Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson (and Mycroft) belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock belongs to the BBC, and came from the brilliant minds of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (because none of us would have Sherlock without him, he deserves two mentions), Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
So, I wasn't going to post this one, but because I'm unbelievably bored, and just a little bit curious, I did. I'm so bored, that if I was going to take an example from Sherlock Holmes (Who I'm currently slightly obsessed with, but never mind that) my wall would be FULL of bullet holes. Full of them.
This was written as friendship, but I guess if you squint it could be pre-slash, or slash... But anyway! Presenting to you, for your entertainment, and my sanity, my very first Sherlock fic. Please enjoy... And be gentle with me? :)
The Holmes brothers separately, as just Mycroft, the man with a 'minor position in the British government', and Sherlock, the only consulting detective in the world, weren't exactly normal to begin with… Oh who was he kidding, they were both bloody insane! But put them in a room together, for something like say, a family Christmas, and it was a sure way to start World War Three. Which, Mycroft could probably actually do, if Sherlock really pissed him off.
It wasn't even like it was a proper family Christmas. Seeing as John had refused to have his family over, Sherlock had only grudgingly agreed to have Mycroft over, and somehow, Lestrade had been invited too.
But of course, Sherlock and Mycroft couldn't be in the same room without something going badly. So as they threw insults at each other, while Lestrade sat back and watched in amusement and John just stood in shock at some of the things being said (or yelled), he thought that maybe going to Harry's for Christmas wouldn't have been so bad. "Makes you appreciate your own family doesn't it?" Lestrade said with a smirk, before taking a swig from his beer.
Two hours they'd lasted in the same room before the yelling had started. A new record.
Two hours and thirty-four minutes before Sherlock said something that made John snap.
"Got a new girlfriend Mycroft? Blonde, tall, but she's only a little older than you, even though when you first met she told you she was much younger. Although you already know that, don't you? Which begs the question, why are you still with her? You've been with her quite a while, judging by your clothes, clearly bought by a woman, quite expensive. You're not with her for money; you've got enough of that. Not status, not connections, which she obviously has, otherwise why would you hide it from your brother? If it was just some woman you'd met in a coffee shop, I wouldn't bother to give it a thought. She's a cat person, you hate cats. She has a sister and a brother, who you've met; she's probably the youngest child in the family. You don't meet people's families unless it's unavoidable, and for you, nothing is unavoidable. Which means you wanted to. So why, Mycroft? Could it be that you actually enjoy her company? That you actually love her? Is it possible Mycroft Holmes is going soft?"
"Sherlock!" John yelled. "Back off."
"How long have you known me John?" John sighed. He was used to this conversation.
"Five years Sherlock."
"And how many times have I backed off of anything in those five years?" Sherlock asked.
John sighed, he was over this. "Caring about someone doesn't make you soft Sherlock. It makes you human, which you would know if you weren't a sociopath with no heart, who's never loved anyone in his life!" John regretted saying that the minute it was out of his mouth.
A look of pain crossed Sherlock's features, he quickly cleared it, but John saw.
"I'm going out." Sherlock stated suddenly, moving quickly towards the door, swiftly grabbing his coat off the hook as he went.
Meanwhile, all but forgotten, Lestrade was watching on from his seat, looking perfectly comfortable and as though all he needed was a bowl of popcorn.
John and Mycroft watched him go, as soon as his brother was out of earshot (and not a moment sooner, John was sure) Mycroft spoke, almost defending his brother. "He may never have loved in the romantic sense, Doctor Watson, but my brother does have a heart, as much as he won't admit it. He does care; he just believes that he should only care about people who are worth his time." Mycroft smiled tightly and walked towards the door, which Sherlock had walked out of only moments before.
"Was he right about you…? Y'know… Loving someone?"
Mycroft smiled again, picked up his umbrella, and walked out and down the stairs, yelling, "Good night Doctor Watson," over his shoulder, not seeming worried about his brother at all.
John figured it was probably because he knew exactly where Sherlock was anyway.
He looked down at his phone and text Sherlock, piercing his lips together in thought. Meet me in the park. –JW
Then he looked over at Lestrade, not totally sure what to do with him. Lestrade rolled his eyes and got up, "'hey Greg, why don't you come have Christmas dinner with me, Sherlock and Mycroft?' 'Sure, why not. What could possibly go wrong with both Holmes' in the same room?' Nothing, you said. Not a bloody thing. Yeah, sure."
"I know, what was I thinking…" John muttered, closing the door and locking it behind them, then feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket. Sherlock had obviously been trying to ignore him, but his almost compulsive need to reply to everything got the best of him.
Why would I do that? –SH
John sighed. Sherlock, don't be an arse. –JW
I'm a sociopath without a heart, John. It's an occupational hazard. –SH
John rolled his eyes as he made his way towards the park, knowing that Sherlock would be there anyway.
Sure enough, when he arrived at the park, Sherlock was there sitting on the bench, but childishly refusing to look at him when he sat down. They sat in silence for a while, John watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock still simply refusing to look at John. Sherlock looked cold, but he didn't seem to mind.
"Aren't you cold?" John asked slightly awkwardly, noticing Sherlock only had his usual coat on, without the scarf or gloves he usually wore.
"No." Sherlock answered almost immediately after John had gotten the question out.
"Okay…" John said a tense silence falling over them. John wasn't used to having tense silence with Sherlock. Or any silence for that matter. As soon as things showed signs of going quiet, Sherlock would come out with some sort of deduction that would make them both laugh.
But not this time. No, this time Sherlock was being more stubborn than usual. "D'you want to go get something to eat?" John asked, if only to fill the unwanted silence.
"No." Sherlock answered, again not looking at him.
"Drink? We could go down to the pub," John tried again.
Sherlock just rolled his eyes. John took that as a no as well.
"Maybe we could-" But before John could try and convince Sherlock to move from the park bench once more, Sherlock cut him off.
"Yeah?" He asked, not liking how hopeful he sounded.
"Right. Sorry," John said, staring across the park.
Until Sherlock spoke. "Is that really what you think of me?" He asked, his voice calm and with a little bit more ice than John was used to. "Do you really think I'm that cold, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock didn't know why he cared so much that John thought he was a cold heartless sociopath. To be fair, he was a sociopath, he was cold in his deductions and his general way of living, and it sometimes seemed like he didn't have a heart, but if anyone knew that he did in fact care about a carefully selected handful of people, it would be John.
Doctor Watson… It seemed to resinate around in John's head. Sherlock hadn't called him that since they first met. And that was when John realised unless he fixed things quickly, he was more or less screwed. "Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry. You might not always… Or ever… Know what to do with your… Emotions, so you hide them. And I know sometimes you seem to confuse being 'nice' with telling someone the truth about themselves or their lives in the most brutal way possible, but I also know underneath all that, you do care… Sometimes."
Then for the first time since John sat down, Sherlock looked at him. "Sometimes?"
"Well, I also know sometimes you really don't give a damn."
Sherlock tilted his head in a way that seemed to signify agreement and smiled as they both laughed slightly.
"So! Pub?" John asked, standing up, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't need any sort of tempting to find somebody to insult, now that he had sorted everything out. Sherlock could only refuse insulting people when there was something much more interesting for him happening. "You can insult the manager; tell him how his wife is having three affairs-"
"At least." Sherlock interjected as he stood up.
"Tell the crazy homeless person outside that even if the voices tell her to, she shouldn't go around threatening to chop people's ears of..."
"Well, she shouldn't. Not if it's an empty threat, anyway. She's obviously faking."
"You can even tell the barmaid that she should come out of the closet, or inform the waitress with the dyed black hair that her boyfriend is planning to dump her," John told him, ignoring the fact that Sherlock had just pretty much said it was okay to threaten to chop people's ears off, as long as you plan on following through with the threat.
"Oh John, there's so many deductions to be made in a pub, and so many more insults to be given! Where do I start?" Sherlock asked, sounding genuinely excited, even more so after getting permission from John, who was usually firmly against these sorts of things. Sherlock figured he would be able to get away with it for about a week before John got sick of apologising to people on his behalf.
"I'm sure you'll find somewhere…" John muttered, mostly to himself as he opened the door to the pub, already mentally preparing himself for the almost unavoidable fights Sherlock was about to get him into.
A regular family Christmas was never an option when you lived with Sherlock Holmes, John decided, as he eyed the homeless woman, receiving the traditional greeting of 'I'll chop your ears of, Matey!' as he walked in.
After five years, life with Sherlock was still definitely not boring, and John wasn't complaining one bit.
Please, let me know how that was. I just needed some sort of fluffy uselessness, because that season final broke my heart. I don't think it can take another hit like that.
So review? It might fix my broken heart, just a little. :)