Sherlock's lip curled in distaste as he looked over John's shoulder at the latest piece of rubbish he had written on his blog.

"The Mechanic's Hand? Really, of all the dumb names you've come up with, that must be-"

Unexpectedly, the doctor spun around, shoving the computer off his knees onto the table, and snarled, "Sherlock, if you dislike my blog so much, and if you think the writing and stuff is so horrible, then why do you keep reading it? Hmm? It's not like you to get involved in something you dislike, or that doesn't interest you. It shouldn't take a teaspoon's worth of your massive intellect to figure out that if you don't like it, you should just stop reading." He stood up, and advanced, fists clenched slightly; despite how short his friend was in comparison, Sherlock found himself taking a step back. "Or, I know, try writing about our cases yourself, if you think you can do better!"

Affronted, Sherlock sneered, "What's the matter? Can't take a little constructive criticism?"

John snapped back, undeterred, "There is nothing constructive about it when it comes from you! You're just criticizing for the sake of being critical! It's not like you actually care about the quality of the work, or whether or not it's interesting to the public, you just verbally vivisect it because that's what Sherlock Bloody Holmes is good at!"

By now both men were breathing heavily, flushed with anger and pumped with adrenaline. But on Sherlock's side, he was also feeling surprisingly hurt. John's words had cut straight through his defenses, better than any of Mycroft's scoldings when he had misbehaved as a child (or even in later years). He was still trying to think of something to say that would turn the situation around in his favor, when John grabbed up his computer and, as was customary after one of their big fights (but this time it was evidently not big enough to constitute his leaving the flat altogether, or maybe it was just too cold out), retreated to his room. Sherlock, denied his chance to come up with a rebuttal, flopped onto the sofa to think about this.

Several hours later, when John finally came back downstairs with laptop in tow, it was to find a fresh cup of tea sitting on the counter top. Sherlock was curled up on the sofa, reading a book, exuding waves of fake nonchalance. After putting his laptop aside, John examined the tea, sniffed it, stirred the dregs with a spoon, and even dipped a finger into it for a second. Then, with a sigh, he looked at Sherlock.

"Okay, I give up. What's in it?"

The detective glanced up from his book. "Hmm?"

"The tea. What new bacterial culture, or experimental drug, or whatever are you trying to inflict on me?" John held up the cup pointedly in case his flatmate had forgotten about it. "I'll drink it if you really need me to, but I'm not your lab rat; I want to know what you're doing to me. If you must do experiments on an unsuspecting victim, use Anderson."

Sherlock flinched the tiniest bit, but he knew he deserved that. "It's not an experiment this time. It's a thing I've heard about called apologizing."

John wanted to believe it. He honestly did want to believe that Sherlock was capable of things like remorse, and of wanting to make things right when he hurt someone that mattered to him. He'd done it before, saying that he just had one friend after hurting John's feelings by saying he didn't have any. However, it was right before giving him coffee he thought was drugged and locking him in an experimental lab to test out a theory; therefore, he looked at this attempt at apology with a skeptical eye.

John knew it was Sherlock's way to be somewhat manipulative, that it was probably better for the experiment if the test subject was as oblivious to what was happening as a control group, and that it was convenient to use John so he could have a close-up look at the results. But it still hurt. He was kind of resigned to the fact that Sherlock would use him and not trust him with information if he thought it necessary. But it still hurt. He knew Sherlock didn't understand many social graces, and didn't bother trying to learn most of them, and so came off as callous and uncaring sometimes. But it still hurt. And tonight all that pent-up hurt was just boiling over, making him express the frustration he normally kept back at some of his friend's more heartless actions. What made it funny, in a bizarre way, was that the anger he was feeling hadn't even started out as Sherlock's fault. Well, it sort of had, but John hadn't been directing it at him; the detective had just chosen a bad time to start complaining about John's blog, and made it become channeled his way.

Hoping he wasn't making a big mistake by giving Sherlock the benefit of the doubt, and resolving to personally throttle him if this was another attempt to take advantage of him, John lifted the tea and sipped. It seemed all right; made with milk this time, no sugar. And while Sherlock was watching him with his typical eagle-eye stare, he didn't seem to be waiting for John to collapse, or start seeing pink elephants.

"Tastes nice," he finally admitted.

"But you are still displeased with me."

John paused for a second, before admitting, "...Yes and no." He came into the front room, and sat down in his chair, leaving the mug on the nearby table. Now that they were both feeling calmer, maybe they could talk about this in a reasonable fashion.

Sherlock laid aside his book, and sat up, frowning at John.

"What do you mean?"

John looked down, somewhat embarrassed. "I kind of overreacted earlier."

The detective made a derisive sound at the understatement. John ignored him and continued, "Most of the time I can handle the stupid and insensitive things you do and say in the name of your job, or science, or just because it's your personality, or whatever. I'm used to it. But tonight I was already irritated, and your sniping at me about my blog sort of made me snap."

"Why, what happened?"

John's expression instantly shut down. "Nothing."

"Please, that was an obvious lie," Sherlock scoffed. Since John wasn't willing to tell him straight off, he just began deducing the cause of his friend's anger.

John was looking at him blankly, not wanting to give anything away. Clever, but not quite good enough. Because he had involuntarily twitched when Sherlock asked what happened, on the side of his body closest to the front door...where his jacket was hanging still, right where he'd put it after they came back from solving the case of-he groaned inwardly when he realized that even he was calling it that now-The Mechanic's Hand. So obviously something was in it. Sherlock jumped to his feet, and lunged for the jacket. At the same time, John realized what he was doing, and with a grunt, thrust himself from his chair; despite his shorter stature, he was able to tackle Sherlock to the ground before he reached the coat hooks. So before they knew it, they found themselves in the middle of a wrestling match. Despite his prowess in combat, Sherlock was no match for the skilled army doctor. He found himself flat on his stomach within minutes, with John on his back, one knee holding down Sherlock's hands, and his own hands pinning the detective by the shoulders. Sherlock heaved and twisted, trying to get free, but John held on firmly, using his other leg as a brace against the floor. Of course, that would be the time when Mrs. Hudson would come upstairs, wanting to know what all the racket was about.

Both men froze, and looked up at the older woman. After staring at them for an embarrassed moment, she put a hand to her mouth, and said with a giggle, "Sorry, I'll leave you to it."

"No, this isn't what it looks like-!" John started to protest. But she'd already closed the door, and started hobbling back downstairs. The doctor groaned, and would have done a facepalm, if his hands weren't so busy holding Sherlock down.

"You brought it on yourself," Sherlock said with a smirk.

"Did not, you started it."

"Why don't you want me to see what is in your jacket?"

"Because it's stupid that it even annoyed me, and I don't need you laughing at me or making more callous remarks about emotions. So I'm not letting you up unless you-"

But while he was busy talking, Sherlock managed to work one hand free, and shove John off him. He leaped up, and yanked the jacket from its hook, rummaging through the pockets until he came up with a crumpled ball of paper. John just sat on the floor, looking resigned to the situation. The detective slowly unfolded the paper, smoothing out the creases and tears, until he had a good view of it. On the paper was a running stick figure meant to represent Sherlock, complete with curls, scarf and coat. One hand was holding a leash, and leading another stick figure running behind on all fours, who represented John, albeit with floppy ears and his tongue hanging out. There was no dialogue, but the message was more than clear.

John looked up at him defiantly.

"It was stuffed in my jacket at some point during the case. And like I said, it's stupid for me to get worked up about it. I just…" He trailed off. There were times when he felt like it was true. There was no need to say it out loud; Sherlock understood.

Sherlock thumbed a corner of the page thoughtfully for a moment, before saying, "Emotions are very ridiculous things."

John sighed, and got to his feet. Whatever, Sherlock.

"For instance," he unexpectedly continued, "Mine are giving me the strangest urge right now to find Anderson, and give him a swift kicking until he's black and blue all over."

There was a stunned silence, before John finally asked, "Are you sure he's the one who drew it?"

Pleased that the doctor had been able to follow his train of thought, the detective said, "This is obviously done by someone with limited talent for drawing. Does he seem like the type who has any artistic talent whatsoever?"

John snorted.

"But seriously, I recognize the way he pushes his pencil down too hard, and he has this peculiar habit of doing eyes as sort of commas when drawing people, as you can see here."

The doctor shook his head, impressed by yet another act of brilliance on Sherlock's part. "Sometimes you are too smart for your own good."

"Not true!" was the indignant rebuttal. "I am always too smart for my own good."

John was feeling remarkably better for having let Sherlock see what was irritating him. Even if he hadn't done so willingly. Especially because Sherlock hadn't mocked him for it; had in fact supported his anger. It was both novel and refreshing behavior for him. And even though he was definitely going to have some very embarrassing conversations with Mrs. Hudson later, on the whole John felt that the evening was going by better than it had begun. So he headed back to his chair to finish his tea, and the blog entry that had started this whole argument in the first place. But as he sat down, Sherlock said, "John."

He looked up. "Yeah?"

The detective approached the sofa, tossing the offending picture aside as he flopped back down. He looked unusually sincere as he said, "If you want, I will try to be less caustic about your blog in the future. I admit that I lambaste it as kind of a reflex action, which is Not Good. But I don't hate it quite as much as I act like I do. And I'm afraid I don't have the same talent for writing things that you have, which is why I let you do it."

John smiled at both the underhanded compliment and the hidden apology. "That would be nice, yes. Thanks."

"Don't say I never did anything for you." Sherlock picked up his book again with a smile of his own.

After a few minutes of relative, comfortable silence, the detective admitted, "I did consider putting the opioid used in our last case in your tea, to see if it affected you the same way as the victim. But now that you mention it, it might be more fun to study its effects on Anderson."

John just rolled his eyes.