Title: The Reasonable Man
Disclaimer: Things I own: psets. Things I don't: Sherlock.
Spoilers: seasons 1 and 2
Pairings: pining!John. For Sherlock. Kind of. Tangential John/OFCs.
Rating: T
Warnings: References to alcoholism and domestic abuse.
Wordcount: ~2600
Summary: John does have his reasons for not kissing Sherlock Holmes.

John thinks that kissing Sherlock would be a very, very bad idea. If you asked him why, he'd probably splutter, "Just...because. It is."

There are reasons, though; and if he ever put thoughts into words, they might look something like this:

["Because Sherlock isn't like that".]

Maybe it was that line, "Everything else is transport." Or maybe it was Sherlock's defensive, "Sex doesn't alarm me," and Mycroft's quick, "How would you know?" And probably the pieces were right there and Sherlock would've sneered in contempt at how long it took John to put it all together.

But it wasn't until John was standing in Irene Adler's living room, first-aid kit forgotten in his hands, and Sherlock was fidgeting uncomfortably on the sofa, that John realised that sex might have been one of those things, like food, like sleep, that Sherlock just didn't care for very much.

And though that may have been the moment when everything slotted into place, it didn't bring with it wide-eyed surprise, or the faint tang of shock, or anything, for that matter, other than a quiet shrug of acceptance.

Because it was just like him, wasn't it?

["Because Sherlock is...Sherlock".]

John Watson had known and loved many people in his life, but none of them had been anything like Sherlock.

—

Harry brought back from uni a trail of ex-girlfriends and a drinking habit.

"Jesus, Harry," said John the first time she came home completely pissed. "Mum's going to kill you." (Or you're going to kill her – like father like daughter.)

"Shut up," she growled back. "Or I'm going to throw up on your feet."

So John dragged her to the bathroom and chucked a couple of towels and a clean shirt after her, muttering all the while, "Why are you doing this to me?"

And afterwards, when she'd come back out, pale and dripping but a touch more sober, Harry put a video on while John made tea, and then they sat on the sofa, side by side, wordless.

—

Mary Morstan was taller than John (though only by half a centimetre, as John kept pointing out) with smooth copper skin and a warm mouth that smiled more than it frowned. She also knew her way around a Browning L9A1 and could set a broken limb with the best of them.

Her truck encountered an IED before John ever said, "I love you."

—

Theirs was a good partnership, John and Bill's. They gave each other a hand in the operating theatre and went to the mess hall together when there were no more soldiers bleeding out on a bed.

They got shot together, too.

"Well, fuck," Bill gasped as they huddled together next to an overturned truck, looking down in dismay at his ruined leg. "This is a hell of a way to go."

"Shut up," John snapped as he gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder and tightened a tourniquet around Bill's thigh. "Or at least talk about something more cheerful, will ya?"

"Cheerful." Bill's laugh was cut short by a hiss. "Oh, fucking hell."

"Shut it," John said, a bit more brightly as he rolled off of his friend and collapsed against the wreckage, pressing at the slow trickle of blood seeping through his uniform. "Oh, goddamn, the bullet."

"Hmm?"

"I'd better be good and unconscious while they take that out," John said, rummaging one-handed in his supplies bag. "Christ, tell me you have morphine left."

"Should I lie?"

"Well, then," John gave up abruptly and slumped into the sand, "we are well and truly fucked."

"Stealing my words, Johnny," said Bill with a half-grimace, half-smile.

John closed his eyes.

["Because we trust each other. And I'd rather not break that."]

"Sherlock? Sherlock!"

Check. No pulse. No breaths.

Damn you, Sherlock Holmes. The Thames isn't going to take you away from me now.

Off with the scarf. Hands on breastbone, fingers interlocked. Elbows stiff. Down.

One. Two. Three.

"Come on, Sherlock."

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

"Breathe, dammit, breathe."

Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.

"This isn't funny, Sherlock."

Tilt head, chin up. Pinch the nostrils closed. Mouth over mouth, and breathe. Once, twice.

Start over.

"Mycroft's going to kill me if you die on my watch."

Seven. Eight. Nine.

"SHERLOCK!"

Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three.

"Where the hell is Lestrade?"

A high-pitched wail in the distance. Ambulance? No, focus.

How many now? Fuck, he'd lost count.

Close enough to thirty. Breathing, then.

Chin up, head down, breathe, Sherlock's chest rising up as his lungs inflated, the way they were supposed to, and come on, Sherlock, you can do this, just one breath, giving up is beneath you...

A cough, and then Sherlock rolled sideways to heave up murky grey water, and John sat back panting with his head swimming, muttering "Thank god" over and over again.

"God...didn't have a lot...to do with it, I'd imagine," Sherlock gasped out in between coughing and prodding his ribs with a wince. "What...happened to...the burglar?"

"Dunno," John shrugged, and tugged at Sherlock when the man attempted to sit up. "You're not going anywhere. Not until the paramedics have had a chance to check you out."

"The case—"

"—can wait half an hour."

And then Sherlock, miraculously, did flop back down with a huff, while the sound of an ambulance came closer, and Sherlock's oddly gruff "Thank you" was the best thing John had heard in a very long time.

["Because it's never the right time."]

Sherlock hadn't eaten a proper meal in at least two days, John was fairly sure, so he slipped an extra slice of bread into the toaster and stuck some beans in the microwave before putting the kettle on.

"Sherlock," he called while the tea brewed, "get off your arse and come in here."

"I haven't left anything in the sink this time," Sherlock complained as he stuck his head through the doorway. "Is this about the fingers? That is an airtight container."

"No, that—wait, Molly got you more fingers?"

"Age, sex, and ethnicity," Sherlock shrugged, unrepentant. "Those are important variables to consider."

"Of course they are." John shook his head, then heard the toaster and went over to fish out the slices, neatly buttering them and laying them on a plate. "Here," he offered Sherlock. "You can have it with or without the beans, but you're eating something."

"Eating—"

"—is boring? Slows you down? Is necessary for living?" John folded his arms and looked sternly at Sherlock. "You don't have a case. I think you can bear to function at less than 100% for a bit."

Sherlock pouted a bit but held out his hand for the bowl of beans, and John took that as a victory.

—

It was after John had finished his tea that he noticed the crumbs still sticking around Sherlock's mouth.

"Hey, you have something—" John indicated with his own mouth, then watched, transfixed, as Sherlock raised a thumb to swipe them away, leaving his lips rather pink.

Sherlock looked back.

John cleared his throat, suddenly desperate to say something (even though he had no idea what he'd even say).

"Hey, Sherlock," Lestrade's voice floated up the stairs, followed by the thump of footsteps, "have you heard of the Hackney murders?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock turned, his attention captured, and John only took the time to shake his head before chasing after them both.

["Because I'm not sure what I want."]

"You all right there?" Lucy asked, very soft, as she lightly traced patterns into the sweat cooling on John's shoulder.

"Yeah," he said, sitting up. "Don't worry about it."

"You should sleep," she said, her own words starting to blur. "You've got a shift tomorrow."

"Yeah," John nodded, but slipped out from beneath the sheets. "You too. I'm just going to get a drink, all right?"

In the kitchen he poured himself a glass of water, then paused as the calendar on the fridge caught his eye. Alternately in Lucy's spiky handwriting and his own were reminders, appointments, work schedules, even small, silly doodles: two lives, reduced to a 30 by 30 cm rectangular sheet.

He'd finish his residency in another year, Lucy would graduate and attach herself to a firm soon, and then—what? They'd get married and have children while he tried not to screw up?

He thought maybe the idea should have been more attractive to him than it was.

He swallowed down his water in a swift gulp and went back to bed, trying not to dwell on inexplicable dissatisfaction curling in the back of his mind.

—

The break-up wasn't sudden; rather, it was the culmination of a long string of events that left Lucy on one road and John on another. John mourned it all the same.

And then he joined the army.

["Because no good can come of it."]

John Watson was in his sister's room, crying.

No, let's start over. John was in Harry's room, pretending not to hear the yelling that came through the closed door, the sickening thump of someone falling onto the floor and a thin scream that cut off abruptly.

He was fighting the urge to go out and try to stop it, because the last time he'd done that his father had caught him across the face in a vicious backhand, leaving a bruise he'd had to excuse away for weeks, and as his mother had soothed him with paracetamol and an ice pack, she'd muttered to him quite fiercely, "Don't do that again, Johnny. It's not worth it."

He was sitting on the floor, arms hugging his knees, and Harry was lying on her bed, eyes closed tight enough to create deep frown lines running across her forehead and the bridge of her nose.

"D'you—" John started, then stopped with a shudder. Harry flipped over to look at him, her mouth twisted in distress. "D'you think he's going to kill her?"

He didn't look her in the eye.

"I—" she breathed, then the syllable stretched out as she swallowed, once, twice, while John completed the sentence a myriad of ways in his head. I think so. I hope not. I don't want to talk about it.

"I don't know," she said finally.

Harry hated saying "I don't know".

"Should we—"

Should we.

There was the sound of something shattering, another short scream.

Should we.

Harry bit her lips, face pale, and reached for the telephone. John, holding his breath, wiped his eyes and nodded.

She punched in 9-9-9.

["Because it's mad."]

Sherlock approached the end of the building without a hitch in his steps, just lengthening his already impossibly long strides, and then he leaped.

John stopped short at the edge and the gap drew his eyes downward.

What was he doing?

The entire night had been surreal and now he felt the slightest bit dizzy, a buzz beginning in his fingers (though he hadn't had anything to drink). He took one breath, then another, the night air warming up quickly in his lungs.

He was here, on a rooftop, its outline clear and crisp in the yellow glow of street-lamps, and this wasn't a nightmare where he'd keep falling and falling, but this wasn't a dream where he'd bound upward with a whisper of wings.

He could fall; he could not.

"Come on, John," Sherlock called, an imperious, impatient tinge to his tone.

John looked down, deliberately this time, and then jumped forward.

["Because I don't know what it would mean."]

There were many different types of kisses that John Watson knew about.

There were the ones Mrs Hudson and Sherlock (and lately, John) traded with each other, light pecks on the cheek that were affectionate, warm, comfortable.

Irene Adler apparently wielded kisses like a weapon, careless swipes that spoke more of power than of attraction.

There were the hot, open-mouthed ones John learnt to be familiar with on the pull, the ones that meant yes, and more, and want (with women who didn't, beyond the single night).

Early in the morning, when John and Lucy were still tangled up in the sheets, they exchanged soft brushes of lips, ones that said hello, good morning, you're still here (and I'm glad).

There were the fierce ones showered down Mary's neck and shoulders, her skin gleaming darkly as the sun fell, and those weren't promises, because neither knew if it would be possible to keep them.

And John shared questioning, exploratory kisses with Sarah in her living room as they slowly discovered each other, all lips and teeth and tongue, breathless smiles.

What John wanted with Sherlock wasn't any of those things. In fact, John didn't know what he wanted from him at all.

["Because Sherlock wouldn't like it."]

"Sherlock," John said, the last of his patience evaporating from his voice, "you can't spend your birthday sulking on the sofa."

Sherlock – or, rather, the tightly coiled lump under the blue dressing gown – said nothing.

"I don't...understand."

"What's new?" came the snide reply, and John clenched his fist almost unconsciously.

"Let's recap, shall we?" he said, barely suppressing a growl. "Today was your birthday. I got you a new skull. Where did things go wrong?"

The only answer was a contemptuous "hmph".

"Sherlock, what is wrong with the skull?"

Sherlock might have answered, but the words were muffled by the sofa cushions and returned with all their consonants garbled and vowels elongated.

"'scuse me?"

Heaving a deep sigh, Sherlock lifted his head up enough to snap, "Why would you think I needed another skull?" before curling back into himself.

"Well, I'm sorry I thought it'd be nice to get you a present," he bit out. "I figured you'd like it. I mean, you have one, so you don't hate them. And I wasn't going to tell you anything about it, so you could deduce facts about the skull's previous life when you got bored." John's voice sharpened further. "But apparently I shouldn't have bothered. I'm going out."

Before Sherlock could unfurl, the door to 221B opened, then slammed shut. Sherlock sat up and reached for the bleached white skull sitting amidst a riot of wrapping paper.

—

When John finally came back to the flat, Sherlock was cradling the skull in delicate hands, peering at the occipital bone. "Oh, John, this is lovely," he looked up, eyes shining. "Female, mid-twenties, I'd say...south-east Asian? Look, the back of the head – the bone's cracked and never had a chance to heal. But it's difficult to determine if that was the cause of death, or the damage occurred afterwards..."

"Oh, changed your mind, have you?" John raised an eyebrow. "Fine. All right. I'll just...leave you to it."

Sherlock made a strange noise in the back of his throat. When John peered at him, Sherlock worked his jaw, apparently in extreme conflict, and finally said quite stiffly, "I apologise for my previous reaction."

"Right, about that." John sighed. "What was that about?"

"It's a skull."

"Yes, thank you, I'd figured that out already."

"I only need to talk to the skull when you're not around."

"Oh," said John. "Oh."

"Yes, well," Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, and returned his gaze to the skull. "It's a rather acceptable gift, otherwise."

"Right." John stared at Sherlock for a bit. "Well, I'm...glad you like it."

If Sherlock heard, he didn't react in any way. John let out a breath and went upstairs.

["Because it's too late."]

"No—SHERLOCK!"

The shout burned in his lungs. A man fell.

Sherlock.

John ran. Stumbled. Ran.

There was blood on the pavement.

"I'm a doctor, let me come through—" (I swear by Apollo, by Asclepius, by all the gods—)

A bloodied face, alarming red. (—to fulfill this oath, this covenant—)

The absence of a pulse. (—that I will guard this life and this art—)

Sherlock, too still, too silent. (All wrong.)

He wasn't—he couldn't be— (no)

Dead.

"Jesus, no."

And John Watson crumbled.

"One more miracle, Sherlock, for me," says John. "For me. Would you do—just, for me, stop it, stop this."

The answer is yes. Sherlock would.

A/N: If you feel at all inclined to click the "Review" button...do it! Please?