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Watson finds himself making conversation with Molly while Sherlock drops bricks on his latest borrowed corpse.
"Well, I mean, he's nice, but--"
"He's not nice," Watson says. 'Nice' was possibly the last word anyone could apply to Sherlock, preceded by 'sane' and 'balanced'.
"No, not like that. Of course." Molly fiddles with her mug, turning it in circles on the desk. "But he's different, and he's so intelligent, and I wish he'd just give me a chance."
Watson takes a sip of the terrible coffee. "He won't, I'm afraid."
"Oh, I know," Molly says. "There's no room in his head for anything else. I just thought I should warn you."
"Warn me? But I'm not--"
Molly pats the back of his hand and smiles at him knowingly.
"Right," says John. "Never mind."
***
One night, after Sherlock pauses mid-thought and then abandons him (an occurrence John is getting depressingly accustomed to), Lestrade offers him a ride home. They stop at the pub for a pint or two. John suspects this is one of the ways Lestrade copes with Holmes. He sympathizes.
"When was the first time you asked him for help on a case?"
Lestrade scoffs. "You think I asked him? He harassed me with text messages for three days straight until I finally met with him. Then he told me my shoes looked terrible and that I was a colossal idiot for missing the most important clue, which he'd figured out just by reading an article in the Daily Mail."
"And you didn't kill him?"
"The problem was, he was right. He's always right."
"Damned irritating," John says. Lestrade mutters agreement and finishes his pint. Watson's leg has started to ache, and he curses Sherlock for taking away the simple, sullen pleasure he used to get from hating his own body.
"Nothing you say ever has any impact on him, does it?"
Lestrade shakes his head. "I haven't found anything yet. He doesn't know his own limits. He doesn't even understand the concept. I put him in jail once when he pissed me off. He was there for four hours and he solved six crimes."
John has to laugh at that. It encapsulates everything maddening about Sherlock, maddening and marvelous.
***
John's not sure what to make of Mrs. Hudson. Either she's exactly the sweet, somewhat batty soul she appears to be, or...he's not sure what the 'or' is. He's not quite comfortable with the way that she looks at him sometimes, as if she can see through him just as easily as Sherlock can.
"Here you are, love," she says, setting a cup of tea on his desk.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He clicks in the posting window of his blog and deletes the three words he'd written, I have a, because he doesn't know how he'd finish that sentence.
"Still working on your journal?"
"It's a blog."
"What's the difference?" He looks up to meet her eyes. She knows very well there's no difference. It's a little like dealing with his mother used to be, but his mother's been dead for six years, and he's lost the habit of shielding himself against affectionate prying. He doesn't talk to Harry much, and his therapist is anything but affectionate.
"I could write about Sherlock, I guess, but what can you say?"
"Oh, any number of things, I'd imagine."
"Really? How would you even start to describe him?"
She perches on the edge of his bed, and he swivels the chair to face her. The polyester of her dress scratches against the cheap fabric of his bedspread.
"Like a child. Always moving, always talking. So confident. He reminds me of my husband sometimes."
"Your husband the convicted murderer?"
"You know what men are like," she says, and continues before he could protest that he doesn't. "If you think about it, you'd know what you want to say about him."
"That he drives me positively mad? That he's inconsiderate and stubborn and funny at the most inconvenient times?"
"Among other things."
John huffs in exasperation. "Why does everyone keep telling me what I think?"
"Probably because you keep asking them, dear."
He considers her for a moment. "You are far more irritating than my therapist."
"Does your therapist bring you tea?"
"No, ma'am."
She gestures at the screen. "Write your journal."
"Yes, ma'am."
***
The only thing worse than Sherlock Holmes is a Holmes who is organized, powerful, and bloodless. On the other hand, he can appreciate Mycroft's persistence. Every time they meet, Mycroft tries a new method to get him to spy on Sherlock. More money. A cruise around the world. Blackmail, as if there's anyone whose opinion matters that much to John, especially when the worst thing Mycroft has on him is footage of him stumbling drunk out of a pub and singing the first act finale of Les Miserables.
He almost comes to enjoy their meetings, once he convinces Mycroft to stop pulling him into random warehouses. Instead, Mycroft buys him lunch and tries to pump him for information.
"No," John says, "I'm not going to tell you what cases he's working on, how much sleep he's getting, or what piece he's learning on the violin. This roast beef is excellent, by the way."
Mycroft smiles at him, practically dripping insincerity. "It would be for his own good, you realize."
"That's entirely possible, but have you noticed how boring it is when you do something that's good for you? It's like eating your vegetables."
Mycroft sets his fork down next to his plate. "We had a very conventional childhood. It was probably the worst thing that could have happened to him."
John perks up, though he tries not to show it. This is new.
"He has no capability for boredom. You know this."
"Fortunately we live in the Internet age."
Mycroft waves one long-fingered hand, then raises his drink to his lips with the other. "Sherlock belongs with me, where he can do real good. Wield real power. He's just not up to the challenge yet."
John tries to turn his scoff into a throat-clearing, and wishes that the roast beef wasn't turning to lead in his stomach.
"He will be, someday," Mycroft says. "You might want to keep that in mind."
***
It's fortunate that the sight of blood doesn't disturb John, because after Roger Denholm jumps out of a window rather than face arrest, there's a lot of blood.
John looks up at Holmes and shakes his head. Holmes shrugs and pulls out his phone to text Lestrade. John doesn't know how he plans to explain this one, but since he and Holmes haven't been arrested yet, Holmes obviously knows how to handle Lestrade.
He wishes there was something he could do for Denholm; he is still a doctor. All he can do is listen to the rattle of breath in his chest, until the rattle turns into words.
"What?" John says, leaning closer despite himself, though there's nothing this man can say that he wants to hear.
"I'm scared," Denholm whispers. "It hurts."
He'd taken a hatchet to his wife. John had never seen Lestrade turn pale at a crime scene before. It hadn't fazed Holmes at all.
"Good," John says as he watches him die.
***
"You shouldn't do this." The words come out as a distant buzz in John's ears, though he knows he's the one who said them. Nothing quite seems to penetrate the sensation of Sherlock's lips on his neck.
"So what?" Sherlock mouths the question against his skin. One hand slides down John's body, slipping a finger into his waistband.
"I'm supposed to stop you doing stupid things."
Sherlock pulls back to stare down at him, with that familiar expression of pity. "Then why are you always with me when I do them?"
John catches his breath. Of course Sherlock already knows the answer, as he always does.
When he kisses John, John opens his mouth and lets Sherlock push him against the wall. He grabs at John's leg and pulls it up so he can move their hips closer together. It doesn't hurt at all.
John feels like he should offer one last protest, but the warmth of Sherlock's mouth sends a rush of adrenaline right through him. It makes him shake, but his hand, as he lifts it to cup the back of Sherlock's head, is steady.