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the me inside of me

By @colonelmajorkepler and @nouriyx

Sherlock hated deceit. He hated when people lied, when they put on an act, for their own selfish gain. He hated Penny Montgomery, hated Charles Augustus Milverton and Jonathan Small. He liked John Watson for that exact opposite reason; he was so transparent with his feelings, so upfront and straightforward, so–

“Hahaha! She did that, did she?! What a slob!”

Sherlock liked things – people – to be predictable, easy to figure out. He loved the comfort of routine in his personal life, the safety of knowing exactly what to expect. And he liked, ever since that fateful day when Watson and Stamford entered the lab, how easily they had built a rapport, how Watson became easy to read like the back of his hand–

“Oooh yeah, pour me more, baby!”

…But right now, he didn’t recognise the John Watson in front of him. He had, of course, seen Watson drunk plenty of times before – cheeks tinged pink, stuttering more than usual, giggly and very affectionate, warm, soft, endearing – yet here, surrounded by all his old school mates, he was loud, brash, and downright rude. A different person entirely.

Sherlock hated it.

Feeling thoroughly brushed aside by his best friend, Sherlock slipped outside. Another glance told him Watson hadn’t even noticed. It was insulting. Watson could read him like a book, knew his cues and preferences and oddities better than anyone. How thoughtful of him, now, to forcibly drag him to an event only to ignore him the entire time. Resentfully, Sherlock thought he should’ve taken on any one of the boring cases, or anything really, if it meant spending the weekend not pretending to be the corner lamp.

It was a few days ago that Watson received the invite on Facebook from an old classmate to attend an unofficial secondary school reunion party. He was ecstatic, and predictably, had immediately asked Sherlock if he wanted to come with, claiming it had been a while since they had gone on a trip together. Sherlock thought it more logical for Mariana to come instead, but she had said something about going to Imani’s house while winking excessively at Watson behind his back. Sherlock still wasn’t sure what she meant by that.

And so Sherlock tagged along. He had been somewhat convinced that he could maybe enjoy himself as long as he stuck by Watson, but he supposed that was just wishful thinking, seeing as they had only really enjoyed Swindon the last time because they were alone on a case. Sure enough, when a group of men approached Watson, cheering and swinging their arms over his shoulders before handing him pint after pint, Watson forgot about him entirely. After that, other than a brief introduction of who Sherlock was, he had barely spared him another glance.

His fingers twitched for a cigarette. Instinctively, he patted his pockets. Nothing. He was trying to quit, of course, for Watson. Because no matter how convinced Watson was that his logic finally broke through to Sherlock, it really was his personal dislike of cigarette smoke that cemented the decision.

And yet there Watson was, surrounded by smoke and vape in that poorly filtered function hall without a care in the world. Some doctor he was.

“I hope you weren’t trying to sneak a cigarette out here.”

So occupied with his annoyance and fidgeting for something else to do with his fingers, he hadn’t even realised the subject of his thoughts had slipped out until he was right beside him, the smell of booze and smoke suddenly filling his senses. He willed his heart to stop beating so erratically.

“I don’t see you telling off all your mates for smoking,” Sherlock said, his tone a touch too sharp.

Watson chuckled, awkwardly, tilting his head slightly in confusion at Sherlock’s tone. “Yeah well, I don’t care about them. I care about you.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“What was that?” Watson was on alert now, not too drunk that he couldn’t detect Sherlock’s sarcasm, as rare as it was.

“Nothing.”

“No, I definitely heard you saying something.” Watson’s eyebrows furrowed, concerned, taking a step closer to Sherlock. “You good, mate? Was it too loud in there?”

Sherlock took a step back. “It was, indeed, quite loud, no thanks to your contribution.”

Watson’s eyes widened, looking visibly taken aback.

“Okay, what is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“No, clearly, you do.” Watson crossed his arms. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. You were giving me judgy eyes the entire time I was in there.”

“Judgy eyes?” Sherlock asked. “No it wasn’t judgy eyes, Watson. Frankly, I was just appalled at how far you were willing to go to appeal to your lads. Is being loud and drunk and ignoring your best friend– who came willingly with you, by the way–”

“Ha, willingly–”

“–the new fad? Because I definitely missed that public service announcement. Thank you for informing me, but I’d rather not act outrageously to ingratiate myself with asshole people.” Sherlock took a deep breath.

“You’re looking at me like that again.”

Suddenly, he realised how wound up he was. Rapid breathing, accelerated heart beat, sweaty palms. He could feel his lip curling and face tensed, in an expression of disdain or perhaps simply disappointment.

“Judgy eyes, is it?”

Watson’s eyebrows furrowed. “Actually, no– I got it wrong, it wasn’t judgy eyes. You’re looking at me like you don’t know who I am. But honestly I don’t know who you are, either, so I suppose it’s all fine and dandy.”

It was like a bucket of cold water poured onto Sherlock’s head.

“I–”

Watson huffed, eyes wide and incredulous. “‘Cause I can’t believe that’s what this is about. What, me acting a little bit drunk and changing myself up a bit to better fit in with people? You’ve already so graciously pointed out how my ‘self esteem wanes at the melancholy winds of autumn’ or some bollocks and you’ve definitely seen me drunk before – hell, even worse drunk–”

“Oh, believe me, I know,” Sherlock shot back, suddenly finding his words. “But not like this. Not surrounded by your old classmates, clearly desperate to prove something to fix that fragile ego of yours. Calling people “slobs” and badmouthing and exchanging what frankly should be considered blackmail and drowning yourselves in copious amounts of beer,” Sherlock breathed, “Tell me, was the validation from your peers worth it? Was the compliment-fishing successful? Has enough women fawned all over you to sustain you for the next year?”

Hurt flashed across Watson’s face. Sherlock immediately felt guilty, but before he could amend anything, Watson spoke again.

“Is that what you think of me?”

“…I don’t know what to think.”

Silence fell over them. The longer it grew, the more tense Sherlock felt, and the more he second-guessed himself – not a common thing for him to do, but it wasn’t uncommon when it came to John Watson. Slowly, he was starting to recognise his Watson again – his concern, his consideration, his insecurities. But listening to how he had been behaving this evening… it simply didn’t align with the Watson he knew.

Then again, he knew of how strongly Watson felt. He knew such strong emotions, no matter how much Sherlock admired them, were what led to Watson’s shoddy self-esteem issues and failure of rejection.

Finally, Watson spoke again.

“I don’t know how obvious this is, especially to someone who can deduce someone’s entire life in a single look, but I was not well-liked in school. I was the weird kid who was pitied because I had a dead dad. So when I started secondary school, I overcompensated, tried to act tough, copied what the boys my year were doing – and it worked. People liked whoever that boy was, so I just became that boy. I joined the football team, and suddenly I was one of the lads, people cheering me on and clapping me on the back for a good game. Then I started flirting with every pretty girl I came across because I was starting to look at boys the same way and that couldn’t possibly be right, it didn’t fit with who I should be.”

Sherlock felt that initial pang of guilt bury itself deeper in him.

“Don’t you know what that’s like, Sherlock? To feel like you have to change yourself in order to meet the expectations people have of you? To behave a certain way to fit the norms around you?" John stared him deep in the eyes. "Because I think you do.”

Sherlock did know. Of course he did. The way he masked throughout school before he even knew what masking was, all while playing constant catch-up to golden-child Mycroft under the impossible standards of their parents.

He understood John even more than he thought.

Sherlock ducked his head in shame. “I’m sorry, John. I shouldn’t have attacked you like that. I should’ve known – well, I did know, though not to that extent, but still, I shouldn’t have–”

John raised a hand to cut off his rambled apologies, shaking his head. “No, I’m sorry. You’re right, I’ve been acting like a dick.”

“I didn’t say–”

“–You didn’t, but I was.” Despite himself, John huffed out a laugh, before it turned into a sigh. “Besides, I shouldn’t have dragged you along to something you clearly wouldn’t enjoy. To be honest, I didn’t want to come here anyway. But I saw the invite and… I dunno. It was like a switch had turned on, like I was back in school and needed to prove myself again. And so I thought it would be more bearable if I at least had you with me. Then, of course, I actually did get here, and actually being surrounded by the people who only saw me as one thing throughout school, I just…”

“Regressed back into that persona?” Sherlock suggested. John nodded, sighing again.

“I couldn’t just be myself, could I? Why would they like a 36-year-old blown-up podcaster barely scraping by?”

Sherlock bit back a sigh of his own. His podcaster really was silly, wasn’t he? “Who cares what these strangers you knew twenty years ago think?” Sherlock gestured to the people partying inside, oblivious to everything – to all the greatness the real John Watson truly possessed. “Mariana likes that podcaster. Archie likes that podcaster. Stamford and Nadia like that podcaster.” He took a step forward. He was close enough now that John had to tilt his head back to look him fully in the eyes, as if searching them for lies. Sherlock knew John would merely find nothing but the truth he had denied himself for so long. “I like that podcaster.”

John’s eyes widened, complicated emotions swirling in them. Then he smiled sadly. "But see, Sherlock, that's just it. Like. And I appreciate it, of course, but... despite that persona being, quite frankly, a bit of a dick, sometimes it's that persona that people find attractive, you know? And yeah, it's been a while since I've dated seriously, but I like to think I'm still someone worth lo-" he paused, "worthy of romance. Sorry for being a hopeless romantic, I just-"

"More-than-like."

John blinked. "Huh?"

Sherlock swallowed. This was it. "I... more-than-like you."

John was still staring at him like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What- you?"

Sherlock let out a small huff of amusement. “Well, I doubt Stamford and Nadia more-than-like you, seeing as they’re married and all. And Mariana and Archie definitely don’t feel that way towards you either.”

“Sherlock…” John sighed, voice quiet and genuinely pleading with him. For him to be honest. And there it was – his inherent insecurity. And as much as Sherlock loved John for who he was, low self-esteem and all, he truly wished John could see just how deep that love ran.

“Haven’t you already observed, John?” He reached out for John’s hands, which he took on instinct. “Can’t you understand? You don’t need to fake yourself to prove anything to anyone.” Sherlock raised one of John’s hands to his lips – not exactly kissing it, but murmuring his words into his knuckles as if to etch them into John for him to understand. John’s breath hitched, but he made no effort to withdraw his hand. “Not when I need you, the real you: the man who unwittingly brought meaning back into my life when he entered that lab, the man who knows my habits like he knows his own, the man who sees all my flaws and loves me for it anyway.”

John chuckled in disbelief, shaking his head, running the hand not currently pressed against Sherlock’s lips down his face. “God. God, Sherlock. I really have been stupid tonight, haven’t I?”

“Foolish, maybe,” Sherlock said, lips upturning slightly. “Silly, certainly. But not stupid, John. Never.”

“I’m glad you’re here, then.” John shifted their hands so their fingers were now intertwined, falling to swing idly between them. Despite the cold John’s hand felt warm and rough. Sherlock wouldn’t have it any other way. “To stop me from being foolish and silly.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand. “As long as you’re also there to do the same for me.”

John squeezed back, smiling. “Always.”

Another silence fell over them, this time marginally more comfortable.

“Let’s go home.”

Sherlock blinked at John’s sudden declaration. “Back to Carol’s house? Now? Don’t you want to say goodbye to your friends?”

John rolled his eyes, affectionately. “You know as well as I do they’re not my friends. I don’t even remember half their names. But no – I meant back to Baker Street.”

Oh, of course. Not John’s childhood home, in a town he had outgrown years ago, with faces he barely recognised. Their home. Their bubble of comfort and routine, but also excitement and Mariana and Archie and love; so, so much love.

Sherlock nodded, smile widening. “Home it is.”

The party raged on behind them, but neither of them spared it another glance as they left the venue, giggling to themselves like schoolboys, holding hands all the while.

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