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It starts in their flat.
John's about to leave for his date with another girl-this time named Susan-and Sherlock is, predictably, confused.
"But why are you going?" He asks for the fifth time, despite all of John's explanations.
John lets out a huff. "Because, believe it or not, Sherlock, I do sometimes want to hang out with people that aren't you."
Sherlock blinks, as if pondering this. "Why?"
John feels tension settle between his shoulder blades. "Well, for starters, other people don't shoot the wall or stab our mantel when they're bored. Other people don't wake me up in the middle of the night with a question about my childhood."
Sherlock shrinks a little at that, but John's frustrations are already coming out to quickly for him to register that.
"Other people don't put body parts in the fridge. Not the freezer, the fridge!" John narrows his eyes and tilts his head at Sherlock (in what he doesn't realize is a direct imitation of his condescending father). "You know we put what we eat in the fridge, right? There's this thing called bacteria, and it spreads, Sherlock. Oh, how it spreads."
Sherlock's brow narrows fractionally at this, but John barely cares. There's no stopping him now.
"Other people don't use me as a human experiment and set me loose into a lab knowing very well that I am drugged and terrified! Actually, most people would consider that bad manners."
John's voice has adopted a scolding schoolteacher quality that makes Sherlock feel like a child once again, being sniffed at by Mycroft. He didn't know that the wound from the Baskerville was still open, but apparently it is.
Sherlock swallows. "John, I-"
But there's no getting through to him. All the little frustrations are crawling over each other like cockroaches, reaching such a peak that they've overtaken John's sense.
"Other people don't carelessly chuck aside my friends and girlfriends because they can't stand not to be the center of attention." John hisses, and Sherlock flinches a little at the sting of those words.
“I don’t mean to-“
John’s face becomes so incredulous, so openly full of disbelief, that Sherlock can almost see Donovan or Anderson written in the widening of his eyes and the slight turn of his mouth.
“You don’t mean to? You don’t mean to yell at everyone who’s too slow for you, or isn’t interesting enough for you? You just do that by accident?”
Sherlock’s mouth drops open slightly. “John-“
“And you know what the worst part is?” John’s eyes are suddenly so sad that Sherlock winces from the abrupt change. “As cruel as you are to them, it is nowhere close to how vicious you are to yourself.”
At this, John’s tone turns from a hornet’s nest to a minor key.
“Sherlock, you abuse yourself so thoroughly with drugs and isolation that it is a wonder you’re not dead.”
John’s eyes are softer now, and Sherlock feels a spike of pity for himself.
“Well then. If you’d rather go find someone who is more like other people, as you say, then you may feel free to pack your things. I understand.”
“Sherlock.” His voice is a whisper now as he sits and rests his hand on Sherlock’s knee. “Is that really what you think?”
Sherlock lets out a scoff. “Well, you did just rant about all of the negative aspects of my personality that you hate.”
“I don’t hate them.” John lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve been like that.”
They sit in silence for a few moments, tension as tight as a bowstring taut between them.
John clears his throat. “Look, I can’t imagine what it’s like living with your mind. It must be exhausting. But-“
John’s mouth goes into a firm line, and Sherlock knows, even if he can’t see it, that his left hand is squeezed into a fist. This is the face that John makes when he doesn’t like the emotions he’s feeling, Sherlock thinks. John exhales and averts his eyes to the carpet. Sherlock lets him.
“I’m just saying…I know you need a way to cope. But it doesn’t have to be drugs.”
Sherlock tilts his head slightly. “I don’t understand.”
John looks back up at him, and Sherlock knows that the only reason he’s done so is because whatever he has to say is Important. (John feels the need to make eye contact when he is saying Important things, though Sherlock doesn’t quite understand why).
“Let me,” he says, and Sherlock still doesn’t know what he means. It must be fairly obvious on his face, because John thinks for a moment, clearly reformatting his words.
“I mean…you can cope with me.”
Ah.
John flexes his fingers for a moment, trying to relieve the tension in his body. “Whenever you feel like it’s too much, or you can’t handle yourself,” he swallows, “talk to me. I’ll do my best to…help.”
It seems that John has exhausted his Important message, and so he once again averts his eyes. Sherlock stares at him, processing. He blinks a few times. Opens his mouth, then closes it.
“You…want to be my drug?”
John’s head whips back up, eyes wide. “No. No, Sherlock, I want to help you cope. Instead of the drugs.”
Sherlock squints, then nods. “I see.”
“Yeah.” John does that awkward, closed lips nod he does when he doesn’t know what to say.”
Sherlock allows himself to process some more, and finally understands what John is really saying. He feels his heart (foolish) spark with a tiny bit of hope.
“Thank you, John. That’s very kind of you.”
“Yep.” John smiles at him briefly, lips still closed. That’s when Sherlock remembers how they got into this situation in the first place.
“Aren’t you going to be late for your date?”
John tilts his head at him and smiles, almost imperceptibly. “Yeah, I am.”
Sherlock waits. John doesn’t move. “Well, shouldn’t you leave now?”
John’s smile gets a little wider. “I don’t think I’ll go.”
“Why not?”
John picks up Sherlock’s left hand and gives it a quick kiss. Sherlock feels warmth run through his body. John tucks Sherlock’s hand under his chin and looks at him with such pure adoration that Sherlock’s brain, for a blissful moment, stops working.
“Other people aren’t as nice as you.”