He Meant It - Chapter 1

A BBC Sherlock fanfiction by Linda/Linables

Rated: M for a later chapter, Johnlock everywhere

"Sherlock, really, how was I supposed to know it was the psychiatrist who did it?"

"Because it was obvious. She had the opportunity, she had the resources, and most importantly, she had all the facts."

John Watson shook his head in a manner that suggested he was raising the metaphorical white flag, once again leaving Sherlock Holmes to his utterly brilliant deductive reasoning which seemed "obvious". He was quite used to it, and he didn't mind. Even if he didn't voice it as much anymore, he was still as awed and appreciative of his best friend's intellect as he'd been when he first met the detective. Also, if he dared to say so himself, he had improved in his deductive skills as well. Yes, he was no idiot, but some things were bound to go unnoticed by anyone other than Sherlock.

The case they had just resolved had involved the death of a severely manic-depressive man who was found alone in his apartment with a single gunshot to the head. He had been working with a psychiatrist at the time of his death, and was on a medication regimen prescribed by her which helped control his illness. In addition to this he had been on house arrest for a public assault which he'd committed during a previous manic episode, and only left his apartment, chaperoned, to attend appointments with his psychiatrist.

When no signs of forced entry were found at the scene, police assumed that the death was a suicide. The problem that this presented was: where did he get the gun? There were no weapons in his apartment by law, and no one had reported a gun missing. The only fingerprints on the gun were the man's own, but police suspected that someone had planted the gun on him while wearing gloves. But who? The biggest clue, Sherlock said, was that an empty package of medicine was found in the apartment, with no reserves - the prescription had just run out. The man had suffered a terrible manic episode after going off of his medicine, and had descended into a fit of paranoid rage, leading him to become suicidal. It wasn't the first time this had occurred, but during the previous time there had been no weapons around. He had just been found huddled in a ball in the corner of his bedroom, rocking back and forth and crying hysterically.

It seemed an incredibly convenient coincidence that he had happened upon a gun right as his medicine ran out, leaving him vulnerable. What's more, the psychiatrist claimed she had happened to "forget" to write his last prescription just days before the incident. No one else, even someone else who wanted to kill him, would have known exactly when his prescription was going to run out. Nor did many people know where he lived, let alone knew the door code. All the psychiatrist had to do was wait for the pills to stop, slip a handgun through the mail slot when she heard crying from inside, and wait for the victim to take care of himself. Just like that, it looked like a suicide.

John shook his head, thinking of how twisted people could be, and then brought the subject matter closer to his area of expertise.

"I hope you didn't spend too much time with those people that you interviewed at the medical centre. Or at didn't get too close to them. Some of them could be really contagious, and the last thing you need is to catch a flu."

Sherlock waved off his concern, nonplussed.

"I'll be fine. None of them were worth getting very close to, they couldn't tell me anything."

"Alright, fine. I just hope you have a strong immune system anyway, that one woman was having a monumental sneezing fit the whole time you were there."

"Don't worry about me," Sherlock uttered, quickly turning to John and giving him a partial smile, as much as he could manage, knowing that his friend would worry about him. He always did. Sherlock didn't really mind, not nearly as much as he let on, but he would never be one to ask for sympathy.

They walked the rest of the way to 221B Baker Street, having concluded the investigation only several blocks away. Once inside, John went to the kitchen to put on a kettle, intending on insisting that Sherlock drink some herbal tea just in case. The consulting detective retreated to the kitchen table and gave his full attention to some experiment that he had been working on for the past few days, giving John the opportunity to study him without being noticed (maybe).

He didn't look particularly ill, although of course symptoms generally didn't show themselves until the virus that causes them had incubated for some time. John sighed. He didn't know why he felt such a need to help Sherlock like some mother fretting over a sick child, but he tried to chalk it up to being a medical professional and the detective being his best friend.

Still, looking at the man poring over his microscope, John knew it was more than that. He had known for some time now, ever since he had given a goodnight kiss to a date who had happened to have curly dark hair and a pale complexion. He had pulled away from her, eyes fluttering open as the kiss lingered on his lips, and all of a sudden all John could see was Sherlock. The woman's face morphed, cheekbones becoming impossibly high and sharp and beautiful, eyes turning from green to piercing icy blue. It struck him at that moment, and since then he had known that he didn't see Sherlock Holmes as a best friend. He saw him as the most gorgeous, exquisite creature on earth, a marvel of a man whom he wanted to touch, kiss, appreciate, and love forever. When he'd gotten home that night, John had poured himself a cold one and laughed despite himself, knowing how ridiculous he was being. This was Sherlock Holmes he was talking about. Impossible.

The tea kettle's whine brought John back into the moment, and he reached into the cupboard to pull out two mugs and the tea bags. He made a mug of elderberry for Sherlock and darjeeling for himself, putting sugar into the elderberry and milk into the darjeeling. John brought the mug to the kitchen table where his flatmate was sitting and placed it near him.

"Drink," he said firmly. "Doctor's orders."

Sherlock, busy with what was apparently a particularly interesting slide, nodded and gave a small "mmh" sound in response. John took that as a positive response, making his way to the couch and hoping that he wouldn't find a full mug of cold tea on the table later that night.

Okay, got the ball rolling now. I've been wanting to write this for a while, but I'm a lazy fuck who has major trouble getting things started. So I'm glad this is started now. I've been watching a lot of crime documentaries lately, and that really helped me come up with that case I described in the beginning. Also, my own personal experiences with mental illness through my life, but that's enough about me. Let me know what you think, and I'll try to get the next chapter up as soon as I can.