Love of the Loveless, Part 1
Love of the Loveless
A joint fic between myself and ilfirin_estel
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.
Disclaimer: We own Nothing! (well, we own some stuff, but not this, so there you go)
Sherlock Holmes, of 221b Bakerstreet wasn’t the type of man to get emotionally involved. In fact, he strongly believed he was incapable of it. He didn’t care much for people’s feelings and social interactions left him irritated and mind numbingly bored. He took cabs just to avoid the awkward sensation of being crammed onto the tube with strangers, ordinary people that were oblivious to everything around them. But Sherlock wasn’t. He saw everything. He saw the twice-washed hands, the dirty glasses, the painted nails and the too small shoes. It was a type of sensory overload that could easily overwhelm him if he wasn’t careful. There were just so many secrets and lies, truths and promises packed into that tiny place. People were messy and Sherlock enjoyed keeping his metaphorical hands clean.
Really, Sherlock just wasn’t like normal people. For starters, he didn’t have a conscience, at least not the way other people did. His conscience was a living breathing man, an entity so separate from Sherlock that he sometimes forgot the two of them were connected at all. It was almost as if John Watson, the unassuming ex-military man had somehow snuck into Sherlock’s world and made himself a permanent fixture. One day John was just there, cleaning the kitchen and asking if Sherlock would like any tea. The man was reliable, dependable, and refreshingly easy to impress.
Now if only Sherlock could learn how to shut off John’s incessant neediness. Every moment Sherlock was bombarded with his flatmate’s preoccupation with the mundane. It seemed as if something was always happening that required Sherlock’s attention: Where are my socks? Did you hide the remote? What’s wrong with Mrs. Hudson? Are you high?
“Where is my tuna salad?” John’s voice rang through the air, the entire scene horribly predictable.
“Gone” Sherlock replied evenly, treating the question with as much respect as it deserved. Namely, none.
“What do you mean gone?” John asked from inside the fridge. Sherlock rolled his eyes. How more blatantly could he spell it out?
“Gone, John. The tuna salad is gone. Along with my patience for this conversation.” Sherlock grumbled as he surveyed his impeccably clean fingernails. If things didn’t get more interesting soon he’d be forced to go outside. Sherlock’s frown deepened. Outside. Where the people were.
“Tuna doesn’t just disappear, Sherlock”
“What a brilliant deduction.” Sherlock drawled out.
“Well, I know I didn’t eat it and I know Mrs. Hudson didn’t eat it. So….” John raised his eyebrows in that irritating way of his. It appeared as if his slow-witted flatmate had managed to put together some type of conclusion.
“Prove it.” Sherlock replied evenly, the hint of a smile gracing his lips.
“You could have just asked, you know? I would have made you some.” John replied.
“You have absolutely no evidence against me.”
“What about the fact that my bloody salad is gone!” John yelled slightly and Sherlock turned to look at him.
“That’s the crime, Watson, not the evidence. You can’t go running around making accusations against your flatmate without any proof. What kind of living environment does that create?” Sherlock knew he was pushing John’s buttons just a little too hard, but that was entirely the point. If he was to test his theory, John was going to need to get good and riled up. Really, he was surprised it had taken him this long.
“I’m not the one creating a stressful living environment. What about the severed hand in the fridge right next to my lunch? It isn’t even in a bag. It’s just laying there. Practically waving at me.”
“Lying there, John. Objects can’t ‘lay’. Only people can.” Sherlock said and John slammed the fridge shut.
“For God’s sake, who cares?” John asked, his body language tense and clearly irritated.
“The English Language, perhaps?"
“Alright, Sherlock. I’ve had just about enough. How much longer are you going to be like this?” John said as he stalked into the sitting room.
“Like what?”
“Sulking, whiny, generally unpleasant to be around.” John answered and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“An over exaggeration.”
“You hacked into my computer and sent spam email to everyone at Scotland Yard! It took two days for their IT guys to clean up the mess. Luckily Lestrade knew it had to have been you and waved any charges.”
“See, your incompetence with computers has paid off.” Sherlock said
“That’s it!” John snarled, “I’m done. Two days of this? Perhaps. But two weeks? I’m not a bloody saint, Sherlock.”
Sherlock surveyed John with quite contemplation. Yes. There it was again. Just as predicted, John was leaning ever so slightly to his left. It seemed as if his psychosomatic limp had not completely disappeared, as Sherlock had originally thought. And what was even more interesting was the correlation it had between John’s state of mind, and Sherlock’s behavior.
“Alright,” Sherlock called out before John could pull his coat on. “I’m sorry.” Sherlock didn’t mean it. He’d never been sorry in his entire life. Really, the only thing Sherlock knew about sorry was how to spell it. Luckily, John was as forgiving as a loyal dog and his shoulders relaxed slightly.
“I’m not asking for much Sherlock, just leave my food alone.” John hung the coat back up “Oh, and put that hand in a bag or something. It really puts me off food having that thing around.”
“Of course,” Sherlock replied cordially as John walked back into the kitchen, his military gait once again even and limp free. Sherlock smiled in an almost gleeful way, his mood lightened considerably. So it appeared as if his theory had been correct. John’s limp seemed to be directly linked to his relationship with Sherlock. Now the only question was: why? What kind of emotional stake could John have placed in Sherlock. Emotions weren’t Sherlock’s forte and he knew that such questions were undoubtedly going to fill his mind for quite some time.
Sherlock relaxed back onto the couch as he surveyed the back of John’s head, the man bustling around in the kitchen.
“Oh, I do so love a challenge.”
Part 2
AN: If you liked, shoot me a review! It keeps me and my partner going!
A joint fic between myself and ilfirin_estel
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.
Disclaimer: We own Nothing! (well, we own some stuff, but not this, so there you go)
Sherlock Holmes, of 221b Bakerstreet wasn’t the type of man to get emotionally involved. In fact, he strongly believed he was incapable of it. He didn’t care much for people’s feelings and social interactions left him irritated and mind numbingly bored. He took cabs just to avoid the awkward sensation of being crammed onto the tube with strangers, ordinary people that were oblivious to everything around them. But Sherlock wasn’t. He saw everything. He saw the twice-washed hands, the dirty glasses, the painted nails and the too small shoes. It was a type of sensory overload that could easily overwhelm him if he wasn’t careful. There were just so many secrets and lies, truths and promises packed into that tiny place. People were messy and Sherlock enjoyed keeping his metaphorical hands clean.
Really, Sherlock just wasn’t like normal people. For starters, he didn’t have a conscience, at least not the way other people did. His conscience was a living breathing man, an entity so separate from Sherlock that he sometimes forgot the two of them were connected at all. It was almost as if John Watson, the unassuming ex-military man had somehow snuck into Sherlock’s world and made himself a permanent fixture. One day John was just there, cleaning the kitchen and asking if Sherlock would like any tea. The man was reliable, dependable, and refreshingly easy to impress.
Now if only Sherlock could learn how to shut off John’s incessant neediness. Every moment Sherlock was bombarded with his flatmate’s preoccupation with the mundane. It seemed as if something was always happening that required Sherlock’s attention: Where are my socks? Did you hide the remote? What’s wrong with Mrs. Hudson? Are you high?
“Where is my tuna salad?” John’s voice rang through the air, the entire scene horribly predictable.
“Gone” Sherlock replied evenly, treating the question with as much respect as it deserved. Namely, none.
“What do you mean gone?” John asked from inside the fridge. Sherlock rolled his eyes. How more blatantly could he spell it out?
“Gone, John. The tuna salad is gone. Along with my patience for this conversation.” Sherlock grumbled as he surveyed his impeccably clean fingernails. If things didn’t get more interesting soon he’d be forced to go outside. Sherlock’s frown deepened. Outside. Where the people were.
“Tuna doesn’t just disappear, Sherlock”
“What a brilliant deduction.” Sherlock drawled out.
“Well, I know I didn’t eat it and I know Mrs. Hudson didn’t eat it. So….” John raised his eyebrows in that irritating way of his. It appeared as if his slow-witted flatmate had managed to put together some type of conclusion.
“Prove it.” Sherlock replied evenly, the hint of a smile gracing his lips.
“You could have just asked, you know? I would have made you some.” John replied.
“You have absolutely no evidence against me.”
“What about the fact that my bloody salad is gone!” John yelled slightly and Sherlock turned to look at him.
“That’s the crime, Watson, not the evidence. You can’t go running around making accusations against your flatmate without any proof. What kind of living environment does that create?” Sherlock knew he was pushing John’s buttons just a little too hard, but that was entirely the point. If he was to test his theory, John was going to need to get good and riled up. Really, he was surprised it had taken him this long.
“I’m not the one creating a stressful living environment. What about the severed hand in the fridge right next to my lunch? It isn’t even in a bag. It’s just laying there. Practically waving at me.”
“Lying there, John. Objects can’t ‘lay’. Only people can.” Sherlock said and John slammed the fridge shut.
“For God’s sake, who cares?” John asked, his body language tense and clearly irritated.
“The English Language, perhaps?"
“Alright, Sherlock. I’ve had just about enough. How much longer are you going to be like this?” John said as he stalked into the sitting room.
“Like what?”
“Sulking, whiny, generally unpleasant to be around.” John answered and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“An over exaggeration.”
“You hacked into my computer and sent spam email to everyone at Scotland Yard! It took two days for their IT guys to clean up the mess. Luckily Lestrade knew it had to have been you and waved any charges.”
“See, your incompetence with computers has paid off.” Sherlock said
“That’s it!” John snarled, “I’m done. Two days of this? Perhaps. But two weeks? I’m not a bloody saint, Sherlock.”
Sherlock surveyed John with quite contemplation. Yes. There it was again. Just as predicted, John was leaning ever so slightly to his left. It seemed as if his psychosomatic limp had not completely disappeared, as Sherlock had originally thought. And what was even more interesting was the correlation it had between John’s state of mind, and Sherlock’s behavior.
“Alright,” Sherlock called out before John could pull his coat on. “I’m sorry.” Sherlock didn’t mean it. He’d never been sorry in his entire life. Really, the only thing Sherlock knew about sorry was how to spell it. Luckily, John was as forgiving as a loyal dog and his shoulders relaxed slightly.
“I’m not asking for much Sherlock, just leave my food alone.” John hung the coat back up “Oh, and put that hand in a bag or something. It really puts me off food having that thing around.”
“Of course,” Sherlock replied cordially as John walked back into the kitchen, his military gait once again even and limp free. Sherlock smiled in an almost gleeful way, his mood lightened considerably. So it appeared as if his theory had been correct. John’s limp seemed to be directly linked to his relationship with Sherlock. Now the only question was: why? What kind of emotional stake could John have placed in Sherlock. Emotions weren’t Sherlock’s forte and he knew that such questions were undoubtedly going to fill his mind for quite some time.
Sherlock relaxed back onto the couch as he surveyed the back of John’s head, the man bustling around in the kitchen.
“Oh, I do so love a challenge.”
Part 2
AN: If you liked, shoot me a review! It keeps me and my partner going!