This was meant to be a oneshot – inspired, in part, by The Fray's song Trust Me, a line of which I have taken for the title – but I have now decided that I should try and do a proper full length 'Sherlock' story, after I set myself up rather spectacularly, and completely accidentally, at the end (you'll see what I mean) with what was meant to just be an intriguing ending.

However, I do have exams coming up, so I wouldn't expect much until after 21st June, which is when they end. I'd appreciate people's opinions, actually: if you think it's good to end here, then I shall leave it.

Not slash, but you could interpret it that way, if you like ;)


'You just wrote 'has trust issues'.' 'And you read my writing upside down. Do you see what I mean?'

'Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?'


He'd spent a good deal of time, more than was really necessary, mulling over those words spoken by Mycroft just a few weeks ago. Sherlock was so much a part of his life, the question seemed silly now, but at the time it had been very significant. No, scratch that. If he was being really honest, Sherlock was his life.

John found it hard to understand the incredible amount of hostility directed at the man. True, he was the most arrogant person John knew, and yes, he was far from normal, and he did lack certain social skills like not insulting people – but he was brilliant. John had found he trusted him from the moment he'd deduced his army background. How could you not trust someone that perceptive? He knew the truth better than anyone.

At the same time, he had been a total stranger. A complete stranger, tall and wiry, with an explosion of dark hair and a low tolerance for interruptions. As Mycroft had posed the question, he'd realised that. He knew nothing about him. But he trusted him.

The same could not be said for his brother. Sherlock, he supposed, had gained his trust through a simple but brilliant show of observation, and a certain quality he had that even now John couldn't quite put his finger on. John had always been slightly suspicious of authority figures: there was so much corruption in the governments of the world now – and as such Mycroft had not seemed to him trustworthy. He embodied a lot of things John hated: power, manipulation, and a too neat, too ordered finesse that Sherlock possessed none of.

He glanced over at the subject of his thoughts. Sherlock was leaning back on the sofa, breathing heavily through his nose and tutting every so often in boredom. His bare feet were twitching momentarily too. Even in boredom induced stupor, he possessed that energy that he carried with him everywhere.

John then moved his gaze to the rest of the flat. It was a complete mess. It was mostly Sherlock's things, of course: a jumble of books and paper and files and – oh God was that broken glass – strewn across the floor. His dislike of the unnecessarily ordered only went so far. He did like things to be tidy – a habit, Sherlock would no doubt claim, born from his military days – just not clinically clean and ordered. Clinical was fine in hospitals, where it was needed, but not in everyday life. Tidy was useful, it helped you find things. Sherlock had not grasped this concept. Mycroft had, too much so.

He sighed a little, and got up to make a cup of tea. Perhaps, he mused, the reason he had grown to trust Sherlock so much was because of the life he embodied, followed later by a growing respect, and genuine like, for the man beneath that. Perhaps that had been what had sparked the initial trust.

He glanced back at his flatmate as the water boiled, and smiled. Sherlock had fallen asleep mid grumble, and was lying on his back, mouth slightly open, snoring gently. John chuckled, and put the second cup away. One of Sherlock's arms was hanging off the side of the sofa. He looked almost human.

The doctor was just stirring in the milk, humming softly to himself, when he felt a cold, long fingered hand grasp his shoulder. It was lucky he was past the jumping stage, because otherwise there would have been a major milk spillage, but he was too used to Sherlock by now. He also knew that excited look far too well: his flatmate's face alert despite the huge dark circles under his eyes. John noted, too, Sherlock's unearthly fast dressing, and took a hurried gulp of tea, expecting a quick departure, and scalded his mouth. Sherlock smirked at his stupidity.

"You should sleep," John told him, his voice non-committal. He was as eager as the man beside him to go out chasing the bad guys again, but sometimes, a voice of reason was necessary, if unwelcome.

Sherlock, thankfully, ignored this sensible suggestion, instead choosing to answer by removing the tea from John's grip, and setting it down on the counter. He disappeared then, returning quickly with John's jacket, which he pressed into his hands.

"Sleep?" Sherlock said, grinning. "When there's a string of missing people, and one of the bodies has just been found, with a 'mysterious' symbol burned into his skin? John…"

The hands returned to his shoulders, pushing him out the door.

John allowed himself to be guided onto the street willingly. One thing you could trust Sherlock Holmes to give you was a life fraught with danger and excitement. And God, did he love him for it.