IT'S ALL FINE

I. JOHN'S CASE

SHERLOCK

John wasn't there. He was present physically, a medical magazine in his hands, but his mind was miles away — he hadn't turned one page in nearly one hour now — and Sherlock didn't like it at all. It wasn't normal. John never kept what bothered him unsaid; it always came out, and mostly sooner than later. And when he was really upset, he went out for a while to steam off, then came home and talked. It wasn't like him to just sit and brood.

Sherlock turned over in the foetus position on the sofa with an exaggeratingly heavy sigh. Still no reaction — no word about the article he was reading (or better said, pretending to read) to try to get Sherlock's interest picked up; no tea nor milk appearing out of thin air on the TV table; not even a roll of his eyes in silent annoyance at Sherlock's childish move… Any reaction was fine. But indifference? No, that was a first, and it was definitely NOT good, because John always did something when he played bored.

Yes, played bored. In a way, since he had met John, Sherlock too was "never bored", to use John's words — at least, he never got anymore as bored as he has used to.

He hadn't done drugs for five years now, since his 'agreement' with Lestrade.

Sherlock had been regularly texting or calling the police through the years with clues about cases he learned about through the papers, signing "SH", and the D.I. had finally noticed that the tips weren't useless and had let known that he wanted a chat with their mysterious Indic the next time he called, and that's how Lestrade had got Sherlock's number. Then, his drug supplier had been found dead, and Lestrade had asked him about the "SH" they had discovered in his address book, of course… Sherlock had simply said that he hadn't killed anyone, Lestrade had assured him that it hadn't crossed their mind — sure — but had mentioned that he never would have taken him for the type who'd use, Sherlock had dismissively sighed something about getting bored, Sally had snorted, Lestrade had asked about what could be so boring, Sherlock had answered that every day life was just too dull, and Lestrade had offered to call him for help on a regular basis if he promised to quit in return. Sherlock had wanted to tell the D.I. to mind his own business, but well, the offer was really interesting… so he had nodded. They had talked further about the case, and then, when Sherlock had left, Lestrade had simply told him: "I call and you don't come, and the deal is off. I see you with eyes or whatever else I don't like, and the deal is off." Sherlock hadn't answered. The last thing he had heard before the door got closed was Sally's asking about "playing good Samaritan" and Lestrade answering that "it cost them nothing to try".

Sherlock considered the drugs to be practical. He knew which one to use if he needed to stay awake for days on end, or if he wanted to see beautiful colours that didn't even exist and try to name them in order to escape from his boredom for a few hours, or to forget the whole world when all he longed for was quiet, blank, nothing. He didn't consider himself an addict — all right, who ever did, huh… But really! He chose what, he chose when, he chose how much; he always tested the product before use; and he knew when to withdraw, and how to.

But Lestrade had kept his promise, and Sherlock didn't want to risk ending their collaboration: for once that he had direct access to the sources, and to Bart's labs and supplies, both chemicals and organics…

So yes, since that day, Sherlock hadn't used anything.

But it was only since he had met John that Sherlock didn't WANT to use when he got in a black mood.

Sherlock still had bad days, of course: his mind needed puzzles, and the world wasn't ever giving him enough. But they weren't as vivid as before. Sherlock hadn't decided yet if it made John THE cure, or the most intoxicating drug he had ever used; but, either way, it worked: having John around seemed to keep always at least a part of his mind not brooding but kind of scheming, trying to provoke a reaction from John and compiling it away, as he compiled everything about the man.

True, John wasn't an undecipherable mystery or an unsolvable puzzle. And he wasn't unpredictable generally. But he surprised Sherlock regularly enough to be entertaining — fascinating even, to be honest. And the more Sherlock analysed John, the more he found him intriguing, and the more he wanted to find out more about him. There seemed to come no end to his obsession with understanding John; and that was definitely a first for Sherlock — people were usually so easily deduced.

John seemed so 'normal', 'plain'; 'transparent'. But there was so much more than met the eye about him and he couldn't be categorized without further analysis. Of course Sherlock had been interested right away — a doctor who killed, a soldier who healed; both with a steady hand and nerves of steel you wouldn't expect to find under that jumper of his…

Sherlock had quickly realised though that there was no contradiction. John was both a doctor and a soldier because he cared. He truly cared about everyone and everything, and he had chosen to be an Army Doctor, instead of a normal doctor, because he cared THAT much. He wanted to make a difference, the kind of difference that counted on the grand scheme of things. John wanted to heal the whole world, because he cared. But he was also ready to kill; because evil was real and needed to be fought — because he cared. And he was ready to get killed too, because he cared.

So yeah, John was probably the bravest man on Earth: to be able to keep caring, over and over, though knowing he couldn't save anybody, though knowing he would inevitably get hurt somehow… it was dumbfounding.

And it wasn't simply fascinating anymore, it was worth his admiration. Sherlock had never admired anyone, but he admired John. The rest of the world might think John was the one admiring the other, but Sherlock knew better.

The fact that the war had made of John an adrenaline junkie (usual consequence of war when it wasn't destroying a man) was true. And of course, when he had been given an outlet by meeting Sherlock, John had gladly taken it. But it still wasn't John's principle motive for running after criminals. It wasn't about passing the time, keeping the boredom away; it wasn't about the challenge, or the thrill at having finally something needing working on it to decipher. The adrenaline kicks were a welcome bonus, for sure, but John had embraced Sherlock's lifestyle so eagerly because it was helpful: he was catching the bad guys, making London a safer place.

So, John wasn't like him, at all. Sherlock felt most of the time disconnected from the rest of the world; John was human, 100%. Sherlock aspired to be great; John aspired to be good. They shouldn't work, right? But they did, undeniably.

For a start, John wasn't afraid of him. (No one probably frightened him anyway — for example, John wasn't paralysed by Mycroft, like people usually were; and it was delightful to hear him DARE to speak to his older brother the same way he did himself.) Sherlock could deduce everything about him or anyone else in his presence, and John never felt like it was a trespassing of his or other's privacy, but was only truly amazed, each time. And Sherlock could say whatever was on his mind, and John at least tried to understand before judging; he didn't always agree, of course, and Sherlock could even admit, in his mind at least, that, on some points — morals, for example — John might actually be more in the right than he was.

More important, John was the first person who wasn't trying to change him somehow. John never even mentioned his playing of the violin in the middle of the night. John never asked for Sherlock to stop making experiments: he might complain about the consequential mess, or over the breaking of kitchen's devices (most often the microwave) in the process, but it was always about one experiment in particular, and never over the whole idea of experimenting. John never asked either for Sherlock to stop bringing body parts home; he just wanted them not to be too close to the food — and put in some boxes if possible would be even better. Sherlock believed it helped that John, as a doctor, was probably used to those anyway, but he was pretty sure he would have adjusted otherwise. And John never complained that much about him not eating, or not sleeping, or living on the couch for two days straight in his PJ — even though Sherlock knew that John, as a doctor, couldn't agree with those 'unhealthy' habits (and yes, John tried and often succeeded to get him to eat or sleep, but without judging or commenting). John simply accepted him, just as he was.

Sherlock had found it impossible to believe at first, and had tried to have John go overboard; but when in a few minutes apart both shooting the wall and having put a severed head in the fridge had been so easily discarded — the first being simply acknowledged as a way to take the boredom out, and the second only earning him a "there's a bloody head in the fridge" — it had been hard to deny it as a true fact anymore. Sherlock had of course right after got the bullets out of the wall — in case Lestrade ever planned another pretend drug bust, better to have them gone — but the holes, and the smiley, had stayed; it was nice to have a constant visible proof of John's acceptance.

Nevertheless, Sherlock kept trying to find John's limits. He couldn't really tell if it was because he couldn't help but simply want to KNOW where the line was, or if it was because he unconsciously applied his usual ways of protecting himself — chasing away someone who got too close. He would get particularly biting in his remarks, or provoking in his behaviour. And a few times, John had actually left the house to steam off.

If he was honest though, Sherlock had an idea about where the line might be. He had not so long ago pondered upon the perfect way to get a reaction from John and had come up with one simple line: "Jim, give me puzzles." He could easily put this on his website and make sure only John's computer would be enabled to see it; and that was without a doubt bound to get interesting, to provoke a reaction of a nuclear magnitude even. He had never dared to follow through that plan though.

Maybe it was because Sherlock had a problem with the idea himself: Moriarty had become someone he wanted stopped the moment he had threatened John — maybe before that even, when John had mentioned that it wasn't right to play with "actual human lives": Sherlock had in fact already decided to end the game when he had planned the meeting with Mycroft, of all people.

But maybe it was simply because Sherlock didn't want to find John's limits after all; and probably because he couldn't deny that he wouldn't be able to delete John as easily as the Prime Minister's name or the solar system — worse, even: he wouldn't want to.

Because, from fascination, through admiration, Sherlock had come to care. Yes. To CARE.

God knew Sherlock didn't want to (even if he rationally understood that it might be the least he could do, because John was still here, no matter what he had put him through, and because John cared about everyone, so maybe he just deserved everyone to care back, the world's only consulting detective included). Sherlock had learned, at the age of eight, that caring was treacherous and only brought you pain in the end.

Sherlock had realised early, around five, that Santa couldn't be real. No way a fat, old man could deliver presents, climbing on roof tops and descending through chimneys, in one night only, all over the world — even if you counted five minutes a house, one night wasn't enough to do one city, huh. And how all those presents were supposed to fit in one poor little sleigh... Really, people couldn't expect him to be THAT stupid, right? So, by the age of eight, he was positively annoyed by the whole idea, and, that Saturday afternoon before Christmas, when Daddy had left to do some shopping, Sherlock had told him that there was really no point in doing as silly as everyone else: they should be above all that, no? But Daddy had left, and had never come back.

Sherlock never told his father had died in a car accident. He always said he had left. Mummy had seemed to understand and had always let it slip; but Mycroft would get enraged, any time. One Christmas Eve — why Mummy had kept celebrating it was beyond comprehension — Sherlock had maybe been that bit more insufferable than average, and they had argued maybe louder than usual, and Mummy had asked them to stop and had gone to her room to cry in peace. The brothers had exchanged killing glares in silence for half an hour, until Mycroft had complained about "why did Sherlock always have to upset Mummy" and Sherlock had left the room. But Sherlock knew he wasn't the one who had upset her, right?

So, Sherlock had decided, after his father's death, that it was better NOT to care, about anyone — besides Mummy and his brother, who were already too deep implanted in his heart to disappear. He had even never wanted a pet, and couldn't understand why people wanted to attach themselves to animals, which were bound to end before them.

Mummy was gone too now. Lungs cancer had taken her ten years ago. She had made him swear on her death bed that he would quit smoking, and he hadn't touched a cigarette since then. Hence the nicotine patches — he still needed his dose, but would never come back on his promise. And if ever questioned, he could just blame it on the new regulations.

Mycroft and Sherlock had decided to keep the manor — they didn't deem it fit to abandon a place that had belonged to their family for centuries, and there were no cost to it except for the maintenance. They had decided to rent it (except for the first floor of the left wing, which was still theirs to use as they saw fit) to a company which used it for parties, meetings, and as a 'nice accommodation in the countryside for a week-end', and it was working good enough to keep the property.

So, before John came into his life, Mycroft had been the last person who could (and one day most probably would) hurt him, no matter their awkward relationship.

Sherlock had always been very good at observing and deducing, so it had always been easy to find the hurting spots in others and press them to scare away the ones who tried to get too close. People were to be observed and deduced, to be used if needed, but never to get close to. Sherlock preferred to get involved with the inanimate and the dead — after all, those couldn't hurt him, huh; and they weren't questioning nor criticising nor complaining about whatever he did either, which was a bonus. So, Sherlock solved cases and chased criminals because it was the only thing he had chosento feel alive. There was a risk to be physically harmed, maybe killed, but there was no emotional danger, and that was the only danger Sherlock was afraid of.

There were, to quote John once more, a very few "people he liked", mostly because they just belonged to his daily life; and only one person "he didn't like" (everyone else in that category being deleted right away): Anderson, who was far too arrogant for the brain he had to start with, and who toyed with Sally — Sherlock would have been happy to simply delete him from his mind, but there was no point in deleting someone you were bound to meet on a regular basis, unfortunately.

In chronological order, Sherlock's list of people he liked included: Lestrade, who wasn't stupid actually, and who held the keys to his direct access to the crime scenes; Sally, who still hadn't decided if she was more afraid or fascinated by him but obviously didn't trust him, and whom he enjoyed provoking for the fun of it; Mike Stamford, who obviously saw him as a lunatic but who was useful — he was always happy to present potential flatmates to him whenever needed, even if it was mostly for the fun of getting to see them being scared away in a few minutes; Molly, the gentle, sweet girl who revered him and who was so easy to manipulate; and Mrs Hudson, with her motherly ways and her non-judgmental kind of humour.

Yes, contrary to what he had told John — which had been an improvised kind of last provoking test before John might decide to move in (Sherlock knew from experience that having someone move in and then out after only a few hours was just tiresome, huh) — he had simply met Mrs Hudson when looking for a new flat. Sherlock always wanted a place in the City Center (he had a long history of moving in and out as he was regularly expelled out of a flat because of his 'behaviour', or because some experiment went 'a bit' wrong), and he could use a flatmate because it would make his funds last longer than if he had to pay the rent on his own: he wasn't per se looking for a 50/50 share; more for someone who might stick around for a few weeks. But John had asked about the rent, and Sherlock really wasn't going to say that he always adjusted the price to what a potential willing flatmate could afford — John looked like someone who would have problems with such an arrangement, and Sherlock had by then enough hope about him being a possibly suitable flatmate not to lose him over something as superfluous as the price of the rent, right — so Sherlock had made up that story about Mrs Hudson's late husband. So far, both John and their landlady had no clue about this, and Sherlock definitely enjoyed John's puzzled look any time Mrs Hudson would mention her husband, without any of the venom she owed to feel if she had believed him deserving to be sentenced to death (Sherlock had swore to himself to be present the first time John would get inside Mrs Hudson's rooms — the pictures framed on the walls were bound to provoke a reaction from his eyebrows, at the very least). The truth would of course come out one day, and they might then both be cross at him for a few days; but Sherlock intended to enjoy it until then.

But 'to like' and 'to care' were two different things, and Sherlock believed that he wasn't attached to the 'happy few' on his list to the point of being devastated if they were to move to the other side of the world or to that inexistent other world some people wanted to believe in. The ones he would miss the most would be Lestrade (and Sherlock told himself that it would be more out of practicality than out of pure concern) and Mrs Hudson (so Sherlock reminded himself regularly that she was a lady of age, and that the inevitable would happen sooner than later).

So, Sherlock's life pre-John had been fine, neatly ordered, mostly carefree. And that's why, truly, Sherlock didn't want to care about John.

He had realised though the moment he had seen John strapped in Semtex that he did, undeniably. It seemed that John had evolved from someone useful to someone entertaining to someone fascinating to someone he cared for too quickly for him to notice and stop it. And now there was no going back. What had been meant as an easy joke had turned out to be the simple truth — Sherlock would be lost without his blogger. It wasn't just nice to have John around; he needed him around. And though Sherlock had first tried to tell himself that it was only a new way of being his usual selfish, he couldn't deny anymore that there was more to it: right now, for example, he was very concerned by John's actual state of mind, and that meant that he wanted John not only around, but happy too. So yes, he cared.

Sherlock turned once more on the sofa, this time looking at John again — who still hadn't turned one page from his magazine…