Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock.

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Same Same But Different

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John stared into the increasing darkness of a winter afternoon. Christmas Day had been quiet and cosy so far; Mary and he had enjoyed a late, unhurried breakfast before opening their presents.

"These are from Sherlock," John had pointed out, and Mary had made an almost sorrowful sound: "It's a pity he wouldn't stay," she said. "Do you think he didn't like it here?"

"No," John replied, pensively, "I think he did."

"Maybe it was too much," Mary mused, and John once more marvelled at how wise she was, how perceptive.

The present he unwrapped had been carefully chosen- a set of Sennheiser wireless headphones. John chuckled when he saw them, at the same time feeling guilty because of the probably ridiculous amount of money Sherlock had spent on those.

"Brilliant," Mary exclaimed, "saves a lot of nerves, too."

"Haha," John said, but she was right; he liked to lie on the sofa and listen to his old records before going to bed, but he usually dozed off and found himself entangled in the cables. He had complained about it back in Baker Street and he had complained about it after he had moved in with Mary, but it never occured to him to get new headphones, not even after he had accidentally ripped one of the cables out; he gave them to Mike Stamford instead, whose hobby it was to repair old radios, and who fixed the headphones for John.

Mary unwrapped a square cardboard box roughly three inches wide; it was rather heavy. When she opened it, she found an ammonite, nestled in wrapping tissue. It was exactly the size of her palm, heavy and yet delicate, frailty turned into stone. It was ever so slightly iridescent, displaying a faint glow of browns and reds. "It's beautiful," Mary murmured, weighing the fossil in her hand. John smiled, wishing Sherlock was there with them.

"Yes," he agreed quietly, suddenly thinking of bat's wings. "He's got an eye for things like that."

And now John was wondering what Sherlock was doing, whether he was feeling lonely. Why he chose to be on his own on a day like this. He was itching to get up and visit Baker Street, just to make sure, but he didn't want to mother his friend. No one had forced Sherlock to leave, after all. John sighed, absent-mindedly stroking Gladstone.

Sherlock didn't get up before the early evening. He'd been awake since noon, but he didn't fancy leaving the warm cocoon of his bed. There was nothing to do anyway, no one to talk to (or at), and the idea of watching TV or reading or even playing the violin was less than appealing. So he simply lay curled up under his sheet and blanket and contemplated his life.

The evening at John's had been rather pleasant, but he had soon realized it had been a mistake to accept the invitation. Mary-and-John was not the same as Sherlock-and-John; life in their house was not the same as life in Baker Street. It's not like Sherlock's life, not in the least. In their house, they'd always have contentment and food and love. They'd always have the routine of day and night, of clear rights and wrongs.

John-in-Baker Street did change when he was in his new home, which was all right, but it's not something which would happen to Sherlock; Sherlock could only ever be the same. He had other rights and wrongs, a different rhythm, no routine.

Spending one evening at their place was fine, but he didn't dare to overdo it. He had noticed it when John and he had been talking and not talking on the sofa; he had gotten tired, would have been strangely content with going to bed in the guestroom, let his fatigue take over. It seemed possible in this house, which was not usual for him at all, so he had fled.

He stared at the ceiling, realizing he hadn't heard from Mycroft in days; it was possible his brother wasn't even in the country.

At one point, he noticed that he was vaguely hungry, but he ignored it; he didn't think he had anything edible in the fridge anyway, and he had after all eaten on the day before.

When lying in bed became too boring, Sherlock finally got up. He took a shower and dressed in fresh nightwear and his blue dressing-gown, then he paced around the living room. His gaze fell on the present John had given him and he paused; staying in motion was preferable to sitting down, since he hadn't lit the fire and couldn't be bothered to, hence it was rather cold; his curiosity however prevailed eventually.

"You'll have to turn your phone off," the apparently self-made card said, and inside he found two tickets for Turandot. There was a box enclosed which held a tie. Sherlock frowned at it for a moment, then he recognized that the pattern was actually made up of tiny little skulls.

Grinning, he regarded the tickets; John was obviously planning on going with him. Warmth made itself known in the pit of his stomach. He took his phone and quickly typed a message:

Maybe I'll just turn off the sound. S

John's answer came almost immediately: As long as you don't run out in the middle. J

Sherlock's mouth twitched: Not during Turandot. S

Good. Thank you for the headphones, they're awesome. And M. loves her ammonite. J

It seemed a suitable gift. S

You okay? J

Yes.

See you soon. J

Sherlock stared at this last message and suddenly couldn't help but feeling bereft of something, losing all the comforting warmth he had experienced earlier. He put his phone down and got up, taking up the pacing again. He didn't know what else to do, and it was better than subjecting himself to the paralytic sensation of loneliness which had swept over him just before. Better than going out and finding a dealer.

Pacing helped; the drumming of his pulse in his ears helped to drown out the ache which had spread through his body, an ache which had originated in his heart of all places, and which he hadn't known before he had met John. He craved an antidote, a remedy, something to keep him occupied and take his mind off the fact that having John there had briefly come closest to having a family, someone he felt he truly belonged to. John had been his friend, brother, father, confidant, and he missed him more than he'd have thought possible. It was annoying, and on some days and nights made it difficult to concentrate on something different.

Maybe he should have stayed, should have endured the John-and-Mary-ness. Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes; coping with issues like that had never been his forte, but if one thing seemed clear to him, it was that he'd better accept that John irrevocably was part of something else now. At least Sherlock liked Mary, she wasn't as insufferable as most of the women John had dated before. Sherlock could try and pretend that it'd make things easier, that John wasn't entirely lost to him.

During his more rational moments, on days on which he didn't feel so alone and had other things on his mind, he was aware that he was being melodramatic, because John was still his friend and probably always would be, but on what his brother would call a Danger Night, John seemed far away and unreachable.

Those times, Sherlock didn't go to bed at all.

Two days later, Mary was just swearing like a sailor while trying to pour fresh water into the Christmas tree stand and inadvertently making a mess when the doorbell rang. She wiped her hands on her jeans and went to open the door; it was Sherlock.

"Hi," she said, "did I know you were coming?"

"Not unless you're clairvoyant."

Mary beckoned him in and lead the way to the kitchen, doing her best not to show how surprised she was.

Sherlock looked around for Gladstone as he followed her, but the dog was absent.

"John has taken Gladstone to the park, they should be back soon," Mary said while she put on the kettle to make some tea."Thank you for the ammonite, by the way."

"I had to choose between the one you've got and another one which had aptychi. Fascinating. But I thought you'd like the iridescence."

"I do. What are... aptychi anyway?"

"They functioned as jaws. Took years and lots of debate to determine what they were, and some scientist insist that they were used to close the shell instead."

"Like operculi."

"Yes."

Smiling, Mary pushed back her hair to reveal her earrings, which were made of a pair of operculi set in silver.

"Shiva's eyes, people call them," she said.

Sherlock didn't look as though he approved of that name, but he kept silent. Mary thought he seemed exhausted: the skin underneath his eyes had a bluish tint, and there was a slight droop in his shoulders which he normally didn't allow himself. It wasn't her place to ask, however, and she was afraid he might get up and leave if she did.

Pondering this, she poured the tea and sat down opposite of him, at a loss of what to say next.

"I was sceptic towards you," Sherlock said after a few moments of silence.

Mary hadn't anticipated this, so she just raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to go on.

"John had a few girlfriends while we were living together," he continued, avoiding her gaze. "None of which lasted very long. I know that Mrs Hudson blames me for that."

He paused, and Mary felt compelled to chime in: "Which isn't justified."

Sherlock frowned contemplatively: "Well, no. Not entirely."

Mary quickly raised her cup to her mouth to hide her expression: "O-kay?"

"Anyway," Sherlock said, still not looking at her. "He seems much more relaxed with you than he has been around any of them."

"Good to hear," Mary stated drily.

"And it's been different from the start, of course. You two have met while I was gone. Which probably did redound to your advantage."

Mary found it increasingly hard to keep a straight face. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, however: "I think John has been lucky to find you." He fiddled with his teaspoon: "He's happy here."

Mary sat down her cup now, a little bewildered: "Err... thanks. Why are you telling me this?"

At that, Sherlock finally met her eyes, regarding her for a moment before speaking: "I'm not like John," he said. "He's got a very big heart whereas I tend to put people out. With words or by actions."

Mary only barely managed not to say I've noticed.

"I don't think normal and I go well together," Sherlock added, falling silent. "Just so you're aware."

He clearly expected her to say something, so she cleared her throat: "So... you don't think John is normal?"

"No. John is extraordinary most of the time."

"But I'm not?" She sounded strangely amused.

"I can't say yet. I'd need more data. But the fact that John married you is exceptional."

"You know... it's not like John - or I - need your permission, but I'm glad that you can suffer my presence."

Sherlock had the decency to squirm a little at her sarcastic words. Mary however wasn't done yet: "I can imagine that it's difficult for you. You don't seem like someone who likes to share. But John's got his own head and you know that he never does anything he doesn't want to. He is your friend, and that won't change." Her expression saddened: "You should have seen him while you were away. He was only half of what he is now."

Sherlock nodded, something akin to guilt flittering across his face.

They were both relieved when they heard the front door open, followed by John's voice: "Stop. I need to wipe your paws first. ... Stop squirming, you can go and find Mary as soon as all this mud's off..."

A minute later, Gladstone came bounding into the kitchen, his whole body wagging with delight as he greeted Sherlock, then Mary, then Sherlock again.

John followed a little slower: "Sherlock! That's why Gladstone wouldn't keep still," He beamed. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighbourhood," Sherlock lied. He didn't have another reason for dropping by than wanting to see John.

They had never taken on the habit of greeting each other with a hug or suchlike, but John now briefly rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder before fetching a third cup and sitting down.

Gladstone had in the meantime found his rope toy again and was scrabbling at Sherlock's leg with his paws in order to get his attention.

"No," John told him, "get down."

Sherlock reached down to hoist the puppy up and onto his lap. His father had had Setters for the hunt, but they'd been a little intimidating and Sherlock hadn't been allowed to get too near; they'd always been strangers to him. Gladstone was nothing of the sort; he settled down with a content little grunt, apparently feeling at ease.

"Great," John smirked, "he's barely twelve weeks old and already way too spoiled."

"I'm not feeding him off the table, am I?" Sherlock said.

"You'll be covered in dog hair again."

"I can live with that."

"Who'd have thought."

They stared at each other sternly for a moment, then broke into identical grins.

"Seriously, did you get his hair off your trousers the other day?" Mary asked. Dalmatian hair was short, but had the tendency to get hooked in most kinds of fabric, making it very difficult to remove.

"Yes. I looked it up on the internet, and there's a trick."

"Do tell."

"Using rubber gloves to work them off. Works wonders."

"I've got to try that."

"Please do me a favour, Sherlock, and buy new ones for Mrs Hudson before she comes home."

Sherlock, who was busy fending off Gladstone's tongue as the small dog tried to lick his face, only grumbled in response.

John shared a look with Mary, who shrugged, smiling: You know him better than I do, her eyes said.

On January 1st, John and Gladstone called round at Baker Street around noon; Sherlock had not celebrated the New Year, but he was still in his nightclothes and dressing gown, sitting at his microscope. Gladstone, after greeting him enthusiastically, was sniffing through the flat while John leaned against the worktop: "Coming for a walk?"

"It's minus five degrees."

"I vaguely remember that you do have clothes other than what you're wearing now. A coat comes to mind, too."

"Fine." Sherlock scribbled something on a notepad, then got up and disappeared in his bedroom.

Ten minutes later, they were on their way to Regent's Park. It was indeed chilly, but a feeble sun had come out and was bathing the city in pale gold; a nice change from the dull grey days which lay beyond.

"Why are you carrying Gladstone?" Sherlock asked.

"Puppies shouldn't run too much when they're still that young," John said, "it's not good for their joints while they are still growing."

"I don't think he agrees," Sherlock pointed out, since Gladstone was whining and trying to escape.

"No, but I don't want him to suffer from dysplasia when he's grown up. I'll put him down in the park."

"And he said I was spoiling that dog," Sherlock muttered.

"It's not spoiling, it's reason," John said. "Besides, my leave's ending tomorrow, so I'll have much less time for him."

He was working regular hours at a day hospital five days a week; since Mary, who was a translator, was working from home, Gladstone would be taken care of, but John found that he was going to miss the little guy.

"Well, you'll be looking forward to seeing him," Sherlock said innocently, "it'll be special every time."

John, having his hands full, playfully bumped his shoulder into the taller man's arm in retaliation: "Idiot," he breathed, but his voice was affectionate. "But you're right."

Sherlock sighed, glancing at Gladstone, who was fidgeting in John's firm grasp: another proof of just how big his friend's heart was.

He smiled.

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The End

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