Crashing (slowburn johnlock)

Cases within spaces.

A day after being caught by the knife of a very angry twin, Sherlock found himself back lying on the sofa now dressed in a his usual black suit and a blue shirt but with dark jeans this time. John had yet again insisted that he 'loosen up'.

Loosen up, what was wrong with a fully tailored suit and a long black Belfast of quality wool and red button holes? He couldn't make it out himself either but supposedly it wasn't as 'welcoming'. In all honesty, despite Johns true nature he was the one clients were drawn to when desperate because of the soft exterior.

Since Irene Adler, John was always teasing and calling him 'posh boy' and the like and doing mock imitations of the woman's words. John had clearly disliked her, so Sherlock had kept her safety a secret even from John, his friend. It was different, having a friend, something he most certainly was not used to. Of course everyone had had people in their lives, especially school that said friend but there wasn't a real connection. They were distant and they used him for buying food and getting free transport. They asked him for the answers in homework but how was Sherlock supposed to know that wasn't what a friend was if he'd never had one.

Sherlock hadn't realised that a true friend would have done homework with him instead of just not bothering and then copying all the answers. Sherlock didn't know that when it came to lunch that they would share it and not jus make him buy it all the time. Sherlock didn't realise that a true friend would lie to his face and talk behind his back. No. Sherlock wasn't like other kids but that didn't mean he had to be punished for it.

Signs around college made him more aware of himself. Not shy, just autism... did he have that? Was he autistic and that's why he struggled to understand emotions, when his 'friends' were crying over a relationship failure that he just looked at them in confusion, is this why he struggled to deal with emotions? Was that why?

But knowing of it and accepting it were different. Completely different. As you may know yourself you could know you were ill with the flu like I have been many a time but it doesn't mean you plan to sit at home and rest with a tub of Ben and jerrys, no. Most likely you'll pretend you're not, you'll go out for a walk or a bike ride, ignoring the symptoms until they were noticed by everyone else. Yes you probably should have stayed home. But you pretended it didn't exist.

And so Sherlock, like many people ignored that possible title. Indeed it would probably be seen as a weakness, a disability. Something that made him different and what he didn't need was something else that made him more or less than anyone else. His deduction skills already made him a favourite amongst bullies and occasionally he was bribed to reveal secrets for blackmail but he denied and he was beaten for it.

Being different wasn't good was it? How could it be? Keep your head low however and no one will notice but at the height of six foot when he was only seventeen, head low didn't mean hidden and so therefore he still stood out.

So here he was laying on the sofa in a blue shirt, jeans and a tailored jacket, waiting for a case, craving it, like the sweet release of nicotine.

You may ask how I know of nicotine, truth is I don't but I'm sure we've all read enough to understand what perhaps it is like, forced into drug lessons and tricked into reading he side effects. Yes indeed we may know but not from first hand experience.

So there he was, as I've already said, stitches in his side and gauze holding him more stiff than ever and knowing that when John woke he would remove the gauze and recheck the wound because he never left things to chance especially with Sherlock. Something the detective had found he enjoyed this, he liked it. The care that only a mother usually was capable of giving coming from his friend. And wasn't that a new feeling?

And when John woke he went to the kitchen, made tea and then came out with two mugs and set them on the coffee table and made Sherlock sit up so he could check the wound by removing the gauze.

No infection. Good. No tearing. Good. Healing? Yes. Good. All was well and so the bandage was replaced with new once the area had been cleaned and washed and then he left Sherlock to drink his tea as he went back to sitting in his chair.

John had to admit that he enjoyed the caring side of being a doctor. Those that deserved it. Needed it. Not those that craved it, no they were irritating, begging for attention when they were unharmed and just needing a doctor. Oh how he hated the typical over exaggerator that came to the surgery demanding attention for a splinter.

Yeah they were pretty annoying as they held up more serious accidents and therefore there could be consequences; in the past there had been consequences and they weren't pretty either.

Sherlock sipped at his tea thoughtfully. There were a lot of things he liked about John. John alone had his undivided attention when he wasn't in a grump/sulk and John alone treated him like an equal. Maybe they could even be considered things he loved about John. And wasn't that new? Love? An emotion found on the losing side. And here he was. Winning?

He watched John as he searched on his computer for reasons unknown. He watched John as he took his mug back to the kitchen and into the sink. How he cleaned it thoroughly before heading back to the living room and offered Sherlock some medication for the pain which was politely declined. 

It wasn'tI like Sherlock to be polite but he found himself realising; he couldn't lose John, he wouldn't survive without him, he'd fail to live, to breathe, he wouldn't want to live. He couldn't lose John and if something that made John stay was manners then surely they were worth him over exerting his mind in social niceties for John. Only John.

His next case was a fascinating one, man which Sherlock deduced to have been harpooned after testing his theory against a dead pig and a week later returning home, case closed, having been on the tube with a bloody harpoon, blood stained clothes and tangled hair.

John had insisted on checking the recently healed wound for damage after seeing all the blood over his shirt but it had healed nicely and with no scaring.
He'd spent over an hour with a comb and a lot of expensive conditioner detangling Sherlock's hair from who knows what because Sherlock had tried to brush it and had then given up in his frustration and gone into a sulk in his chair. John had taken it upon himself to help him. Harry had been a nightmare, one day in the wind and he even found leaves in her hair but he had got good at removing knots without causing discomfort to the child. In this case Sherlock.

The next day was the case of sir Henry knight. He was certain his father had been killed by a hound in Dewers hollow. So after talking in riddles and making Henry baffled over and over, it was decided that Sherlock was going to Dartmoor and he was taking the case.

Yes Sherlock Holmes was a funny man- Occasionally- but even John struggled to understand the necessity to confuse people for fun. Maybe it was to prove he was smarter. Cleverer.