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“Freak.”
John thought about the words that had been spat at Sherlock, said mostly with a vague sense of dislike and a strong sense of passive-aggressiveness. He looked at the man that sat in the cab with him on the way back to Baker Street, John on the driver’s side and Sherlock on the left. Sherlock was leaning forward to take a look at something his phone in the dark with grim seriousness, his unruly curls covering the most of his face from the side.
“Sherlock?” John’s inquiry was met with silence, and the streetlights continued to pass them at a steady pace. He tried again. “Sherlock?”
The man in question let out an absent-minded hum in answer.
“Why do you let them call you names?”
Sherlock let out another hum, and said, “Well, Sherlock is my name, as you know. I'd be more concerned if they called me by any other name.”
John looked at him, defeatedly. “No, I mean, why do you let them call you ‘freak’, or ‘psycho’?”
Sherlock finally looked up from his phone, but instead of meeting John's eyes as he usually did, he stared straight ahead. “I see.”
In a silence that seemed as if Sherlock was pondering about that question, John took the opportunity to look at the front of the cab.
The dashboard was clean, but there was a picture of two kids. The cab driver was a father. John had always wanted to be a father, partially because he wanted to prove to himself that he would be a better father than his own-
“I suppose it’s because it's true.”
John blinked. “Sorry, what?”
Sherlock let out a sigh. “I allow them to call me these stupid nicknames of theirs because it's true. Being a freak is merely a concept that was introduced to them when they were younger to strap onto somebody that didn't fit in with the rest. And I, in the contrary, do not fit in with any of those idiots.”
He had said it all very rapidly, and John took a second to go over the words in his head before asking another question.
“Does that mean you agree with ‘psycho’?”
“I'd rather not say, since it might scare my flat mate off.”
“I can take it.”
“Well, then, specifically, I am not a psycho. I am merely a high-functioning sociopath that- and Donovan was actually correct in this aspect- solves crimes to get high. I don't ‘get off from it’, I get high- there’s a very significant difference, jot that down like you usually do. It provides me with a sense of euphoria of having trumped another idiot that tried to be smart. Puts them back in their places.”
When he finished, John nodded and looked out the window. He made sure he didn't give Sherlock any form of physical signs that he was particularly bothered by the news that his flat mate was indeed a psycho. Which we wasn't, by the way. He wasn't bothered in the slightest. In fact, he believed that it would surely put a little spice in the average mundane life.
“Do they know that you're…” John trailed off.
“A high-functioning sociopath?” Sherlock finished for him. “No, but I believe they have their suspicions.”
John nodded again. “You shouldn't let them walk all over you like that, you know.”
Sherlock’s reflection in the window was shown to be looking at John with confusion, and he turned back around. When their gazes met, Sherlock demanded, “Walk over me like what?” The words sounded harsh, but John knew he was just curious.
“Walk over you like you aren't another human being.”
Sherlock scoffed, something that he did as a habit, perhaps as a result of being surrounded by what he deemed never-ending idiocy. “I do not let them walk over me. I merely... entertain their whims that I am indeed a freak to stroke their egos, as a mercy, since I always tend to deflate theirs by solving the simplest of cases for them.”
“Why are you giving them such a mercy? That's a big change from your pompous attitude. You should fight back.” Sherlock decided not to reply to the comment about his attitude.
“If I said it was to be nice, would you believe me?”
“Not one bloody bit.”
“How rude. I am quite capable of being nice, like normal people.” Now, it was John’s turn to scoff.
“Rude,” Sherlock muttered. “Very rude, indeed.”
They continued to stare at each other, then looked away. They knew exactly when to look back, and they began to burst into peals of laughter, the sound filling the cab. When the laughter died off mostly, John was still giggling, and Sherlock had a rare smile on his face.
John mumbled under his breath, “You really should tell them to stop it.”
Sherlock looked at him once more in confusion. “But I don’t mind it. Besides, what can I say?”
“Well, I mind,” John replied. “And you should just yell at them.”
A few days later, another unofficial drug bust occurred at 221-B, and Sherlock was absolutely done with it.
“You already did this once during the stupid ‘Study in Pink’, why must you do this again?” Sherlock had been arguing with a downtrodden Greg, and John sat in his chair, writing about a miniscule case. At the name of his blog insert, however, he looked up.
“You read my blog?”
“No, did you forget the conversation we had about it?”
“Well, why did you keep that stored in your stupid hard drive, but not manage to remember what to get for the bloody groceries?”
“That's not the point! Why are you sweeping my house, Graham?”
Greg sighed, and rubbed at his face tiredly. “Look, I didn't want to. Your brother, Mycroft-”
“Yes, I’m well aware who my brother is, now please, leave!”
Anderson, the prick, popped his head out from the corner. “Shut up, you psycho. We're looking for drugs, any dirt on you." Donovan snickered behind him. "Fun, ain't it?”
Sherlock finally had enough, and began to yell. “I already told you before, I'm clean! And Anderson, as I never fail to remind you, I am a high-functioning sociopath that solves cases to get high! Now please, leave, before this damn sociopath decides to set off the chemical bomb he leaves in his room in case intruders come!”
The room was silent as the “drug busters" left, obviously startled by the sudden outburst of Sherlock, filing out of the room quietly. Greg clapped John on the shoulder before he left.
“Thank you for teaching him to stand up for himself,” he whispered to John. “Must’ve taken a long conversation.”
He gave a quick smile to him, and Greg was soon gone. If only he knew. Sherlock slammed the door shut, before Mrs. Hudson could bother them. “So, how did that feel?” John couldn’t help but ask.
Sherlock smirked. “Slightly empowering, but mostly a waste of time.”
“Congrats,” John retorted.
Sherlock collapsed onto his own chair. “Yes, congratulations to myself indeed.”