I'm stuck with a valuable friend
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes; Sherlock 'verse.
Written for the other meme - sherlockbbc_fic.
Prompt: I'd love to see something negating or contradicting the "high-functioning sociopath" line. (Frankly, I must admit I'm a bit dismayed how what I thought was a throwaway witticism has been adopted as fact.)
Rating: Gen, PG
No warnings.
John has always thought it dangerous to judge people without knowing them properly. He always tries to see the good in people first. Everyone has a good side.
Sergeant Donovan keeps warning him off from associating with Sherlock Holmes. She calls him a freak and a psycho. Sherlock calls himself a sociopath.
John can’t tell if he’s joking or not.
A few months after John moved into Baker Street he walks in on Sherlock waiting for him in the sitting room. He’s sitting in the comfy armchair, long legs crossed, arms on the rests like it’s his throne. And let’s face it - any chair Sherlock Holmes inhabits is his throne.
He has that look on his face that makes John want to check the flat for minor explosives and corrosive chemicals. That smug smirk that clearly says he’s done something and he’s proud of it. Generally it leads to complaints from Mrs Hudson or insults from the Yard.
“I have a surprise”, Sherlock says, and with a deepening smile he pushes himself up from the chair. John takes a few tentative steps further into the room, eyes casting around for anything suspicious.
“What have you been up to this time, then?” he starts to ask, though he is cut short by Sherlock producing a long gift-wrapped box from behind the chair. John stares.
Sherlock hands the parcel to him, that self-satisfied smirk still plastered firmly on his face. There’s a different quality to it now, though, John can see. The way his eyes are crinkled and the tension in his whole frame, and John realises, “he’s excited”. Like a child bringing home a drawing, looking for approval.
John can’t but stare at the box in his hands. It’s heavy-ish, long and thin, and he has no idea what to do.
“Well?” Sherlock snaps, but his tone is tinged with good humour. “Open it!”
Almost tentatively, as though not to damage the wrapping, John opens the packaging. There’s a dark-brown leather case inside, and with a vary glance at Sherlock, John opens it.
It’s a cane.
The most elegant, stylish, beautiful cane John has ever seen in his life. It’s like something out of an old Victorian photograph, the sort of thing a gentleman would use. It appeals to John’s old-fashioned side.
He looks up at Holmes and his breath nearly stutters. He has never seen the man look so expectant, eyes wide and brows arched, his whole face pushed forward, tongue caught between his lips.
“I’m sorry-” John starts, then begins again. “What is this?”
“It’s a gift. Surely you’ve received them before?” The words are Sherlock’s usual brand of impatient, but his voice is amused. “What do you think, then?”
“It’s… beautiful. Uh. Why?”
Sherlock shrugs, a move so foreign on him that it’s almost startling. “I know your limp is psychosomatic, but even psychosomatic pain hurts. You need a cane, but you’re ashamed of the one you were issued at the hospital. Besides, a war hero should have a cane worthy of his stature, don’t you think?”
He’s taken the cane from John and is sliding his hands along it, almost like a caress. “It’s hand-made. Mahogany. Brass detailing, rubber point, handle specifically shaped for better grip.”
He hands it back to John, and for the first time his smile has the traces of uncertainty.
“Do you like it?” he asks, voice only barely tentative, soft.
John grabs the cane and brings it to his side, leans his weight on it. Sherlock is right, he is ashamed of his cane, hates what it signifies, his invalidity, how broken he is, a shadow of the man he used to be.
But looking at this new dark piece of wood by his side, he can’t help but grin. It looks cool. It could almost pass as an accessory. It doesn’t scream “cripple” like the horrible aluminium-and-plastic one he’s used until now. John thinks it makes him look almost dignified. He can’t stop the small laugh that escapes from his throat.
He raises his eyes to look at Sherlock, and he can’t quite find the words to thank him. He knows he doesn’t have to, his own gratitude is all there on Sherlock’s face, open for all the world to see.
Freak. Psycho.
John clears his throat, voice suddenly gone gruff and chest tight. “I… thank you. It’s really- I mean.” He takes a deep breath, picks the cane up nervously. “It’s perfect,” he says, and smiles at Sherlock.
Sherlock lets out a laugh, only a bit nervous, in a way that Sherlock Holmes never is. He hides any traces of sheepishness quickly though, in that brisk manner of his and a purse of his lips.
They spend the rest of their evening sharing take-away, Sherlock telling John about his early cases. John laughs more than he has since he came back from the war, and he can’t remember when he had such a good friend in anyone as he does in Sherlock.
The next time Donovan starts mouthing off at a crime scene, John walks up to her until they’re inches apart and warns her that it’s dangerous to judge people without knowing them.
Sherlock stands back with a puzzled look on his face, and if he can’t figure it out, John won’t be the one to explain it to him. He doesn’t think he needs to.
It’s written on his face, for all the world to see.
Written for the other meme - sherlockbbc_fic.
Prompt: I'd love to see something negating or contradicting the "high-functioning sociopath" line. (Frankly, I must admit I'm a bit dismayed how what I thought was a throwaway witticism has been adopted as fact.)
Rating: Gen, PG
No warnings.
John has always thought it dangerous to judge people without knowing them properly. He always tries to see the good in people first. Everyone has a good side.
Sergeant Donovan keeps warning him off from associating with Sherlock Holmes. She calls him a freak and a psycho. Sherlock calls himself a sociopath.
John can’t tell if he’s joking or not.
A few months after John moved into Baker Street he walks in on Sherlock waiting for him in the sitting room. He’s sitting in the comfy armchair, long legs crossed, arms on the rests like it’s his throne. And let’s face it - any chair Sherlock Holmes inhabits is his throne.
He has that look on his face that makes John want to check the flat for minor explosives and corrosive chemicals. That smug smirk that clearly says he’s done something and he’s proud of it. Generally it leads to complaints from Mrs Hudson or insults from the Yard.
“I have a surprise”, Sherlock says, and with a deepening smile he pushes himself up from the chair. John takes a few tentative steps further into the room, eyes casting around for anything suspicious.
“What have you been up to this time, then?” he starts to ask, though he is cut short by Sherlock producing a long gift-wrapped box from behind the chair. John stares.
Sherlock hands the parcel to him, that self-satisfied smirk still plastered firmly on his face. There’s a different quality to it now, though, John can see. The way his eyes are crinkled and the tension in his whole frame, and John realises, “he’s excited”. Like a child bringing home a drawing, looking for approval.
John can’t but stare at the box in his hands. It’s heavy-ish, long and thin, and he has no idea what to do.
“Well?” Sherlock snaps, but his tone is tinged with good humour. “Open it!”
Almost tentatively, as though not to damage the wrapping, John opens the packaging. There’s a dark-brown leather case inside, and with a vary glance at Sherlock, John opens it.
It’s a cane.
The most elegant, stylish, beautiful cane John has ever seen in his life. It’s like something out of an old Victorian photograph, the sort of thing a gentleman would use. It appeals to John’s old-fashioned side.
He looks up at Holmes and his breath nearly stutters. He has never seen the man look so expectant, eyes wide and brows arched, his whole face pushed forward, tongue caught between his lips.
“I’m sorry-” John starts, then begins again. “What is this?”
“It’s a gift. Surely you’ve received them before?” The words are Sherlock’s usual brand of impatient, but his voice is amused. “What do you think, then?”
“It’s… beautiful. Uh. Why?”
Sherlock shrugs, a move so foreign on him that it’s almost startling. “I know your limp is psychosomatic, but even psychosomatic pain hurts. You need a cane, but you’re ashamed of the one you were issued at the hospital. Besides, a war hero should have a cane worthy of his stature, don’t you think?”
He’s taken the cane from John and is sliding his hands along it, almost like a caress. “It’s hand-made. Mahogany. Brass detailing, rubber point, handle specifically shaped for better grip.”
He hands it back to John, and for the first time his smile has the traces of uncertainty.
“Do you like it?” he asks, voice only barely tentative, soft.
John grabs the cane and brings it to his side, leans his weight on it. Sherlock is right, he is ashamed of his cane, hates what it signifies, his invalidity, how broken he is, a shadow of the man he used to be.
But looking at this new dark piece of wood by his side, he can’t help but grin. It looks cool. It could almost pass as an accessory. It doesn’t scream “cripple” like the horrible aluminium-and-plastic one he’s used until now. John thinks it makes him look almost dignified. He can’t stop the small laugh that escapes from his throat.
He raises his eyes to look at Sherlock, and he can’t quite find the words to thank him. He knows he doesn’t have to, his own gratitude is all there on Sherlock’s face, open for all the world to see.
Freak. Psycho.
John clears his throat, voice suddenly gone gruff and chest tight. “I… thank you. It’s really- I mean.” He takes a deep breath, picks the cane up nervously. “It’s perfect,” he says, and smiles at Sherlock.
Sherlock lets out a laugh, only a bit nervous, in a way that Sherlock Holmes never is. He hides any traces of sheepishness quickly though, in that brisk manner of his and a purse of his lips.
They spend the rest of their evening sharing take-away, Sherlock telling John about his early cases. John laughs more than he has since he came back from the war, and he can’t remember when he had such a good friend in anyone as he does in Sherlock.
The next time Donovan starts mouthing off at a crime scene, John walks up to her until they’re inches apart and warns her that it’s dangerous to judge people without knowing them.
Sherlock stands back with a puzzled look on his face, and if he can’t figure it out, John won’t be the one to explain it to him. He doesn’t think he needs to.
It’s written on his face, for all the world to see.