Quite Extraordinary

Sherlock Holmes thinks about why he is so dearly, truly fond of Dr. John Watson. Pre-slashish Sherlock/John. John had all of Sherlock's heart that still beat.

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Sherlock thought maybe it was his eyes. They were an all encompassing blue that was sometimes lighter and sometimes darker and sometimes a mix of the two at the same moment and sometimes, even, a darker shade of brown. John's eyes were very open and expressive. Then again, everyone's eyes were expressive and open to Sherlock. The phrase 'windows to the soul' was quite true to Sherlock. But John's eyes were different.

Perhaps it was because John was a particularly bad liar. When it came to everyone else they encountered, when John was aware they were meant to be lying and not trying to pretend to be the maybe police that they could possibly be but weren't really, John lied very well. He was not able to lie for long, however, so his lying sessions had to be monitored or made brief, but in general he did a good job pretending to be someone he wasn't. But when it came to Sherlock, John was a horrible liar. His eyes, as mentioned, were all too expressive and no matter how indignant he seemed to get with Sherlock, John could never mask his eyes. They always gave him away.

But it was more than that. John rarely even tried to lie to Sherlock. Most of the time he just spoke his mind, let Sherlock know without asking. Sherlock could read him anyway, but he appreciates that John just admits to it before he's had to chance to guess. When he's angry, or disappointed or whatever, with Sherlock, John lets him know. John doesn't hide from Sherlock and that's something he's not used to. The world is full of stupid, slow people who have secrets and lie and hide from the world. John isn't like that.

Maybe part of it is because of how John can read him. When he discovers a new detail to a case that they didn't have, John knows. When he's sitting home reading a paper or watching the news, John knows he's bored well before he's shooting holes in the wall again. And if Donovan or Anderson or Lestrade or any other moronic Homo sapien that can't think its way out of a box of tea is pissing Sherlock off, John steps in to diffuse the situation before Sherlock can get out a good yell. Sherlock has never met anyone who understood him like John. Except perhaps Mrs. Hudson, but most of the time her head was so far in the stratosphere that there wasn't enough oxygen to form a coherent thought, so most of her right guesses were idle fancy she'd cooked up that fit some romantic delusion of Sherlock's life that she had.

Once he entertained the idea that it was because John was a doctor. He was good with his hands. He could look at a corpse and know more about how the person died than Lestrade's whole team. Especially after the first few cases with Sherlock. If they were ever in a bind, John could take care of them, health-wise at least. He was convenient, efficient, and useful. But Sherlock tossed this idea before it had ever truly formed. It was too clinical, too sterile, to fit how Sherlock felt about John. It did not explain anything. Perhaps the Sherlock who did not care for John Watson could believe this to be the reason he accepted John's company, but it did not work for the Sherlock who would want John around even if he wasn't a doctor at all.

So maybe it was because John was so patient. He didn't seem it at times, grumbling about Sherlock's laziness and rude behaviors, but he was. After all the text messages, the ruined dates with women, the countless calls for tea, playing the violin at any hour of the day or night, usually off key just because he felt like it, nearly dying, the messy living room, the experiments in the fridge and on the counter, the lack of a steady job, and all the other things Sherlock put John though, he was still here. Regardless of anything Sherlock or his enemies threw at them, John always came back to Sherlock in the end. And every time he did, Sherlock felt himself breathe again, for the first time since he last saw John and thought it was finally over.

But, Sherlock thought, he'd felt this way almost for as long as he'd known John. It was a building sort of compassion, some lost emotion he had not known he could feel, that John had brought forth in him from day one. And that lead him to what he thought was the primary reason he cared so much about John Watson.

He couldn't keep his mouth shut. But that really wasn't it either. That was a part of it, but that wasn't the core idea of the realization.

When Sherlock had explained how he knew what he knew about John upon their first meeting, the words from John's mouth were not 'freak' or 'piss off' or 'what the hell?' They were 'extraordinary', 'brilliant,' and 'amazing.' And when he explained his reasoning, how he came to a conclusion, John was always there to let him know how ingenious he was. It was, strangely, more humbling that everyone else telling him to stuff it. Those simple praises made Sherlock want to be a better person, not just a better Consulting Detective.

And then John would call him an idiot. That was almost more heart stuttering and drew more warm and unidentified emotions from Sherlock than the praise did. He knew John thought he was intelligent. So when John called him stupid, it was something more personal, something between friends, something….special. It actually made Sherlock smile the first time it happened.

At first he didn't realize he cared. He didn't care. Or he hadn't thought he did. But as time went on and he learned more and more about his resident doctor, Sherlock found it harder and harder to fool himself. Every day, every case they solved together, made it more apparent that Sherlock had a heart. It appeared to beat and jitter just like any other human's did. Then came that incident at the pool and it was all in the bin now wasn't it? He couldn't say he didn't care. He couldn't deny it.

He'd been so scared, so panicked, he didn't know what he would do if that bomb had gone off and he'd lost John Watson forever. Even now, weeks, months later, he thought about it. Whenever John was in danger, or whenever he was bored, or whenever he saw John in the apartment, or pretty much all the time in fact, Sherlock thought about that: At this point, now, after all this time, could he live without John Watson?

John was his weakness. Moriarty knew this. He would use John to get to Sherlock, someday. He'd promised it that day at the pool. All that seemed to make Sherlock Holmes a human being rested in one man, and it would be so easy to get rid of that. A man could die like the snuff of candle flame on a lightly breezy night. He should let John go; should force him to; for his own good. John probably wouldn't leave. He'd fight to stay with Sherlock until the bitter end. But Sherlock should force it. He should make John leave, no matter what it took. Because it was safer. But he couldn't. He sat in the living room and couldn't open his mouth to say it. He just couldn't. Thus the reason for his musings.

The final conclusion? He liked John Watson, cared for him, because he was John Watson: his eyes, his bad lying, his openness, his ability to read Sherlock, his career, his patience, and his genuine interest in Sherlock's extensive mind. Perhaps Sherlock took up a part of John's mind, or perhaps his heart.

John had all of Sherlock's that still beat.

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Fin.