Love of the Loveless, Part 7
Love of the Loveless
Pairing: [Sherlock/John]
Rating: T (as of right now)
Time frame: Takes place during a case lull somewhere between episodes 1.2 and 1.3, more or less AU from there.
Summary: Sometimes, the most obvious conclusions are the ones right in front of your face.... or just the one living in your flat. Love won't come easy for Sherlock, but John is used to fighting for the things he wants
Previous Chapter
Sherlock didn’t dwell on his time as a child. He didn’t see the point. From what he knew of other people, everyone had a difficult childhood. He wasn’t any different.
While other children were frolicking on playgrounds and going about their ordinary lives, Sherlock was sequestered at home, the world’s best tutors attempting to curb his ever growing need for facts and figures.
The first few years had been hell: the endless questions, the temper tantrums, the inability to understand the need for words like ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.
At a time when other children were beginning to develop a sense of self, it became clear there was something inherently wrong with Sherlock. To his parents it appeared as if their son was some sort of empty shell, his personality a blank slate. Sherlock surmised that it must have been rather difficult to love a child who was so distant. Of course therapy had been their only option.
After years of being a diagnosed sociopath, Sherlock had long since developed a theory concerning his psychological development. It seemed to him that the average human mind was constantly bombarded with the need to experience and control emotions. It left little room for collecting and deducing data. Sherlock, on the other hand was different. He had endless space in his brain for knowledge, and without the constant intake of facts and problems to solve the emptiness would creep up on him, driving him insane. Boredom was an ever-looming issue.
Before one of his better tutors had set Sherlock on the task of solving old crimes, a therapist had suggested Sherlock’s parents purchase him a dog. Some sort of last ditch attempt to teach him how to care for others. It was strange really, for although Sherlock felt next to nothing for the small pit bull, it loved him. He was followed everywhere.
They had continued on like that for months, Sherlock agitated and bored, the dog loyal no matter what. Sherlock took the entire thing for granted, never expecting things to change, until one day Sherlock took it into his head to create a home made sleeping pill from household supplies. A murderer had done the exact same thing to kill his wife and if some two-bit hack could do it, so could Sherlock. After the pill was formed, Sherlock decided to turn his loyal dog into an oh so willing test subject. The pill had worked, but a few hours later the dog died of heart failure.
It was then that Sherlock learned something about himself, something he never spoke of and tried his best to rarely think about.
He could feel.
In rare and exceedingly emotional cases Sherlock was able to muster up a response. As the butler had buried the pit bull, Sherlock had felt a sense of guilt. The dog had trusted him, and he hadn’t even been smart enough to correctly put together a sleeping pill.
Ever since then, Sherlock knew why he did what he did. Why he solved cases and chased down death at every corner. It was all in search of some sort of feeling, an end to the mental boredom. There was nothing boring about those moments of pure emotion. He felt the highs of solving a case, the adrenaline of chasing after a murderer and for once in his life he felt a small twinge of caring as he’d seen John standing outside the Pink Lady crime scene. John had shot someone. He’d shot someone for Sherlock. John had saved the life a man he barely knew and had no logical reason to trust.
From then on John had been deemed an invaluable asset. He added medical expertise and staunch loyalty to the equation. But, more then that, with John around there was a chance, however slight, that Sherlock would feel something, anything, besides the rush of adrenaline or the smug satisfaction of a case well won. It was illogical and foolhardy, but so was an addiction to heroine.
He knew, as certainly as he knew that blood turned brown as it dried, that pushing John too far would lead to his departure from the flat, and therefore his departure from Sherlock’s life. But Sherlock was a slave to his mind, the emptiness was calling to him everyday they went without a case. He hated people, he hated their emotions and their mess. They had an inability to see even the most basic of details, and they spent their entire lives in small bubbles of security of comfort.
But John was different and for some unknown reason his limp was resurfacing. John was somehow in trouble. Of course Sherlock had theories. He had more theories then the best detective would know what to do with. But to theorize before you had all the evidence was a common mistake. One that Sherlock wouldn’t let himself fall into.
Sherlock’s self-pitying was interrupted by the buzz of his phone, the screen lighting up with Mycroft’s name.
M: Did you get the lovely invitation I had my office print up?
S: I hate you.
M: Fine, but dress nicely.
S: See previously txt…. (2nd text) Also, John needs a tuxedo.
M: So the dependable Dr. Watson is going to be your escort?
S: I’m done with this conversation. Get him a tux and stop bothering me.
Sherlock threw the phone across the room, watching it land on John’s chair. Good. It would be easier for him to fetch it from there. John searching around could get tiresome.
“My escort,” Sherlock mumbled to himself, “Like I couldn’t go by myself. Damn, Mycroft.” He couldn’t even leave John alone. “Speaking of which, where the hell is John? Work was over 53 minutes ago.”
The sound of the downstairs door opening caused Sherlock to rise from the coach, his silk robe flapping. He’d spent the whole day sitting in a state of perpetual boredom since John had left in the morning. The hours had been far too slow. He’d tried turning the television on, but disgust with the human race had forced him to turn it off moments later.
“John!” Sherlock yelled, “We’re going to Angelo’s!”
John opened the door and threw his keys on an end table, before shrugging off his black coat. He avoided eye contact with Sherlock as he shuffled around the room, settling himself back into the apartment.
“So, you’ve decided to finally go outside?” John asked, not excepting an answer so Sherlock didn’t give him one. “Well. Good. You’ve been in this room since Monday, and you haven’t spent the time sleeping.”
“And how, pray tell, did you deduce that?” Sherlock asked as he shrugged off his robe.
“I can hear you talking to yourself from all the way upstairs. You’re not exactly quiet.”
“Well, genius needs a continuous outlet and the skull was more then happy to listen. Unlike some people.” Sherlock replied but John didn’t rise to the bait.
Sherlock quieted, taking a moment to fully study his flatmate. Something was wrong with Watson. Sherlock could tell from his tensed shoulders and the hint of stubble John hadn’t even bothered to shave off. Interesting. What was the problem now?
“When do we leave because I’m starving?” John asked, rubbing his temples. More headaches. Going to work and pretending to be normal seemed to cause John a lot of those. Why he bothered, Sherlock would never know.
“Right now. Just give me a second.” Without a thought Sherlock whipped the pajama top over his head, flinging it on the couch. “I’ve got to change.” John just stared, his mouth slightly open as if he were about to voice a complaint. “Lord! I’ll pick that up later. Don’t fuss. Now go put other clothes on. You reek of hospital. Wear the red jumper.”
Sherlock pulled at the buttons of his pants as he strode from the room, hoping Mrs. Hudson had put his dry cleaning away.
AN: You know what to do! Review!
Pairing: [Sherlock/John]
Rating: T (as of right now)
Time frame: Takes place during a case lull somewhere between episodes 1.2 and 1.3, more or less AU from there.
Summary: Sometimes, the most obvious conclusions are the ones right in front of your face.... or just the one living in your flat. Love won't come easy for Sherlock, but John is used to fighting for the things he wants
Previous Chapter
Sherlock didn’t dwell on his time as a child. He didn’t see the point. From what he knew of other people, everyone had a difficult childhood. He wasn’t any different.
While other children were frolicking on playgrounds and going about their ordinary lives, Sherlock was sequestered at home, the world’s best tutors attempting to curb his ever growing need for facts and figures.
The first few years had been hell: the endless questions, the temper tantrums, the inability to understand the need for words like ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.
At a time when other children were beginning to develop a sense of self, it became clear there was something inherently wrong with Sherlock. To his parents it appeared as if their son was some sort of empty shell, his personality a blank slate. Sherlock surmised that it must have been rather difficult to love a child who was so distant. Of course therapy had been their only option.
After years of being a diagnosed sociopath, Sherlock had long since developed a theory concerning his psychological development. It seemed to him that the average human mind was constantly bombarded with the need to experience and control emotions. It left little room for collecting and deducing data. Sherlock, on the other hand was different. He had endless space in his brain for knowledge, and without the constant intake of facts and problems to solve the emptiness would creep up on him, driving him insane. Boredom was an ever-looming issue.
Before one of his better tutors had set Sherlock on the task of solving old crimes, a therapist had suggested Sherlock’s parents purchase him a dog. Some sort of last ditch attempt to teach him how to care for others. It was strange really, for although Sherlock felt next to nothing for the small pit bull, it loved him. He was followed everywhere.
They had continued on like that for months, Sherlock agitated and bored, the dog loyal no matter what. Sherlock took the entire thing for granted, never expecting things to change, until one day Sherlock took it into his head to create a home made sleeping pill from household supplies. A murderer had done the exact same thing to kill his wife and if some two-bit hack could do it, so could Sherlock. After the pill was formed, Sherlock decided to turn his loyal dog into an oh so willing test subject. The pill had worked, but a few hours later the dog died of heart failure.
It was then that Sherlock learned something about himself, something he never spoke of and tried his best to rarely think about.
He could feel.
In rare and exceedingly emotional cases Sherlock was able to muster up a response. As the butler had buried the pit bull, Sherlock had felt a sense of guilt. The dog had trusted him, and he hadn’t even been smart enough to correctly put together a sleeping pill.
Ever since then, Sherlock knew why he did what he did. Why he solved cases and chased down death at every corner. It was all in search of some sort of feeling, an end to the mental boredom. There was nothing boring about those moments of pure emotion. He felt the highs of solving a case, the adrenaline of chasing after a murderer and for once in his life he felt a small twinge of caring as he’d seen John standing outside the Pink Lady crime scene. John had shot someone. He’d shot someone for Sherlock. John had saved the life a man he barely knew and had no logical reason to trust.
From then on John had been deemed an invaluable asset. He added medical expertise and staunch loyalty to the equation. But, more then that, with John around there was a chance, however slight, that Sherlock would feel something, anything, besides the rush of adrenaline or the smug satisfaction of a case well won. It was illogical and foolhardy, but so was an addiction to heroine.
He knew, as certainly as he knew that blood turned brown as it dried, that pushing John too far would lead to his departure from the flat, and therefore his departure from Sherlock’s life. But Sherlock was a slave to his mind, the emptiness was calling to him everyday they went without a case. He hated people, he hated their emotions and their mess. They had an inability to see even the most basic of details, and they spent their entire lives in small bubbles of security of comfort.
But John was different and for some unknown reason his limp was resurfacing. John was somehow in trouble. Of course Sherlock had theories. He had more theories then the best detective would know what to do with. But to theorize before you had all the evidence was a common mistake. One that Sherlock wouldn’t let himself fall into.
Sherlock’s self-pitying was interrupted by the buzz of his phone, the screen lighting up with Mycroft’s name.
M: Did you get the lovely invitation I had my office print up?
S: I hate you.
M: Fine, but dress nicely.
S: See previously txt…. (2nd text) Also, John needs a tuxedo.
M: So the dependable Dr. Watson is going to be your escort?
S: I’m done with this conversation. Get him a tux and stop bothering me.
Sherlock threw the phone across the room, watching it land on John’s chair. Good. It would be easier for him to fetch it from there. John searching around could get tiresome.
“My escort,” Sherlock mumbled to himself, “Like I couldn’t go by myself. Damn, Mycroft.” He couldn’t even leave John alone. “Speaking of which, where the hell is John? Work was over 53 minutes ago.”
The sound of the downstairs door opening caused Sherlock to rise from the coach, his silk robe flapping. He’d spent the whole day sitting in a state of perpetual boredom since John had left in the morning. The hours had been far too slow. He’d tried turning the television on, but disgust with the human race had forced him to turn it off moments later.
“John!” Sherlock yelled, “We’re going to Angelo’s!”
John opened the door and threw his keys on an end table, before shrugging off his black coat. He avoided eye contact with Sherlock as he shuffled around the room, settling himself back into the apartment.
“So, you’ve decided to finally go outside?” John asked, not excepting an answer so Sherlock didn’t give him one. “Well. Good. You’ve been in this room since Monday, and you haven’t spent the time sleeping.”
“And how, pray tell, did you deduce that?” Sherlock asked as he shrugged off his robe.
“I can hear you talking to yourself from all the way upstairs. You’re not exactly quiet.”
“Well, genius needs a continuous outlet and the skull was more then happy to listen. Unlike some people.” Sherlock replied but John didn’t rise to the bait.
Sherlock quieted, taking a moment to fully study his flatmate. Something was wrong with Watson. Sherlock could tell from his tensed shoulders and the hint of stubble John hadn’t even bothered to shave off. Interesting. What was the problem now?
“When do we leave because I’m starving?” John asked, rubbing his temples. More headaches. Going to work and pretending to be normal seemed to cause John a lot of those. Why he bothered, Sherlock would never know.
“Right now. Just give me a second.” Without a thought Sherlock whipped the pajama top over his head, flinging it on the couch. “I’ve got to change.” John just stared, his mouth slightly open as if he were about to voice a complaint. “Lord! I’ll pick that up later. Don’t fuss. Now go put other clothes on. You reek of hospital. Wear the red jumper.”
Sherlock pulled at the buttons of his pants as he strode from the room, hoping Mrs. Hudson had put his dry cleaning away.
AN: You know what to do! Review!