Title: Assurance and Honesty
Summary: Sherlock proves to John, using reflections and honesty, just how much he's worth.
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, don't sue.
A/N: Um, it was 10 o'clock, I was just sitting there, wasting my time, as per usual, when I started writing this. I don't even know. It just happened. It's friendship but it could be slash if you wanted it to, kinda :)

"I'm sick of this. This blasé attitude. You can't treat people like this, Sherlock."

"I'm not entirely sure I know as to what you're inferring."

Sherlock glanced up from where he was sitting on the sofa, lounging back lazily as he gave a slight smile to John, who was standing before him, tensed, his anger obvious by his clenched fists and narrowed eyes. Sherlock let his smile widen briefly as he saw just how much this winded the already incensed doctor up, and was quite proud of the fact that John hadn't punched a hole in the wall yet, as it looked like he sincerely wanted to. That, or punch a hole in Sherlock, which he brushed off mentally, chuckling at the thought. The wall was a much more benign target.

"Yes you bloody well do. That poor girl was crying because you didn't bother to think it appropriate to apply tact to a very tough and painful situation." John inhaled sharply and gave an angry sigh as he glared down at the composed figure before him. He rubbed his face roughly, trying for the life of him to understand how Sherlock could possibly find it so easy to be so casually callous. John knew he wasn't insensitive but why couldn't he just show that around everyone else?

Sherlock stood up slowly, shaking his head as if he couldn't understand John's reaction either.

"There was no point lying to her. People do that far too much. What you call "tact" is more a pleasant way of covering up the truth. I really don't see what's wrong with providing her with honesty and factuality when for the next few months all she'll be getting is pitied whispers and fake smiles." He broke off, a small indent appearing on his brow as he said thoughtfully, "now you say it, I do feel rather sorry for her."

"For Christ's sake, she's nine," John said, giving a cry of exasperation.

"And I know when I was nine I couldn't stand being patronised and lied to," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, as if this was the only explanation he needed and the only one warranted. He tilted his head slightly as he looked down at John, who glowered back in return, entirely unsatisfied with his words. Sherlock stood there, waiting for the scowl to fade or for John to relax but if anything, he looked angrier.

"Oh for crying out loud! Will you stop looking so calm and bloody argue back."

"You want an argument?" Sherlock asked confusedly, frowning in return. "I thought most people tried to avoid them." Here he laughed a little, catching John off guard. "Then again, we wouldn't be here talking if you were most people."

"Would you stop going around thinking you're so goddamn special?" John cried out in frustration, raising his hands to his short hair and pulling, the insignificant pain a minor aid to the fury he was feeling. Then, for a second, so fleeting Sherlock almost missed it, his expression dropped for a kind of wistful sadness. "Would you stop thinking I am."

"What?" Sherlock asked, his confusion deepening as he worked his brain hurriedly to try and deduce what had just happened, what John meant. John sighed again, but this time in defeat. He let his shoulders slump as the anger left him and let his gaze drop also, as he closed himself off against the conversation. But Sherlock stepped forwards and grabbed him, shook him slightly, determined not to let this one go.

"John, what?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does." It was information, information he'd missed somehow and Sherlock never just left things out. And this was John. This was important.

John shrugged offhandedly, exuding nonchalance.

"Every time you say something like that…"

"That you're not most people?"

"Yes."

Sherlock blinked, bewildered, before he came to the conclusion that John must've taken it in a negative way, though how Sherlock wasn't really sure. He didn't like the cut off sound of John's tone though, so he grasped his jaw in one hand and forced him to make eye contact.

"You're better than most people," he clarified, waiting for the detachment in John's face to dissipate back to his usual open, readable, John-ish expression. It shocked him when instead, John closed his eyes and replied in the same indifferent tone.

"No, I'm not. I'm not."

Right. Sherlock grabbed John's shoulders with both his hands and spun him round, jolting John into opening his eyes and making a noise of surprise, and pushed him over towards the mirror as he stood behind him, leaning over his shoulder and made him stand there.

"Look. Look at yourself." He nodded to the reflection but the reflection just looked down and wouldn't meet his gaze.

"I don't want to," John said flatly.

"Where is this coming from?" Sherlock grimaced as he searched his mind to find the answer, find the solution. "This self-loathing."

"I don't loath myself," John replied, exhaling softly. "I'm just not like you, I'm nothing like you, and I wish you'd stop making out like I am. I'm nothing compared to the genius you are."

Nothing compared to the genius you are. Nothing? Sherlock could have hit himself as realization came, as he wondered how he could have missed that. But looking at John, his guarded face and defensive body language, he could see how. It never crossed my mind because I can't see it to be anyway near the truth. And he's hidden it well, however misguided these feelings are.

"You feel…inadequate. Compared to me?" His voice held a question but it barely held through. He breathed out heavily and tightened his grip on John's shoulders for a second. "Oh John, you idiot. Look in the mirror."

"No." John sounded resolute and stubborn, and for this at least, Sherlock felt like he was on familiar ground. He felt a smile tug at his lips.

"Why?"

"I don't want to. I'm not who I see in the mirror. I don't like who I see."

This halted Sherlock for a second. He felt hurt, hurt for John, who he could see as anyone but someone who couldn't be liked when they looked in the mirror. It determined his resolve and he reached down to catch the hem of John's shirt, to do naturally what he always did when people didn't know the truth. Show them the facts.

"I do. I'll show you."

"What are you doing? Sherlock!"

He seized the bottom of John's shirt and pulled up swiftly, not giving John a chance to snatch it back. He drew it over John's head and flung it on the floor beside them. John's mouth was agape in shock as he turned to face Sherlock but Sherlock grabbed his arm and twisted him back to face the mirror, not with enough force to hurt him but with enough to keep him there. When John tried to lurch forwards in an attempt to get Sherlock to let go, he just pulled him back into his chest and encircled him with his other arm.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you-"

"Shut up, John. Just for a minute. And look. Look at what you're missing out on."

He lowered his hand to rest on John's hip, lightly touching a bruise that had been formed from a fall on the case earlier that day. His pale fingers lingered, curling gently in a soothing motion over the curve of the bone. John watched as Sherlock ran his fingers over the thin line of hair in parallel between his hips and up, over his waist and the contours of his abdomen. His arms fell slack as Sherlock glided his fingertips over every one of his ribs and his chest, sparks of warmth on his exposed skin. He stiffened when Sherlock reached his shoulder, swallowing as he rested his hand on his scar but Sherlock just brushed quietly against it, his touch no heavier than the breath John had been holding. He leant further in, his own breath tickling the back of John's neck.

"It's all part of you, who you are."

He moved his hand again, over John's neck and the pulse in his throat, until he reached his jaw, smoothing over the rough edge, holding his gaze in place. John stared at the reflection, seeing every touch he felt, captivated. Sherlock thumbed his cheekbone softly, defining his face as he caught John's eyes in the mirror.

"How can you not like who you are? Every scar, every muscle, every bone. The beat of your heart," he dropped his hand to rest over John's heart, "every breath in your lungs," he traced the outline of John's lungs over his chest "it's all you. How can you not like it?"

John didn't break the eye contact but murmured,

"I'm broken. I'm tired. I'm not who I was."

"Because of the war?" Sherlock asked outright. He didn't see the point of hiding the honestly, he couldn't, not when John was looking at him like that.

"Because of everything."

Sherlock bowed his head, still looking into John's eyes.

"You're broken," he agreed, and tautened his arm around John, "but in all the right ways."

John looked at him, long and hard, and then, letting Sherlock exhale in relief that his incitement of the truth had worked, smiled.

"If you say so."

"It is so. Can you accept that?"

"I'll work on it." He smiled again, and Sherlock smiled back.

"Still want that argument?"

"I think we can save it for another night."