John Watson and the Sociopath

Chapter 2

When will you be home? -SH

5:30. Why? -JW

I'm thirsty and we're out of milk. -SH

Then get off your butt and go get some! -JW

But you always do the shopping. -SH

Exactly. -JW

Dr. John Watson dropped his phone on his desk and swiveled to the filing cabinet. Why Sherlock couldn't leave his Mind Palace long enough to get the bloody milk was beyond him. John rubbed his temples, trying to clear the memory of Sherlock's cynicism from his head. Sarah, he thought. He grabbed his cell phone and punched speed dial 4.

"Hey! You've reached Sarah, I'm not near the phone right now, please leave a message or try again later." John pushed out of his incredibly uncomfortable chair. He scooped his jacket off the back of the chair and made his way to the door.

Outside 221B Baker Street, Sherlock was sitting on the steps, dark curls splayed across his pale forehead. Ignoring him, John unlocked the door to the flat and marched up the stairs. Dropping the groceries (including milk) on the counter, he made his way to the lounge. Sherlock padded in after him, hovering as John reclined on the sofa. "Can I help you?" John snapped. Hurt flashed in Sherlock's eyes as he stepped back. "Milk?" He inquired softly. Now John felt bad. He gestured to the counter. Would he ever understand Sherlock?

It had been a fairly slow day, the wind biting cold. John and Sherlock had been called to assist in the investigation of a triple homicide including gang activity. Through gritted teeth, John managed, "How are you not cold?" Sherlock hastily removed his scarf and draped it over John's neck. John blushed when he realized how much he enjoyed wearing the sash of blue warmth. Sherlock paid no attention as he began deducing Sally and Anderson's secret relationship. "Wife not home, Sally is shrouded with the scent of moron... Hmmm..." He murmured just loud enough for John to hear.

John loved it when Sherlock deduced things. It made everything so clear, like the pieces of an impossible puzzle were falling into place. Come to think of it, it was always like that with Sherlock. Everything felt so simple, so clear... So right. John had come back from Afghanistan with seemingly no purpose in life. In one week, Sherlock had changed that. His limp was gone, nightmares vanquished, and life was full of vivid color. When Sherlock had jumped off the roof of the bloody St. Barts, John had realized that he truly loved Sherlock, not that he would ever say it out loud, even to Harry or his therapist. He had spend years, three bloody YEARS believing Sherlock, his best friend, was dead, until one day he walked in the lounge to find Sherlock, tea in hand, on John's laptop. That was the first time- and last- John had ever fainted.

Jarred back to the world by Sherlock's bony elbow in his ribcage, John noticed how dark it had gotten. "Cased closed," Sherlock said simply. "We can go home now." John nodded and they trodded in the direction of Baker Street.