Sherlock thinks about how to react, but he can't come up with a probable one. He knows he should be sad, because he and Anderson worked so close for all these months. But he and Anderson never got along, it was just Lestrade's angry face that kept them from ending up in fist fights even out in the field (they did end up in fights while on camp quite a lot though). Sherlock's never been good with emotions and he knows that if he wasn't so damn good at these bombs (of course he's good, everyone else is just stupid) he'd been sent home to mother England already (if ever sent away at all). He can definitely feel a certain sadness about Anderson; it's always a waste when some one at least decent on their job gets killed, but he's not really that sad. Mostly annoyed that he'll have to ”get to know” someone else (he never gets to know someone anyway, they just learn to stay out of his way).
”You didn't like Anderson, did you, Sherlock?” John asks. Sherlock notices he's upset. John is such a good person, and Sherlock knows he himself really isn't, but for some reason it does bother him that John is, what? Angry/ annoyed/ disappointed in him? ”No,” is the simply reply. Because it's true. ”So you won't be sad about his death?” John is getting up from his chair, runs a hand (left hand) through his hair and over his face. ”How can you not be sad another human has died?” John puts his hands against the back of the chair. ”You're disappointed in me.” He's still croaking, but John hears him well enough. ”Good. Good deduction, yeah.” Sherlock closes his eyes. ”Don't believe in heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did I wouldn't be one of them.” A moment passes, Sherlock is still very tired, and his throat hurts. But it hurts even more to see the anger in John's face. ”I'm smart, and amazing as you like to put it.” He tries to collect his thoughts again, catches his breath. ”I'm good with bombs, not humans. I defuse bombs and yes, it helps people. But will caring for them help them more?” John gets him another glass of water, and Sherlock can feel his hand on the back of his neck again, can feel it touch his hair and the closeness of John. He's confused and tired and doesn't want John to be angry with him. But he can't lie, because he doesn't know what lies will make it better. ”No,” John whispers as an answer to his question when he helps him back to the pillow again. ”Then I will continue not caring for them.” He closes his eyes, feels the morphine work through his system. But he doesn't close them soon enough, he can still see the sadness in John's eyes, see the hurt. He still hears the door close before he falls asleep again.
John gets a cup of coffee from the machine. John gets a cup of coffee and goes to his office container. John goes to his container and he sits down in his chair. John does all of this in a haze. A haze of being too tired, too sad, too afraid, too upset. His head falls against his desk, his hands around it blocking the ugly fluorescent lights in the room. How could he ever believe that he, of all people, could ever be Sherlock's friend? Crazy Holmes doesn't have friends. Crazy Holmes doesn't care for people, doesn't care for John. John who's been away from his bed for over 36 hours, John who just wanted to grab Sherlock and shake him and ask if he was alright when he came into the hospital yesterday. John who suddenly finds wet tears running down his cheeks, and he can't tell if they are from exhaustion or from emotions.
”You didn't like Anderson, did you, Sherlock?” John asks. Sherlock notices he's upset. John is such a good person, and Sherlock knows he himself really isn't, but for some reason it does bother him that John is, what? Angry/ annoyed/ disappointed in him?
”No,” is the simply reply. Because it's true.
”So you won't be sad about his death?” John is getting up from his chair, runs a hand (left hand) through his hair and over his face. ”How can you not be sad another human has died?” John puts his hands against the back of the chair.
”You're disappointed in me.” He's still croaking, but John hears him well enough.
”Good. Good deduction, yeah.” Sherlock closes his eyes.
”Don't believe in heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did I wouldn't be one of them.” A moment passes, Sherlock is still very tired, and his throat hurts. But it hurts even more to see the anger in John's face. ”I'm smart, and amazing as you like to put it.” He tries to collect his thoughts again, catches his breath. ”I'm good with bombs, not humans. I defuse bombs and yes, it helps people. But will caring for them help them more?” John gets him another glass of water, and Sherlock can feel his hand on the back of his neck again, can feel it touch his hair and the closeness of John. He's confused and tired and doesn't want John to be angry with him. But he can't lie, because he doesn't know what lies will make it better.
”No,” John whispers as an answer to his question when he helps him back to the pillow again.
”Then I will continue not caring for them.” He closes his eyes, feels the morphine work through his system. But he doesn't close them soon enough, he can still see the sadness in John's eyes, see the hurt. He still hears the door close before he falls asleep again.
John gets a cup of coffee from the machine. John gets a cup of coffee and goes to his office container. John goes to his container and he sits down in his chair. John does all of this in a haze. A haze of being too tired, too sad, too afraid, too upset. His head falls against his desk, his hands around it blocking the ugly fluorescent lights in the room. How could he ever believe that he, of all people, could ever be Sherlock's friend? Crazy Holmes doesn't have friends. Crazy Holmes doesn't care for people, doesn't care for John. John who's been away from his bed for over 36 hours, John who just wanted to grab Sherlock and shake him and ask if he was alright when he came into the hospital yesterday. John who suddenly finds wet tears running down his cheeks, and he can't tell if they are from exhaustion or from emotions.
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