institutesamples | you know what I'm sayin'?

"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.

"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."

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good morning. :)

:D

awkward!sherlock

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