A thorn by any other name would hurt just as deep, or whatever the saying is.
~~~
Greg Lestrade would say Sherlock Holmes was always the smartest in the room. Whether at 221B or Scotland Yard, no ordinary person ever came close to compete with his...
John stood at the foot of the door, looking at you, laughing your woes away. He could find hints of tears starting to form as Sherlock bashfully scratched his neck, trying to brush off whatever he had said.
Neither of you noticed John as the conversation had sucked you both out of reality and into a state of constant chattering. You seemed so much less tense, and he seemed so much less detached.
"Oh, John, you're back," you look up with a smile, "sorry I came by to talk to you, but Sherlock kinda beat you to it," a laugh emits, which visibly makes Sherlock smile wider.
"How was... uhm, what's her name?" Sherlock absently asks, recalling your talk earlier about politeness.
"Lilly," John says, "she's doing well... thank you?" He walks in and looks at the snacks strewn on both chair-side tables. What was going on?
"Anyways, I should probably head home; it's getting late," you scratch the back of your neck, "mind if I stop by tomorrow after work? I need to hear the rest of that story," you point playfully to Sherlock who runs a hand over his face.
He grabs your coat and hands it over, "I suppose," he acts casually, doing his best to stop his heart rate from increasing. Was he having a heart attack? That would have to be ignored as he quickly accompanied you down the stairs. His mannerisms stayed true to his usual put-together self, except for the gentle conversation he kept up.
"What in the hell?" John slowly walks to the edge of the landing, peering over the fence before hearing the door shut and seeing Sherlock sprint up the stairs.
He halted at the middle landing, looking up with a severe look. "John. How do you build a pillow fort?"
~~~
Sherlock was no idiot, except when it came to his feelings. To him, a fast heart rate must mean anaemia, butterflies would mean adrenaline and hell, his slowly dilating eyes were from adjusting to the light. So he went out of his way to buy a few more pillows and blankets, some snacks, and even rent a movie. It was him looking out for a friend.
Just like John had told him to.
Though John didn't exactly tell him to do something to this extent, regardless, John accompanied Sherlock on his little quest, slowly but surely texting a secret group chat with Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Molly, Lestrade and himself about Sherlock's antics.
"Lestrade!" Sherlock rings the inspector, "I need to know something," he walks through the grocery store, looking up and down aisles, "Does Y/n have allergies and... favourite snacks if you know,"
Lestrade tried his best not to shout in excitement. Sure, Sherlock was irritating, but he knew he was a good man and maybe a good match for you. Plus, with you two occupying each other, perhaps that meant some peace for him.
"Lestrade, this isn't a complicated question," Sherlock says impatiently. With that, he is given a list instantly. Repeating it in his head, Sherlock didn't bother with a thank you or goodbye; instead, he grabbed each item at lightning speed.
~~~
"Okay, so..." Sherlock looks at the article online, confused at what they are getting at. He had never made one of these before, and the use of broomsticks was no help for the structure. Pillows were placed under a light bedsheet while he tried to move the chairs into a position to support his flawed plan. "How do children do this??"
"Practice," Mycroft, Sherlock's elder brother, stood at the doorway of the flat, watching in disbelief at the sight. "All this for some... goldfish, really?"
"Go away, Mycroft," Sherlock refuses to look at his sibling, noting his arrival with John. "What is he doing here?"
"He was waiting downstairs," he shrugs, looking at the mess of a living room. "Are you-?"
"I'm doing perfectly fine!" Sherlock snaps, walking over and pushing them both out before closing the door. John took this as his signal to go as Mycroft went through the kitchen doors. "You need to leave,"
"No, I need to know why you're doing all this for. "a glare cut him off from his younger brother.
"Y/n isn't a goldfish, Mycroft; she's brilliant," he compliments, not taking into account the very words leaving his lips.
"Brilliant? And that's what's making you act out like some love-sick teenage boy?" He scoffs, using his umbrella to poke at a pillow.
"Love? Oh, don't be ridiculous," Sherlock waved his accusation away, knelt by the couch and readjusted the fabric strewn about. "Y/n had commented about wanting to do something more exciting,"
"And this was it?" Mycroft had no clue how to approach this subject, "when did you start taking into consideration other people's wants?"
"Since I found out I could have a good conversation without wanting to shoot a wall," he leaps up, hurrying and turning Mycroft around, properly kicking him out. "Peace," he sighs out, proudly looking at the setup, which instantly collapses. "Damn."
~~~
"Sherlock?" You pick up your phone as you direct the placement of a garment in the gallery. "You know I'm at work, right?"
"Yes, yes," he dismisses, pacing around the kitchen. "Are you available tonight?"
"Not that I'm aware of," you silently gesture for three paintings to be moved into a different room. "Do you need me for a case?"
"A case, yes!" He smiles at the excuse, "yes, just a little one that Lestrade had given, nothing too big- but I definitely need your assistance," he says frantically.
"Okay..." you weren't strictly used to this version of Sherlock, though who was? "I'll see you tonight, then?"
"Seven! Only if that works for you?" He clears his throat, not meaning to shout a time suddenly.
"Seven it is," you laugh, "you okay? You seem... not yourself," moving towards a quiet spot, you lean against a wall.
"I'm fine, I'm fine, just be here at seven," he was about to hang up, but he quickly muttered a "See you then, bye," before doing so.
"Bye...?" Looking at the ended call, you look up and then shake your head.
~~~
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