institutesamples | you know what I'm sayin'?

"I don't care what people -..." he starts. And then there's that sound This is not what Sherlock expected to happen, but when John collapses against him, something kicks instinctively in him. Without thinking, his arms go around John again. (He has no idea what he's doing. Dear god, this is messy.) He just knows people do this sometimes when other people are upset. The hugging thing. John's tears are on his shirt, and Sherlock reaches down, tentative, to brush at them awkwardly.

"I... John, um..." Sherlock doesn't let go, one arm curling around the back of the doctor's head to pull his face into his coat. "I'm not very good at this," he mutters, embarrassed of himself, frustrated that he can't seem to make John not upset in one way or another. "You..." he's searching for words now, his usual eloquence failing. "Don't have to be ... upset? No, that's not it. You can be upset. Not... that you need my permission, you... it's..." Sherlock exhales shortly, leaning his head forward to brace his forehead against John's since he can't get a good skin contact while holding him. ... the man needs to buy better hair product, this stuff smells like candy apples.

"It's okay. It's okay you're ... upset. Crying. That is... that's normal, not confusing. And... I don't like it when you cry but I don't mind if you do at all, does... does that even make any sense?" Sherlock's worry, concern floods at John, and the detective finds himself exhausted by the effort.

He tries anyway, because he has to. He has to make John see that everything will be fine. Sherlock shifts on his feet, unwilling to let his doctor go. Because John - and this comes through from Sherlock as well - John is his, his responsibility, his friend, and this is what friends do... isn't it?

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. What the hell is going on here? All his deductions, all the logic and facts don't mean a damned thing when his best friend is sobbing into his chest.

Edited 2012-11-01 12:22 (UTC)

Shit. Sherlock was giving emotional advice. He'd broken him.

"Sherlock," came the muffled voice from under the detective's coat, "thank you, but.... you can stop talking, okay?"

Grateful as he is, it's just embarrassing him even more. His hands had since moved from clutching Sherlock's coat to finding some warm underneath, firmly set against Sherlock's ribs.

He lets out a long, low, shuddering breath. "Oooh, this is embarrassing. Pull yourself together John," he muttered to himself.

It could have been worse, the sobbing had ended at that one first sound, but any sort of crying, really, wasn't exactly good. Well, it was healthy, probably. But all those things he wanted to tell Sherlock, all the reasons he WAS upset, were running from him, impossible to say to his face. Or chest.

He stepped back, looking down at the ground as he rooted in his pocket for a tissue and wiped his face and his nose before stuffing it back and looking to the building.

"Right. Let's...go to your stupid bloody roof then, shall we?"

Yeah. Sort of. Good job, John.

The blank, unhappy look Sherlock levels down at John is likely more telling than anything he's said yet.

"I was just trying to -... I don't mind I mean... alright," and Sherlock promptly shuts up. When John's hands come into contact with his ribs, Sherlock stiffens a little, biting off a faint gasp of surprise. His skin is fairly warm beneath the shirt and coat. The mental storm that comes from him is a bit like hearing static and confusion all at once because it feels rather nice--- Then it's as if Sherlock completely shuts down for a second, cutting off all of the contact between them mentally fiercely. "Your hands are freezing," protests Sherlock, and whether they are or not, he doesn't go to move them until John steps away.

He reaches out again though, catching John by the sleeve, unwilling to completely break contact. However, projecting whatever is whirling through his mind at any given moment isn't exactly what Sherlock thinks of as a good time, so with John in tow, he makes a beeline for the roof.

John is doing his best not look at Sherlock, apologising for the cold hands, too tired and confused to think much of the sudden mental break, though it does make him wince. For a moment there was a storm of nothing and everything and, somehow, something very pleasant and comforting. The sudden change was enough to surprise anybody.

"Sherlock. Wait," he says, grabbing the stick before following along, secretly glad to feel the weight of Sherlock's hand on his sleeve.

Edited 2012-11-01 13:07 (UTC)

Sherlock waits just long enough for John to get the damned stick again, but then he's off, long strides keeping him slightly ahead of the doctor. He's probably half-dragging the poor man, and if John starts to lag, Sherlock just lets John use his arm as support. The two of them are probably a strange looking sight. Sherlock, looking as if he's been in a fight, though far better with John's ministrations, and John in tow, probably struggling to keep up with the detectives obscenely long strides.

They bluster through the building, Sherlock snapping peevishly at any students stupid enough to look their way. Then they're in the elevator, being whisked up to the top floor. Sherlock's shoes are soundless on the wooden floors, and then they're in a janitor's closet where a small staircase up to the roof (spiral) has been stationed. Sherlock marches up without a word, oddly quiet as he throws the hatch open. The sun hits them both as they emerge onto the roof - concrete, stable, smooth.

The Stradivarius case sits by itself up here, untouched, leaned up against the edge of the roof. Sherlock frowns at it. Oh. That's where he'd left it. John's probably going to have a conniption fit if they go anywhere near it. He halts abruptly, fingers wrapped around John's wrist firmly.

"Well. Alright." a twist of Sherlock's lips to the side.

"Sherlock," he says, with that warning tone. "Slow down, it won't fix my leg any faster." He knows he can probably walk without the stick if he wants. But some tired, sulking part of him simply doesn't want to. He's not quite fixed, even if his apparent cure is back. It would take a while to kick in, so to speak.

Hesitating at the hatch door, he scowls at Sherlock.

"Prick," he huffs, clambering up to the roof properly and bracing himself against the thoughts of Sherlock falling.

"You wait here." He moves forward so he can collect it himself, possibly using the stick to bring it closer. But images start flooding back and he stops still.

Wait here? Sherlock doesn't seem to know what those words mean, but when John stops, Sherlock paces up beside him, his hands limp by his sides. He stands there next to John for a moment, and then huffs out an irritated noise and goes to pick up the violin himself, his long legs quickly bringing him to the edge of the building.

Stooping, he goes to reach for the violin.

He looks sidelong at Sherlock, for a brief, beautiful moment, feeling a little better. As though being together made them almost indestructible. And then Sherlock shatters the illusion by walking on ahead, arrogantly calm.

"Sherlock, Jesus....D-"

He rushes forward, but the pain in his catches and he crashes straight onto his hands and knees, staying stock still for a moment before looking up. He's too far away to touch Sherlock, but a part of him is senselessly worried he'd pushed his friend.

"Why did I want you back?" he gasps, annoyed. "Get away from the edge now, you've made your point and I've embarrassed myself enough for a lifetime."

Sherlock picks up the case, tucking it beneath his arm, but he hears John stumble into the concrete (it's the stick that clatters), and he turns back around carefully, looking at John with blank incomprehension at the annoyance the man voices. He turns back around, his back to the doctor, staring out over the grounds, over everything. The sound of a gunshot ricochets in his mind, and Sherlock actually stumbles back a few steps from the edge, pressing a hand into his eyes. His willowy frame wavers slightly, like he might pass out, and he inhales tightly, forcing himself to look, to look down at the ground below, steeling himself against the overriding fear.

This is just a building. That is just a drop. He is in no danger. Nothing will happen to him as long as he doesn't jump. This doesn't make any sense.

Sherlock stares hard into the stretch of building behind them, the fingers of his free hand curling into a tight fist. He feels vertigo start to rise, and then sinks to his knees before the edge of the building, setting the violin down.

"SHERLOCK!" he shouts, springing up when he sees the hesitation, the unsteadiness. Grabbing Sherlock's coat, he pulls him back, holding his arms to they're facing each other.

"What the HELL are you doing? Are you insane?!"

There was something about it. Uncharacteristic fear from Sherlock. Worse than the Hound case. Something deeper that had beaten his friend. Relaxing once more, he loosens his grip and takes a deep breath.

"Maybe we should start with places that have railings....." he says, in a weak attempt at humour.

Whatever presence of mind Sherlock still has is spent on grabbing the handle of the violin case as John yanks him backwards. He almost falls over, a dazed look branded into his eyes as he stares past the doctor. It's the shout that brings him back to Earth, blinking at John blearily. Sherlock just sinks back to his knees, saying absolutely nothing, jaw clenched. The humor is lost on him, and he screws the heels of his hands into his eyes, grabbing at his hair.

"It's not working, John. I keep finding every building I can find and every time, it's the same thing. It's not rational. It's just a building. It's just a long drop, it's never bothered me before, why would it now? There's no danger in a fall as long as you don't take it, as long as you don't, you know, feel strangely compelled to throw yourself off a roof, but no, it's just... It's just..." Sherlock emits a noise of raw frustration. The same sort of snarl that comes from him when a particular part of a case eludes him.

"There's nothing wrong with me!" he howls into the air, eyes wide open and wild. "And this is idiotic!"

John sits down beside Sherlock, oddly relieved by the man's pained confusion. He lets him speak, just watching him, glad they're not near the edge and thinking about how this must feel for Sherlock and what he'd shown John earlier.

He waits until after the shouting to speak and, with a wry smile, says "Post traumatic stress. You should write your feelings in a blog."

"I do not need a blog," Sherlock's reply is intensely frustrated, but growled, quiet. He plunks down onto his rear on the roof, eyes narrowed, pulling his knees to his chest. Yes. He's sulking.

He peeks back over at John.

"How do I make this go away?"

John almost wants to tease Sherlock, but he looks so pitiful.

"It doesn't go away," he tells him, knowing full well. "It just....gets distracted. By other things. Hopefully better things."

But, hey, the war nightmares had practically been replaced by 'Sherlock falling from roofs' nightmares.

"If you're lucky, the Brotherhood will attack again soon and we can get in the thick of it. How's that sound? maybe start a new agency, looking for mutants, I dunno."

Sherlock makes a grumbling noise and reaches out for John again, grabbing onto the fabric on the arm of his coat, long fingers curling in the material tightly.

"You are a doctor, and there has to be something else that will fix this besides, 'play the normal traumatized human being and wait for something more interesting and shiny to pull you out of illogical obsession.'"

His hand tightens on John's jumper, digging into the cables.

"Make it go away. Now. Please."

"Therapy. Step by step, over a course of time, therapy," he says, gently trying to tug his sleeve out of the death grip threatening to ruin it. He likes this jumper and he'd gotten it back in England, so he can't easily replace it. Unless Mrs H sends some out with the teabags and biscuits.

"Alright, alright, let go and... and look at me. There's something I need to tell you. Mycroft and Mrs Hudson are....going out. Dating."

Sorry, John, Sherlock isn't letting go of your jumper. When he tries to tug away, Sherlock petulantly curls back into his coat more tightly, eyes narrowed to pale blue slits beneath his brows.

However, the look that John gets after he states that Mrs. Hudson and his older brother are dating one another is decidedly insulted.

"You think I'm going to believe something like that? Mycroft doesn't go for little old ladies or ladies at all as far as I know and I don't want to know."

Wait for it... Wait for it. Ah, there's the realization. Sherlock helplessly bursts into chortles at the idea, looking over at John, a deep, rolling chuckle that starts in his chest.

"So the Holmes line really does end with you two? Thank god," he smirked, glad to see the rare sight of his friend smiling at something that didn't involve a dead body.

"That's not all, anyway. Andersen quit his job to become a yodeller in Austria."

"Thank god," Sherlock grumbles. "Maybe someday we can go back to London and live a quiet life of solving murders and annoying Lestrade." He gets to his feet in a sweep of coat and scarf, offering John his hand to help him up off the ground.

A little more quietly: "I told you didn't need the stupid cane."

There is just the tiniest hint of a self-satisfied smirk playing around Sherlock's thin lips, but the man looks too pale, too drawn, really, to make it wholly convincingly assholesque.

"Maybe," he smiled, taking the hand and standing. Things seem easier again, lighter, though it's still surreal to be talking to a deadman. A part of him is still suspicious, one percent maybe, that it's not really him.

"You're going to need it in a minute, you smug git," he shoots back, unable to hide a smile as he reaches down for it, carrying it this time.

Sherlock smirks back at John, "Careful, I might like it." Mostly, it's to see what sort of horrified reaction he can draw out of his flatmate, but in Sherlock's world, everything is about the way it should be. They just need to get back to 221B at some point. Maybe. If it's not rigged with cameras by Mycroft and if the both of them coming back wouldn't give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack.

Sherlock walks a little closer to John than usual as they make their way back to the staircase, within easy touching distance. It's perhaps as if Sherlock's not entirely certain John's there either, but the occasional, subtle bump might remind him.

"You know, that professor really is going to rue the day he asked both of us here."

John stops, looks at Sherlock and possibly tinges pink for a moment before laughing and shaking his head.

"So Donovan was right about the freaky s&m theory.... I'll send her an email, I'm sure she'd be more than happy to spank you."

While he notices Sherlock walking unusually close, he doesn't bother to question it or move away. Instead he just appreciates it for the very same reasons.

"Yeah, I wouldn't mind paying him back for not warning me, too," he huffed. "Fancy a cuppa? Or maybe something stronger...."

Sherlock wheels right around at the mention of Donovan and makes for the roof again - he only gets about two paces away before turning back around to rejoin John with an unmistakably disgusted expression. "I'm not bothered by the implication that I might be a sexual deviant, I'm bothered by Donovan, and if you email her, I will make sure that netbook of yours sends out a continuous stream of violent horse porn to every contact in your address book."

"Don't worry John, we will." Sherlock's confident again, a spring in his step as he kicks open the hatch, descending before John to keep an eye on him (or to catch him, should he go tumbling down the staircase). "Yes. Scotch. Do you have any?"

The two paces are enough for John to feel his insides go cold.

"And I'm not bothered about the horse porn, I'm bothered by you and rooftops," he says, sighing out the breath he's been holding. Weighing the stick in his hands, he smacks it across Sherlock's arse with cheeky 'Giddy-up'.

"...yeah.... in the office."

Sherlock's ears glow very briefly pink at this, and he hops away with a muted yelp. Seeing as he doesn't exactly know where the doctor's office is, it's his turn to trail after the shorter man, rather than dragging him along. He sticks close to John's side though, his hand occasionally finding the back of John's forearm, though never overlong. Tiny points of contact occasionally made as they travel through the hallways - nothing enough to cause any attention or to make anyone look twice, but the touch is there for him, and it is there because he knows that John will notice it.

"It is intriguing to me that horse porn doesn't disturb you, John," Sherlock stoops to murmur this into John's ear as a group of students wander past, blocking an intersection of a hallway. "Is that just you being desensitized to the bizarre or do you just prefer anatomically impossible objects in your rear?" Sherlock's grin is downright wicked now, his voice reserved specifically for John's ear.

Edited 2012-11-01 16:55 (UTC)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject