institutesamples | you know what I'm sayin'?

What was that? He almost jumps. Was that a comforting gesture? A sign of humanity? John gives him a purposefully sceptical look before giving a grimace and shaking his head.

"Don't wanna hear it. Not right now. And Molly is constantly invaluable to you. Who else would let a deranged sociopath into a morgue with a riding crop?"

Shaking his head again to turn Sherlock away from his questioning, he eyes the bandages.

"I'm a doctor, you know. And a pretty good on at that."

"John, answer the question," Sherlock remarks curtly, reaching out to grab John's arm to keep him from touching the bandages. "How long has it been? Weeks? A few months? A year? It's important."

A pause.

"Anyone would let me into a morgue with a riding crop, that's just common sense," Sherlock frowns faintly at John. "I needing to see the pattern-..." and he just waves a hand, because John already knows and there's really no point in going on about it.

Sherlock releases John's arm to button his shirt peevishly. "I'm fine." He's really, really not.

"Months. Why? You should know. Then again, I guess you did hit your head pretty hard."

He sucks in a breath, feeling himself go a little light headed at the joke. He'd seen terrible things, but it was different when it was your friend. A friend like Sherlock.

"As I said, I'm a pretty good doctor so I know you're not."

Looking sidelong at him, he asked, "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock just averts his eyes, letting his hands drop down and mutters. "You left the flat. Mrs. Hudson was positively beside herself, you know. She was a wreck when I came back for the Stradivarius." Which he's left on the roof, but no matter, he'll go get it later, and the spot on the roof is in eyeshot from the bench.

The crack at humor gets a tired, worn smirk from Sherlock. "I'm fine, John, honestly, stop fussing."

The question about why he's come to the Institute? That one goes unanswered. Sherlock fidgets with the buttons on his sleeves. "Nice campus, isn't it?" The attempt at small talk is a bad one, and Sherlock doesn't do human well.

"Yes, I'm quite aware. She was becoming unbearable." He's not as good as Sherlock as coming off cruel, but the truth was that the Dr told him to leave and it seemed a promising option. Until he moved in with Harry. Thank god for Xavier, really.

"You're not fine. You'd never been fine."

He gives his friend a firm look. "Sherlock. You know what this place is, don't you?"

"Yes, John. It's a school, and I'm the librarian," Sherlock retorts tersely. "I'm the bleeding Librarian, alright?" He really doesn't want to get into the actual reason he came here - tailing his best friend make sure none of the noise from London came looking for him.

With the same sort of exasperation, he strips off his shirt and flings it aside - and then remembers that he has, in fact, no less than two broken ribs and a few more that are cracked. Looking over at John with a blend of patience and annoyance, Sherlock slumps against the bench carefully.

"I'm always fine," he insists stubbornly, looking out toward the grounds.

"And what's your mutant gene, being a massive smartarse? I don't know why I never saw it before. I knew this sort of thing existed."

He wanted to say freak, but it reminds him too much of home and he's not sure Sherlock would appreciate the name.

"Right. You're not allowed to laugh. Close your eyes or something," he says, impatiently, bringing his hands closer to Sherlock's ribs.

"I heal faster than I should," Sherlock grumbles. "If I didn't there's probably no way I would have survived off the roof. I can also..." he sighs faintly, and reaches over to press a hand against John's head, no warning, no nothing. But then there's the image of him standing on the roof, only it's Sherlock looking down at John, rather than the other way around.

Then, John is introduced rather rudely to Sherlock's mind. There's the whirl of thoughts, impossibly fast, the view of John down on the ground, and Sherlock's heart (is it even possible?) aching for the man, feeling, as much as he can, that this is his responsibility, and he has to do anything, anything at all to keep John safe, not just John, but Mrs. Hudson and all of the rest of them. Helplessness, blinding fury that he's been bested by the man laying dead behind him. Panic - things hadn't gone the way they should have, Sherlock didn't count on Moriarty putting a bullet in his head - yes, he would have had to died, but the rest of the plan would have been easier. Moriarty's death sealed it all. There's no other way, there's no way out at all except to jump, to die himself. He's prepared. Blood packs, the ball under his arm, he knows how to fall, he's thought about it a hundred times before this moment- but... Sherlock looks down and fear rises in him. The echo of John's voice in his mind being played back at the man, distorted through a warp of analysis and memory.

Sherlock removes his hand and exhales shortly, closing his eyes against the world around him. He's has taken a beating. Not just from John. The places where John's wailed on him are more pronounced, purple and angry across his pale skin. There are a number of older bruises though, like someone took a brick in a sock to him or something. The wounds aren't just from falling off the roof, obviously. Sherlock's been in a fight. Several, and none of them have gone well for him.

Frowning, he almost tries to dodge the hand, not sure what Sherlock's up to. But then it connects and there are visions and feelings, far too many feelings and far too vivid and he feels guilt and horror and a horrible feeling of numb, terror and injustice that he's been beaten. Beaten by Moriarty, dead on the ground. And John can see himself and feel something more and....

When it breaks, he twists away, almost retching, hand on his chest, catching his breath.

It was too much, his hairs are on end, his mind trying to come down and belong to him again. And only him.

"What the HELL.... that...." He lets out a long breath. "What the hell was that?" he gasps.

Sherlock seems to withdraw into himself further, scooting away from John on the bench to potentially avoid getting socked in the face again. His grey eyes are wide and horrified, and his mouth pops open a bit for just a second.

"John... That was rude, wasn't it," Sherlock grimaces a bit, running his hands through his hair without thinking of the motion that it will make on his chest. "Don't hit me. Please. Really."

"Yes," he snaps. "...No. I don't know. It was just a bit...intense. What was it. I don't...."

He looks up, frowning, and waves off the last comment. "I won't." The guy got what he'd deserved. Sort of. Now John felt like maybe HE deserved a beating instead.

"That wasn't some sort of manipulation, was it? It was true?"

Sherlock grits his teeth at this, staring at John. "I'm..." He exhales shortly. "I'm telepathic. And not in the way most people think of it. I can only send and receive with one person at a time, but I can't hold anything back, either and the best part is," growing sarcasm in his voice now. "I can't lie. With any of it."

Harumph. So there, John. Sherlock sulks in his spot. He reaches for his shirt again and shivers a bit against the cold air. "Go on. Ask me something." He holds out his hand.

"No wonder you kept it secret, telling the truth would ruin your reputation," he shoots back, moving closer.

Still feeling dizzy, he backs away from the hand and stares at it.

"I don't trust myself not to be cruel right now. Leave your shirt off."

Crouching down, he begins to unravel the bandages, carefully reaching behind and around until they're loose enough to drop.

"Eyes closed," he warns, rubbing his hands together to warm them before gently placing them over the bruises and concentrating on healing thoughts. He still hasn't quite worked it out yet, but he's improving. He fixes as much as he can, already quite emotionally drained. But it's enough to make moving more comfortable, if not painless, and also to heal the bruising.

"Right. That'll do for now, your face can stay as it is a little longer," he says, dropping down onto his bottom in front of Sherlock with a deep sigh.

He still kind of wanted to hit him some more.

"I half expected you to reappear. I thought it would be sooner, should have figured, you do seem to like suspense."

"I almost always tell the truth, it's just not the convenient, easy truth that everyone seems to cling to all of the time. Truth is relative, John, truth is something that changes and warps to whoever's telling it at the time," comes Sherlock's slightly long-winded retort. He lets his hand drop back into his lap.

As John unravels his bandages, Sherlock shudders involuntarily at the cool wind hitting his skin, gooseflesh rising along his bruised ribcage. It looks like someone's nicked him a few times with a knife, though none of the wounds are more than irritatingly superficial. It is not a comfortable sensation, so when John's hands land on his skin, Sherlock can't help but give the tiniest of shivers, biting off a faint sigh. As the pain drains out of him, Sherlock sort of sinks into the bench with a small noise of relief, but he opens one eye to peer down at John carefully as he works - he didn't say he wouldn't peek, he just agreed to close his eyes. If John looks up, Sherlock looks somewhere between gratitude and exhaustion.

"It ... wasn't my intention," Sherlock states, seeming to struggle to find the right words. Being out of pain for the first time in months is something he's wordlessly grateful for, and perhaps he hadn't realized how tired he was - his own ability, after all, takes effort, and with Sherlock there is no telepathic whispering, it's just a giant deluge of noise and emotion. He'd relived that moment when he'd shared it, and sharing it had made his head hurt. Sherlock raises a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, exhaling shortly.

"...it didn't go the way they were supposed to." He avoids placing the blame on himself - but he should have known. Moriarty was unpredictable by nature and the turn of events should have been something Sherlock would have seen coming. He didn't, to the detriment of his friend, and himself.

"That is... extraordinary." No cynicism, no sarcasm. Sherlock is genuinely impressed. He could never dream of a skill like that. It made sense that the doctor had a knack for healing that was more than natural. A pang of jealousy rose in his chest - why couldn't he have something useful?

"Yes, yes, I stand corrected," John huffs. "Honestly, you know less about manners than you do about the solar system."

He looks up, briefly, and scowls childishly, catching Sherlock watching. "Things rarely do go as planned for the common man. Welcome to the ranks." He's teasing. There is nothing common about Sherlock, even in failure.

Standing up he scratches the back of his head and looks away to quietly take the compliment with a 'right, yes, well, thank you'.

"Neither are terribly important, you know," Sherlock quips in return, but the remark lacks his usual condescension. He stays on the bench for a moment, but only to don his shirt and stretch out his arms above his head with a grumbling noise. "People get in my way and the solar system doesn't have any practical, immediate application in my day to day life, so why would I need to know?" He means, people, John, not you, really.

Sherlock gets to his feet to stare down at John for a moment, and it's the same, intent stare that John got when they'd first met, Sherlock sweeping him for hints on his being - Iraq or Afghanistan - living well, or barely eating and avoiding human contact? Sherlock stops himself. He actually just halts his head and turns his focus outward back onto John, standing before him. Alive. Safe. Grumpy and eye-rolling as ever.

Averting his eyes and taking a few steps away from John. It's like he's not sure what to do with himself, jittery and nervous, his movements halting. A few steps away from John, a few steps back, and his face all trying to rearrange itself like... a smile? Worry? Whatever it is, Sherlock's not great at it, and the idea seems to agitate him even more. His hands go through his hair, and he looks back down at John again.

Oh, here he goes. So high above everyone else. Yes, this was definitely Sherlock. John rolls his eyes and shakes his head. There was no point arguing.

He watches Sherlock, lips pursed a little. He knows the first look, the one that takes everything in. The one he'd missed more than he thought he ever would. And then something strange happens. Something that's almost unreadable until he realises why it's unreadable on Sherlock.

Sighing, he stands and steps forward, hand out. "You're a massive idiot. For a smart git." He pulls Sherlock into a gentle, brief and manly hug, a quick pat to his back.

"Sorry about your face, I'll fix it later maybe. Put your clothes back on for now, you skinny runt."

Sherlock isn't concerned with manly - or really any of the human trappings of gender or appearances, so when John pulls him into a hug, Sherlock actually returns it with bone-crushing force, long arms wrapping around what is very probably John's head, rather than his shoulders. He's put his shirt back on, though not bothered to button it, and probably smells like an airline and rental cars. It's the sort of hug Watson might expect to get from a more normal person, in fact, however awkwardly executed.

And then Sherlock steps away just as abruptly, reaching to pick up his coat. He shrugs it back on, replacing the scarf as well.

"I've left the violin on the roof. Come on."

Sherlock's grinning. Ear to ear. Uncontrollably. There's a bounce in his step as he moves back toward the building, not bothering to look behind to make sure that John's keeping up, per usual.

Edited 2012-10-29 21:01 (UTC)

Not having expected the hug to be returned, John softens a little into it, not at all minding the smell. Because underneath it is the smell of Sherlock and home. ~~He's not gay.~~

With the hug over, John turns to pick up the stick, unsure of it until Sherlock says the magic word. He pales a little, feeling the chill of terror, and looks at Sherlock.

"Meet me in my office?" he says, clearing his throat and limping after him.

"What? No, come on, John, it's just a roof. You'll like the view or something poetic like that," He eyes the cane, turning walk backwards to watch the other man as he moves unfailingly for the school's doors, even catching himself from walking backwards into a lamppost. "The view's incredible, you've got to see it." Sherlock's still smiling. Maybe he hit his head harder than John would like to think?

He stops, waiting for John to catch up. His voice softens a bit, the smile fades and his eyebrows furrow, looking to the cane again.

"You don't need that. Don't be silly."

"No, Sherlock," he says, firmly. He looks his friend in the eye with the most stubborn expression he can muster. Giving up with being stern, his shoulders slump slightly and his face softens, the word 'please' written all over it.

The moment is gone almost instantly as he snarkily tells Sherlock 'I didn't until you mentioned the roof' and continues to walk with the stick.

Sherlock frowns even more deeply at this, and then he's stalking huffily toward John, reaching out to grab the man by the arm to haul him along with him - back toward the building. "No. You're coming with me. We're going up, John, up the stairs, and you are going to come with me and get over this, because at some point you're going to need to be on a roof again and I can't have you losing your mind. This is for your own good."

But then he sees John's face soften for that instant and he hesitates, his grip going a little slack on the man's arm.

"With me," Sherlock says, looking down at him intently. "Could you do it with me? If I don't let go of you and we don't go near the edge?

John digs his heels into the ground and almost leans back from Sherlock, shaking his head.

"I've seen you fall off that roof every day and every night, over and over, since that day. It hasn't stopped."

It gets too much and rather than have an openly emotional breakdown, he tries a different course of action.

"Your face looks ridiculous," he says quietly, leaning the stick on his leg and reaching out and softly holding Sherlock's cheeks. "Come here." He begins to heal him, hoping the loss of energy will knock him out. While he's improving with practice, it still tires him.

Sherlock about falls over himself as John refuses to move, tripping to a halt. Typical. He wheels back on the man with the familiar glint of irritation in his eyes and the set of his brow. As John speaks, the lanky detective falters again, coming to sort of shuffle back toward the doctor, blinking down at him sheepishly. He reaches up to lay his hands over John's (his palms are fairly cool, both from the air and from Sherlock being so very skinny.)

"John, stop, I'm fine. I d-... I deserved that." He tries to pry the doctor's fingers away from his face. "You don't need to do this. I'll heal just fine on my own. It's a different roof, you won't be alone on the ground."

And Sherlock just narrows his eyes, figuring the only way to prove himself will be if he's back in John's head again. Using the contact of their hands, he communicates one strong, forceful thought, pushing forward every inch of protectiveness (and perhaps possessiveness) he has to the other man.

I won't leave you alone again.

"No, you'll...people will look," he mutters, closing his eyes and trying over-heal to induce the exhaustion. It doesn't seem to be working enough as the wounds aren't very bad, but he still tries until Sherlock does that... thing again. He almost reels back, his stick clattering to the ground before he almost collapses against Sherlock, resting his forehead on the other man's chest.

He's aware a sound escaped him. Something between a sob and a gasp and he tries to remain still, though he can feel himself shaking a little.

"I'm sorry," he sniffs. Feeling a little shame and embarrassment at the feel of tears down his cheeks he continues stubbornly, "This must be very confusing for you. This is what happens when people are upset," he swallows more back, "and people get upset when their friends die, come back, and then make promises like that."

It was a promise, right? It had bloody well better be.

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good morning. :)

:D

awkward!sherlock

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