He
He
Author: Jordan aka insane-pyro-fic
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock / John
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,111
Disclaimer: Only borrowing the characters, not for profit, etc.
Summary: [John's POV] I've done the stupidest thing I can ever imagine. I've fallen in love with my best friend.
I’ve done something that I told myself I would never do. It’s the stupidest thing in the world, something that teenage girls worry about. Something that I should not be worrying about in my mid-thirties.
Although it does remind me of those romantic comedies I’d seen with ex-girlfriends before I left for Afghanistan. But those are just stupid movies written to make grown women cry and spend their money at movie theatres.
So what exactly have I done?
I could say that it’s complicated and avoid the whole matter entirely, but it nags at my brain constantly. And I need to get it out of my system. I need to put it down on paper (which I’m going to burn later before I rinse the ashes down the bathroom sink) and then maybe it will just leave me.
Catharsis is what the Greeks called it. Purging everything out of one’s mind via art or writing or theatre.
Okay, okay. I realise I’m off on a tangent. I’m always like that. Just bear with me.
I’ve fallen in love with my best friend.
Not just a little bit in love, not just a tiny hint of love, not platonic love; head over heels in love with him.
I can’t tell him. That is obvious. If you met Sherlock Holmes, you would know why I can’t even think it while I’m around him.
But it’s the only thing I can think about while I’m around him. And that’s all I want to be is around him.
Some days I wonder if he even feels the same. Not about love, of course. I know that he could never be in love with me. I wonder if he’s capable of love at all. He must’ve loved something - someone - in his life. Maybe his mother, who I only hear about from his brother, maybe his father, hell, maybe he even loved Mycroft once in a brotherly way.
I wonder if he even considers me a friend. That I’m not just his flat mate. That I’m not just a replacement for the skull. That I’m not just a sounding board so he can solve these ridiculous cases that are always set before us.
I wonder if we’re just going through the motions. Every single day, the same thing: I make us breakfast, go to work, stop to the shop, pick up dinner, eat dinner, watch telly, then bed. Something’s usually interrupted by Lestrade with another corpse, or another robbery, or just another puzzle to keep Sherlock occupied.
Or it was Moriarty blowing up buildings, kidnapping me (shouldn’t it be adult-napping, or something of the like? I’m hardly a child), or threatening to kill us in some way.
Until Sherlock pushed him off a cliff on the Isle of Wight (Yes, I’m aware how bloody insane that sounds. And yes, it’s true. Mycroft covered it all up like he always does).
I still think he’s going to come back to haunt us somehow. It wouldn’t surprise me if he just showed up at the flat for a cup of tea one afternoon, cool as a cucumber, and then blew everyone up. He always liked bombs, that Jim.
See, off on another tangent. It’s the way I think.
There are things I’ve told Sherlock that I’ve told no one else. I trust him. And as much of a “high-functioning sociopath” he says he is, I don’t think that’s really who he is. I’ve talked to him too much to believe so. He listens, he understands; he talks, I listen. We’ve talked about anything and everything.
Maybe he’s only like this with me. Sometimes I believe it. I’ve seen how cruel he can be to Lestrade, Anderson, and Sally. But then I’ve seen how he treats Mrs. Hudson, like a second mum almost, and I know that he isn’t all evil.
I think he chooses me to talk to though. And I cannot even begin to express how that makes me feel. Sometimes when he’s talking my mind wanders to thinking about how this oh-so-clever man wants to talk to me. Not just because I’m there, not because sometimes I’m the only person he’ll see for days on end, but because he sincerely wants to.
Not to mention the texts. I practically jump every time my phone buzzes in my pocket, because chances are that it’s him. It could be something as simple as, “Buy milk on your way home,” something as ridiculous as, “Fresh body at Bart’s, I’ll be late for dinner,” or something as cryptic as “Tell Lestrade: fourth purple fan from the back, he’ll know what I mean. I don’t have the time to deal with him today.”
I shouldn’t feel this way. I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t help that flippy feeling my stomach has when he looks straight into my eyes. Christ, I am such a bloody girl.
He could never love me though. How could such a brilliant man love me? I’m an idiot, just like he says I am.
Idiotic for falling in love with a sociopath.
He loves nothing but “the game.” The thrill of the chase. The excitement of a new puzzle. Anything to keep from being bored.
Maybe Jim was right. Maybe they were perfect for each other in some sick way.
But no, Sherlock is different. He’s the good kind of crazy, if that even makes sense.
If I think about it, I don’t even know why I’ve fallen in love with him. He leaves heads in fridges, has been the reason why I’ve been kidnapped so many bloody times, hacks into my laptop on a daily basis, and never buys any milk, even though I know he’s the last one who drank it.
Bastard.
And he doesn’t clean up after himself. You should have seen the state of the bathroom when I moved in. Good lord, setting a match to it would have been easier.
Sometimes I think it just would have been easier to move in with Harry. Despite our differences, despite our history. Then I wouldn’t be in this mess.
And that’s exactly what it is. A mess.
He has to know. He’s too brilliant to not know. To have read the signs that I know are obvious from my expressions, my body language, my vocal patterns. All the things he easily analyzes about everyone and anyone.
But then why hasn’t he said anything? Maybe he’s just hoping it’ll go away.
Or that I’ll go away.
See why this has been nagging at me?
I just wish I could understand why I’m in love with this man who obviously doesn’t give a damn about me.
Author: Jordan aka insane-pyro-fic
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock / John
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,111
Disclaimer: Only borrowing the characters, not for profit, etc.
Summary: [John's POV] I've done the stupidest thing I can ever imagine. I've fallen in love with my best friend.
I’ve done something that I told myself I would never do. It’s the stupidest thing in the world, something that teenage girls worry about. Something that I should not be worrying about in my mid-thirties.
Although it does remind me of those romantic comedies I’d seen with ex-girlfriends before I left for Afghanistan. But those are just stupid movies written to make grown women cry and spend their money at movie theatres.
So what exactly have I done?
I could say that it’s complicated and avoid the whole matter entirely, but it nags at my brain constantly. And I need to get it out of my system. I need to put it down on paper (which I’m going to burn later before I rinse the ashes down the bathroom sink) and then maybe it will just leave me.
Catharsis is what the Greeks called it. Purging everything out of one’s mind via art or writing or theatre.
Okay, okay. I realise I’m off on a tangent. I’m always like that. Just bear with me.
I’ve fallen in love with my best friend.
Not just a little bit in love, not just a tiny hint of love, not platonic love; head over heels in love with him.
I can’t tell him. That is obvious. If you met Sherlock Holmes, you would know why I can’t even think it while I’m around him.
But it’s the only thing I can think about while I’m around him. And that’s all I want to be is around him.
Some days I wonder if he even feels the same. Not about love, of course. I know that he could never be in love with me. I wonder if he’s capable of love at all. He must’ve loved something - someone - in his life. Maybe his mother, who I only hear about from his brother, maybe his father, hell, maybe he even loved Mycroft once in a brotherly way.
I wonder if he even considers me a friend. That I’m not just his flat mate. That I’m not just a replacement for the skull. That I’m not just a sounding board so he can solve these ridiculous cases that are always set before us.
I wonder if we’re just going through the motions. Every single day, the same thing: I make us breakfast, go to work, stop to the shop, pick up dinner, eat dinner, watch telly, then bed. Something’s usually interrupted by Lestrade with another corpse, or another robbery, or just another puzzle to keep Sherlock occupied.
Or it was Moriarty blowing up buildings, kidnapping me (shouldn’t it be adult-napping, or something of the like? I’m hardly a child), or threatening to kill us in some way.
Until Sherlock pushed him off a cliff on the Isle of Wight (Yes, I’m aware how bloody insane that sounds. And yes, it’s true. Mycroft covered it all up like he always does).
I still think he’s going to come back to haunt us somehow. It wouldn’t surprise me if he just showed up at the flat for a cup of tea one afternoon, cool as a cucumber, and then blew everyone up. He always liked bombs, that Jim.
See, off on another tangent. It’s the way I think.
There are things I’ve told Sherlock that I’ve told no one else. I trust him. And as much of a “high-functioning sociopath” he says he is, I don’t think that’s really who he is. I’ve talked to him too much to believe so. He listens, he understands; he talks, I listen. We’ve talked about anything and everything.
Maybe he’s only like this with me. Sometimes I believe it. I’ve seen how cruel he can be to Lestrade, Anderson, and Sally. But then I’ve seen how he treats Mrs. Hudson, like a second mum almost, and I know that he isn’t all evil.
I think he chooses me to talk to though. And I cannot even begin to express how that makes me feel. Sometimes when he’s talking my mind wanders to thinking about how this oh-so-clever man wants to talk to me. Not just because I’m there, not because sometimes I’m the only person he’ll see for days on end, but because he sincerely wants to.
Not to mention the texts. I practically jump every time my phone buzzes in my pocket, because chances are that it’s him. It could be something as simple as, “Buy milk on your way home,” something as ridiculous as, “Fresh body at Bart’s, I’ll be late for dinner,” or something as cryptic as “Tell Lestrade: fourth purple fan from the back, he’ll know what I mean. I don’t have the time to deal with him today.”
I shouldn’t feel this way. I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t help that flippy feeling my stomach has when he looks straight into my eyes. Christ, I am such a bloody girl.
He could never love me though. How could such a brilliant man love me? I’m an idiot, just like he says I am.
Idiotic for falling in love with a sociopath.
He loves nothing but “the game.” The thrill of the chase. The excitement of a new puzzle. Anything to keep from being bored.
Maybe Jim was right. Maybe they were perfect for each other in some sick way.
But no, Sherlock is different. He’s the good kind of crazy, if that even makes sense.
If I think about it, I don’t even know why I’ve fallen in love with him. He leaves heads in fridges, has been the reason why I’ve been kidnapped so many bloody times, hacks into my laptop on a daily basis, and never buys any milk, even though I know he’s the last one who drank it.
Bastard.
And he doesn’t clean up after himself. You should have seen the state of the bathroom when I moved in. Good lord, setting a match to it would have been easier.
Sometimes I think it just would have been easier to move in with Harry. Despite our differences, despite our history. Then I wouldn’t be in this mess.
And that’s exactly what it is. A mess.
He has to know. He’s too brilliant to not know. To have read the signs that I know are obvious from my expressions, my body language, my vocal patterns. All the things he easily analyzes about everyone and anyone.
But then why hasn’t he said anything? Maybe he’s just hoping it’ll go away.
Or that I’ll go away.
See why this has been nagging at me?
I just wish I could understand why I’m in love with this man who obviously doesn’t give a damn about me.