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Sherlock had always listened.
Observation was part of his trade, a skill he had honed into a focused weapon to utilize against problems that defied everyone else around him. He was very proud of his ability to listen, to watch, to think. It had built him a career, and now even given him a best friend. John followed him around with his microphone, asking questions and offering encouraging smiles and looking up at Sherlock with those big inquisitive eyes of his, and it made Sherlock feel wanted like he never had before.
It did have its downsides, of course. Everything did. Even the best things in life come with drawbacks, and though Sherlock had found himself in a position where his skills and general way of being were appreciated he still felt that strange pressure in his chest when he watched Mariana and John talk to each other, when clients gave him strange looks, when he woke up in the morning and found that he couldn’t get out of bed. No matter how much the people around him accepted him, he knew, he would never be like them. And he knew that they noticed because he was watching.
So he listened.
He listened closely to John especially, picking up speech patterns and identifying social norms that John subscribed to. It was his hope that John would notice. That he would see that despite Sherlock’s social struggles, he was really trying. He couldn’t look John in the eye like Mariana could, he couldn’t effortlessly comment on the weather, he often had to sit in silence for several minutes before coming up with an appropriate topic of conversation, but maybe if he walked into the room and insulted John’s sweater in an attempt at jovial teasing John would see how much effort Sherlock was putting in.
Of course, this didn’t work most of the time. More often than not, John was quick to comment on these new mannerisms and social procedures, identifying them as out of place. And while Sherlock was glad that John noticed his effort, he was quietly disheartened that he wasn’t doing these things right.
Around 4/7 nights of the week, Mariana would come up from 221A and have supper with them. John was a terrible cook when it came to anything more complex than beans on toast or pasta, and Sherlock, though he could cook, was only sometimes in the mood to make anything more complex than penne, so Mariana put it upon herself to cook for the three of them sometimes. She would make offhand comments about how useless Sherlock and John were, which John would feign offence at before laughing it off, and Sherlock would sit quietly and listen, unsure exactly how to approach the situation.
He knew it was just a joke, of course. Mariana volunteered to cook for them, she didn’t have to. But he couldn’t quite formulate a response to the teasing beyond an awkward “Right.” Neither John nor Mariana seemed to mind. Sherlock remained self-conscious, though silently.
That’s where they found themselves that night, at the table in 221B over plates of arroz con pollo asado, Mariana and John engaged in conversation while Sherlock sat in silence, eating his supper and listening.
He paid special attention to John, as usual.
The intonation of his words, his facial expressions, his rather gratuitous hand gestures. How he instinctively gestured with his left arm a little further from his body than his right, avoiding the microphone tucked into his breast pocket. How he wiped bits of rice off his moustache with his napkin. A napkin which he never put in his lap, Sherlock noted with annoyance. What was the point of a napkin if it wasn’t there to catch food? He considered bringing it up. He shifted his focus to the conversation and tried to identify an opening. He couldn’t. So he sighed and took another bite of rice.
“Hm?” John asked, halting his conversation and looking over at Sherlock. “What’s up, Sherls?”
The sigh, it seemed, had been more audible than Sherlock had planned. He finished chewing and swallowed down his food.
“Your napkin,” he said quickly, pointing at where it rested on the table beside John’s plate. “It goes on your lap. To catch the food.”
“He’s saying you’re a sloppy eater, John,” Mariana said with a laugh.
“No,” said Sherlock, brow furrowing. “Only that the proper place to put a napkin is on your lap. Not on the table. That way, it’s out of sight and able to catch any food that may accidentally fall.”
“What’s that got to do with the central London bus schedule?” John asked. “Were you listening at all, Sherlock?”
“No,” Sherlock said immediately. He cursed himself inwardly. He had a nasty habit of speaking without thinking. “Sorry,” he added. He feared it came off as stilted.
“He’s in his own world,” Mariana said, giving Sherlock a small, fond smile. “Don’t take offence, John.”
In his own world.
John had said the same thing the week they moved in together. The dripping tap had been bothering Sherlock, and the fridge was empty, and he hadn’t slept that night. And John had told Mariana “He’s in his own world”.
He didn’t know how to feel about it. As a child, he would escape lessons to explore the grounds of the school, climbing the play structures and eventually the buildings themselves. He would eat his supper as quickly as possible so that he could escape to his room to read or go outside again. Back then no one said those words exactly, but they certainly meant something similar.
“Don’t mind Sherlock,” his mother would say. “He doesn’t mean to be rude, he’s just… busy.”
“Sherls?” John asked gently.
Sherlock surfaced from the memory, looking quickly at John. “Hm?”
“You okay?” Asked John.
There was something in his tone of voice that told Sherlock he was afraid. Afraid of what, Sherlock had no idea. Given the circumstances, it may be Sherlock’s state of mind.
“Indeed,” Sherlock said with a curt nod, shoving his emotions into the pit in his stomach in the hope that John hadn’t caught a glimpse of them. He gave John a tight smile and shoved more rice into his mouth.
John gave Mariana a wary look but went back to eating. Sherlock was keenly aware that the atmosphere in the room had shifted. He hated to see John and Mariana uncomfortable like this.
So he stood up.
“Excuse me,” he said, picking up his plate and heading to the kitchen counter. He pulled a plastic container from the cupboard.
“Erm-” John turned around in his seat, watching Sherlock as he dumped his food into the container. “You can tell us if there’s something up, mate. Please. I- I mean, we want to help, if we can.”
“No, I’m- fine,” Sherlock forced a small smile onto his face as he put his leftovers in the fridge (the fridge was no longer divided into John’s side or his side, the space was now shared). “Thank you for the food, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said to Mariana, rather stiffly. “I will be in my room.”
Before anyone could stop him, he exited the kitchen, walked briskly down the hallway, and closed the door to his room behind him.
“Bollocks,” he swore under his breath.
He jumped up and down five times.
It didn’t help.
“Bollocks,” he repeated with a touch more severity.
He replayed the conversation in his mind as he paced the length of his room, hands tapping his legs in a strict rhythm.
Mariana and John hadn’t seemed irritated, but that sort of thing could be difficult to tell. Especially when he was in a funk, like today. At the very least their outward mannerisms came across as concerned. That was good. Well, maybe not all good. He hated to worry them, which is why he usually avoided letting them know when he was having a difficult day. Unfortunately for him, John was becoming so attuned to Sherlock’s rhythms that he had picked up the ability to identify when something was off.
This made Sherlock’s life easier, but it also made him feel guilty. John was relentless in everything he did, Sherlock knew. When he put his mind to something he got that thing done, even if ‘done’ sometimes meant ‘done to a passable but unimpressive degree’. Do it mediocre or don’t do it at all, Sherlock thought. Like med school. John had become a doctor in the end but had done a very questionable job in the ‘getting there’ department.
Sherlock glanced over at the large mirror on his door and realized he was smiling slightly.
That was odd.
He moulded his face back into what he hoped was a blank expression. Then tried the smile again. He certainly felt like smiling, but given the mood he was in he didn’t think it was the expression he should logically be making. He huffed, turning away from the mirror and shaking his hands out in frustration.
It was seven in the evening. Sherlock wished it was the next day, when hopefully this strange, unpleasant mood would be gone. But seven was too early to sleep, and Sherlock knew he wouldn’t likely be sleeping well anyway. Which meant he was stuck with this. He had to exist with it, and so he may as well address it.
He turned to the mirror on the door again. He tried smoothing his hair out, making it slightly less dishevelled. Then he squinted at himself.
It was strange, he thought, how no matter how long you look at your face it still looks slightly wrong when viewed in the mirror. Inner perceptions of self are always different than how others view you, he knew, but it still threw him off every time he actually took a moment to examine his face.
He was quite handsome, he thought for a moment before shoving that thought away. No. Tonight is not for that. Tonight we are feeling off. So we must act like it.
There was a knock on the door and Sherlock snapped out of his self staring contest and backed away from the door.
“Yes?” He asked.
“It’s- uh- it’s me, mate,” John said from the other side of the door. He sounded hesitant. “Can I come in?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “You can. But you may n-”
“Christ’s sake,” John sighed, opening the door. “You don’t get to be pedantic and sulky, Sherlock. Not at the same time. Not allowed.”
Sherlock stood there somewhat awkwardly. He should feel comfortable in his own room, he thought to himself. And now John has made it awkward. This is exactly why he was about to tell John that he may not come in.
“Sorry,” Sherlock said slowly. “What do you want?”
“To see if you’re okay, mate!” John said, exasperated. “Listen, Mariana’s gone back downstairs, right? You can talk to me.”
Sherlock felt his shoulders slump slightly. John had picked up on the fact that Sherlock felt most comfortable opening up to him. He would be flattered if he weren’t so annoyed at how persistent John was being. If Sherlock had it his way he would be lying in bed staring at the ceiling right now.
“Talk to you about what?” He asked, feigning ignorance.
John ran a hand over his face, leaning against the doorframe. “Don’t do this,” he said. “Please, I just want- listen I know that you have bad days, we all have bad days, but you have been quiet today, Sherlock, and it’s worrying me.”
Sherlock sighed. He sat down on the bed.
“I can’t describe it,” he said. The deception in his voice was gone, replaced by a soft tiredness. “Not accurately.”
“You don’t have to,” John said, his voice quickly losing its edge to match Sherlock’s tonal shift. “Just- just try. Cause it’ll help to talk, I promise you it will.”
Sherlock thought about this for a good ten seconds. Then he spoke, slowly. “Our brains function differently,” he said, laying each word down cautiously, hoping to convey his meaning as exactly as possible. “For the most part, I am quite comfortable in this. There is no point in my mind in concealing things that make my life easier. Such as my stims. But when it comes to… casual communication, you and I are radically different. I do not consider myself an insecure person, John,” he looked at John then, his eyes sad. “I envy you. The way you speak with Mariana. With our clients. It’s natural, to you, isn’t it? When I was young I believed that everyone was putting on a mask when they exchanged pleasantries, engaged in casual conversation. And when I learned that they did not, that these things come naturally to most…” Sherlock’s eyes dart back to the mirror on the door momentarily. He can see himself reflected there still, sitting on the bed with his hands in his lap. “It is hard, sometimes, to feel human.”
Silence filled the room then, thick and swirling between the two men. Then John was across the room, leaning down and wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders.
Sherlock sat there motionless for a few moments before resting his head against John’s shoulder. John pat his back in the awkward way that he did most things, but it was comforting to Sherlock nevertheless.
“You’re human, mate,” John mumbled then. Sherlock theorized that the other man had been trying to come up with something profound or tender or comforting to say during the silence that had fallen after his statement. Despite the simplicity of John’s answer, Sherlock was grateful.
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but found that he couldn’t find a good response, so instead he wrapped his arms around John’s back and pulled him down so he was sitting on the bed next to him.
Seeming to sense that Sherlock wasn’t going to respond, John continued in a low, comforting voice: “Y’know Mariana and I don’t mind the way you- you talk to us, right? You’re you, Sherls. And we like you. A whole lot. If we didn’t we would have dissolved the company by now, eh?” He chuckled a bit at the end, hoping to lighten the mood a bit.
“Even when I’m in my own world?” Murmured Sherlock. His voice was slightly muffled against the fabric of John’s shirt.
He felt John’s heart rate pick up slightly. Anxiety? Anger? Perhaps guilt, or shame. John squeezed him tighter.
“We- Mariana said that earlier,” John said quietly. “You’re referring to that, right?”
“You said it the week we moved in together,” Sherlock said, a lump in his throat. He really hadn’t wanted to press the issue, but it was too late to back down now. “I am in the same world as you, John. I just-”
“You experience it differently,” John sighed, finishing Sherlock’s sentence.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, his voice now a strained whisper. “I do.”
“I know, mate,” John mumbled, patting Sherlock on the back again. “And I’m sorry,” he sighed. “… And I’ll put my napkin on my lap next time, ‘kay?”
Sherlock found himself chuckling at that, despite the heavy feeling in his chest. “Thank you,” he said with sincerity.
He pulled back from the hug slightly, looking at John’s face. The man looked… guilty.
“Feeling any better?” John asked.
“No,” said Sherlock. He sighed. Swallowed a lump in his throat. “Well- perhaps. It’s difficult to tell.”
“I can leave, if you want,” John offered, his arms still wrapped loosely around Sherlock’s back. “Give you some space. I- I mean I kinda barged in here didn’t I?” He chuckled nervously.
“Yes,” Sherlock mumbled, looking away. He wasn’t angry, per se. Well- that was a lie. He was upset that John hadn’t listened to him. But he was glad that John was here, and that he had been able to get at least some of the weight off of his chest.
“Ah- right then,” John said, releasing Sherlock from his arms. He went to stand up, stopping abruptly as Sherlock grabbed his wrist. He looked down at his friend, brow furrowed. “What’s up, mate?”
“I-” Sherlock looked up at him, words caught in his throat. He swallowed, then sighed, frustrated with himself. He wished that words came easier in situations like this. “You may stay,” he said, voice quiet and strained. “Watson,” he added for good measure.
John’s face broke out into a smile. “Yeah!” He said, then quickly arranged his features into something more situation appropriate. He sat back down on the bed beside Sherlock. “I mean- yeah. Yeah, Sherls, I’ll stay. You wanna- you wanna just sit here or- I mean we could play cards? You’ll kick my ass but- I mean I was known at school for my UNO prowess, so you’d better watch out, eh?” He laughed.
Sherlock didn’t answer, too busy watching John’s expression, the way his lips formed into a smile, the way he looked at Sherlock. Then when John was finished talking, Sherlock lay back on the bed with a sigh. He stared at the ceiling, and after a few moments felt the mattress beside him sink down slightly as John lay down too, his arm pressed against Sherlock’s.
“Yeah this works,” John mumbled, glancing over at Sherlock. “This work for you, mate?”
“This works,” Sherlock echoed with a yawn.
He was exhausted. Thinking, he found, took a lot of energy. Deductions certainly took a lot of energy, but even something as simple as obsessing over one’s state of being could leave him exhausted. It was a miracle he was an insomniac.
It wasn’t long before John’s breathing evened out. Sherlock turned his head, looking at his friend. He was asleep.
Sherlock moved his hand slightly to the side, allowing it to brush up against John’s. He closed his eyes as well. Of course, he wouldn’t fall asleep. It was far too early in the night for that and despite his fatigue, he couldn’t imagine himself drifting off right now. He was perfectly happy lying beside John, listening to him breathe. Trying to remind himself that the man chose to be lying here, that he chose to live with him, chose to be his friend.
Trying to remember that despite his constant awareness of his differences, he had found people who didn’t care. Who loved him the way he was. That was the easy part, he thought sleepily to himself. Finding those people. The hard part was believing them when they told him they wanted to stay.