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Sherlock holds the strongbox in his hands: nearly seamless grey steel, its keypad marked with alien pictograms rather than numbers. He already knows the passcode that will open it. It wasn’t hard to guess—James Baron was far too vain a man for it to be based on anything other than himself. Inside is a collection of USB drives, films, and notebooks: the record of years of seductions, conquests, deceptions. Sherlock smiles in satisfaction.
‘Our intractable Miss Merville will have her eyes opened now, John. Even the most blind devotion can't stand up against the proof in this safe.’ The lists of women he’d had, the films of the sex he’d had with them, his notes on their assets and their flaws, the ways he’d finally dispensed with each of them. ‘No one could ever love a man so entirely heartless.’
Which Sherlock knows to be true, because no one has ever loved him.
The next day, they are back at home, back to their Baker Street routine. John rising early, Sherlock rising late. John switching on the telly, Sherlock correcting the newsreaders. John making meals despite Sherlock’s scientific apparatus dominating the kitchen.
There is of late one change to their routine, one that Sherlock has noted and decided must be undone. Sherlock knows how to provoke a response from John and often, when bored and needing distraction, he provokes John for entertainment. But lately, his attempts fall flat. John can be so placid, so accepting. So Sherlock must try harder, and he does.
John is sorting his books: out with the old, in with the e-reader Harry gave him for Christmas. As proofs of sobriety go—it was supposed to say, ‘Look, John, see how much money I’m saving now that I’m not drinking it away’—she could have done much better. They’re not exactly expensive anymore, and a sister should know that her brother prefers the feel and smell of a real book, should she not? But John is a practical man and will use it as it was meant to be used. He will also take the reminder to give away books he no longer needs, organise the ones that remain.
Sherlock, nearly 18 hours past a proper mental workout and in need of distraction, has decided to work on the problem of ‘pacific John’. It's not entirely fair, he is aware. John will already be on edge because this task is for him directly related to his sister’s drinking, their lack of a close, knowing relationship, and the encroachment of technology on a pastime that he enjoys in its traditional form. But that should make Sherlock’s work easier, more likely to end in a satisfactory result.
He decides to keep references to Harry and her gifts until later, opening with a few comments on John’s choice of books and what he decides to keep. Watching Bond movies is tedious enough, must he read the books, too? There aren’t more than a handful of persons deserving of a biography of their own, certainly not as many as John’s collection would suggest. And the volume of Tennyson’s poetry should be tossed. The love note on page 186 from John’s first serious girlfriend at Uni isn't reason enough to keep it around.
John used to react to these taunts, used to slam the front door on his way out to ‘get some air’, used to call Sherlock to task for his laziness, the mess in the kitchen, the fire hazard that was their sitting room, whatever was the issue of the moment. But John doesn’t react now, seems unaware of Sherlock’s teasing. Seems, in some way, unaware of Sherlock.
Defence mechanism? Likely. When a problem is as great as Sherlock, and Sherlock knows himself to be great even as a problem, one has to learn coping strategies. John’s has obviously become ignoring the problem.
And so John continues his task, occasionally responding with a light jibe of his own, but mostly keeping silent. Sherlock is easily more peeved than John should be at this point. Sherlock strikes harder.
‘Or perhaps you should look up the Tennyson defacer. It’s been quite some time since you’ve managed to attract anyone new.’
Sherlock hears the deep breath and knows he is getting close.
‘Doesn’t seem fair to you to get a new girlfriend. Another name you’d have to erase from your memory just to be annoying.’ John turns to look over his shoulder at Sherlock stretched the length of the sofa and Sherlock immediately removes the surprised look from his face.
‘Is there a male equivalent for the term “spinster”?’ Sherlock muses.
John sits back on his heels and Sherlock knows he’s broken through.
‘Have you ever thought about why you’re such an annoying git?’
Sherlock smirks. ‘Must be genetic.’ Which he must say to Mycroft the next time he makes a similar inquiry.
‘I doubt it. I can’t think why a person would be born wanting to alienate every other person on the planet. Doubt there’s much evolutionary advantage to that.’
‘“Evolutionary advantage”—playing the part of a man of science now, are you?’ That should sting particularly well. John is a doctor, and Sherlock knows that he doesn’t like when people forget that entirely.
John turns and looks fully at him. John has used that look before, and each time Sherlock has not approved. It is not for John to look at Sherlock as if he could see inside of him and know everything with that one look. Sherlock turns away as he always does. John’s not nearly clever enough to see through him, but best not to give him all the advantages of prolonged exposure and familiarity anyway.
John blows out a harsh breath and stands. Sherlock smiles, knowing he has won.
‘I’m going—’
‘—to get some air’, Sherlock finishes, rising and walking to the window.
‘To get a box.’ John starts to move toward the door but stops cold, staring at Sherlock’s profile. Sherlock snatches a quick glance at him and perceives that he has been too clever, or that something must have shown on his face. John realises what he was doing, realises that he was provoking him for the response. He turns further away and makes a point of studying the passersby below.
Once John has gone, Sherlock is free to scowl as he sees fit.
‘Do you know why you're such an annoying git? I mean, why you do it.’ John has returned with a box, but he leaves it by the books and faces Sherlock. Sherlock says nothing.
‘I know why’, John continues, ‘but I’d like to know the reason behind the reason why.’
‘Do you even know what you’re saying?’ Sherlock snarks.
‘Seriously, Sherlock, whatever it is, can’t you just let it go?’
‘Let what go?’ John is looking earnest in that feeling way, and it makes Sherlock’s words come out harshly.
‘The need to push people away. To alienate them.’ John’s hands move to his hips and his stance widens, clear indicators that he is here to stay and not going to back down from this conversation. Uncharacteristic. As a paragon of British masculinity, John strictly avoids talking about emotions. ‘Why do you want to make people hate you?’
‘It’s not like people were ever going to love me.’ That wasn’t suppose to come out.
There is a pause before John asks quietly, ‘And who told you that?’
Sherlock studies the hint of frost in the corners of the window pane, tries to see only that and not the memories John’s question rouses: an empty chair, tears on the back of his hand, Mycroft’s poorly-executed attempt at sympathy.
‘Whatever you think, whatever anyone ever told you...’
Why doesn’t Father love me?
Because you’re not his son. You’re a bastard.
What’s that mean?
It means that Father isn’t your father, he’s only MY father. Someone else is your father.
How did that happen?
It’s to do with sex. You wouldn’t understand.
Mother loves me.
A little, but she’s not supposed to. Not much, anyway.
Why not?
Because you’re a bastard, and if she really loved you, Father would be angry. She has to be sorry about you.
He looked at Mycroft and wondered, but he didn’t want to know the answer to that question. He’d learnt too many bad things already.
John wipes his hands over his face. ‘God, you’re really going to make me do this, aren’t you?’
Sherlock feels the cold seeping through the thin glass, feels it press against him, etching crystalline patterns across his skin until he is encased in an armour of frost.
He is surprised by John’s sudden nearness, but when he looks down at him, he knows his face is ice.
John breathes deep and stumbles through the words he needs to say. ‘Look, this isn’t some declaration of—I don’t know, some sort of romantic…thing. It’s not. I’m straight. You’re—you. I’m just saying that I do love you. I mean, we’ve covered the part where we’re friends, right? And that’s what friends do, the good ones anyway. And we’re good, best friends.’ John waits for a response.
‘Sherlock.’
Sherlock presses a finger to the frost, destroying the fragile trace.