at John's notes again and smirks.

"As much as I disapprove of your exaggeration and dramatic style of writing, I happen to agree with your observation that the cap he's wearing is"—he squints—"a dumb-arse cap that should be burnt with fire and salt. Though you must mean 'fire and sulphur'."

John rolls his eyes at the man beside him and shoves his notebook in his bag.

"I don't care what you think about my style of writing, and I sure as hell don't need your approval. So, would you kindly please, sod off?"

John sounds completely calm as he speaks, looking non-threatening in his one-size-too-big jumper, yet inexplicably dangerous.

The man looks torn between feeling uncomfortable, amused, and curious, before his lips twitches upwards to form a small smile.

"Interesting. Sherlock Holmes." The stranger extends his hand politely as he introduces himself.

"Ducky Wellington. How do you do."

The stranger—Sherlock—looks terribly insulted.

"You could do better than that."

"Yeah, well. I like to exaggerate, as you've very brilliantly pointed out."

"No one's named Ducky."

"I used to have a duck named Ducky."

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did."

"No. You didn't."

"But I did."

"You. Didn't."

"And how did you arrive to the conclusion that I didn't have a pet duck?"

"Because no one has ducks as pets, obviously."

John raises his eyebrows, and watches smugly as Sherlock continues.

"Ducks are meant to be eaten and I happen to be very fond of them."

"Are you fond of them as pets, or are you fond of them as meals?"

Sherlock frowns.

"I don't know how we are able to maintain a conversation about this. Ducks are mundane creatures which are exquisite when cooked with herbs, but other than that, they're quite dull. I don't talk about things that are dull." He says the last part more to himself than to John.

"I'm insulted in behalf of the race of ducks that you've referred to as mundane and dull. Also, if you don't want to talk about things that are dull, you should stop talking to me."

"And why is that?"

"Because I'm made of dull. Dull is my middle name."

"Ah. It's nice to have made your acquaintance, Mr Ducky Dull Wellington."

John bursts out giggling at the stupidity of his cover name and Sherlock can't help but let out a low chuckle of amusement.

"Very observant, aren't you, Mr Holmes? So, what can you tell me about me?"

"Are you sure you want me to do that? It doesn't usually end well."

"I wonder why," John deadpans.

Sherlock smiles at that and John feels himself wanting to see more of that smile.

Wait. What?

"Go on." John urges Sherlock to continue, trying to rid the strange thoughts from his head.

"If you insist."

Sherlock turns and faces John, and when Sherlock smirks, John wonders what in the world he has just done.

Chapter Text

"That's brilliant."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Amazing."

"That's not what people usually say."

"Oh. What do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

John grins.

"I kinda said the same thing to you earlier."

"You did. You asked me to kindly sod off, if I recall correctly. And I do."

"Sorry 'bout that."

"You meant it, though."

"Sure did. You insulted my writing skills."

"I called your brother a drunkard, and you're more infuriated over the fact that I criticized your writing prowess?"

"Well... You're right about Harry, so there's no argument there."

"But I was right about your wri—"

"Don't you dare continue that sentence."

"But it—"

"No."

"You kn—"

"I will resort to violence, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's mouth snaps shut obediently. John beams.

"Now, since you know practically all there is to know about me, tell me more about yourself."

"I'm not going to do that."

"Why ever not?" John asks, looking slightly disappointed.

"Because I'd rather you deduce me. Telling you about myself would be boring."

"Is that a challenge?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Unless you think you can't do it. I wonder what it's like in your funny little brain. Must be so relaxing." He taunts John mercilessly.

John scowls and narrows his eyes at Sherlock. "You will regret this, mate. Challenge accepted."

Now, what was Sherlock Holmes doing in a train in the first place? Dear readers, would you like it if I went on and told you an elaborate story of how fate intervened in the life of this high-functioning sociopath; and how it is destined for this great man to learn the value of friendship through the company of a certain ex-army doctor?

That would make a brilliant story, but in this particular one, it all started with a dare.

Are you disappointed by that fact? I extend my sincere apologies, and if you're still reading, please, do have some tea and cookies while I continue.

As mentioned earlier, it all started with a dare. Ah, how plebeian. Simply put, the reason why Sherlock Holmes found himself on a train that day was because of Mycroft Holmes, irritating git and meddler extraordinaire.

Sherlock had been pestering Mycroft for months about getting a new flat, proving to be extremely unhappy with the way Mycroft... uh... well...

Sherlock was unhappy with Mycroft for everything. He hated how he had to endure hell when Mycroft shut him in the basement for days to get him clean (please Mycroft please give it to me it hurts, Mycroft please please make it stop); he hated how Mycroft would keep an eye on him all the time, privacy being a foreign concept to his nosy older brother, obviously; and the worst part of it was having to depend on Mycroft.

So when Mycroft issued a challenge, or shall we say, a dare, that Sherlock wouldn't last 20 minutes in a train, it was a dare Mycroft was sure Sherlock would lose.

How could Sherlock sit still in a train full of people without:

1. Willingly hurling himself off the train due to the stupidity of the people surrounding him; their normalcy and ignorance would prove suffocating and intolerable to the mad genius.

2. Insulting everyone to the extent that he'd literally be kicked off the train and they'd have a party to celebrate his absence right after.

3. Getting beaten up for his blatant honesty and cutting observations that no one wanted to hear about.

Sherlock would know better than put himself through all that. Right?

Right?

Wrong.

It took Sherlock three days to agree – three days that consisted of text messages that contained interesting and colourful profanities in several languages being sent to Mycroft's mobile (words which even Mycroft hadn't heard of), and incessant sulking.

As Sherlock mentally prepared himself for the inevitable, he promised himself that he wouldn't let Mycroft win this round. He was resolved to just sit in a corner and ignore the world. "Think about the case," he tells himself, "go the the mind palace, keep calm, and do. not. speak."

Of course, what Sherlock (or Mycroft, especially Mycroft) didn't account for was a certain doctor, who seemed relatively harmless at first sight, with an expressive face that betrayed all his emotions.

Sherlock didn't expect this individual to compliment him, laugh at the strange things he said, and more surprisingly, to actually enjoy their conversation.

The army doctor did what no one else could. That is, he cured Sherlock Holmes of boredom, and saved Sherlock from himself when he didn't even know he needed saving.

Funny, that.

They continue talking about things. John finds out that Sherlock is a consulting detective when he inaccurately deduces that Sherlock's an amateur investigator (keeping in mind that one never wants to be at the receiving end of a are-you-really-that-dumb-there-really-is-no-hope-for-mankind-you're-all-idiots-god-help-us-all glare); Sherlock's chagrined to realize that Harry is short for Harriet (there's always something, you, stop smirking, it's unbecoming); and both John and Sherlock laugh more than they've ever laughed in their lives.

When John hears the announcement of the next stop, John sighs, and starts finding reasons to justify his actions if he chooses to stay on the train and continue talking to Sherlock.

Alas, John Watson is a responsible and normal man, who has a silly appointment to get to, and he's never hated himself more.

"Um... it's my stop now. It was really nice to meet you, Sherlock."

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but closes it instead in favour of nodding.

There is a brief moment of silence when the both of them have the same idea in mind, but are unwilling to voice it; and the moment ends when John clears his throat, and waves his new acquaintance goodbye.

He makes his way to the door, limping all the way, and feeling like his favourite toy has just been taken away. Then he hears the now familiar voice.

"Doctor" – a hesitant pause – "Wellington!"

John doesn't turn, being the cheeky fellow that he is, and he tries to stop giggling when he hears Sherlock mutter under his breath. "Oh, for god's sake, this is beneath you, surely."

John stares ahead, refusing to acknowledge Sherlock, and remains unfazed by the fact that he just had a 40-minute conversation with a man who didn't even bother to ask for his real name. "Serves him right," John thinks, chuckling to himself.

"DUCKY!"

All of the other passengers are staring by now, but John doesn't care the least bit about them. He turns, with a wide, and cunning grin plastered on his face. Sherlock looks grim, though his twinkling eyes are full of amusement, and that immediately gives him away.

"I didn't get your name."

John waits for the train to stop completely, allowing a few seconds for a dramatic reply.

"The name's John Watson, and I take the 2.45 train every Thursday. Good day, Sherlock Holmes."

He ends his sentence with a wink, walks out, and cringes over how not-dramatic and cheesy he sounded, although the embarrassment isn't nearly enough to wipe the smile off his face.

For the first time in six months, John Watson feels alive.

Chapter Text

Message Sent: 08.10am

Idiots. I'm surrounded by idiots.

SH

Message Sent: 08.12am

Who's this?

Message Sent: 08.13am

Don't be dim, John. It doesn't suit you.

SH

Message Sent: 08.16am

Oh, stop. I'm blushing.

PS: Your reactions are amusing.

Message Sent: 08.17am

You're childish.

SH

Message Sent: 08.17am

;)

Message Sent: 08.19am

I see that your texts are as appalling as your writing.

SH

Message Sent: 08.21am

Aren't you a delight? How did you get my number anyway?

Message Sent: 08.22am

I have my ways.

SH

Message Sent: 08.22am

Stalker.

Message Sent: 08.25am

No, that's you. How do you like my website?

SH

Message Sent: 08.40am

The Science of Deduction? Creative name, I'll give you that.

Message Sent: 08.43am

Is that it?

SH

Message Sent: 08.45am

Oh stop pouting. You know it's fantastic.

Message Sent: 08.45am

I do not pout.

SH

Message Sent: 08.47am

Yeah, and I don't like tea.

Message Sent: 08.48am

Was that meant to be sarcastic?

It wasn't a very good attempt.

SH

Message Sent: 08.51am

As much as I enjoy the nice things you're saying about me,

I really have to get back to work. That's what some of us

have to do, you know? :)

Message Sent: 08.52am

I am working.

SH

Message Sent: 08.54am

No, you're texting. Don't you have to be at the Yard?

Message Sent: 08.56am

At a crime scene now. I'm in need of a professional opinion

of a doctor, actually.

SH

Message Sent: 08.57am

Well, I'm sure they have their own professionals.

Message Sent: 08.58am

If you look up the word imbecile on Google, Anderson's face

is the first thing that pops out. And he's the head of the

Forensics team.

SH

Message Sent: 09.00am

I really shouldn't find that funny.

Message Sent: 09.02am

SHERLOCK IS THAT A DEAD WOMAN YOU CAN'T SEND

PICTURES OF DEAD PEOPLE TO ME OR ANYONE

Message Sent: 09.02am

SHERLOCK

Message Sent: 09.03am

Not good?

SH

Message Sent: 09.03am

BIT NOT GOOD YEAH

Message Sent: 09.04am

Well. Go on then. What can you tell?

SH

Message Sent: 09.06am

if i get arrested for this i'm taking you with me or you're

at least paying for bail

Message Sent: 09.08am

Noted. Thoughts, John?

SH

Message Sent: 11.35am

PINK!

SH

Message Sent: 11.58am

Not my colour, but it would suit you, I guess.

Message Sent: 12.00pm

No, her case.

SH

Message Sent: 12.01pm

The dead woman's case?

Message Sent: 12.04pm

Obviously. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes,

it means that she's a meticulous dresser who

puts high priority on her appearance.

SH

Message Sent: 12.05pm

I need to find it.

SH

Message Sent: 12.05pm

Good luck hunting, then.

Message Sent: 12.06pm

I don't believe in luck.

SH

Message Sent: 01.22pm

Found it.

SH

Message Sent: 01.24pm

That's great. Where?

Message Sent: 01.25pm

I need you to send a text.

SH

Message Sent: 01.26pm

Good lord, what have I been doing the whole time, then?

Message Sent: 01.28pm

Don't you have your own phone for that very purpose?

Message Sent: 01.29pm

My number's on the website. Could be recognized.

SH

Message Sent: 01.31pm

Fine.

Message Sent: 01.45pm

All right, I'm done. What was that for?

Message Sent: 01.49pm

You just sent a text to Jennifer Wilson's phone.

SH

Message Sent: 01.52pm

Wait, I thought you said that the murderer probably has her phone.

Message Sent: 01.53pm

SHERLOCK

Message Sent: 01.53pm

DID I JUST TEXT A MURDERER

Message Sent: 01.54pm

Indeed.

SH

Message Sent: 01.55pm

WHAT

Message Sent: 01.56pm

YOU. UTTER. PRAT.

Message Sent: 01.58pm

Lovely.

SH

Message Sent: 02.02pm

The murderer called.

Message Sent: 03.18pm

How's the case going? Figured it out yet?

Message Sent: 07.03pm

Roland Kerr Further Education College.

SH

Message Sent: 07.18pm

Okay. Did you call the DI?

Message Sent: 07.21pm

Sherlock?

Message Sent: 07.30pm

You didn't call for backup, did you?

Message Sent: 07.38pm

SHERLOCK?

Message Sent: 07.45pm

Mate, I don't want to sound desperate here, but any

indication that you're still alive and breathing would

be great.

Message Sent: 07.58pm

Sherlock are you all right

Message Sent: 08.13pm

Damn it sherlock would you please reply

Chapter Text

"It's not a game, it's chance."

"I've played four times, and I'm alive. So, are you going to play?"

"Play what? It's a 50:50 chance."

"Are you clever enough to bet your life?"

It's chance. Sherlock is perfectly aware of that fact, but the temptation to beat the cabbie at his own game is too powerful. He has just been handed the opportunity to play this game of chance (it's not a game, luck, probably), and the idea of being able to say that he's above mundane things such as chance?

Perfect.

Sherlock looks down at the two bottles and makes his decision. He reaches for the pill that is in front of the cabbie, ready to prove himself right, when a text alert interrupts him.

He stops and remembers the texts from John that he steadily ignored after texting John the address of the building he was in. He feels an odd pang of loss as he concludes that John would give up on him (just like everyone else, that's what you do, Sherlock, you drive people who care away) after receiving no reply from him. Sherlock starts berating himself for caring about such distracting thoughts, but checks his phone anyway.

When he sees whom the text is from, he simply can't explain to himself why he feels relieved that the message is from John, and he doesn't even bother to attempt it.

Message Sent: 08.56pm

I SWEAR TO GOD SHERLOCK

YOU BETTER NOT BE DOING SOMETHING STUPID

RIGHT NOW. IT'S NOT WORTH YOUR LIFE,

YOU DAFT GENIUS

He smirks at that. How completely John. The only person to call him a genius without any trace of sarcasm, or judge him for being the way he is. John, who never treats him like a freak, and who makes him laugh without any effort.

John Watson, a man he's only met for one day, and Sherlock's sole friend.

"Mr Holmes, shall we now?"

The frailty of genius is that it needs an audience. There is the need to be appreciated and acknowledged. The desire to show off, and beyond this is the euphoric rush that comes through the display of sheer brilliance.

"What's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?" The cabbie taunts.

This is his opportunity now. The day has simply two possible ways of ending: one, with a dead Sherlock Holmes; and two, with an insufferable genius by the same name who beats the odds and emerges triumphant from this gamble.

"You'll do anything… anything to stop being bored," the cabbie continues.

True, and the only thing that is holding him back from swallowing the pill is John Watson.

He's a complex puzzle that Sherlock hasn't figured out yet. John is predictable in his actions and thoughts, but at the same time he is so random, that boring is not a word that anyone would use to describe John. So irritatingly friendly to the world, yet wonderfully dangerous despite his small size. John seeks normality, but thrives on danger and the chaos of battlefield. He's a walking paradox and a fascinating puzzle.

John stops Sherlock from being bored.

The day could very well end with Sherlock lying dead on the ground because even the most idiotic of idiots (read: Anderson) can tell that the supposed game that this cabbie plays depends on mere chance. (Sherlock's anything but an idiot. Uh... sometimes.) He can't let that happen. He's always been blasé about his own life, but that really isn't the point right now. Sherlock's determined to stay alive as long as he can, just so he can suss this John Watson out.

He's never left a puzzle or mystery unsolved, and he's certainly not going to start now.

Without warning, someone shoots through the window, putting a bullet in the cabbie's shoulder. It is only then that Sherlock realizes how close the pill is to his lips, and Sherlock immediately turns to face the direction where the shot came from.

He sees no one.

Sherlock turns back to face the cabbie – Jefferson Hope – and manages to get the word 'Moriarty' out of him before watching him take his last breath. While Sherlock doesn't get to prove himself that day (not that he needs to, but of course, our dear Sherlock here can't seem to grasp that fact now, can he? John's right, what a prat), he does, however, prove how John is indeed one of a kind.

A killshot over that distance, that's a crack shot. The shooter is definitely one who's acclimatised to violence, judging by how his hands must have been completely still when he took the shot. Strong moral principles, as he only fired when he judged Sherlock to be in danger, so he must be a man with a military background as well as nerves of steel.

Conclusion?

John Watson.

Realizing this makes him grin widely. He's never had anyone who was genuinely concerned about his well-being, well, certainly no one who would kill for him, and the knowledge of that makes him giddy with excitement. When the medics cover him with the infamous shock blanket, he endures Lestrade's grumbling with several nods of acknowledgement and texts John.

Message Sent: 10.08pm

Thank you.

SH

Message Sent: 10.10pm

The next time I see you, I am going to kick you.

Message Sent: 10.12pm

Looking forward to it.

SH

Message Sent: 10.13pm

I'll hold you to that.

Message Sent: 10.14pm

Good.

SH

Message Sent: 10.16pm

Must you always have the last word?

Message Sent: 10.17pm

Yes.

SH

Message Sent: 10.18pm

Very well.

Message Sent: 10.19pm

John?

SH

Message Sent: 10.21pm

I'll need a new phone plan if you're going to

continue texting me. This is bloody expensive.

Message Sent: 10.22pm

It is shocking how much you care

about such trivial matters.

SH

Message Sent: 10.24pm

Ah. The great Sherlock Holmes can

be shocked. Point Watson.

Message Sent: 10.25pm

Moriarty.

SH

Message Sent: 10.28pm

What's that?

Message Sent: 10.30pm

I've absolutely no idea.

SH

Message Sent: 10.30pm

Not for long, though.

SH

Chapter Text

Message Sent: 02.03pm

John Watson threw my umbrella.

MH

Message Sent: 02.04pm

He snatched it away from my hands,

and threw it three feet away from me.

MH

Message Sent: 02.08pm

He's really short.

MH

Message Sent: 02.09pm

Did he notice the sword you always hide in

your dumb umbrella?

SH

Message Sent: 02.10pm

That man is a soldier and I'm sure it was

self defense.

SH

Message Sent: 02.13pm

Also, leave him alone.

SH

Message Sent: 02.14pm

It was a regular umbrella this time.

MH

Message Sent: 02.15pm

I'm sure he had his reasons.

SH

Message Sent: 02.17pm

Indeed. Apparently, he was very

much disapproving of the fact that

I arranged a meeting with him at

an... inconvenient time.

MH

Message Sent: 02.18pm

You kidnapped him.

SH

Message Sent: 02.22pm

I will break into your bedroom and fill

it with cakes, so that you'll have no

choice but to be tempted, eat them,

and ruin your stupid diet.

SH

Message Sent: 02.23pm

Tsk, what a messy idea. You

can do better than that.

MH

Message Sent: 02.25pm

Of course I can.

This is just more effective.

SH

Message Sent: 02.27pm

I will dispose of your beloved skull,

then. You're still living under my roof.

MH

Message Sent: 02.27pm

Not for long.

SH

Message Sent: 02.35pm

Ah, yes. You have John Watson to thank

for that.

MH

Message Sent: 02.36pm

Brave man, though rather extreme when his

tea is at stake. How strange.

MH

Message Sent: 02.37pm

He doesn't take critisms that involve his

jumpers very well, either.

MH

Message Sent: 02.40pm

Stop bothering him, Mycroft.

SH

Message Sent: 02.41pm

Found yourself a friend, have you?

MH

Message Sent: 02.41pm

Piss off.

SH

Message Sent: 02.43pm

Very well. Keep him around, won't

you? I think I might be fond of this

doctor.

MH

Message Sent: 02.53pm

221B Baker Street.

SH

Message Sent: 02.55pm

Is that your final choice?

MH

Message Sent: 02.56pm

Yes.

SH

Message Sent: 02.56pm

That's home.

SH

Message Sent: 09.21pm

Who has arch-nemesis' these days?

Message Sent: 09.22pm

Do you mean to say that you don't?

SH

Message Sent: 09.24pm

No, regular people don't. Who is that man?

Message Sent: 09.26pm

The most dangerous man you'll ever meet,

and not my problem right now.

SH

Message Sent: 09.27pm

John, how much blood does one need

to lose before it's considered fatal?

SH

Message Sent: 09.27pm

Be specific.

SH

Message Sent: 09.33pm

I'm not answering that.

Message Sent: 09.35pm

Greater than 40% loss of the total body

blood volume to be considered life-

threatening.

Message Sent: 09.36pm

You already know that.

Message Sent: 09.37pm

Obviously. But the confirmation is quite

helpful.

SH

Message Sent: 09.40pm

Anyway. That man. He's got a weird

umbrella.

Message Sent: 09.42pm

He reminded me of Mary Poppins.

Message Sent: 09.43pm

It is his favourite movie.

SH

Message Sent: 09.44pm

How do you even know that.

Message Sent: 09.48pm

Did he offer you money to spy on me?

SH

Message Sent: 09.55pm

Yeah. Right after he said some very

insulting things about my favourite

jumper.

Message Sent: 09.56pm

Did you take it?

SH

Message Sent: 09.58pm

Of course not! What kind of person

do you think I am?

Message Sent: 10.02pm

Shame. You should have.

SH

Message Sent: 10.03pm

It would more than cover your phone

bill. Not to mention your three

and a half month overdue rent.

SH

Message Sent: 10.05pm

Changed my plan to unlimited texting,

you git.

Message Sent: 10.06pm

A puzzle, John. That's what you are.

SH

Message Sent: 10.07pm

Okay. That's great. I think.

Message Sent: 10.08pm

It's your turn to say something nice

about me now.

SH

Message Sent: 10.10pm

You are the vainest man I've ever met.

Message Sent: 10.11pm

That's not a compliment. Your social skills

need work.

SH

Message Sent: 10.12pm

Thanks for the lovely input, Sherlock.

Message Sent: 12.37am

I'm bored.

SH

Message Sent: 12.55am

John.

SH

Message Sent: 01.29am

John.

SH

Message Sent: 02.23am

John?

SH

Message Sent: 03.05am

JOHNNNN.

SH

Message Sent: 03.32am

John.

SH

Message Sent: 03.35am

good god sherlokc its 3am why are you

awake

Message Sent: 03.36am

Sleep is for the weak. You've also

spelt my name wrong.

SH

Message Sent: 03.41am

i am weak ive got harry to visit tomoro

and i got kidnapped by your arch something

today its been a long day

Message Sent: 03.43am

your stupid arch person thingy interrupted

my tea break

Message Sent: 03.44am

go sleep sherlock

Message Sent: 03.45am

Very well.

SH

Message Sent: 03.46am

g'nite sherlock

Message Sent: 03.48am

Goodnight, John.

SH

Chapter Text

"Sherlock, stop staring at the baby."

It started staring first.

SH

Why, of course the great Sherlock Holmes could text with just one hand. John wouldn't expect any less from him, but seriously, did he have to shove that ability in John's face?

Some people are born to be technologically inept, and this definitely includes a certain John Watson.

You know, the Captain John Watson, former army doctor, a thrill-seeker with a psychosomatic limp in his leg, and an intermittent tremor in his left hand. A man who misses the war and battlefield, though not so much since meeting Sherlock Holmes; and the very same John Watson who thinks of himself as a self-proclaimed storyteller.

Ah, and let's not forget another vital description of this puzzle of a man.

Technologically challenged.

Harry never did let him live that down.

"Well, stop staring at it. You're being creepy."

Its features resemble one of a monkey.

SH

"Of course it looks like a monkey, Sherlock. It's barel—"

The child's mother shifts her murderous glare to John.

"Uh... he looks like a monkey?"

Warning signals go off in John's head, and when the woman gets up with a huff, he's half afraid that she is going to slap him in the face.

She glares at them, muttering nastily under her breath, and walks away with her newborn child. (Gender still unknown, as John's not going to ask for a confirmation again. He's occasionally reckless, not suicidal. Perhaps Sherlock would know.)

"It kept yawning at me. How rude."

(Apologies. Sherlock does not know.)

John scowls at the ground while Sherlock takes the now empty seat beside him with unholy glee.

"You're a nutter, you know that?"

"Not the worst I've been called."

"If it's any comfort, hanging around you has made me one too."

"Not comforting in the least, John. You're an idiot."

"How I managed without your compliments before, Sherlock, I have no idea."

"Don't be self-depreciating, John. Practically everyone's an idiot. You're more tolerable than most."

"Is this what flattery feels like? It's strange."

"I don't see why I had to give up my seat earlier."

"We've been through this, Sherlock."

"But you could hav—"

"Nope. I've got a cane and a limp. I deserve a seat."

"It's psychosomatic."

"Indeed. Still a limp, though. Still incapacitated."

Sherlock snorts in a terribly undignified manner, much to John's amusement.

"You're nothing of that sort. You shot a man, a serial killer, withou—"

Sherlock hisses in pain when John's elbow makes contact with his ribs.

"We're practicing a play, aren't we, Sherlock?" John interrupts, nodding apologetically at the elderly couple beside them who look scandalized at the contents of their conversation.

"Indeed."

"It's still in progress." John announces, a little louder this time, for the benefit of the eavesdroppers from across their seat.

Sherlock smirks and John feels an irrational urge to burst out laughing at the conversational topics Sherlock categorizes under Good Things To Converse About; despite them obviously being under a separate category of Not Good Not Good Not Good.

Or John could just kick him in an act of defiance.

Again.

John recalls lulling Sherlock into a false sense of security just a few minutes before he made Sherlock give up his seat; and when the genius least expected it, John stepped on his feet and Sherlock's muffled curse was immensely satisfying.

Wait. What do you mean that it doesn't count as a kick? It counts. Well, John says it counts and so there. Further inquiries will be addressed after the self-proclaimed omnipotent author is done with John's story, thank you.

"I'm looking for a flatmate."

"Are you now?"

"Repetition, John. Tedious."

"I think that is actual—"

"Do you know anyone who might be interested?"

John considers stomping on Sherlock's feet again, and sensing John's violent thoughts, Sherlock continues.

"221B Baker Street. Would you like to take a look?"

"No."

"It's not like you to sulk, John."

"I learnt from the best."

Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically.

"I'll meet you there after your incredibly boring therapy session."

"Hmm. We'll see. I might be busy."

"With what? Planning on how to smother your therapist without leaving any evidence?"

"I was thinking of going with the more elegant approach of poisoning her. Which reminds me, you're a first-class idiot."

"You've not called me one for almost 20 minutes. I was wondering if you forgot."

"I feel much better now that I've said it, thank you." John grins, and Sherlock follows suit just a few seconds later.

"Glad to be of assistance, then."

"You were going to swallow the pill, weren't you?"

"Definitely not."

"Sherlock, your pants."

"What about them?"

"They're on fire."

John sniggers at his completely lame joke. Liar liar pants on fire. Heh.

"John, don't be daft."

"But that was funny."

"It really wasn't. I'll meet you there at 4."

"Only if you finally tell me who the bloke with the umbrella was."

"There's no point in my doing so. You'll be there anyway."

John chooses not to reply to the somewhat innocent but mostly insulting statement. He knows that Sherlock means well, but it isn't very nice to have someone undermine your friendship like that.

Sherlock notices the abrupt change in John's attitude and sighs softly.

"Mycroft makes me miserable and interferes in my life incessantly because I'm Mummy's favourite."

"Mummy?" John asks, bewildered.

He also sees that Sherlock attempts to be nonchalant about his confession, though the delight at being Mummy Holmes' favourite is evident.

"Did your br— uh... Mycroft kidnap me for a reason?"

"He's dumb," Sherlock replies, with an air of petulance in his answer.

John giggles despite himself at Sherlock's choice of words. Then realization dawns on him and his horrified expression must have been obvious, because Sherlock looks a tiny bit concerned.

Okay, fine. He raised his eyebrows and John basically interpreted that as Sherlock's hey are you alright John, I'm worried look. In hindsight, that was probably just wishful thinking.

"Oh god, what are your Christmas dinners like?"

Sherlock's grimace proves to be all the answer that John needs.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I don't want to know."

Chapter Text

Incidentally, the first time John misses his appointment with Ella is the first time Sherlock invites John to a particularly gory crime scene.

Don't get on the train.

SH

There's been a murder. Left

hand missing, two out of five

fingers from right hand found.

SH

I'll meet you at Baker Street.

SH

Come if convenient.

SH


Ella will kill me if I miss a session.

 

Wonderful. Her wrath will be dangerous.

SH

Therefore if inconvenient, come

anyway.

SH

John.

SH

Stop thinking.

SH

I'll pay for the following week's

groceries just so you don't get

into rows with machines anymore.

SH

 

You pay for all the groceries anyway.

All I need is that you do the shopping

next time.

 

Or just tidy up so I can actually move

in without falling over your mess.

On my way. Don't do anything stupid.

 

I'm Sherlock Holmes, 'stupid' is not

a word anyone would

associate with me.

SH


Yeah, keep telling yourself that.

 

Ergo, it is also the first time John meets Gregory Lestrade in person.

"Sherlock, you can't bring civilians to crime scenes. I'm breaking enough procedures letting you and your flippin' coat in here."

I'll give you five quid if you really thought that statement wouldn't be ignored completely by the consulting detective; who looks positively gleeful at the dismemberment of the poor woman.

"Uh... hi. John Watson." John extends his hand to Lestrade and continues apologetically. "I'll just... uh... wait outside?"

"Wait. You're John?  The John Watson?"

John doesn't know whether to feel flattered, or nervous that the detective inspector of Scotland Yard seems to know who he is.

He decides that he should be extremely worried, since he's here at Sherlock's request.

"Have you been around Anderson again, Lestrade? It's fascinating to see how stupidity can actually be transferred from one idiot to another."

"Sherlock, not good."

Sherlock's scowl puts a smile on Lestrade's face.

"Mate, believe me when I say that this is him being nice. He was way worse before."

"Oh god, is that even possible?"

"I believe we'll get along just fine, Watson."

Of course, meeting Lestrade means that he would meet Sally Donovan; who took it upon herself to warn him of Sherlock's psychopathic tendencies.

"Freak's gone, if that's who you're looking for. Who are you?"

John feels a tiny bit irritated at the use of the word freak; but smiles pleasantly at her instead of giving her a death glare.

"The name's John Watson."

"Sergeant Donovan. You the boyfriend?"

"No, just friend. And soon-to-be flatmate."

"He's not paying you to be here or anything, is he?"

"Not that I know of. Last time I checked, I was not up for rent."

"But the freak doesn't have friends. He's a psychopath."

"Is that so? Too bad for him, then. He's found himself a friend."

"You seem like a good man, John. So take heed to my warning about Sherlock Holmes. He's..."

She goes on about how Sherlock gets off on the crimes; how Sherlock will get bored of gruesome murders soon; and that he'll one day be the one who would have placed the dead body where they're investigating a case.

She notices the wary look on John's face and interprets it as regret, so she gives him a sad smile and wishes him luck in finding a new place.

John decides that he doesn't really like Sergeant Sally Donovan.

It was also the day John first saw the Anderson his future flatmate insulted so regularly. 'He's actually capable of lowering the IQ of the whole street when he speaks,' Sherlock once told him.

After hearing Anderson sneer at and ridicule Sherlock incessantly, John agrees with Sherlock's assessment wholeheartedly, even arriving to the conclusion that Anderson probably can't even spell his own name when the situation warrants him to.

John inadvertently giggles at his own thoughts; grinning when he realizes what a terrible influence Sherlock is on him.

The day continues with John realizing for the nth time how insanely brilliant Sherlock is; and how privileged John is for Sherlock to actually want him around.

Wait. Did I say privileged? My bad. I meant how terribly unfortunate for our patient doctor.

Basically, it proved to be a day John will never forget; why, of course, till the accident happens and all goes to hell, but we'll get to that later.

For now, John feels adrenaline pumping in his veins; he runs beside Sherlock, cane forgotten and limp virtually non-existent in their chase of the six-fingered murderer (it's a really interesting case, I'll tell you about it some time); and John grins maniacally.

Things are actually happening to John, and the best part of it all?

John's not bored anymore.

Chapter Text

Sherlock very rarely cries. People say that he's heartless because he distances himself from petty things such as feelings , but... no. How terribly wrong those people are.

Sherlock has long since concluded that alone is what protects him. Caring is not an advantage, he knows that. It's one of the first few things Mycroft ever taught him.

Sherlock is the kind of person who never did things by halves. He learnt the violin with passion; he solved crimes with eagerness and incredible enthusiasm; and when he loved, he loved with his whole heart.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes used to have a heart. However, he believed that it made him weak, and geniuses shouldn't have weaknesses. Obviously, the next step was to abandon his heart; to not feel, because he knows that nothing will be worth the pain.

Sherlock cared for Father very deeply, contrary to popular opinion. He was a child who was misunderstood, ridiculed and judged. It worried him that he didn't cry when Father died. It hurt him, to see the person he admired most, not-breathing and looking so lifeless. It was even worse to be the person to find Father cold and dead. But the tears never made an appearance.

Relatives came and went. One would think that people would know better than pretend in front of the Holmes' boys, but there remained those who only shed tears when there was an audience. It reminded Sherlock of a radio, how they were capable of crying on demand and stopping altogether when no one could see.

Much like a switch. You can turn it on, you can turn it off.

Hypocrites.

They whispered about the child with a defective heart; some argued that it was non-existent, even; just because his face was blank and expressionless the whole time. He wasn't as good of an actor as Mycroft then, so the sneering and comments were all directed towards him.

When Sherlock sees his father's cigarettes lying on the bedside table, he deftly pockets one of them and goes to his room.

He lights it up. Inhales. Starts coughing and choking when the smoke fills his lungs.

His eyes water. It's because of the lack of oxygen, he knows, but for a brief moment, he believes that he's finally normal, shedding tears for a man he once knew, and in that time, that's enough for him.

Sherlock Holmes may be a self-proclaimed, high functioning sociopath with complete disregard for mundane things; but he remains human.

Sherlock Holmes was once a person, never ordinary, but craved normality and approval like the rest of humanity.

Not anymore. Not when he finally turned twelve and realized how futile his attempts were.

Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.

It really isn't, but he's known to make exceptions. John Watson is one of them.

While Sherlock sits on the sofa, yelling abuse at the telly, John smirks and announces that he's going to Sarah's.

It has been a long day, with the whole Moriarty-wrapping-innocent-people-in-bloody-Semtex fiasco; so John is only a little bit surprised when Sherlock doesn't argue about having to get milk. Sherlock being willing to get the beans in itself should have raised some warning flag in John's mind; but John just smiles brightly at his eccentric flatmate instead.

When John belatedly hears the screeching of tyres and finds himself bleeding on the pavement; he finally registers his mostly one-sided conversation with Sherlock.

He feels something sharp and metallic press into his skin; someone lifting him off the ground carelessly; and his last thoughts before he passes out amuses himself.

Sherlock's not going to get the beans, that overgrown prat. Bloody liar.

Chapter Text

What happens after that, John thinks hysterically to himself, is a showdown between two consulting eight-year-olds. Because really. The showing off and banter despite the snipers surrounding them is ridiculous.

However, the hurt on Sherlock's face when he first saw John parroting Moriarty's words, is something that John will never be able to erase from his memory. The split second, when those piercing eyes filled with betrayal and raw emotion; before it was quickly masked by detachment as the explosives were revealed. The brief moment in which Sherlock thought that John was the mastermind behind all the insanity. It should have been horrifying and slightly offensive that Sherlock would doubt his own blogger, but John found himself somehow relieved that Sherlock, despite everything, valued their friendship. That beneath the high-functioning sociopath persona he's carefully established, was a Sherlock Holmes who truly, deeply cared for John Watson.

"I will burn the heart out of you."

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."

Have heart, Sherlock. She just lost her child.

You're a freak. Heartless. Pathetic.

You'll never learn what love is. You're not capable of it. You don't have a heart that can feel .

"We both know that's not quite true."

Sherlock points the gun directly at Moriarty's forehead. His mind is filled with a litany of John John John John; followed by a spare him, leave him out of this that shocks even himself.

This particular confrontation ends with the Bee Gees being their saving grace; and if John buys a bunch of their albums after the incident, (using Sherlock's card, of course, it's his fault for arranging rendezvous meetings with maniacal consulting criminals in the first place) well, you'll never get the good doctor to admit any of it.

 

"You have a concussion."

"Mmm, m'well aware of that."

"Did you really have to get into an accident?"

They both know it's not an accident, but they'd rather refer to it as that, than to remind themselves of the psychopath behind it all.

"Not my choice. Shut up."

"Really, John. Do me a favour and be more alert, won't you? I can't be your knight in shining armour all the time."

"One time. Piss off. Will puke on you."

"You'd better not."

"I hate you an—and I hope you trip on your way up the stairs."

"So childish."

The first accident is what makes Sherlock more determined than ever to bring Moriarty down.

No one expected the second accident, because one would think that a crazy genius would be more versatile in kidnapping someone.

John, being the person that he is, tells Moriarty exactly that.

It's been 230 minutes since Sherlock sent John out to get some hydrochloric acid. For science, John! He's sent five text messages stating his disapproval and dissatisfaction that John's taking so long to assist him with such a simple task. He sends another two, threatening the restricted and if-you-touch-this-i-will-stab-your-arm-with-a-fork jam; so when all of those texts remain unanswered, Sherlock starts to feel anxious.

Another text is sent, one that simply states Vatican Cameos. Sherlock waits exactly three minutes, taking into consideration John's struggle with modern technology for a simple yes/no reply; a system they'd established because John gets into far too much trouble for Sherlock's liking, discounting the fact that John's only in trouble because of him in the first place.

He dials John's number with deft fingers, and when it goes into voicemail, Sherlock grabs his coat and rushes out of 221B.

"You're a crazy genius, can't you think of a better way to kidnap someone?"

Moriarty smiles.

"Why change my modus operandi when it's working so well?"

John merely scowls in reply, hiding his pain and discomfort from the man before him.

"Besides, I've got an extra surprise for our dear Sherlock. As you might know, Doctor Watson, I'm a man of my promises. I've sworn to burn Sherlock Holmes' heart; and you'll be pleased to know that I've found the perfect way to do so."

Moriarty continues detailing his plan, and gleefully savours John's dawning expression of horror upon realizing what the plan entails.

"You see, Doctor Watson, the sad truth is, I can't burn his heart out of him. But you?"

The high-pitched laugh makes John shudder involuntarily.

"You're going to do the burning, Johnny boy. This is going to be so fun."

"We have his location," Lestrade says.

Sherlock finds himself worried as to what he'll find there.

Sherlock finds John lying on the ground, covered with bruises and cuts on his arms and bare torso. Sherlock is sure that John has fractured his ribs, and that he's definitely suffering from another concussion courtesy of his impromptu date with Moriarty. When John opens his eyes, Sherlock notices that John's pupils are blown wide. Drugged, then.

John feels bad that his usually calm and collected best friend looks pale and distressed. Guilty that he's the reason behind such a reaction. Sick and horrified with the knowledge that he'll be the one to burn Sherlock Holmes.

"You've got to stop with this damsel in distress thing you have going on."

John's heart clenches when he hears the deep baritone of his flatmate; already hating whatever it is that will happen when he loses (and regains) consciousness.

"But you make such a good-looking and annoying hero," John rasps.

You're my hero, Sherlock. This sounds cheesy as hell, but you are. I know you don't believe in them, but you are. I'm so sorry.

"Good-looking? You're providing ammunition for people to continue talking about us."

"Let them. Am straight, no—" John coughs, and he can taste a certain copper-like liquid in his mouth. Blood. "Not blind."

"Shut up."

"Sherlock... Sorry."

"You're going to be fine, John. Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm sorry, if thi—this. Causes you pain. If—whatever happens. Hurts."

"John. You'll be fine."

"I know, just, sorry."

John can tell that he's probably less than coherent while repeating himself. He tries, fights to stay awake, but finally blacks out to the sound of Sherlock telling him that everything will be fine.

And he has to believe that, because Sherlock will never lie to him. Right?

Sherlock doesn't know why John is sorry, but when he finds out later; the moment he just... realizes, he's never expected anything to hurt so much.

He's been stabbed before, and he'd rather go through that again than to experience the moment of realization once more.

Sherlock's sitting on John's bedside when John finally (after three days, two hours, forty-six minutes, fifteen seconds and counting) regains consciousness.

When John looks at Sherlock with no recognition whatsoever in his eyes, that, that is the moment of realization. One in which Sherlock feels his long abandoned heart, breaking.

When his best friend and partner-in-crime, his blogger, his John; looks him straight in the eye and utters the words: "Who are you?"; Sherlock finds himself only capable of looking back at John with a pain-stricken expression etched on his face.

He hastily excuses himself, leaving a confused John Watson behind as he rushes into the gents, just to find his reflection desperately trying to blink back tears. He berates himself, like he did back when they worked on A Study In Pink; for acting like a man driven by sentiment and feelings. Moriarty's taunts echo in his mind, mocking him, reminding him that his heart will be burnt out of him.

Well, Moriarty was wrong.

At the end of the day, Sherlock's heart wasn't burnt out of him; rather, it was broken.

Broken by John Watson.

Caring is not an advantage. Caring, hurts.