The Care and Keeping of Your Mad Genius

"I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets," Moriarty jeered.

If he hadn't been so focused on holding the bastard still, John would have laughed aloud. This maniac really thought John was the pet in this dynamic? Clearly he hadn't been watching them as closely as he liked to think. Given how preoccupied as he was, of course, the wry thought flitted out of John's head as quickly as it had formed. Survival took precedence over witty comebacks.

By the time Moriarty had left them for the second time (and his damned snipers with him), John was too mentally drained to offer even token resistance when Sherlock suggested that they flee the scene rather than call the police and wait patiently for the bomb squad to arrive.

Actually, his exact words had been: "I see no reason for us to linger. Come on," and he'd stretched out his hand to pull John to his feet.

John knew they'd never have a proper discussion about what had just happened, not really. (They were British, for crissakes. It just wouldn't do.) But after helping him up, Sherlock's hand rested on John's arm just a moment longer than actually necessary for assisting his balance. And John had seen the look on Sherlock's face when he'd opened his parka to reveal the explosives strapped to his chest. There was really nothing more to be said.

A slightly awkward pat on the shoulder, a small but firm nod in response, and they were on their way, equally aware that Sherlock Holmes could claim to be a heartless sociopath all he wanted, but it was futile to pretend that he didn't care about SOME people after tonight.

In spite of the hour, it didn't take them long to find a cab. John noted the time with dull surprise—it felt like they'd been standing beside that pool for hours, when in reality barely 20 minutes had passed since Sherlock had walked in the door.

Sherlock was fiddling with his phone already, presumably texting Lestrade. With his eyes fixed on the screen as he climbed into the cab after John, he settled himself quite a bit closer than he normally did: not actually touching, but close enough that John could feel the warmth of Sherlock's body heat radiating against his left side.

John raised an eyebrow, but didn't bother to comment. It's not as though the unusual proximity bothered him, although he wasn't exactly the touchy-feely type. Even if it was only a subconscious action on Sherlock's part, it was still tangible reassurance that the man was just as shaken up as he was over the night's events: seeking the comfort of physical contact with another person was a completely normal, and very human, reaction to the stressful situation they'd just been through.

But if John drew attention to it, Sherlock would retreat behind his usual cold façade, dismissive of the momentary weakness of his mortal coil. John was in no mood to play along with the "my body is merely transport" twaddle tonight...best just leave well enough alone.

Sherlock diligently tapped at his phone while John thought wearily about witness statements and police reports and hoped Lestrade would let them alone until morning. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the headrest with a soft sigh.

Immediately, John sensed Sherlock's intense gaze boring holes into his head. In addition, Sherlock was practically quivering in his seat. It wasn't the same kind of barely-contained excitement that had held him in thrall at the beginning of the case, when the desire to test his skills against this new and clever foe was still fresh. No, this felt different. Tense. Anxious. Like there was something he hadn't quite figured out yet. Like he was still waiting for some piece to fall into place. And as the object of such a focused stare, John assumed the missing piece had something to do with him.

Keeping his eyes closed, John deliberately relaxed his features so that Sherlock wouldn't see the little crease between his brows or the slight frown lines around his mouth that he'd been assured he had whenever he was thinking.

"You know what I do. Off you go," echoed in John's memory.

All right, then.

So...first point, Sherlock had patted John's arm, which was tantamount to a sloppy sentimental scene from someone who actively avoided physical contact. Even when he was sick he didn't like being touched, scowling and slapping John's hand away when he'd dared press the flat of a palm against his feverish forehead in lieu of hunting up the thermometer. Technically he wasn't touching John now. Not even leaning against him. Just…sitting as close as he possibly could without actually invading John's personal space.

Which brought him to the second point: he'd been practically glued to John's side since they'd left the sports center. Even as they'd been searching for a cab, Sherlock had matched his pace to John's, when usually he stalked along several strides ahead on those long damn legs of his.

And then there was the staring. It was almost as though he was still worried about John. But why?

They were out of immediate danger; neither had been injured...John's hands weren't even shaking. But Sherlock was clearly fretting over something. He'd been watching John like a hawk since he'd closed his eyes and leaned back, without so much as a murmured deduction of his mental well-being or state of exhaustion. Oh. Oh. Maybe that was the problem.

John had long since accepted that he was an open book to his flat-mate, but perhaps there was something in his body language or facial expression that Sherlock was unable to decipher. He couldn't deduce what John was thinking or feeling, and for whatever reason it was driving him mad.

Unable to bear the silent scrutiny any longer, John turned his head toward Sherlock without raising it off the headrest or opening his eyes.

"Okay, I can actually feel you staring." He was half expecting Sherlock to turn away haughtily and say something cold and sharp. To prove he was unaffected by something as mundane as surprise or nervousness or whatever sentiment he thought he was being accused of feeling. (As he frequently did, the childish sod).

But John's statement was met instead with affronted silence. Opening his eyes at last, he found his flat-mate watching him with the most pathetic kicked puppy expression John had ever seen.

"Oi, what's the matter?" he asked, suddenly concerned, sitting upright. Geez, the look on that face...no wonder he had that mousy little coroner wrapped so tightly around his finger. "Sherlock?"

"I don't know the appropriate social convention for the situation we've just experienced, John," he admitted quietly, frowning. "Would it be proper form to ask whether one's companion wishes to… converse? Or is that insensitive? Intrusive?"

"Hm," John relaxed a little but kept his eyes on Sherlock's face. "Well, I'm fairly certain there isn't a standard precedent for 'kidnapped and wrapped in enough explosives to take out a city block,' or 'held at gunpoint by a psychopath and his friends,' if that helps any."

"Illuminating," Sherlock said, voice dripping in sarcasm. John smiled faintly.

"I'm fine, if that's what you're getting at. Just exhausted. I've been running on adrenaline and little else these past few hours."

"If you're sure," Sherlock murmured, still studying John as though he alone held the secrets to the universe. Still nervous. Still unsure of something.

Wait a minute...

"The frailty of genius is that it needs an audience," he'd once said. John was a good audience: receptive, appreciative (most of the time), supportive and loyal to a fault. But this night, hell, this whole case, had been an absolute nightmare. Sherlock was probably wondering whether John had had enough of this yet. Whether he would pack up his things and move out, flee the city and stop speaking to him after this.

Which, to be perfectly fair, was a legitimate concern.

After all, tonight was the second time he'd been kidnapped by an enemy of Sherlock's, and all within four months of meeting the man. Well, the third time, if you counted a self-proclaimed arch nemesis with good intentions and a disturbing way of showing fraternal affection.

It was rather touching, in a way, for Sherlock to be worrying about this now. Didn't he know it was far too late to be rid of John, after what they'd already been through together? John had the bizarre impulse to reach out and pat his head, as one might do with an anxious dog, and tell him everything was going to be fine.

At which thought John chuckled low in his throat. The unexpected sound startled Sherlock, who twitched reflexively, rapping his elbow sharply against John's.

John hid a smirk. "There was one thing I wanted to talk to you about, though," he said in his most serious voice.

"Oh?" Sherlock went incredibly still.

"Surely it's already crossed your mind?" John said, enjoying the sensation, short-lived though it would be, of pulling one over on Sherlock for a change. With a barely discernible grimace, Sherlock swallowed hard before replying.

"Doubtless it has. But you'll have to be more specific," he said tersely, his eyes darting back and forth between John's.

"Jim's taste in music—it's appalling. I mean, the Bee Gees? Really? What sort of criminal mastermind uses that song for his ringtone?" he chuckled.

Sherlock just blinked at him for a moment. Finally he offered John a guarded sort of half-smile, equal parts hopeful and uncertain.

"You expected the theme music from Psycho, perhaps?" he asked dryly, arching one elegant eyebrow. John's low chuckle became outright laughter, and Sherlock's smile broadened, his eyes crinkling in that particular way they did when he was smiling in earnest.

And just like that, the odd tension in the air between them dissipated. Sherlock visibly relaxed, going so far as to allow his shoulder to rest against John's as he slumped in the seat. John smiled.

Sherlock's stomach growled urgently, and John shot him a sidelong glance. When was the last time he'd seen him eat something, anyway?

"Tuesday," he responded to John's unasked question. "And yes, I'm starving. Call for takeaway, won't you?" he said, dropping his phone in John's lap.

"Mm. Chinese?"

"Obviously."

Lestrade had been thoroughly pissed when he got a flippant text from Sherlock advising him to pick up the Semtex vest from the pool before someone else stumbled across it. Apparently, John's failure to be the responsible one in their little duo, (his official assigned role, in Lestrade's mind) had earned him a share of the DI's wrath as well. He'd arrived at their flat about 10 minutes after the delivery of their late dinner, and had hesitated for just a moment in their doorway, looking completely done in. But when Sherlock had calmly offered him a spring roll, the fire in his eyes had rekindled, and he'd exploded into a furious lecture directed at both of them.

"Why are you yelling at me, again? It's not like I volunteered to be a suicide bomber, here," John said, spearing a wonton with his chopsticks. Sherlock had long since grown bored of the lecture and turned his attention to the tangerine chicken, which he was calmly shoveling into his mouth without looking at either of them. Lestrade waved a hand in his direction, exasperated.

"Because you're supposed to...I don't know, reign him in when he decides to do something mad!"

"Like waltzing out on his own in order to meet up with a psychotic criminal mastermind without bothering to arrange for backup? Which I didn't know he had planned, I might add," John said, rolling his eyes and looking across at Sherlock.

"Yes, for one! Or like leaving a crime scene where you've both just been held hostage, or assaulted, or whatever you want to call it, without so much as giving a statement or letting medical personnel look you over!"

At this, Sherlock stopped eating to glare at the DI.

"John's a doctor, Lestrade, or had you forgotten? If I had been injured, he'd be obligated by his Hippocratic Oath to ensure that I received any medical treatment necessary. Moreover, he's a man with strong moral principles, so even if he weren't a medical doctor, he'd still feel some kind of obligation to look after an injured man. A sense of kinship for a fellow creature, as it were. As he neither offered to check me over himself nor insisted that I remain at the scene until the official medical personnel arrived, the obvious conclusion is that I am uninjured."

"Like he's in any condition to judge! He's probably suffering from shock!" Lestrade shouted in frustration. "And anyway, I was talking about him! The man was forcibly strapped to a goddamn bomb, Sherlock! Or had you forgotten?"

Sherlock's head snapped up. Of course he hadn't bloody forgotten, but he hadn't thought of it quite like that. Physically John was uninjured, he'd been able to see that for himself before they'd even left the sports center. But was John in shock? He eyed him suspiciously across the room. John rolled his eyes as he realized what Sherlock was doing. John looked tired, certainly, and a bit annoyed, but he didn't seem to be exhibiting any shocky symptoms: no disorientation or inability to comprehend stimuli; no agitation or anxiety; no sweating or flushing or...

"I'm not in shock," John confirmed calmly, leaning forward to snag the last spring roll while Sherlock was distracted.

"Bloody hell, the pair of you!" growled Lestrade, rubbing his hand over his face.

Although Lestrade's anger at the pair of them was sincere, John understood that Lestrade really did have their best interests at heart. Proving himself to be more shaken up than he'd ever admit, Sherlock failed to notice this detail.

"You could show a little more concern, Lestrade," he huffed, the beginnings of a pout on his lips. "John might have been seriously injured by his captors."

Whirling on John, Lestrade seemed to remember that not only had he been strapped to explosives, but he'd also been kidnapped, which wasn't exactly a holiday either.

"And how did they subdue you to begin with? Were you drugged? Hit over the head?" he asked anxiously. "Jesus, you are okay, aren't you? I know doctors make the worst patients, but if you might have a concussion or something, then we really should have you looked at—"

"No, no. Nothing like that. They pulled a gun to 'persuade' me to get into the car, and then they just used chloroform," John admitted ruefully. "But my head is perfectly fine; chloroform doesn't have any lasting effects. I do feel like a right idiot for letting myself get kidnapped off the street, again," he added dryly, "so thank you both for reminding me of that."

Lestrade just glowered at him.

"Yes, Lestrade, John was a victim here. Shouldn't you be a bit more sensitive to his feelings?" Sherlock said gleefully, throwing Lestrade's favorite admonition back at him.

"Don't you start talking about feelings, or Lestrade will end up taking us both to the hospital—straight to the psych ward," John said slyly, as he rose to carry the dishes back into the kitchen.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock growled, flinging himself onto the couch again. The way he curled in on himself reminded John of a beloved dog he'd had as a boy. This in turn reminded him of Jim's little 'pet' dig and his own facetious desire to pat Sherlock's head earlier. He couldn't help it. A giggle escaped his lips. Both of his companions whipped around to glare at him, with identical expressions of irritation.

"I'm sorry, it's just...I was just remembering something Moriarty said earlier," he said, dropping back into his chair. Lestrade perked up, all cop.

"Anything that might help us find-?" he started to ask, but cut himself off when John shook his head, still smiling.

"No, nothing like that. It was just some snide comment he made; called me Sherlock's pet. Personally, I'd rather thought it was the other way 'round." And his eyes twinkled as he grinned cheekily at Lestrade, who let loose a startled bark of laughter.

"I, your pet? Absolutely absurd. Why?" demanded Sherlock.

"Let's look at the evidence, shall we?" John said calmly, steepling his fingers just below his chin as Sherlock so often did. Lestrade lowered one hip onto the arm of the other chair, already grinning in anticipation.

"First point: Lestrade here is angry at me for not reining you in," John began, nodding his head in Greg's general direction. "Implies that I have some sort of responsibility to look after you, yes? Ensure that you behave? In much the same way that a pet owner is responsible for the behavior of his pet. Second point: You hadn't eaten anything for three days until I called up for some takeaway, which I also dished up and served you. You don't make tea for yourself but always drink some when I make it for you. And pet owners are generally expected to provide food and water for the animals in their care. Third point: You get destructive when you're bored or under-stimulated, exactly like a pastoral or working class dog would be if he were stuck living in a flat in the city without being exercised on a daily basis. And when I admonish you for, say, shooting the walls or blowing up the kitchen, you demand that I find something else to stave off your boredom if I'd like you to desist, which suggests that you rely on me for entertainment. Part of my duty to you, as it were...let's see, have I missed anything?" he said, finally glancing up at Lestrade.

"So, you feed him, play with him, let him kip on your couch though his proper bed is elsewhere, try to keep him from destroying your flat, scold him when he wanders off on his own, and stop him from biting strangers he doesn't like...yeah, sounds about right to me," Lestrade counted of the successive points on his fingers, tired face alight with laughter. Sherlock glared from one to the other, temporarily at a loss for words.

"You know, my therapist did suggest I get a pet at one point," John said thoughtfully. "Said the companionship would be good for me. Looks like she was right about something, at least, although I rather resented the implication at the time. She made me sound like a lonely ten year old kid," he said with barely concealed disgust.

Lestrade looked at John with something like empathy. Quickly, before the conversation could turn maudlin, he piped up. "Well, at least he's housebroken!"

"Oh, that could change," Sherlock said darkly.

"Don't even think about it or I'll tell Mrs. Hudson what you're planning," John responded coolly. "She'll whap you over the nose with a rolled-up newspaper."

"Bad Sherlock," Lestrade managed, barely, through his laughter.

Sherlock growled low in his throat. Then stiffened in shock, realizing what he'd just done. John and Greg dissolved into a fit of giggles. With all the dignity he could muster, Sherlock rose and glided across the room, slamming the door to his bedroom.

"Guess he doesn't want his belly rubbed, then," John snickered.

"You know," Greg said, wiping moisture from his eyes, "If you'd asked me before that little noise he just made, I'd have said he's more like a cat. Ya know, aloof, demanding attention on his terms, capable of sitting still for long periods of time staring into space for no apparent reason..."

"It's those cheekbones," John offered. "Definitely give his face a feline appearance. But you know, when I was a kid, I had this high-strung curly-haired spaniel pup, with fur almost the exact same shade and texture as his hair...he reminds me of her when he gets all bored and fidgety." She too, had been a highly sensitive beast, prone to separation anxiety and destructive behavior when bored. "Although, when she was bored, the dog would just chew up slippers rather than fire a loaded pistol into the sitting room wall," he added thoughtfully as Lestrade guffawed.

"I didn't hear that, John," Lestrade said pointedly, though still with a smile. "If I thought Sherlock was keeping illegal firearms in this house, I might have to turn up for surprise inspections more often."

"If I can hide it from him, I can surely hide it from your lot," John winked. "Not that I have any idea what you're talking about, of course."

"Of course you don't," Lestrade laughed a little, rising to his feet again with difficulty. "I should probably get back. God, what a mess this all is," he sighed, running a hand through his already tousled hair. "Will you two come in tomorrow to deal with the formalities, please?"

"Sure. I can't promise it'll be before noon, but we'll be there."

Lestrade waved and started for the door. John suddenly recalled, uncomfortably, Sgt. Donovan's first words to him all those months ago. Asking him whether Sherlock had followed him home…and as amusing as the "pet" parallel was, he really didn't want to add any fuel to THAT fire. Sherlock managed that just fine on his own.

"Hey, Greg?" he called.

"Mm?" He glanced back over his shoulder. John shifted in his chair, clearly feeling awkward.

"Do us a favor. Keep this little joke between the three of us?" Lestrade's eyes went soft with understanding. He knew as well as John did that the others would only take the teasing too far, and Sherlock was more sensitive than he liked to admit. And as Lestrade had learned from personal experience years ago, a self-proclaimed sociopath with bruised feelings was extremely unpleasant to be around. Plus, he liked Sherlock (most of the time).

"'Course."

"Thanks, mate," John said gratefully.

"Don't mention it. G'night." The door snapped shut after him, and John rose and stretched. As he turned to flick off the lamp, Sherlock materialized beside him, clad in his favored blue dressing gown.

"Oh!" John twitched. "You startled me; I thought you'd gone to bed," he said, noting the odd look on Sherlock's face.

"I'm not your pet," Sherlock announced.

"No, of course you're not," John said carefully. "I wasn't being serious; Lestrade and I were only taking the piss back there." Jesus, why did he always forget? Any teasing Sherlock had experienced growing up was probably far from friendly banter…clever kid like that with a big mouth and a need to prove himself right all the damn time? Kids were surprisingly creative in their cruelty.

"I don't consider you to be my pet, either," he stated, eyes narrowed.

"Well, I'm glad of that," John looked him dead in the eyes. "Because I'm not your pet. I'm your friend." Sherlock just nodded, as though he'd confirmed something that had been in question. But John saw the flicker of relief in his eyes.

"You're going to bed?" Sherlock asked, in that same carefully nonchalant voice.

"Well, I'm going to try," John smiled faintly. "Though I'll likely have nightmares. Don't be alarmed if you hear me thrashing about upstairs."

"Don't go up, then. Lie down on the couch. I'll wake you if you start 'thrashing about,'" Sherlock offered. Not a bad idea, John thought.

"Aren't you going to sleep?" he asked, stifling a yawn and sitting heavily on the couch.

"I will in a bit. I'm not tired just yet," he said. "Shall I play something for you?" He pointed his chin in the direction of his violin case.

"Please." John stretched out and pulled the afghan over his legs and Sherlock reached for his instrument. "Would you play that one by Dvorak I liked?"

"Of course," Sherlock murmured, gently running the bow across the strings. He didn't speak for some minutes, focused on the achingly beautiful notes of the sonata John had once expressed admiration for. When Sherlock began to speak, quietly and while still playing the instrument, John thought for a second that he'd fallen asleep already and started dreaming.

"John," Sherlock was saying softly, barely audible over the delicate notes he played. "One day you'll realize...this will all become too much for you, and you'll need to walk away." John opened his eyes and turned to look at his flat mate, whose back was facing him as he played on. Did he really think that? "I just want you to know," Sherlock continued, his voice thick with unwonted emotion. "When that time comes…I won't hold it against you. I will understand." John wondered whether he was even meant to hear these words. Then he decided he didn't care.

"Comrades don't desert each other, Sherlock," he said firmly, making sure he spoke loud enough to be heard. The notes faltered but did not stop. Sentiment, John thought with a fond smile. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I must be slipping," Sherlock murmured. "I thought you'd fallen asleep."

"I would do, if someone didn't keep on saying stupid things. I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock, so quit fretting about it."

"I'm not fretting," he said, ending the piece and turning to glare at John.

"Yes, you were. Now stop it. And play me the Rachmaninoff one next, please." Sherlock stared at him for another beat, and then turned back around to hide his smile. It didn't matter. John had already seen it.

"You're becoming rather perceptive," he murmured. "I must be rubbing off on you." And he started to play again. Behind him, John just snorted and nestled into the couch cushions again.

Comrades. Not merely flat-mates, or colleagues, of simply friends...but comrades. Yes, he liked that.

A.N. Just a little idea I've been playing with for awhile now...because Sherlock really does remind me of my needy, destructive-when-bored puppy at times :D Feedback is deeply appreciated!

xoxo Janie