madimpossibledreamer

           Occasionally John will call for an update, and guiltily, Mycroft will tell him of any more members of the network they have uncovered.  He’d tell Sherlock about the conversations, but Sherlock needs to make sure he finds the whole network through the data trails, and Sherlock can’t miss the devastation John leaves in his wake as the surgically strikes at each of the viper’s nests.
           He’s also not about to tell his brother about the Speedwagon Foundation calling for updates on John’s location.  He’s, for once in his life, honest with his sort-of-partners, telling them that he has no idea where John will be next because John’s the one choosing the next mission of all the information he’s being handed.

           “Are you all right?” Sherlock asks, and John shakes his head, transferring his gaze from the window to his friend.
           “Sorry?”  Whatever had been asked, he hadn’t heard.
           Sherlock steeples his fingers, the dissecting gaze like John’s a brand-new puzzle.  “You’ve been acting odd ever since Sally called me a freak.  Again.  You don’t like it when anyone’s rude; a little odd, really, considering I’m likely to be rude myself, but it’s bothering you more than usual.  Why?”
           John works his jaw.  This would be a good time.  And yet…not at all.
           It’s a restaurant.  There are people around.  He can’t be sure Moriarty doesn’t have people here.  He actually can’t be sure that there aren’t bugs or people around or anything anywhere.  And after the pool, he’s fairly certain Moriarty has to be interested in him.
           He doesn’t have the energy for this.  He’s maintaining Right Where I Belong most of the time, now, because he’s paranoid, now.  He doesn’t know how Sherlock hasn’t noticed by now being his usual reckless self hasn’t earned him near enough scrapes or bruises.
           And he’s taken too long to answer, because apparently his face has answered for him, since Sherlock keeps up his interrogation.  “Ah.  You take it personally.  Why?  The company you keep, or…?”
           By now, his face has given away the truth, that it’s more personal than that, and he knows Sherlock deserves to know, is getting restless, can’t wait any longer, and knows also that he wants to tell, being unable to talk about it is tearing him apart, and he’d never thought it’d be this hard.
           But he doesn’t want to lose a friend.  Despite the fact that he already is, that the secret is tearing them apart.  And worse, he doesn’t want to give Moriarty the clue he needs to go find and unlock a Stand.
           So he bites his lip.  Maybe he can give Sherlock clues.  Lead him into the correct answer, hope Moriarty doesn’t get there first.  “Remember our conversation about monsters.”
           “What kind of evidence could lead a man like you to believe he’s a monster?” Sherlock’s incredulous.
           “Obviously, the persuasive kind,” John whispers.

            Sherlock picks up his phone.  It’s about time John called.  He could hardly shop for more food without his wallet; forgotten in his room; John’s been forgetful lately; John’s worried about something.  Moriarty, probably.  Something happened during the kidnapping; something he didn’t feel he could tell Sherlock.  Why?  Because he was worried about how Sherlock would react?  Worried that he’d try to take revenge?  But no, there was a secret; something John didn’t want Sherlock to know; something that Mycroft knows about John that he doesn’t; how?  Obvious, contacts.  Not worth his time, not like John.  All these signs John is normal, average, and yet—
            And yet, he’s sympathetic.  Like he understands, how?  How would John know?  There’s the obvious answer, of course, his sister, homosexual, him having to protect her; doesn’t approve of her drinking, liked the wife, but he’d hardly stand for bullies going after his sister; but it’s not that, it can’t be; Mycroft wouldn’t know if that was it, he could be cruel and pretend he knows something, but that doesn’t explain John; John, who wants to explain, but doesn’t know how, John who thinks he of all people won’t believe—
            The phone rings.  He picks it up.  “Sherlock.”
            The singsong voice on the other end is unexpected, unwanted.  But then, he’d known Moriarty would survive.  “There’s something about John…he’s keeping secrets.  I could help you find out.”
            “Piss off.”  He hangs up before he realizes that was…that was emotional, that was wrong.  Moriarty could have John.  That could have been a subtle taunt.  And he just threw away a lead, though of course Moriarty wouldn’t have let him trace the call.  Still, he was Sherlock; he was better; he could have heard a train or some other clue to help him save John—
            He frets until John returns, and then unfortunately yells at him.  Both of them are being wound tighter and tighter, and it has to have an end.

            “John.  You were lying in bed with a fever, unable to discern the world around you.  There is no logical reason why you could have saved your unit.”

            John’s bleary eyes finally focus on Sherlock’s face.  It’s good, this.  That Citizen/Soldier has decided that his brilliantly impossible flatmate is forever off the hit list, so he doesn’t accidentally summon him and bomb the flat when being awoken.  Really, in all honestly, for a Stand User with his sorts of nightmares, there is no other flatmate he could have possibly gotten.

            “So you shouldn’t be feeling any guilt now.”

            If John isn’t mistaken, that’s actual emotion in the detective’s voice.

            “No logical reason, no,” John agrees quietly.  Sherlock’s absolutely rubbish at comfort, which is perhaps why it works.  “Thank you, Sherlock.”

            John doesn’t talk about what people have in their normal lives, because it’s been long enough since he’s been normal he’s not really an extensive authority on the subject anymore.

            “Will caring about them help save them?” Sherlock sneers.  He’s probably worked out exactly where this conversation will go, the ‘pedestrian’, ‘dull’ responses that John will give, and his reactions to those.  So John disappoints him.  Fine.  John’s disappointed too.
            “Yes.”  It’s not the answer that most would give, or if it is, for most it’d be for clichés, but John doesn’t need a fairy-tale when he’s been living so long in the real world, thank you.
            Watson may not be the one who observes, but it’s easy to read Sherlock at the moment.  The detective takes a moment to realize that John has gone off-script, again, and suddenly the anger disappears instantly.  If John was in an imaginative mood, he would have described the sound of always turning gears audibly grinding to a halt.  Grey eyes stare at the doctor with an intense scrutiny that Holmes only applies to the most interesting of problems.  “What?”
            “All right, maybe it’s not as important for you with your consulting detective thing, but I’m a soldier.  I never stopped.”  It’s easy for John to say this to Sherlock, despite the fact that he would never say this to Ella.  “As much as I hate to agree with your brother, this is a battlefield.  The ones that thought it was just some kind of lark, the ones that didn’t have anything to fight for, they’re the ones that usually died first.  Some of them were lucky, of course.  Some of us,” he leans slightly, knowing the detective will take the hint, “…weren’t so lucky.  Fighting for your own life was good.  Fighting for someone else’s was better.”
            “I would have thought you would have called yourself a doctor first.”  All right, perhaps that wasn’t the reaction that he’d been going for, but it was a start.
            “They’re both different ways of saving people.”  He thought for a second and shook his head.  “All right, not always.  But emotions, even boredom, can be just as unhealthy.”
            There’s a slight nod to show Sherlock understands the point.  “Why not surgery, then, if you want to save people’s lives so much?”
            “There’s the tremor,” John states bluntly.  “Yes, maybe it’s psychological, and under pressure it’d be just fine, but people don’t want even the possibility.”
            “I’d trust you,” the detective remarks, and that earns a smile.
            “Yeah, well, you do a lot of dangerous things most people wouldn’t.”
            As much as Holmes tries to hide it, that is, in fact, a smile.  “I’ve never noticed it affect your work.”
            “God, Sherlock, I’m not asking you to go and weep in the streets for these people.  And maybe it doesn’t work for you.  All I’m asking you is take it into consideration.  Human brains are amazing and capable of this thing called multitasking.  Emotion and logic aren’t exclusive.”
            “Sarcasm doesn’t really suit you, John.”  He doesn’t really sound annoyed, though.  “As long as you’re not asking me to be nice to Anderson.”  He goes back to thinking, but mutters one last thing under his breath.
            The only word John hears is ‘Mycroft’, but it’s enough to understand everything.  “And if you’ve been taking social advice from your git of a brother, you might want to reconsider that.”
            That grin is clearly smug, even though Sherlock doesn’t acknowledge it any other way.