clueingforlooks | Everyone says you bring out the worst in me like that's a bad thing.

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analoren

Everyone says you bring out the worst in me like that's a bad thing.

Ten days without a case. Ten days. Sherlock was out of his mind for it. Dozens of would-be cases had come in to his inbox and been dismissed quickly for one reason or another, solved, puerile, boring. It was past the phase where he'd likely blow holes in the walls of the flat, save for the fact that John's taken fresh measures at locking the firearms away from him, damn him.

It would seem that everything about Sherlock is building to a crescendo in the absence of work, even if realistically he's always on an ever escalating path to some madness or other. At least, though, when he's got a case, all this energy is focused in one direction. The past week and a half have been spent tearing through the flat. It's left his bedroom in wild disarray and the kitchen sink half out of commission. Which is to say that one basin is being used to test post-mortem bloat and skin slippage of something that's held submerged at the bottom tied to a weight - what that is, God only knows. There were a string of days in there where Sherlock hadn't bathed, hadn't checked in on his various experiments all over the flat - thankfully that string has been broken today with a long hot shower followed with more of the same. Pacing, staring, checking the website, and pestering John as if he has some kind of answer. As if he's holding out on him.

There's two emails he's just read not long ago, and he's not even going to bother writing them back right now. They barely had cause to write - it ought to be obvious, the answer - and so he's perched the laptop on a nearby pile of books and is sitting, staring into the fireplace, apparently lost in thought.

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Sherlock's not quite sure what to do with this information. There had been something there. Then John's busily telling him off for surprising him. Sherlock rolls his eyes at the accusation that proximity to Sherlock somehow increases John's likelihood of being kidnapped - that's really quite the reach. Besides, he's never quite bought the whole argument that this or that triggers his PTSD because it's been quite clear from the start that getting John's adrenaline going is not the problem, but the answer.

Clearly, no one wants to be kidnapped, but being thrust into the middle of danger has never done anything but shake John awake, pull him from the dull day to day that he tried and failed to slip back into and out into the rush of solving crimes. The difference between them is that when there's a dry spell, John doesn't lose his mind quite so openly. Sherlock can barely stand the boredom while John just pales, recedes into it, like he's forgotten all over again that he craves this, too.

He hasn't broken eye contact with John since the man started talking and flapping about with his complaints. It's a steady, uncomfortable gaze, to be sure. He's still working it out, wondering if he could possibly be right. He'd thought they'd gotten that out of the way very early on. John had questions and had pressed, but Sherlock had made his intentions at the time quite clear and since then John's made efforts to date, annoying as that was. But maybe there was more to it. This overreaction made it clear there was definitely something going on.

He watches him rub at his neck, and goes back to his explanation of his theory. His curiosity about this about John is only barely on the back burner because it, too, is something to be worked out, and John has always been high on his list of priorities. Even if it hardly seems so. Through the rest of his explanation and walking John (rather quickly) through the files and photos, he manages to mockingly reference John's overly jumpy reaction, just to push buttons.

John is very aware of Sherlock's studious gaze, having been subject to its overbearing weight more often than he'd like. Whatever Sherlock assumes about him is probably right, but John would much rather direct the conversation away from that and to something more productive and less embarrassing, and hopefully more distracting.

He bends close to look at the photographs again, trying and failing to discern something new, though he finds himself wholly ineffective and completely distracted. What if he'd squeezed just a little tighter? What if he'd not let go at all? Surely Sherlock would know when things were getting dangerous, wouldn't he? He wouldn't intentionally hurt John like that. But there was always that possibility.

John swallows hard -- an unconscious motion and picked up another photograph to force himself to study it. They were faint... but there were definitely markings. "These wrists must've also been tied up," he notes, showing Sherlock. "Not with bed straps, either, which is common in aggressive or patients with a tendency to hurt themselves. It's too thin. Matches the rope round the neck if you look closely enough." John frowns and shakes his head. "Maybe our paranoid patient isn't so out of his mind after all."

John's reaction, whatever that had been, is going to have to wait to be investigated until there's another lull in cases. It's no less interesting, but it's not as imperative as the photos that lay strewn across the table. John picks up on something else, something that Sherlock hadn't seen, and it reminds him all over again why he keeps him around. He's not just a substitute for his skull, he's a keen eye in his own right, even if he's nowhere near the level Sherlock is. Still, in this case, he begrudgingly has to hand it to him that he hadn't seen the marks on the wrist, which is curious - perhaps there had been an effort to cover these marks up. He wonders how soon after death the autopsy and photos were done, and if that would play some part in the visibility of certain marks. Perhaps they were rushed through before marks had time to really settle in... however, in at least one case, it appeared a greater length of time had passed and the lividity had partly marred the obviousness of marks.

"Get your coat on," Sherlock says, by way of saying that John was right. He's gathering the photographs back up in the envelope they'd come in, and then together, the two were off to meet with Lestrade with what they'd found and dig deeper. The whole thing ended up being nearly two days with barely any sleep for John and none at all for Sherlock, and they'd come out on the other side of it by proving it was homicide and finding the killer. It wasn't half so interesting once it was solved, but then again, almost nothing is. He just likes getting there, likes being the one to unwind it all and find the answer.

The case is over. Like they usually do, after, they stop off to get something to eat, partly because Sherlock has forgotten to in the past couple of days and he's starving, and partly because it's almost tradition now. Sherlock, for all he seems like he despises tradition and anything like regularity, secretly enjoys this little ritual they've fallen into.

The case had wrapped up rather nicely, and the nurse and the paranoid patient remained safe and sound. John likes when the cases have a happy ending, and apparently so do his readers. It's an odd relationship that a man has with strangers on the internet. He's never met them, scarcely has any desire to do so, and yet still manages to feel a certain obligation to make them happy, and manages to feel happy himself when he does. Curious how someone can have such a connection to so many people he's never met.

John's got his notepad out when they find a seat at a table for their usual post-case meal. It's a bit like a cigarette after sex, in that it's a nice, pleasant cap to an otherwise stressful ordeal. This particular one involved a Russian crime gang looking for their old compatriot and murdering poor men whose identity they had mistaken for their intended victim. Of course they had to be killed -- they knew far too much. Sherlock had laid a brilliant trap for them with a fake blog post in Russian.

He scratches out something on his notepad and taps the end of the pen against his chin while he hums in thought. "What do you think...? 'The Case of the Wrong Man'? or 'The Patient Residence'?" He mostly just asks to make Sherlock feel included, though he knows he really couldn't care any less about what John titles his blog posts. "Or maybe there's a play on 'Russian' I can work in here..." John is exhausted, but his mind is still on overdrive from the events of the evening. He'd been garroted in an alleyway by a large Russian man and even now he's still struggling to come down from the adrenalin high.

God, is this how Sherlock feels all the time? Christ what a nightmare.

Sherlock knows what he wants, so he's sitting with the menu closed and waiting for the server to come over. He's occasionally looking up, trying to make eye contact with someone to get them over sooner, but mostly he's watching John. He's sitting with his notepad, jotting notes about the case, preparing for his next blog post. It's tiresome - he certainly wouldn't do it - but he does know that it helps drum up business, if only for the number of times John has said as much. So he tolerates it, mostly.

He considers the two suggestions, making a face at the second. The first wasn't so terrible, but they're both fairly dreadful. The play on 'Russian' is truly awful, and he rolls his eyes.

"Like what? 'Fools Russian'?" there's enough emphasis that it's obviously 'Fools rush in,' and then very shortly after, he says quite seriously, "Don't you dare. I will not be a party to cheap puns."

He's aware of the joke and he's keeping a straight face through it. It's the principle of the thing, and maybe just a little bit because he's hoping for a reaction from John. He's very rarely funny on purpose, almost never, but those times that he is are usually after a case when nerves are still running high and neither of them have quite come down from the adrenaline.

John's still in the grips of it. Being busy, being on a case and running about and danger always brings out the very best (or possibly the worst) in John. He'd noticed it again, though, when he'd been a dozen feet away and struggling to overpower his own would-be assassin, he'd seen a flash on John's face as one of the Russians had him held very much the way Sherlock had the other day, the length of rope tight on his neck. It was the first time that Sherlock had gotten to actually see that look, rather than just the indignant aftermath of it. If he wasn't quite mistaken (and he wasn't), some note of the rush John had felt was arousal. Arousal with more than a little fear and panic mixed in, but arousal nonetheless. And Sherlock is trying to figure out just how to bring his observations up, because of course he is.

John gives Sherlock a Look when he brings up his pun. Honestly, that was terrible, even for John. Maybe it might make a good subtitle though (his readers always like to see Sherlock make an Effort). The first title seems a little vague for this, so he circles his second one and sets the notebook down for the moment, satisfied that he's made a great deal of progress already. He sinks into his chair and idly rubs his sore neck, coughing when he presses into his throat, somewhat aggravating the injury. He'd have to take things easy for a little while.

Oh but what a rush to be that precariously close to death. He'd choked and even blacked out for a moment before Sherlock had saved him. Brilliant. Of course he could trust Sherlock to save him before anything truly horrible happened. It's actually becoming somewhat of a regular thing, it seems, and John can't help but to smile to himself, idly stroking the bruises the rope had left.

It's only after a moment that he realises that he's even doing it and meets Sherlock's attentive gaze, and he looks embarrassed by it. His hand flies away from his throat and folds with the other on the table as John attempts to straighten himself up just a bit. "What?" he asks. "Don't... look at me like that. It's getting creepy when you do it."

Of course John circles the title he'd liked least. But then, the first one was terribly vague, so if he had to choose between two terrible titles, this isn't the worst he could do. Sherlock watches him set his notebook aside like he's made some great progress when he hasn't. He will, however, make a great deal of progress later or tomorrow morning while Sherlock is busily trying to do something else that doesn't involve listening to John's low level talking to himself as he writes.

Sherlock can't help but notice the way John rubs at his neck, a very subtle pink mark where the rope had rubbed that would be identical with the victims if only the man had succeeded. Sherlock's back in the moment, too, remembering how frightfully close he'd come to not getting there in time. He'd seen John shift from that initial rush into panic and to a wild fight for air and life that had begun to fail in the seconds before Sherlock got to them. Maybe John isn't the only one who has a thing for danger. Well, Sherlock knows he has a thing for danger, he just hasn't connected the dots and tied it to anything sexual because for him, the work has always been his whole life that he's never had interest or room to pursue anything more.

Their eyes meet and John is suddenly snapped away from wherever he'd been, embarrassed, but Sherlock's attention is unwavering. He briefly follows his hand as it comes away from his throat, then at how he straightens himself up as if his stance can wipe away what he's just seen.

"It's no wonder your infrequent attempts at dating never succeed," he says, apparently having a completely different conversation from John.

As usual, the connections on the Tube system that is Sherlock's mind are out of John's depth, and the only suitable reply John can think of straight away is, "...What?" and a rather offended stare. It's not unusual for Sherlock to make fun of his romantic life and its status and rather spectacular failures, but out of nowhere like that came off as less thoughtless than it normally does and... unusually cruel if John is being honest.

He'd absolutely meant to say it like that, and the intensity of Sherlock's gaze reminds John of the ones he gives to suspects as he unravels their whole history, motive, and methods right in front of them. John decides rather quickly that he does not like that stare when it's being focused on him. He's not sure if Sherlock knows it or not, but there's a certain twinkle in his eyes that he gets when he knows he's won. John didn't even know they were playing.

"I know you don't like my blog post titles but I think you'd be surprised at how many women find them... clever. Funny." At least, that's what they usually told him. Sherlock's words are making him very much doubt that now.

Sherlock hadn't intended to get quite the reaction he had gotten from John. It wasn't meant to be offensive and it takes him a couple of seconds to figure out why it might be taken that way. He still hasn't quite gotten it when he continues on.

"Oh, I'm sure they do, but that wasn't what I meant," there's a not so subtle tone there that suggests that maybe these women are stupid or easy or both (considering what Sherlock has seen of them), but again, it's not meant as offense. He's really not doing a great job here, and he hardly knows how much he's mucking it up.

"I think they like you... and your blog, just fine. It's just that they bore you," he says, and lets his argument rest there for a moment so he can watch it sink in. But then, he can hardly resist carrying on, showing off because he can. Because he loves being right and while this may not earn John's usual murmur of impressed approval, it can hardly fail to be interesting.

"You thrive on danger... all these women you've gone out with have been boring. They all blend together so much that even you sometimes can't remember their names," he's got you there, John.

"Arguably, the date you've had with the most potential, that I'm aware of, was with that doctor..." what's her name? Sherlock has no idea, "...at the circus. However, she was pretending to enjoy the show, which was comparatively the dullest part of the evening, in order to come back to the apartment with you, and she definitely didn't enjoy the rest of the night."

Not that John had necessarily enjoyed being kidnapped and held at gunpoint, but after, it had gotten his heart racing, left him feeling alive.

"It makes one wonder how much tedium are you willing to tolerate in order to 'get off,' as you said," once, one night, ages ago, he'd phrased it that way, trying to get off with Sara. Apparently, that had stuck in Sherlock's mind. "Is it really worth it when the courtship is that dull?"

Edited 2015-03-31 06:34 (UTC)

There are a couple of points during Sherlock's explanation where John wants to stop him, grab him by the collar, and shake him until he shuts up (not an uncommon desire for him). John wants to shake his head and tell Sherlock how wrong he is about him and exactly the reasons why, but the more he talks, and the longer his words sink in, John begins to realise just how correct he is.

Did he really find his dates boring? Well, for some of them, certainly that was the case. One wanted to spend their time together watching telly, and one even wanted to join a book club. Sure, all of that sounded nice in theory -- Normal, every day things that couples would normally do together, -- but no matter what he thought he desired in a mate, he would just... lose interest. Now was it because they didn't share interests like he thought, or was it just because they were all so painfully dull that he just didn't want to spend time with them anymore?

Yes, being out, being strangled in a dark alley, firing his gun at an escaping murderer, running down London streets, dodging punches, and yes, sometimes even looking ad dull old photographs for loose bits of evidence were what he enjoyed most. His heart thundering in his ears, finding something new, knowing that at any second, his life could change... or even end. It was exciting, and John can't think of any better way to affirm that he is indeed alive.

Except now he's just staring at Sherlock in disbelief that he'd not only say all of this plainly, but in the middle of a restaurant where there are people nearby who can hear them. He shakes his head, shaking off Sherlock's train of thought and refocusing his mindset.

"Look, I know what you're trying to do, but it's not going to work." John's voice is firm, but he's not looking at Sherlock. He needs to be confident in his words, and he can't do that when Sherlock's stare bores into him and tears down his confidence in himself. "This -- This is different. I can't have this be my entire life like you can. There's nothing wrong with having a... normal life outside of your work. For normal people. I need something solid I can turn to when all of this gets out of hand and threatens to drive me insane." And now that he's said the most important parts, he finally looks up at Sherlock. "You know that this work isn't easy for someone like me."

But John is so wrong.

He's taken exactly the same math and come up with exactly the wrong answer. It's like the work is all there, it's all done for him, and yet he's added two and two and come up with five once again, stubbornly, and Sherlock just stares at him in equal disbelief. He's just pointed out what John knows to be true, that normal bores him so much that he can't remember the names and details of his girlfriends, that danger is what he's after and why he's here, with Sherlock, running out of the flat in the middle of the night to chase down killers and risk his life.

And still, he's saying that normal is what he wants. Most days he would let that go, but then, most days he wouldn't have met this head on, wouldn't have pushed it in the first place. Today, he had an ulterior motive, one he wanted to test, and one he was confident was accurate. John had been aroused while they were fighting in that alley way, and he had been in the kitchen the day prior when it was Sherlock's hands holding the rope in the kitchen. There's unexamined things there for Sherlock, emotions and feelings, interest and need of his own that's easier to ignore and just focus on the mystery that is unraveling John Watson.

"How's that working out for you, then?" he asks, voice cold. "That normal life you're after."

Sherlock selfishly thinks to himself that it's him that John turns to when this gets out of hand. It's Sherlock that's there for John when it threatens to drive him insane, even if that's the furthest thing from true if John means anything more than physically present and not even always that. Sherlock just selfishly wants John without sharing, and feels he deserves him, because he can see through this nonsense about wanting to be normal to know what it is he needs.

Like any sane person would be, John looks rather offended by the comment, as if it were to imply that things aren't going the way he wants them to. He stares a moment before he clears his throat and sets his napkin in his lap -- any excuse to look away from that knowing stare.

"Fine. Everything's going fine. Would be better if I could have girls over without worrying about them stumbling on one of your.... experiments while looking for morning coffee. Not again." How is he expected to find a girl if he can't even bring her over whenever he wants? They usually get suspicious when you can't have them over even once, and that breeds all sorts of problems.

"In any case, why do you bloody care so much about it, hm?" Now John's the one being aggressive. Enough parrying; it's time to strike back. "You needle and you pry and you... assume things about people, and you don't. Stop. Pushing. Why is that, hm?" He folds his hands on the table and looks Sherlock dead in the eye this time. "Is it because you're so wrapped up in your work that you get jealous when people can't do the same? Are you afraid people will find you so dull on a personal level that you have to beat them down until they concede you're better than they are?"

He shrugs and shakes his head. "I'm not going to buy it. I know you better than that now, and your games don't work on me anymore." Okay, that might have been a bit of a lie, but he wasn't as easily impressed anymore. Sure, watching David Copperfield disappear the Statue of Liberty is impressive, but after the fiftieth time, it begins to grow weary, even if the illusion still eludes.

Sherlock has a reply ready for that, about John and having girls over and the morning coffee, but he's cut right off when John carries on through into the offensive. That was rather unexpected, and it takes him back for a moment.

The worst of it is that John's... not wrong. At least not entirely. It would be so much easier if the cases meant to John what they meant to him, if he could get the same sense of satisfaction from them that Sherlock did. Of course, John enjoys the rush, he thrives on the danger-- they've established that. But John is right, there's more that John wants, that he needs - even if he is wrong about that missing piece being a normal life. Sherlock could be completely satisfied with cases, with new mysteries to solve and working them to completion with John at his side, but for John that's just not enough, and... is that it? Is he afraid of what people would think of him beneath it all? Not people, not people who don't matter, but John.

Maybe. There's a flicker of something on his face like uncertainty, and it gives him away, that he's vulnerable. Human. He wants to be enough even though he hardly knows what it is he wants, because as perceptive as he is, he can't turn all that intellect inwards.

"It's not assumption if it's correct." No, then it's deduction. It's knowing.

He's not even going to address the rest, because he's not trying to get John to concede that he's better (besides, he already has in so many ways). He's trying to get John to realize that what he keeps trying to run from is what gets him going, and see what he does with that.

"Put inelegantly, what I'm saying is that you keep chasing after boring when danger is what gets. You. Off," and with that there's a pointed brush of his fingers against his own pale, untouched neck, where John's neck carries the brush of rope burn from earlier and the memory of it from yesterday in the kitchen.

That flicker of uncertainty is all John needs to tell him he's right. It's a fantastic feeling, Sherlock Holmes telling you you've deduced something correctly. But then he just keeps talking. The motion across his neck isn't lost on John, and he reaches up to touch his own sore neck and the warmth of the fresh bruising.

It hurts to swallow, but he does. Is Sherlock saying he was getting aroused by nearly being killed? That is a wild assumption for him, and feeling some of that warmth creep up to his ears to turn them red, he fires right back at him, voice still firm, but clearly on the defensive.

"Are you saying... I was getting turned on when this happened?" He asks, "Sherlock, I nearly died tonight. Who the hell gets off on that?" Him, he supposed. He had felt his erection in his pants, but didn't have much time to think on it, seeing as he was quickly losing consciousness when it happened. And if he'd noticed it, surely it's not unreasonable to think that Sherlock might have, too. "Don't be stupid. Believe it or not, it is a physical reaction that does happen in those situations." He made a face. "I'm not some sort of sexual deviant." How could he be when all his girlfriends had been so boring in bed?

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he winced a little. Dammit, Sherlock. How the hell was this fair?

There's a part of him that's loathe to give anyone else a moment of glory at his expense, and yet there's another part of him that very much enjoys seeing the expression of victory on John's face. He can divide it away from the situation, away from his own uncertainties and fears that John has appallingly hit on, and simply relish this side of John. And maybe that's uncomfortably too close to being introspective in its own way. He's sitting here accusing John of getting turned on when he'd nearly died, and now he can't think of anything but how the same physical reactions crop up in him when John is like this. Confident, cocky even, so assured in his own capabilities that he jumps into risky situations without another thought... John, if he were perceptive enough, could easily be sitting on the other side of the table calling Sherlock out.

But he's not, thank God.

He lets John work through it. He can almost see it in the look on his face, like he's mentally answering his own question -- who gets off on that? Clearly you, John.

"Not always... there have been plenty of times you've been in danger without that particular reaction..." Sherlock can recall all of them. Granted, he hadn't been looking for that particular piece of evidence from the start, but going backwards he can recall the lack of signs in certain situations. John is actually quite remarkable. There are times when they're in the thick of it that they're breathless, pulse racing as they race through London, and other times when tension runs high and any other man would be shaking with nerves that John is cool, collected, standing firm. No, this reaction is definitely not always -- he'd have connected it far sooner -- but it's definitely there. And it bears more investigation, but for now he's got enough to press on with.

"...I'm not saying you're a sexual deviant. The neck is a highly sensitive area, in many individuals, yourself obviously included, an erogenous zone... granted, not everyone enjoys quite that level of, shall we say, stimulation..." because he clearly had, in the alley and in the kitchen, and there's no convincing Sherlock otherwise, because he knows.

Sherlock was right. His neck had always been a rather sensitive area for him, and he'd always liked it when women would kiss and bite him there. The way Sherlock talked about it made it seem, well, kind of normal.

No. No, he couldn't let himself get sucked in like that. That's how you lose arguments, John.

"Christ, Sherlock, he was strangling me!" He caught himself in his exclamation and lowered his voice to a stinging hiss when people began to look round. "If that doesn't proudly exclaim, 'sexual deviant', I really don't know what does. And you're insisting that I like going round, getting choked by strange men. I don't." Strange men, no.

"Look: Think what you want. I don't care. You're wrong, you're wrong. Can we please move on from this before the waiter gets here? I really don't want the staff of the places we visit to think I'm a pervert." His expression is firm, but there's a hint of pleading in his eyes; not one he's sure Sherlock is either going to abide or care about, but when he inevitably storms out, at least he'll be able to say he tried first. "God knows I'm not trying to embarrass you in front of everyone."

Sherlock can see him almost come across to his reasoning, but then he's right back in the middle of that indignation and Sherlock sighs. He protests so much and isn't that exhausting after a while? It seems like it would have to be.

"Well, not strange men, no," he says, giving him that much. Clearly, on some level John had liked it or they wouldn't be having this conversation at all, but there had been a healthy mix of fear and panic in the alley. In the kitchen it was a different story. Shock, yes, even panic in the moment, but the rest of it was a clear case in favor of Sherlock's conclusion.

"I'm not wrong, but fine, no need to discuss this now." Sherlock doesn't bother to comment that there's no way to embarrass him in front of everyone because he doesn't rightly care what people think of him. This is certainly a conversation that will continue later, when John least wants it to continue.

The waiter arrives to take their orders, and Sherlock orders his own usual and looks at John and recites his usual as well before adding, "Unless of course I'm wrong."

"Good. Glad to see we're not being petulant about this," John says stiffly. He gives the menu an indignant look-over, trying to find something contrary to order but... ultimately finding nothing else that sounded even remotely appetising right now. With a heavy sigh, he waved his hand in Sherlock's direction. "What he said." Of course Sherlock wasn't wrong. He so very seldom was.

He's really not looking forward to getting back to the flat. Normally, it would be a fine thing to finally be able to relax after a rough night and with a full belly, but if Sherlock is this dead set on getting John to admit to some perversion of his, he doesn't anticipate much sleep until he can either placate Sherlock's desire to know this thing or he finds another suitable distraction. But it seems for now, John is the distraction, and he's none too happy about it, either.

Despite how jovial the meal had begun, the rest of it is spent in absolute silence, at least from John's end. He won't even make eye contact with Sherlock and would occasionally stab at his meal a little harder than he needed to to remind Sherlock that, yes, John was still very much upset with him. He'd ruined a perfectly lovely after-case victory meal, after all. That was unforgivable. He maintained his silence all the way back to the flat, where he immediately threw off his jacket an set his notepad on his armchair.

"I'm going to bed," he announces. It's not a request or even a friendly gesture, but his voice seems to suggest it's closer to a warning.

Sherlock doesn't dignify that with a response. He will admit that he's petulant, but not, as it happens, while he is being so. He's well aware that he's a difficult man to live with, but John knows what he signed up for and he's still here beside him. Besides, right now, he feels that his actions are justified. How hard is it for John to just admit he was wrong when he was so clearly wrong? Not that Sherlock thinks he's a pervert. The term pervert rubs him wrong, it points to some certain subset of interests, interests that are different from what is usually considered to be normal and claims that they're somehow shameful and deviant. John does like the feeling of a rope against his throat. To what end, Sherlock doesn't know yet, but he clearly likes it to some degree, but that doesn't make him a pervert. Sherlock isn't passing any judgment. It's simply a fact.

The meal is mostly silent. He makes a few attempts at conversation and where he might sometimes not realize John isn't answering until hours later, right now he notices straight away. Clearly, Sherlock isn't the only one being petulant about this. He finally stops even trying and the meal is finished in silence. Back in the flat, Sherlock is wondering what ground can be won back tonight or if he ought to regroup and try again another day from another direction. John's announcement that he's going to bed should make up his mind to let it all drop for the night, but on the contrary it does the opposite.

It makes him want to insert himself like a wedge between John and bed, to keep him here. It's childish and this time he's well aware of that fact, but he thinks that their conversation had been almost on the edge of something but fallen short because Sherlock didn't know how to navigate like this. All he could do was chip away at another person's truth when what was likely needed was give and take. That was so foreign to him, and even if it wasn't, he hardly knew what to say.

"I've been thinking," he begins as if he hadn't heard John speak at all, "We both could do well to stay sharp when it comes to fighting off would-be attackers." That much was clear from how much ground the Russian had gained when he'd jumped on John. Sherlock's actually putting it fairly delicately. Stay sharp could easily have been phrased get better. Not to say that John is incapable, but the Russian had had the advantage of size, weaponry and surprise.

"It would be pointless if we knew when it was coming, however. We would have to take turns attacking each other at random. There would need to be agreed upon parameters..." he trails off.

Of course Sherlock would try to interject himself between John and his bed. Of course. He's halfway through the kitchen when Sherlock begins talking, and with shoulders slumped and a flat expression, he turns to face him and listen. He's sure that Sherlock's been ruminating over how best to approach this subject, and John is only a little surprised that he's picked this avenue. He frowns at the suggestion that he hasn't been performing well enough, but the 'random attack' scenario seemed to John to be a questionable idea at best.

"Hang on," he says, spreading his hands and taking a half step back toward Sherlock. At least he hasn't written off the whole thing already and just retreated to bed just yet. "Are you... actually suggesting that we try to surprise one another by trying to batter each other when we're not expecting it?" He doesn't look convinced right away. Sure, that's what Sherlock had said, but he just wanted to make sure he understood the concept.

"So, what, you want to come at me with a knife while I'm having my morning coffee? While I'm dressing?" He shakes his head and drops his hands. "This is stupid. One of us could get really badly hurt doing this." And while the idea did have merit, John supposed, on some level, he knew Sherlock well enough to know that when he meant random, he truly meant it, and living life constantly on edge seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

Sherlock gives John's concerns due consideration, and once he has, he continues talking.

"As I said, we would need to have parameters. I think edged weapons and guns should be off limits. Besides, we know you're more than capable with your weapon, that's not the point..." the point is to shave off the couple of seconds or so when reacting to an attack, to begin to sense when it's coming, to listen for it and go into fending it off seamlessly.

"During the night when we're asleep--" or rather, when John's asleep, as Sherlock sleeps very little, so this accommodation is mostly for John, "is off limits. As should be showers and meal time."

Sherlock would like to avoid John choking on his food because he'd leaped on him while he was having tea, or needing to phone ambulance after taking John down in the shower. That's not to say that this idea had been devised with pure intentions. There was the obvious added bonus of putting to the test his conclusion about John's reactions to that particular brand of attack.

"I think given the limits I've laid out, we can fairly well control the risk. Besides, you're a doctor, and we're not really going to harm each other. We'll stop when the victim calls for mercy."

Clearly, the point wasn't to seriously hurt each other.

John listened to Sherlock, nodding along every now and then to show that he understood what was being said. Under the surface, he was seething, however. Slowly building to a boiling point while he watched Sherlock explain, slowly flexing his hands behind his back.

"You want this to be a training exercise?" John had plenty of experience with training exercises in his life, and if one thing could be said about them, it was that they were utterly unpredictable. After all, in the Army, you had to be prepared at any moment to move and fight back.

"All right. Training. I think I can do that." And to show Sherlock just what he thought of his ridiculous "training" exercises, he reeled back and threw a punch into his face, only waiting around just long enough to make sure that Sherlock didn't hit any furniture on his way down before turning around and finishing his trek to the bedroom.

"That was the general idea, yes."

Sherlock maybe should have been paying more attention to John's body language, but as it is he doesn't catch on that John's winding up for a punch until just before it comes.

"Good," he says, and he's just opening his mouth to ask if John feels that starting in the morning is fair enough, given that John's not slept well in the past few days from the recent case, to give him tonight without concern, when the blow comes suddenly. There was warning if he had been really paying attention to it, and as it comes, Sherlock could have dodged away from it, but for whatever reason he doesn't.

It hits hard and he goes down from the force of it. John certainly doesn't pull his punches. He never has with him, ever, always coming at him with the full force of his strength and ability. That's something Sherlock respects, even as he's pushing himself up off the floor, a hand cupping against his cheek and jaw as he watches John retreat to the bedroom.

The following morning finds Sherlock having gotten a few hours of sleep and a shower before John wakes up. He's dressed and ready and waiting in the flat by the time John comes out to fix himself coffee. His bedroom door is closed to give the impression that he's still asleep - not uncommon, when he's catching up on sleep he frequently sleeps past eleven - and he's somewhere hiding, barefoot so he makes no noise as he moves over the hardwood floors, listening for John.

Because John has it coming to him now.

John had thought he'd made his opinion perfectly clear about what he thought about Sherlock's suggestion, so he put it right out of his mind as soon as his head met pillow. So the next morning, when he emerged in his pyjamas and bathrobe, he did not even consider looking for Sherlock, only giving as much consideration to him as checking his bedroom door to see if he was still sleeping. It appeared so, and so he trudged into the kitchen to put on some coffee and begin digging around the cupboards for something quick to put in his stomach.

Now that he had time to cool off, John actually felt somewhat sorry for hitting Sherlock. With calmer, more rational mind, he began to suspect that maybe the suggestion wasn't entirely a bad idea, and that maybe he'd judged too quickly. He'd been so wrapped up in his own mind and frustrations that he didn't even take the time to analyse any of the merits of it, and really only thought it was stupid because he was upset with Sherlock at the time.

Maybe he'd apologise when he woke up. Maybe. Honestly, it depended entirely on Sherlock and on whether or not he was going to continue pressing the issue from the night before.

Sherlock waits, straining to listen. He can hear cupboards opening and closing and the coffee pot beginning to boil. He was prepared to wait as long as it took to catch him, and he knows how long John lingers in the kitchen with his coffee so he knows about how long he'll be there before he comes out here to find the paper. Since he's not making a full breakfast, he won't bring it back to the kitchen to read, but probably settle down in his chair with it. That means, unfortunately, that he'll probably come out carrying his mug, but some casualties are bound to happen during these training exercises. He's only partly suggested it to prove his point, that John thrills at the absurdly dangerous. The rest is all sincere, the idea that it will do them both good. Hone their skills and their senses.

As soon as John emerges from the kitchen to the sitting room, Sherlock is in motion, bare feet hardly making a sound on the hardwood floor, and what sound is made hardly matters because he's on him so fast and so without warning that there's hardly the time to realize what's going on. All at once, Sherlock collides with the doctor head on and grabs for him, taking full advantage of having surprise on his side and gaining the upper hand for the moment. He's thrown an arm around him to pin John's arms and together they're toppling to the ground in a relatively controlled motion, all things considered. But this isn't over until John concedes defeat, or until Sherlock effectively pins him to the floor.

Everyone says you bring out the worst in me like that's a bad thing.

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