Freak

A/N: This is my take on why John Watson, who shot a man to save Sherlock Holmes less than 48 hours after meeting him - and not being treated all that well by him, if we're being honest - says and does nothing about the constant, vicious verbal attacks made by several members of Scotland Yard.

I welcome concrit of any sort, but flames will be captured in a jar, magnified, and returned via express mail to your workplace during the middle of a meeting with the collective upper management of the company.

Also, The Disclaimer: I own nothing, I saw nothing, I know nothing. It all belongs to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and everyone else I can't remember right now.

And, last (and hopefully least), this is not Brit-picked or beta'd, so any mistakes are mine.

An Object in Motion Remains in Motion - Unless Acted Upon by an Outside Force

It is a widely-acknowledged fact that John Watson – doctor, army captain, flatmate/bodyguard/buffer for the world's only consulting detective – is loyal to a fault. After all, he was injured and finally invalided home from Afghanistan after breaking cover to pull two fellow officers to safety, not to mention being the best friend of and flatmate to said consulting detective. As such, his . . . passivity . . . regarding the vitriol and hostility so frequently prevalent from certain members of Scotland Yard toward Sherlock Holmes was surprising to those who knew of it.

This did not, of course, prevent them from taking advantage of it, as his silence indicated approval – in their minds, at least.

That this was completely contrary to his established character utterly escaped them.

Mycroft knew, of course, and Lestrade had a fairly good idea as to why John never said anything when those sneers of 'freak!' were thrown at Sherlock. That they never said anything about it was a testament to Mycroft's . . . something . . . and Lestrade's good sense. They both knew Sherlock, after all.

However, John's patience was not infinite. For Sally Donovan in particular and several other Scotland Yard personnel in general, this would be a very painful – but highly effective – lesson.

The afternoon of the afore-mentioned lesson found John Watson at the second-nearest Tesco's from Baker Street (the first having banned him not because of something Sherlock had done – as was the common assumption – but because John had almost destroyed their chip-and-PIN machine by beating it with a carton of chocolate ice cream), getting basic foodstuffs for the flat and bleach for Sherlock.

He had, in fact, been pondering the hostility and childishness that was so frequently directed at his friend, and trying to work out possible solutions. He hated – no, he despised the never-ending epitaphs of 'freak' and 'psychopath,' and he was about 3 seconds away from pitching someone out the window the next time he heard a variant of 'gets off on it.' That said, John was fully aware of the fact that Sherlock frequently acted with just as much childishness and hostility. The difference between the consultant and the Yarders, however, was profound to John. He wasn't Sherlock or Mycroft Holmes (thank the good Lord), but neither was he stupid or unobservant. And what he had observed with regards to the interactions between his flatmate and Yarders was this:

Sherlock Holmes rarely fired the first true salvo.

Oh, he was more than happy to announce that any- and everyone were idiots, but that was his default setting. It wasn't, as a rule, meant to be a specific insult. Not that this made it any easier to swallow when one is, say, coming home from a 14-hour shift that involved a lorry hitting 3 cars or responding to a triple-homicide, of which two of the deaths were children. But. Not a deliberate insult, just Sherlock being himself.

And, as such, John was perfectly fine with the 'idiot' in question telling Sherlock off; had, in fact, done it himself too many times to count. And, though his behavior regarding random people on the streets . . . really wasn't any different at all, actually, he had gotten better about sneering at John. Well, for a given value of 'better.'

But the seemingly never-ending 'freak' that certain members of the Yard were so fond of had grated on his nerves from the beginning. In fact, those first 3 or so months after moving in with Sherlock, John had actually left the scene or office several times, because it was the only way to keep himself from punching someone in the throat. They didn't have to like Sherlock – he did, in fact, understand full well why they didn't, though he disagreed with their reasoning – but they were POLICE OFFICERS. He expected at least a modicum of professionalism from them.

But John never said anything, because multiple exposures to various forms of genius had well-prepared him for Sherlock – not the intensity, no, because that kind of mind comes along maybe twice in a generation, and Sherlock was currently running a tight race with Tony Stark for sheer, unparalleled brilliance, but the substance of him. And the most important thing John Watson had learned about genius is this: it is frail beyond all imagination. That bright, incandescent intelligence hides a soul that is more fragile than tissue paper could ever dream of being. Also, with that sort of intelligence, being a child prodigy the way a genius cannot help but be, it is almost inevitable that the prodigy will be eagerly (at first) scooped up and nurtured, while the child is forgotten, ignored, disregarded. And in Sherlock's case, John strongly suspected, the prodigy would also be discarded, neglected, maybe even abused, once the scope of the disparity between child and adult (parent) was truly visible.

As such, John never dared defend Sherlock or take his tormenter down a peg or seven, because he was never actually alone with those who abused his friend long enough to make the lesson effective, and he knew better than to say anything in front of Sherlock. John shuddered at the very idea. If he were to defend The Great Sherlock Holmes from mere words in front of the man, the scathing rebuke and week-long tantrum would only be the beginning of his punishment, which John quite honestly wanted nothing to do with. But worse, if John defended him publicly, Sherlock would feel – call it infantilized, if you will. Helpless. Weak. Unable to deal with something as insignificant as words.

And that, John Watson would not do to his best friend.

Thus, he found himself in a quandary, for he was sick to death of the constant sniping and general attitude from too many of New Scotland Yard's finest. Things were rapidly reaching a boiling point, as the viciousness was steadily increasing and the subtlety vanishing at an equal rate, and something would give soon. It had to. And when the inevitable happened, John would prefer that London remain standing.

And God, it seemed, agreed with him, for on that fortuitous day, John Watson received a text from Lestrade, advising that there had been a third murder and would he please come with 'that brilliant pain in my arse.' Of even greater fortune – for John – the address was a mere block or so from Tesco. He sent a 'yes' to Lestrade before taking a few minutes to put back the groceries he'd gathered; it was bloody frustrating when one headed to the peanut butter section only to find a can of black olives hiding your brand, because the shopper in question was too damned lazy to walk 4 feet to the left and put the olives back where they went.

When John arrived at the scene, he was startled to find that he'd beaten not only Sherlock, but Lestrade as well. The only police present, actually, were Sally Donovan and three uniforms who were in the process of cordoning off the area. The situation was both good and bad – good, because it gave him a chance to tell Donovan off before Sherlock got there; bad, because he still hadn't decided how best to go about it. Shouting at her would be beneath him, after all – not to mention worthless, as she would simply climb on her high horse and start expounding about 'the freak' interfering with her crime scene, and they'd be back to square one.

John was still pondering his options when God – who had apparently taken an interest in things – decided to give him a hand. His mobile trilled a call at him and a quick glance at the caller ID showed his best chance to be one Mike Stamford. Feeling no small amount of relief (and smugness), John answered.

"Hey, Mike, how's it going?" he almost chirped. God, this was going to feel good. He needed to keep himself reined in, though – this was a lesson, not the opening salvo of World War III.

A bemused Stamford replied, "I'm fine, mate. Just wanted to see what you were up to; your blog's been quiet this week."

John chuckled and said, "Yeah, I know. Sherlock was bemoaning London's well-behaved criminals yesterday."

His peripheral vision caught Donovan's disgusted look and John inwardly grinned. It was almost indecent at how much he was looking forward to this, for he had chosen to give the decidedly unpleasant woman a taste of her own medicine – and Mike, bless him, inadvertently provided the perfect opening.

"Well, I hope it gets better for you, John," he laughed. "Didn't Himself try to blow up Big Ben the last time he had a vacation?"

"God, don't remind me," John groaned. "It's a good thing I've done the tourist thing, because I can never go back. But, things are looking up. I'm at a scene now, watching the adulterous bitch tape off the area, and waiting for Sherlock."

There was a long pause, both on the phone and at the scene. John had been expecting it, so he took the occasion to covertly observe the uniforms. He knew what Donovan's reaction would be, and it was the underlings who actually mattered in this case. He caught a hastily-hidden grin and two less (read: not) hidden frowns. Hmm. Better than he was expecting.

On the phone, Mike finally replied, his voice cautious. "Umm . . . John? What – what's the matter?"

Allowing some of his satisfaction to slip free, John said, "Nothing. I just thought I'd get a head start on throwing insults today." He could hear Mike blink as he processed that, and continued before his friend could say anything.

"Hey, Mike, it's been good to hear from you. We need to get together; how about I call you this weekend and we'll grab a drink?"

And now the caution had changed to confusion; John made a mental note to apologize in the form of rugby tickets. "That'd be grea-are you sure everything's okay, John?"

John infused his voice with warmth, firmly saying, "I promise, Mike. Everything is good. I'll tell you more the next time I see you, alright?"

Stamford was reluctant to let it go, but knew John well enough not to push, and said so. John had been counting on that, and breathed a quiet sigh of relief at his reply.

"Okay. Have fun and tell Sherlock I said 'hello.' And you take care of yourself, John. Talk to you this weekend."

"Will do, Mike. Go terrorize some baby med students, yeah?"

A laugh was his only answer before the call ended, and John savored that rush of a truly good friendship for a few seconds before finally deigning to acknowledge Donovan by looking at her.

She was furious, but controlling it remarkably well. Only her eyes, which actually looked a little like someone had lit a firecracker in them, showed her rage. The tension in her body could easily be attributed to the rather gruesome body – was it stapled to that fire escape?! – behind her. He let the silence stretch out a little longer, taking grim satisfaction in the fact that Donovan had given him the power in this little confrontation, even if she didn't know it.

He allowed the tension to build until it started to feel uncomfortable, then shattered it with a firm – though not particularly loud – "What do you want, whore?"

The sound of four people simultaneously sucking in a breath was funny, though John was careful to keep it off his face. He was walking a fine line here and could not - would not - let things degenerate into slapstick. Donovan, for her part, looked like she'd been slapped.

"Who the hell do you think you are?!" she demanded, making no effort to keep her voice contained. John said nothing but stared her down until she blinked. Then he struck.

"Well, since you're so fond of throwing Sherlock's 'inadequacies' into everyone's faces, I figured it was time I got in on it. I must say, it's rather cathartic. Wouldn't you agree, Sally?"

Silence fell again, and a certain stillness John recognized from Afghanistan. His senses gave him a soft chime of 'danger' and he drew in a deep breath, straightening his posture into 'attention' while his gaze continued to bore into hers. Donovan swallowed hard before meeting his eyes again, and the rage there would have given most men pause.

John Watson was not most men.

"What the hell are you doing?" she ground out, her accent thickening and her cheeks flushing red. "You will not talk that way to an officer of New Scotland Yard."

"Why?"

It was a calm, quiet question, holding only curiosity. Anyone overhearing John would think him merely inquisitive about, say, David Beckham's chances in the next U.S./London footy match. To the officers on the scene, though . . . no, there was nothing mild or inquisitive in that word, soft though it was. And it got all three uniforms to start thinking – about Sherlock, about Donovan, about their own assumptions and corresponding behavior . . . had John known this, he might have a done a small victory jig, because that was a major component of his endgame. Sherlock wasn't innocent in the hostilities with Scotland Yard, but neither was he the sole instigator – and NEVER was he ever and always the only one at fault, which was the other thing that truly rankled John.

Everyone at Scotland Yard (even Lestrade) acted like Sherlock deserved the constant vitriol and disrespect, while simultaneously demanding that he solve the heinous murder/baffling robbery/mysterious kidnapping, and it had, quite frankly, gone far beyond pissing his best friend off.

Hence, his non-guilty enjoyment of force-feeding it to Sally Donovan, who was one of the worst offenders.

Donovan spluttered incoherently for a bit at his calm rebuttal, looking remarkably like the collie John had had as a child – eyes bulged out in shock, chest heaving with angry breaths, and her hair starting to frizz from the gathering humidity.

"WHY?!" she finally exploded, the last vestige of control gone. "Because I'm a bloody police officer who has worked my arse off to get where I am –"

"And is knowingly sleeping with a married man," John cut across her, his voice firm and demanding. "Like I said: whore. Or did you prefer adulterous bitch?"

Donovan actually went purple. John thought for a minute that she would try to attack him, but the uniforms watching this little drama play out like it was the latest episode of Downton Abbey held her in check. He continued before she could regain her equilibrium, grim determination overcoming his enjoyment. He was done with this, and even if he weren't, Sherlock would be arriving any minute. This had to be finished.

"How dare you?" Donovan choked out, guilt flashing behind the rage in her eyes.

"Really, Sally?" John drawled, crossing his arms. "Every time you see him – and every time I hear you talk about him – you call Sherlock 'freak' and don't think twice. Why is that, I wonder? I mean, yeah, it's amazing that he has the ability to see so many details that us regular people don't, and I'll grant you it's almost magical how he's able to put those pieces together into a cohesive whole, but why does that make him a freak?"

This question was an honest inquiry, because John wanted to know. To him, what Sherlock did was incredible, beautiful, and special, and he genuinely wanted to know what it was that so offended – well, Donovan. He understood full well that Sherlock's complete lack of brain-to-mouth filter was off-putting, but it wasn't like that was a new thing, so there had to be something else. And, if Donovan had a legitimate reason, John was prepared to cut her some slack.

Unaware of the direction his thoughts had taken, Donovan snapped, "Because it's freakish and no normal, sane person can see everything and he gets off on it and can't even be bothered to pretend to care about the victims and BECAUSE HE'S A FREAK!"

Her voice had steadily gotten louder during her diatribe and by the end of the sentence, she was shouting. John regarded her evenly, though his calm expression did nothing to hide his contempt.

"'Gets off on it,' Sally?" he sneered. "You're a bloody cop! Are you honestly going to stand there and tell me that you don't enjoy putting the puzzle together and solving the mystery? Really? Because if you do, that makes you just as big a liar as you are a hypocrite."

This condemnation set her off again. "He doesn't even get paid for it! How the hell is that normal?!"

Disgust and contempt colored every word of John's reply. "If we were talking about sex instead of murder, Donovan, that would make you a prostitute." Ignoring her incoherent objection, John coldly continued, "He doesn't accept payment from the Yard because he won't be beholden to you – and I do not blame him in the slightest. And because I'm done with this and you, here's how it's going to work."

He paused here, giving her a chance to calm down and surreptitiously surveying the uniformed cops who had abandoned any attempt at subtlety in favor of gawking at the two of them – and he was pleased to see that all three officers looked thoughtful behind the fascination of watching a Detective Sergeant and a respected doctor who was also a veteran (never mind being Sherlock Holmes' flatmate) square off like they were on that dreadful American show Jeffrey Springer or Sanger or whatever the hell it was.

"If you refer to Sherlock as a freak or a psychopath or anything along those lines in front of him or me again, I will not be held responsible for my actions, Donovan. I'm done. And you tell Anderson, too, and that prat Stiver – I don't care if you like Sherlock, but by God, you WILL treat him with the respect accorded a human being, or I will start doing damage."

Donovan had recovered some of her poise by then, and at his last sentence, she sneered. "Is that a threat, Doctor Watson?"

John met her eyes with perfect equanimity and said, "Of course not. It's a warning. Grow up, or suffer the consequences."

She opened her mouth, doubtless to squawk about his disrespect, but John hadn't been joking about being done with the situation and with her. Also, Sherlock was stepping out of a cab. He turned on his heel and walked away, considering a final parting shot before deciding against it. He'd said his piece and made his point; anything else would be overkill. As he crossed the scene to meet his friend, a genuine smile came to his lips. He hadn't seen much of the man these past few days and had missed him.

"Hey, Sherlock," he greeted the other man. "Seems like the criminal element heard your plea. Looks like it's a good one, too."

"Doubtful," Sherlock sniffed. "Still, anything is better than drowning in boredom, so here I am."

"Yeah, well, be nice, okay? I mean, we could be doing something for Mycroft."

They both took a moment to shudder at the thought before Sherlock stepped past him, heading for the body.

As always, John followed, satisfaction curling through him. He couldn't protect Sherlock from everything, but that was no reason not to try.

And, God willing, this time he'd succeeded.