Introspection

Read it here on archiveofourown!

*****

Summary:

Sherlock Holmes is sick. John Watson is concerned.

This is literally just the result of me being unable to sleep at the Sherlocked convention because I had a cold. But I actually quite like it, so I'm posting it. Wahey! Also, 2nd person POV and present tense isn't my usual writing style, but it just fit, so that's just something we're all going to have to deal with.

"He’s Sherlock. How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head?" - Mrs. Hudson, A Scandal in Belgravia

*****

"I'm not sick."

A sigh, not yours. Expression of exasperation, the way the muscles of his face move just so. How long had it taken to perfect that look? How long did it take to become so familiar? You feel as though you've always known it.

"I'm not arguing with you about this."

The reply is tactful. De-escalation of events that hadn't yet come to , avoiding a fight. He knows the timing of punches well, knows when not to throw one. Verbal choreography, no backing track but the pitched rustle of fabric against leather as you shift to get comfortable. He has sighed so now you can't. Turn down the corners of your lips, the suggestion of a pout. Receive a firmer look, one eyebrow raised as the rest of his face sets in the expression. Perhaps it wouldn't have been a fight you could win after all. But that is how the losing side thinks. Can't afford to think like that.

"There's no argument to be had. I'm not sick."

There are two ways to find out where boundaries lie. You are told, or you push forwards blindly until your hands connect with them. He is a man full of boundaries, and you are never told where they are.

"Sherlock."

His voice is tinged with softness, at odds with the hardness of his expression. Hold his gaze, figure out what this means. He is a man of complexities, but you pride yourself on knowing all there is to know about him. A self-taught, self-proclaimed expert. Or you would be, if he didn't constantly reveal to you new depths to who he is. Sometimes you can't even tell if this is due to personal development or if it has always been an aspect of him, previously unrevealed. Most of the time, it doesn't matter. As frustrating as it can be to not know all that there is to know about him, you'll never grow bored.

He's still staring at you, ever patient. You don't deserve it - you were secretly hoping to hit the boundary. But that won't happen this time. New tactic.

"Whether I'm sick or not, it won't affect my work."

You're focused. You're always focused. Working stops for nothing. Not for illness, nor injury, because the voice inside your head that tells you to rest and recover in bed is the same one that belittles you, insults you, reminds you of all your flaws. You need it to be quiet. But you can never silence it, so you've learnt to give it other things to talk about. Distractions. Cases. Experiments. Research. Him.

"You've gone through a whole pack of tissues in the past twenty minutes, and put a considerable dent in the packet of throat sweets I gave you. Stopping to blow your nose every few minutes will definitely affect your work."

An unfortunate truth. But if you accept it, give in to the voice on this occasion, then what is to stop you from doing so again, that time with more drastic consequences? No, best load up on enough cold medicine to take the edge off things but not so much that it entirely dulls the senses and work through it.

"You've seen me take down criminals whilst covered in mud, blood, excrement - individually and that one occasion when it was all three. I've been drenched in sweat and Thames water, and I've still made the arrest. A day or two of a snotty face is relatively mild."

Appearance is another thing you pride yourself on, but it's certainly not something you'd allow to prevent you from working. How many times did it stop you before? Strung-out, unwashed, not listened to. Dismissed. Never mind the solution to their conundrum, never mind the absolution of guilt and grief. It takes a clean cut suit and the meticulous taming of hair to be heard. You never did like the suits, but at least now there is comfort in their familiarity. You never really adjusted to the ties, though.

"Sherlock, I don't care what you're covered in when you take on the criminal classes of London. I care about you. Your health, your well-being. A few days' rest won't kill you. There will still be murders and thefts and everything else after you take the time to recover."

God, you wish it was his voice in your head and not your own. His version of your life seems so much better than the reality. Always has been. He doesn't know you're worried that it really would kill you. That's something he should never know. Let him think you resist out of stubbornness. Protest for the sake of protesting. This isn't something you can explain without him worrying, and there is nothing to be worried about. This is manageable, comparatively the most comfortable you've ever been in your own skin. It's something he could never - should never - understand.

But his response has put you at a loss for words. Grasp at the fragments of sentences, unable to string them into something resembling coherence. You know he cares. Once he revealed that, it was as though he couldn't stop making it clear that he cares. Still, you never get tired of hearing it. Even if you have no idea how to respond. This time it's not solely due to the expression of sentiment.

Change the subject.

"I'm going to put the kettle on. Do you want tea?"

That sigh again. He's not going to let you get away with it that easily. His hand on your shoulder, keeping you where you sit. Eyes locked, serious. You've played this game too many times, fought this fight once too often. He won't let you carry on like that.

"Sit. Rest. I'll make us tea."

Succeeded in changing the subject, failed in getting him to leave you to get on with things yourself. Given how terrible an attempt it was at diverting the flow of conversation, you suppose you should be pleased with the result. Reluctantly, you slide a little lower in the chair, curl in on yourself. You've exhausted yourself in this pointless argument, and you suspect he can see that. Why are you still fighting? How long can this reasonably continue?

"No milk, but put a bit of honey in it."

He turns back to give you a smile. Another kindness you don't deserve, not when you're making demands like that. You'd be forgiven for mistaking him for a saint with this patience, but you know that really it's being tucked away within him somewhere. Bottled up anger. You still don't deserve him.

The next thing you is the sound of a mug being placed on the table besides you, so you can't have been lost in your thoughts for more than a minute or two.

"Sherlock."

He says it in the voice people use when waking somebody up, but you weren't asleep.

"Wasn't asleep."

He laughs softly and you know he doesn't believe you, so you're a little more wide-eyed than you need to be as you sit up. Exaggerate your alertness.

"Tea's made. Drink up, then maybe think about going to bed and having a proper lie down, yeah? You could load up that documentary about American serial killers on your laptop."

A decent suggestion, one you're likely to agree to. Something to do whilst you're sitting idle. You pick up the mug, take a sip.

"Will you watch it with me?"

Another unreasonable request. You can see a flash of hesitation cross his expression. Forget to control your own a moment, know it betrays your hopefulness, doubt perhaps? Whatever it is your face does, it works.

"Yeah. Yes, alright, I'll watch it with you."

"Thank you, John."

"You're welcome, Sherlock."