institutesamples | you know what I'm sayin'?

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)

What with all the touching, John soon begins to worry about Sherlock. The doubts increase, too, but only to two percent. The rooftop changed Sherlock. It scared him.

He leads him through the halls, giving an elbow to the ribs at his comments, not at all worried about any attention violence might bring.

"I was just trying to be clever with my response. And angry," he grumbles in his defence.... which then turns to teasing. "And who are you to talk about sexual preferences?"

The closest the man seemed to have some to any sort of relationship was that Woman.

"In here."

He unlocks the door and walks in, going to his desk and fetching the bottle out from the back of a drawer. He passes it to Sherlock with the glasses and locks the door once more. He's only on emergency duty for the rest of the day.

"I have made extensive study on the topic," Sherlock asserts, tucking his hands into his pockets and taking a good look around the office. He pauses for a moment, head tilted to the side, listening to the new sounds, carefully noting the entrances. That might be a new habit for him, really consciously observing where anything or anyone could slip in. "And I have every right to talk about it. Perhaps more than you, what with a new girl practically every week. I can barely keep up with them."

After pouring two glasses and setting John's on his desk in easy reach, Sherlock's eyes immediately go for the closest thing to a couch, and he sprawls in it. The posture might be a little too familiar - Sherlock immediately asserting his ownership of the space. He takes a sip of the liquor and says absolutely nothing.

"When it comes to sex, practice makes perfect, Sherlock," he says, casually. But he'ss very curious about Sherlock's experiences. Well, not curious just mildly, scientifically intrigued.

"It wasn't every week and they only changed because YOU kept scaring them away," he points out. "And at least I was getting some."

He takes his drink and sits in his chair watching Sherlock. It doesn't bother him that Sherlock is so at ease, he just can't yet fit him into this place. Put the two worlds together.

"The mechanics are very simple, even for the most complicated of positions," Sherlock takes a sip of his scotch, settling easily into the couch while stretching out his long limbs and somehow managing not to knock anything over. "I don't possibly see what could take practice." Sherlock sets his glass of scotch down somewhere near at hand where it won't be immediately knocked over. "Relationships sound boring anyway. Whole load of domestics I'd rather never have to bother with, I've got better things to do than listen to someone go on and on about how much they hate me and how I'll never measure up to their ideal."

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders, but his attention goes to John, and he stares back, head slightly tilted.

".... You're really clueless. It's like the solar System, only this time you at least know SOME basics," he grins, leaning forward, elbows on the table. It faltered a little when Sherlock went on and he looks at him with a curious expression. "I'm not exactly the right kind of Doctor.... but do want to talk about that?"

He's tempted to outright Freud him and ask about his mother. But, well, dangerous territory, he figures.

John gets the first of Sherlock's warning glares in awhile, and the tall detective just slides down to settle more firmly into the couch. His eyes flutter shut as he takes another sip of his scotch, inhaling the complex aroma that rises from the shot glass. He seems to enjoy the liquor for its taste rather than simply sucking it down like he had during the case of the Hound.

"Hm...." he considers, long and low, letting the glass settle on his sternum as he folds his hands around that. His eyes flick open again, settling on John.

"No." The answer comes immediately after John's finished trying to play therapist.

John shrugs and smiled to himself, taking a sip of brandy before just knocking it back and putting his feet up on the desk.

"I'm not sure what surprises me more, though. That you're possibly a virgin or that Mycroft possibly isn't."

Sherlock drains the rest of his shot glass as well - he didn't have terribly much in it. "Is this honestly that important or are you just trying to get a rise out of me?" Sherlock's hands remain folded over his chest - it's a familiar posture. John seated like a normal human being and Sherlock sprawled akimbo, taking up as much room on a couch as humanly possible for his skinny, whipcord frame. He has one foot propped up on the edge of a filing cabinet, the other stretched into the floor.

The detective's eyes remain closed, though he occasionally opens them to scan John's person in earnest now, trying to figure out what his flatmate's life has been like since he left. The office too, gets that particular, level gaze, Sherlock pulling apart everything he can see for clues without laying a hand on any of it.

"Not important just... interesting, I don't know. I mean it's just what people do, isn't it? Each other. You're not even curious?" he asks, quite genuine now and no longer teasing. "I mean... it's messy, it's complicated... embarrassing... sometimes bad. But generally speaking it's.... pretty damn good."

He catches Sherlock's gaze and frowns a little.

"There's not much to deduce, Sherlock. If you knew a thing or two about sex there would be."

"John that-..." Sherlock presses the tips of his fingers into his eye sockets with a grimace. "That is not what I was trying to figure out, and I am not people, you should know better than that by now." As John questions if he's curious or not, Sherlock just stares at him, looking at once for a loss of anything witty or clever to say. It takes him a second, but he recovers. "Why would I be curious? I'm not interested in progeny and I can't think of a single person the face of this planet that would willingly engage in a relationship with me, and aside from all of that, I can't fairly well have someone trailing after me and getting in my way or being a liability all the time. That's what closeness does, John, that's what romantic relationships or whatever you want to call them do. They get in the way, make for weakness, distraction, and there a thousand other things I could put my mind and effort toward rather than catering to the whims of another person."

Sherlock's tone grows increasingly irritated and picks up in speed as he speaks, until he's scowling at John, confusion written across his face. It's like John might have suggested crossing the alps on a alpaca, or something equally absurd.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. I don't do love." The word love is almost spoken like a curse. "I have one friend and that's enough for me. As for Mycroft, that is one area where I have remained blissfully ignorant and intend to remains so for the rest of my natural life. Unlike Mycroft, I don't feel the need to constantly interfere with the lives of other people around me." Sherlock reaches out for the empty glass and reaches over to set it down a little roughly on the desk in reach of John. It's a polite of a request as the doctor will get from what seems to be an increasingly surly Sherlock.

Edited 2012-11-01 22:40 (UTC)

There was something beautifully annoying and comforting about Sherlock being irked. Some of the words, however, strike a chord. The things he felt before when Sherlock touched him....sounded almost like his description of a relationship. But a friendship is the same thing without the sex anyway, right?

"You love Mrs Hudson. That's a type of love, so stop trying to act like you're above the rest of us, soft git."

He gets up and fills Sherlock's glass again and considers his own. He fills it.

Sherlock is always watching. Before the fall, he might not have cared nor noticed the play of emotions across John's face, but now he does, and he seems to sulk a bit as he picks up the glass of scotch from the table, sipping at it delicately. He's observed, certainly, that much is obvious by the shift of confusion over Sherlock's face. Why does everyone always take everything he says so personally? An annoyed flick of his eyes to the side as he takes in a stack of books.

"She's my landlady," grumbles Sherlock, curling his fingers around the glass. He had jumped for them. For all of them. Of course he'd had a way out, of course he'd figured out some way for it to all play out correctly (John was an unintended bit of collateral).

"He would have you killed, John," Sherlock's voice is abruptly quieter, a low rumbling in his chest, his words blurring together a bit, but it's not the alcohol. Sherlock seems near impervious to that, at least. "You. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Three snipers, he said. Three bullets. Either you play out that story, or all of your friends die. That's why, John. That's why I'm not curious."

John looks back at Sherlock and then the brandy still in his hand. For a moment, he's not sure what to do, but he knocks it back and returns to Sherlock, budging him a little so he could lean on the edge of the couch.

He puts a hand of Sherlock's shoulder and rubs it.

"I know... and I haven't really said...thank you. So. Thank you, Sherlock. But, you know, h- people, all people, need something to fight for." He looks Sherlock in the eyes and hopes his friend can see that HE is John's reason.

Sherlock budges over a bit more, so that John can sit properly rather than perching like a moron. As soon as the man is settled, Sherlock flops back against him, drawing an a slow breath. Yes John, you are now being used as a pillow, of sorts. Pale eyes turn up toward his friend, and Sherlock regards him quietly for a few moments, contemplation evident on his features.

He's never sure to say when things like this come up. Of course he jumped. It was the logical way to end the situation, to ensure the safety of those around him. Curls fall against the arm of John's jumper as Sherlock turns his head back to look at the expression in his eyes, trying desperately to read the doctor's face.

"I mean," he starts, a touch of discomfort in his tone. "You can handle yourself. You're a fine shot, you don't panic. You're... you're useful." He's trying. Really. He is.

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