Work Text:
You keep saying those things. And I mean, I know that … well, you’re smarter than everyone, and so everybody else is a moron, and. And I don’t mind it, because I know that you … no. No, that won’t work, because he doesn’t know, does he? If he did, he wouldn’t ask. Whatever it is he’s asking. He’s not entirely sure.
They have been living here for a while, and have adjusted surprisingly well to each other. Mostly because they both tend to ignore what the other one says. Sherlock ignores any attempts at small talk, and any suggestions that he should eat, sleep, do the dishes or not leave human remains and dangerous chemicals all over the flat, and John ignores a lot of the rants, most of the violin playing, and all the times Sherlock calls him an idiot, whether directly or indirectly (since John must be said to be a part of 'everybody [in London] except me').
Do you really think of me as an idiot? No, he can’t say that. It sounds far too whiny, far too needy. Plus he’s not entirely sure he wants to hear the answer. Sherlock doesn’t do 'nice', and the last time John mentioned the term 'white lie', it started a four hour long argument that only ended because John fell asleep. (He’s actually not sure what they really disagreed about, and has a suspicion Sherlock still doesn’t understand the concept.)
Sherlock still hasn’t wavered in his rant, which is going at several miles a minute, and John just lets it wash over him. It started with the absurdity of Daylight Savings Time, and now he’s on how time zones are a medieval concept and bloody useless in a globalized world, and how keeping the same time all over the world would be so much easier, and how mind-freezingly stupid people are to think this means they will have to get up in the middle of the night, since all it would take is a recalibration of standard work hours, and how it doesn’t matter what you call a particular time of day … John has stopped listening twenty minutes ago. He understands the argument and agrees with him in principle, and has given up, weeks ago, trying to explain to Sherlock why irrational reasons are at least as necessary as rational ones when trying to effect change in people’s behaviour.
'… bloody useless, the lot of you, I don’t know why I bother sometimes …'. There. There it is. The word that cuts through the fog of familiarity and still stings. He can deal with being an idiot, compared to Sherlock – after all, almost everybody is, and those very few who aren’t (Mycroft springs to mind) do not exactly get more of Sherlock’s trust or affection for it – but he feels a stab of fear at the thought of being considered useless. He doesn’t see himself as such; he is a good doctor, he takes care of a lot of practical (and interpersonal) issues for Sherlock, and has saved his life at least once. But he’s not at all certain how Sherlock sees all this. Sherlock doesn’t really have friends, and John thought it is because nobody really wants to be friends with him – but it’s also not unlikely that it might be his own choice. He might not actually want a friend. Certainly he wouldn’t want a useless friend; John’s pretty sure about that.
'You keep saying that.' He said that out loud, didn’t he? Well. No turning back now; he has derailed Sherlock’s rant, and now those otherworldly eyes are focused directly on him. He takes a breath and plunges on. 'I mean. Useless. You keep saying that I, that we, are useless, and I thought, I mean. I don’t mind your rants, and I know that … well, basically I’m an idiot, and all that. And that’s fine. Sort of. But do you mean that I am … do you really think of me as useless?' He could kick himself. Sherlock has cocked his head and is looking at him even more intently, fingers steepled under his chin. Shit. He should never have opened his mouth. He should just leave. He can’t break the gaze, though, he tries to keep his face open and impassive, and his skin is crawling.
Finally, Sherlock speaks. 'What do you think, John?' Great. Now he is making fun of him for needing reassurance. As well he should – he must be out of his mind to go to Sherlock Holmes for reassurance. He starts to roll his eyes at himself and the whole conversation and leave the room, but then he stops before he starts. Hang on. Sherlock doesn’t lie to him, mostly. And he doesn’t usually say things just to mock John. He might ask for his opinion just because it’s amusing to hear how wrong John gets it, but even then, it’s to kick-start his own observations, not primarily to be cruel. And … he’s never said so, but he does know John is better with people, so it is conceivable that he actually thinks John capable of figuring this out for himself.
Plus, John'll be damned if he’s going to be a coward. An idiot, a useless idiot, he might be, but he’s not going to be a coward. Not in front of Sherlock, certainly not after showing his hand so stupidly. So he takes a breath and tries to unravel his thoughts.
'I think … I think if you really thought I was useless, then … then you wouldn’t say so. To me. At least not more than once.' There’s a light in Sherlock’s eyes that gives him courage, and he stumbles on, looking for his footing. 'You wouldn’t keep talking to me – you wouldn’t drag me along and tell me everything that goes on in your mind, if you really thought I was useless.' And it’s true, he realizes, and he feels stupid for needing it said out loud, but Sherlock looks pleased, so it’s probably okay. But he suddenly has another insight, and cuts the detective off before he can start with the condescending praise that John suspects is coming: 'And on the other hand – if I really had believed you thought me useless …' John searches for the right words; Sherlock has cocked his head to the other side, and the pleased look is replaced by another one. An almost intrigued one. 'If I actually had believed that, then I wouldn’t have asked you,' John finally realizes.
'There you are, then,' says Sherlock in a bored voice, eyes already turned away and fixed on the ceiling. But John isn’t fooled, not this time. He just managed to catch the flash in Sherlock’s eyes before they left his, and he suddenly has a much better understanding of the man in front of him than before. Sherlock is even less used to being trusted than he is to trusting someone.