"Listen, what I said before, John. I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one." Sherlock , Hounds of Baskerville

.***.

Sherlock didn't get friends.

What was the point, when in the end the only thing that really mattered is that you lived and you died and somewhere in between, maybe, you solved a few crimes and made a bit of difference. But everyone was going to end up as ashes and dust and wormfood in the end. And with friends came obligations. Emotions. Caring. Why invest so much time in such a worthless phenominon?

John was the exception. In everything the man did, he was the exception.

He was exceptionally average, except when he wasn't. He was shorter than average. Marginally more intelligent than average. A better than average doctor. And he cared, probably more than average. Probably to make up for Sherlock's lack of caring. People die. That's what they do.

In the end, you see, no matter how noble his pursuits turned out to be, he was much, much more like Jim Moriarity than John Watson.

Because Sherlock didn't get friends. Not when he was at school, not when he was an adult. He didn't know how to be a friend. Which is probably why he screwed up the whole friendship thing many, many times before getting it right.

One: Pain

It took twenty-four hours and quite a bit of commotion before Sherlock realized John Watson was in excrutiating pain. Which is strange, for a man as hyper observant as he was. John was an open book. Usually.

The day started off normally enough. Sherlock hadn't slept the night before - he rarely kept normal hours, and sleeping for more than three or four hours at a go always made him feel worthless. Dead. There was so many other things he could be doing with his time, and just getting his brain to switch off long enough to catch a quick nap was an extraordinary achievement in and of itself.

He heard John moving around but ignored the sound in favor of staring at their not-so-busy stretch of London, trying to determine if the delivery boy had gotten his girlfriend pregnant or was merely jumpy.

"Tea." He said, the precise moment John walked in. He didn't turn around, and John hadn't made that much noise, but it was one of those things that the doctor had learned to just let lie. Sherlock could explain his methods time and time again and John would never cease to be amazed at them.

"Love some." Hint one, if Sherlock hadn't been too focused on other things to pick it up: the tightness in John's voice. Tiredness.

"Haven't made any yet, but the kettle should be right there."

A sigh, a shifting of movement, the scrape of metal against metal as the lid of the kettle was lifted off. "Particular reason why thumbs are boiling on the stove?"

"Perhaps nanny would be good enough to make us some tea." Another sigh, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Sometimes John really was insufferable in the mornings. "Nightmares again?"

"I'm not discussing them with you, Sherlock." Which was a yes, of course it was. Sherlock had been able to hear the bed creak, hear the faint moans through the wall. Something about the change of weather had brought with it old war memories. It was the fourth night this week his flatmate had been disturbed by such demons.

"As you no longer have a therepist..."

"Like you could stand in for a therepist." John snorted, lips twitching. This was right. Sherlock was used to amusing John, though he rarely understood the joke himself. "You don't have the empathy to fill a thimble."

"And I suppose you do?"

"I've actually been graded on empathy. Top of my class in bedside manner." John said this quietly, a little embarassed. He never liked putting his achievements out there, stacking them next to the great Sherlock Holmes's.

"I thought you were getting us tea?"

John moved for the doorhandle, winced, but this detail was insignificant compared with the ruckus that was starting outside. Sherlock let it pass. He really was trying to work on his empathy, at least as far as John went, and if the doctor didn't want to be reminded of wartime terrors than he wouldn't bring them up.

And so that opportunity passed.

When the client came by later in the day, Sherlock jumped at the opportunity to investigate a case at the docks. The trade industry had never struck him as particularly interesting, but the inside world of ships, manifestos, and the sea was. Remember, when Sherlock was younger he'd wanted to be a pirate.

Sherlock was up in a flash, eyes bright at the opportunity to get out of their ridiculously boring flat and do something fun for a change. "Come on, John, there isn't a moment to waste."

That wince again, and when Sherlock examined his memories it was there, perfectly clear and obvious, but somehting about the adrenaline of the game, the opportunity of a new case, had driven all other matters from his mind. "Perhaps I should sit this one out, Sherlock?"

"Nonsense. No one else can write up these exploits quite as fantastically as you." Ah, you see, if Sherlock had been more used to friendships and caring and all that, he would have noticed John sigh and look away when he made that point. Because he was belittling him again. Using him only as a sort of ego-boost. But Sherlock didn't mean that at all. Sometimes people who felt things felt them too strongly, and took words the wrong way, when all Sherlock really meant to say was that he thought that John's writing was halfway decent and anyway, the Yard would probably be there and while Lestrade didn't mind Sherlock, no body minded John, and sometimes being mild-mannered and average was the way to open doors.

In the end, of course, John went with him. How could he not? He excused himself to his bedroom and put on his coat in the privacy of a place where no one would see him wince with the pain that erupted in his arm in the bad weather. John Watson didn't have a limp, of course, he wasn't shot in the leg. But he was shot in the joint of the shoulder, and occassionally that could be just as painful.

The docks were windy, desloate, and it was only once they'd gotten there that John remembered he hadn't eaten anything all day. And the stake-out would last all night, with no chance that Sherlock himself would get hungry. When Sherlock died (he would, eventually, the thrill of the game would kill him, one day) John would make sure his body went to science.

"What is it then?" Sherlock asked as the meandered up and down the docks, occassionally stopping and staring, and generally trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

"What do you mean?" John asked, sighing. Sometimes explaining normal human emotions to the sociopath got tedious.

"I mean you are continually moving your upper body. It can't be because you're nervous we're beign watched - this will turn violent in a few minutes, and you've always been thrilled by violence."

"Don't say that, Sherlock. You make it sound like I love seeing people end up in bloody messes."

"Don't you?"

"No. Because then I have to go to my real job and put them back together."

"Oh." A beat of silence, with only the gentle sloshing of the Thames and the companionable back-and-forth calls of the workers to break it. Sherlock opened his mouth, and John knew that the next words would somehow end up annoying him. If Sherlock didn't know or guess that the suddenly damp, cold air was making his whole left arm ache then why should he bring it up?

Fortunately, that was the moment the violence started, and the subject was dropped.

They waited for the police to arrive, Sherlock leaning easily against a post and John stooped over slightly, persumably examining one of them men they'd just knocked out. "You're sure these are the ones who've been...?"

"Positive, John. You can tell by their fingernails." Which obviously made sense in Sherlock's world, and John just let it pass. "What are you doing, anyway?"

"Making sure you didn't kill them."

"I know how to knock someone out without killing them, John."

"Still." John stood up, winced again, and it was this one that Sherlock caught and remembered.

"What was that?"

"What?"

"You winced."

"Sherlock..." John rolled his eyes, annoyed. He stood straight up, and then it was obvious. Obvious that his whole arm shook, and he had to grab it with his right arm, grimacing with the pain of it.

Sherlock stared for a second, then sprang forward, lithe and nimble as a cat. He tore John's hand away, ignoring the other man's protestations, and ripped up the sleeve. "Sherlock! What are you doing?"

"Were you shot?" Logical conclusion #1: John's arm was shaking, he was in pain, and they'd just been in a violent exchange where a gun went off twice. Normal people would kick up a fuss if they'd been shot, but John wasn't normal, obviously. He put up with Sherlock's beastly antics, and that made him not normal.

"No, damnit, I wasn't shot. Sherlock. Sherlock!" But it was no use. The only consulting detective in the world had already ripped off his jacket, ripped open his shirt, and exposed him to the frigid December air.

The Yard was here, of course they would come as Sherlock was ripping off his clothes. Hadn't he said something about being glad there were no witnesses back at the pool? But he wouldn't be so lucky a second time. It wasn't even the witnesses to the undressing he was embarassed about. It was the fact that they saw...

"You weren't shot." Sherlock said, tilting his head in that way that always reminded John of the dog he used to have as a child. "But you're in pain. Because your shoulder looks like that."

Yes. That. Bunched up and angry around the place where he'd been shot back in the bloody desert. And now Donovan was staring at it, and Anderson, and they weren't attending to the newly-caught convicts but gaping at a war wound. "That's bloody awful, doc." Anderson said, smirking, and John felt his face go red. He knew he was ugly. There was a reason why not everyone could go out in public wearing just a sheet.

"Shut up, Anderson," Lestrade said, then turned his attention to Sherlock. "There a particular reason you had to ruin his shirt?"

"I thought he was shot."

"Well, now he's not shot and cold." Lestrade picked up John's coat and the ex-army doctor accepted it with a tight nod, unable to meet the other man's eyes. "You know," Lestrade said carefully, "That there is nothing to be ashamed of. It shows you're...you know. Brave. Made of stronger stuff than the rest of us who never saw combat."

Sherlock snorted at that. Of all the things that happened that day, that snort was the worst. John's face got hotter, redder, as he put on his jacket, and now the pain was such a steady throb it was easy enough to ignore. He knew that Sherlock disapproved of the military, and war, and all those tedious things common humans took part in, but he'd hoped...he'd thought that his flatmate would respect him enough to...

Lestrade cuffed Sherlock ont he head (and nobody ever cuffed Sherlock. Not Mycroft. Not anyone.) "Think about someone other than yourself for two minutes and get the doctor someplace warm. With a hot water bag. And the good painkillers."

And finally Sherlock managed to look almost contrite. He looked down at John, shivering on the dock after having helped bring down two huge men, one with a gun pointed at him, and his whole expression softened. This was why he didn't want emotions. He didn't want to feel that rush of compassion and concern when he looked at the shivering, hurt doctor. Didn't want to feel the guilt knowing that his neglect had added to it.

"Come on, John." This wasn't an apology for the abysmal day, or for dismissing John's service to his country with such derision, but the hand grabbing his arm so, so gently almost counted for an I'm sorry. The tea that was brought, laced with something a little bit stronger, was a sort of apology.

Sherlock had never had a friend before. He hadn't understood them. He hadn't wanted them. But now that he had one, he desperately wanted to cling to him. He just had to stop making all these blunders along the way.

.***.

There will be...oh, four or five of these laced together with a grand finale. Sherlock blundering his way through friendship. John blundering his way through the enigma that is Sherlock. Reviews would be fabulous.