The Blind Detective

John stepped quietly into the flat and closed the door behind him, shrugging off his coat and laying it over the back of the unoccupied chair. Sherlock sat in the other one, his hands clasped together as if in prayer and nestled just beneath his chin, his mind a hundred miles away if the look in his eyes was any indication - but the slight flicker in his posture showed that he registered the doctor's entrance. John threw a glance at him as he dropped the coat and headed into the kitchen for a cuppa. The table was strewn with papers, as usual, and the kettle was nowhere to be found.

"Sherlock, have you seen the kettle?" he called into the other room.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, his voice monotone. John opened the door to the pantry, wondering if it had somehow ended up on the shelf with the tea. It wasn't there, although the biscuit box was inexplicably upside down. John righted it. Sherlock had fallen silent again.

"Well, where is it?" John asked, when it was clear that there was no other information forthcoming.

"It's in the loo." John stopped rummaging about and turned to stare at his flatmate.

"In the loo? What on earth is it doing in there?"

"I needed something to test the affects of strychnine on vegetable matter - it was the closest thing to hand." John straightened up, raising an eyebrow in incredulity. "I should wash it first, if I were you," Sherlock advised, his eyes still fixed on the same imaginary spot.

"Uh, no," John said, despairing of his cuppa. "I... I think I'll just get a new one at the shop."

"As you wish."

John supposed this sort of thing shouldn't surprise him anymore - they had been flatmates for nearly five weeks now. He'd become used to Sherlock's taciturn silences, his lack of interest in moving about while thinking, his complete disregard for common courtesy. But no matter how strange Sherlock's daily antics became, he always managed to pull out something stranger when one wasn't looking. Considering his companion's mood and demeanor at present, John decided it was probably best if he headed back out. He didn't really want to go back out - he'd hoped for a quiet evening with his feet up, but when Sherlock was like this, going back out had to be better than whatever evening he could pass at the flat. He could get a cup of a tea and a quiet dinner at a restaurant, might go to the cinema - and he could stop off on the way home and pick up another kettle. On second thought, perhaps Sarah was free...

"I think I'll go out for dinner," John announced to the comatose detective. "Might be gone most of the evening, actually."

"Excellent." Sherlock's voice was as deadpan as ever. John sighed with frustration. Sherlock Holmes certainly knew how to make one feel wanted, didn't he now?

"Are you... Are you planning to destroy anything else in the kitchen?" John asked, jerking his thumb at the mess behind him. "Anything I should get a spare of while I'm out?"

"I haven't destroyed the kettle, it's still in perfect working order," Sherlock said meticulously, emphasizing the last three words as if John had accused him of murder.

"Yes, well, you'll excuse me if I don't feel much like suffocating to death," John answered back, slamming the door to the pantry and striding back to the front room to pick up his coat. He noticed suddenly that Sherlock's eyes had moved from their spot on the wall and were now focused instead on him. He shrugged back into his coat under the detective's stare, feeling irritated when Sherlock began to smile slightly, as if something about John amused him. John sighed again, and stopped beside the chair, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"What?"

"You're hoping Sarah will be free for dinner."

"Why yes. Yes I am. Did you deduce that from my coat collar or just guess it based on the fact that I like her?"

"Neither. I deduced it from your mannerisms." Sherlock folded his hands in his lap and pointed at John's torso his toe. "You patted your left pocket as you put your coat on - you weren't checking on your wallet because you keep your wallet in your right, but you keep your phone in your left and you were unconsciously making sure it was there so you could call someone. Who might you be calling? You're not speaking to your sister, you haven't made any actual friends since you've gotten to London, and you're leaving the flat to go to dinner because you think things will be boring and uncomfortable here due to my current disposition if your frustration is anything to go by. Of course you would be seeking pleasant company, and she's the only person you consider to be that."

"Brilliant, can I go now?" John asked.

Sherlock adjusted his position in the chair and sighed. "Such a thing is child's play, an ordinary person could divine as much from guesswork and intuition. Could you hand me my nicotine patches?" John glanced over at the coffee table, where the patches lay strewn amongst a book on ciphers and a magazine for hemophiliacs. He picked up the patches out of habit and tossed them to Sherlock before he thought.

"You shouldn't use those, you know," he pointed out as Sherlock tore one out of the casing and pulled up his sleeve. "They're supposed to help you stop smoking, not..." He paused as he caught sight of the rest of Sherlock's arm. There were already three other patches on it. "Are you... How long have those been on?" he asked. Sherlock peeled back the plastic from the one he'd chosen and applied it firmly to his wrist, inhaling deeply with a sort of distracted pleasure.

"I put the first one on six hours ago, but they grow stale quickly." John reached over and snatched up the packaging.

"These are 12 hours patches. What on earth are you trying to solve?"

"Nothing," Sherlock answered, his voice regretful.

"No... Nothing?" John tossed the package away and took a step toward his flatmate, stopping with his elbows out and looking down at the man in the chair with no small amount of disapproval. Sherlock glanced up at him disinterestedly, then rolled his eyes and tried to slouch deeper into the chair's embrace.

"I should have picked the couch," he muttered.

"All right," John said. "As a doctor, I forbid you to put on any more. And you should take off the ones you have got, that's way too many." He reached for Sherlock's arm, but the detective yanked his sleeve down and pulled his arm away. "For goodness'...! Give me those!"

"Kindly don't touch me," Sherlock entoned, curling up on the chair and holding his free hand out to ward John off. "Go enjoy your evening, would you? Go see Sarah and pick up that kettle you so desperately want."

"Why are you sulking?" John demanded. Sherlock looked affronted.

"I'm not sulking."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are!"

"I am not!"

John almost grinned at Sherlock's last words - they were the most reaction he'd gotten from the man since he got home. But there were still the nicotine patches to deal with.

"All right, then why are you putting on so many patches? The last time you did that you only put on three and then you were trying to solve a problem. You say there's no problem this time so what are you playing at?"

"There's no problem - that's exactly it." Sherlock clasped his hands under his chin again and stared out the window, where a tourist couple were arguing over a map. "I have nothing to solve, so I'm quite bored. The nicotine provides some entertainment."

"Entertainment? That's what you call this?" John ran his fingers through his hair. "You could take a walk! Go to the cinema! Find a book at the library!"

"I don't like to move around when I'm not on cases, the cinema is trite and predictable, and the same goes for half the books in London. I'd rather wait here and hope Lestrade calls up with a gift." John paused as something occurred to him.

"Wait - you were testing the affects of strychnine earlier, wasn't that related to a case?"

"Hm, yes, one that I solved before three o' clock. Hence the first two patches." John sighed. Part of him wanted to just leave and have an evening with Sarah, but part of him knew his bedside sensibility wouldn't let him unless he knew his fellow human being was taken care of. And that did not include lounging about the flat sporting four nicotine patches. Perhaps he could draw Sherlock out with something about one of the past two cases... He glanced about the room, looking for inspiration. His eyes lit upon the book of ciphers and he plopped down on the couch - and a question suddenly occurred to him that he genuinely wanted answered.

"You know," he said conversationally. "That last case I was involved in, the one for your friend at the bank." Sherlock glanced over at him, a small spark of curiosity warring with the disinterest in his eyes. Good. "When General Shan thought I was you, she based it on four different things - my having your credit card, the check for you I was keeping, and the tickets for the circus, bought in your name." He purposely paused. Silence stretched in the room.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked finally. "And the fourth one?"

"She said that I'd said I was you, earlier - when we were at Soo Lin's, I assume. I was being sarcastic, but somebody must have heard me - I wonder where they were, anyway?"

"Oh, that's no problem," Sherlock answered easily, shifting in the chair again. "He was inside the flat with me." John started.

"He was what? Why didn't you say something? I'd have bashed the door in!"

"Well, I tried calling you, but he was doing a rather successful job of strangling me and you didn't hear."

"You... He... What! John sprang to his feet, glaring at the detective. Sherlock eyed him with detachment.

"Is something wrong, John?"

"I... Of course something is...! Why didn't you ever tell me?" Sherlock shrugged.

"It wasn't relevant."

"Wasn't relevant? Someone tried to kill you and -"

"Oh, I was in no danger," Sherlock interrupted placidly. "I didn't know it at the time of course, but as soon as he left me alive I knew he hadn't intended to kill me. If he'd wanted me dead, I would have been." John ran his fingers through his hair again, pacing with anxiety. Sherlock had been choking not ten feet away and he hadn't been in a position to even notice!

"Well, who cares if he hadn't intended to kill you?" John snapped. "What if he had? I wasn't there to help you, you could have died!" Sherlock only shrugged again, without comment. John stopped pacing and exhaled angrily. "I suppose that's why your voice was so strained when you came back out of there?" Sherlock nodded.

"Yes, that's right."

"Why didn't you say something then?"

"It didn't matter." John dropped back onto the couch, trying to understand once again his flatmate's strange behaviour.

"It didn't matter... Sherlock, don't you think I'd like to know when someone attacks you?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, seeming to have as much trouble understanding John as John was him.

"Why would you?"

"Because you're my -" John paused, not sure if he should use the word or not. He settled for another. "Because you're my flatmate, because it's something most people like to know about other people!" Sherlock looked surprised.

"Most people like to know when people of their acquaintance have been attacked? But that's just voyeurism, unless it concerns them. I wasn't hurt, what did it matter?"

"But it does concern them!" John clapped a hand to his forehead. "It concerns me when you could have been killed!"

"I couldn't have been killed," Sherlock pointed out again. "They wanted me alive to search for the pin." John rubbed his hand down his face.

"Fine, it concerns me when someone attacks you with malicious intent, whether or not they mean to kill you!"

"Why should it bother you?" Sherlock asked. "You're not my friend - you're only a colleague." There was a slight bitterness in the last few words, barely detectable, but there all the same. John dropped his hands to his lap and stared. It was over two weeks ago, the case had barely begun when he'd corrected Wilkes about being Sherlock's friend. But Sherlock had remembered it. ...And was offended. John sighed.

"Is that what this is about?"

"Is that what what's about?"

"You know he's right, you really are childish."

"Who's right and I'm not childish." Sherlock's voice had a sudden edge of anger in it that told John he knew exactly who they were discussing.

"You know, just because we're not friends, per se, doesn't mean I don't care what happens to you. I do, actually. Very much," He added quietly when Sherlock ignored the first admission. Sherlock tucked his legs up onto the edge of the chair, studying his fingernails.

"Of course you do, you're a doctor, you make it your job to care about complete strangers, why should your caring about me take on any special meaning?"

"Sherlock, I shot a man to death for you. Two, actually."

"And that's the soldier in you." Sherlock splayed his fingers and curled them back together. "Protective. Vigilant. And the second doesn't count, that was more to save Sarah than me." John threw up his hands.

"All right, what do you want me to say?" Sherlock shrugged, an impressive feat considering the cramped position he'd put himself in.

"Who says I want you to say anything?" Sherlock inclined his head toward the door. "Go on ahead and have your evening. I imagine Sarah's free, she doesn't seem the type to go out too much on her own." John stood up, almost exasperated enough to take him up on the offer. Sherlock seemed to construe this as dismissal and turned his eyes back to the window. But John wasn't finished.

"You know, if you'd let me in, I'd have been there to help you." Sherlock didn't turn to look at him, keeping his gaze on the passing cars.

"I don't recall keeping you from climbing the fire escape after me."

"Hang the fire escape! You could have easily let me in the door and you didn't. Why didn't you?"

"I work better alone, with quiet."

"Oh yes, me shouting at you from outside and someone trying to strangle you inside certainly helps!"

"You could have shut up."

"And he could have not strangled you, but he didn't, did he?" Sherlock shut his eyes, his jaw growing tense. "Sherlock," John said earnestly, "I would have liked to have been there to help you. You can't always run off alone and expect to be safe."

"I don't expect anything." John sighed deeply.

"Having someone to help is a good thing, you know. Having someone to care. I care. Your brother cares." Sherlock lips twitched up into a half-smile, half-snarl at the mention of his sibling. John stepped over to the chair and looked down at the detective. "Even Mrs. Hudson cares." Sherlock smiled genuinely at that, in a sort of fond way. "You don't have to shut everyone out because we're idiots." John paused and took a deep breath. "Look, I don't know yet if we're friends, exactly, but I think we could be if you wanted." Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he stared up at the doctor intently.

"Really?" he asked cautiously. "You want to befriend a sociopath? You do know the definition of sociopath, don't you?"

"I'm a doctor," John pointed out. "And you're a high-functioning sociopath - you said so yourself. And one who obviously cares about his flatmate as well, if that case was anything to go by. In life or death situations, at least." Sherlock smiled slightly.

"If you're sure."

"Just stop putting strychnine in the kettle, will you?"

"A man's life depended on it!"

"Yes, but you could have found something else to put it in, couldn't you?"

"As I said, the kettle was nearest." John shook his head and sighed in exasperation for the umpteenth time.

"All right," he said. "Get up."

"Get up?" Sherlock looked up at him in confusion. John reached down and pulled his sleeve back. "What are you doing?" Sherlock protested.

"I'm taking off these patches." John ripped them off as quickly as he could, eliciting some winces from the detective.

"Stop that, that's not...!" He grappled for the patches, pulling his arm back, but it was too late.

"There," John said, throwing the last one away. "Now get up."

"What on earth are you...?"

"We," John said, emphasizing the word, "Are going out." Sherlock's expression changed from confused to incredulous. "We can go to dinner at Angelo's, and you can tell me the life story of everyone in the restaurant, and we can take a walk back along the park, and if anyone jumps us we can beat him up together and tell Lestrade it's connected to a murder investigation so you have something to do."

"I don't lie to the police," Sherlock said stiffly. "Well, not about that sort of thing, anyway." John smiled.

"Get up."

"Well, what about Sarah? Is she coming along?" Sherlock demanded, standing up and stretching his legs.

"No, just you and me," John answered. "And it's not a date," he added hastily.

"You've only just said you might become my friend, of course it's not a date," Sherlock brushed off the idea with contempt.

"Well, just so somebody's clear on that," John muttered. "Come on, get your coat." Sherlock snatched it up and pulled it on, adjusting the collar to make room for his scarf.

"Right, then," he said, as they walked out the door, "If we're going to do this friend thing and if it includes me telling you when people attack me, I suppose I should mention the chap who came by with a sword a couple of weeks ago..."

When John clarified that he was Sherlock's colleague, not friend, in The Blind Banker, I watched Sherlock's face closely, interested to see his reaction. He didn't seem upset, but I wondered if that might bother him, since John was about the closest thing to a friend Sherlock had. I also was intrigued by the fact that John never found out about the events inside Soo Lin's flat, since he undoubtedly would have freaked out if told. Then this happened. I've only seen the first two episodes so far, so I apologize if I've mucked anything up. For all I know, John finds out about it in the next episode and laughs - although I doubt it. Please review if you've a mind, I like reading them. I think I've got the dialogue mostly spot-on, but some of the description is still a bit weak in places. Let me know. Cheers!