It happens. You answer wrongly to a question. Deduct something that isn’t there. Misread a sentence. Fall in love. All of them.
Errors only exist in the sanctuary of the human mind, something plain and stupid as that muscle of nerve endings, and the things that Sherlock Holmes never comprehended. These were things that he considered irrelevant.
Irrelevant as the way your name rolled evenly through his mind and off his tongue. Irrelevant like the possessive nature he gained around you. How he bit at his cheek when Lestrade looked at you funny or when you were flirted with by the bar-keep. Irrelevant as the way he noticed your lips and how you lie when you say ‘I’m fine’. How he needs to remove himself from situations where John invites you and your boyfriend for tea. How bad he wants to deduce him and point out flaws and how hard it is to even consider it when he knew for well it’d hurt you more than the boy ever could.
Delete, he demands. Delete.
“GAH! This is ridiculous!” Sherlock exclaims throwing his hands up. John glances up from his laptop, his blogging on pause for now.
“What?” He asks, there was a slight feeling of regret after answering. Normally John would ignore his flatmates outbursts. It was hard enough to keep up with Sherlock’s brain.
“It won’t delete! It’s just stuck there.” He looks at John and ties up the robe around his waist, his hair was a mess and there were bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. John raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. He waited for Sherlock to elaborate, “My mind palace. There is irrelevant information taking up space for real information and it won’t… delete.” His hand flaps wildly as he tries to mime more context into his description.
“What information?” John continues to type, he was describing the lack of useful cases these days and their small rise to fame.
Sherlock frowned, “Just her, and her stuff. Just HER.” John’s interest peaked.
“Well yes. Is there anyone else?” Sherlock stopped pacing and elected to face plant on the couch, his painted smiley face taunting him.
“Well Molly and Irene might go in that same category.” He shrugged not looking away from the screen.
“Don’t be stupid John.” Sherlock scalded.
He shut his laptop quickly, “Well I really didn’t think she was your type.” He hissed sliding it onto the coffee table beside him.
“Type?” The detective frowns, “As far as I knew you were the one with the type.”
“God, you’re infuriating.”
“Yes, I’m aware.” John leans into the corner of his chair and looks over to Sherlock speaking into the pillow with muffled volume. With a grunt he flips over and glares at the ceiling. “WHY WON’T YOU GO AWAY?”
“Maybe because the ceiling is cemented to the roof?” John mutters standing up and heading for the kitchen, Sherlock chooses to ignore the comment.
“Tea, John!” He calls threading his fingers into one joined fist and tapping his thumbs together.
The kettle clicks and starts to warm up as John collects mugs and teabags, “Did you ask why you can’t delete it?”
“Who would I ask?”
“I don’t know. Yourself, your mind palace?”
“There you go being stupid again. My mind palace is a palace. Do you ask our apartment why it doesn’t clean itself?” Sherlock rambles, his voice laced with sarcasm.
“No. I don’t.” John shakes his head in the other room, patience wearing thin, “Look, did you ever consider that you liked her?”
Sherlock sits up folding his legs underneath him. “Of course I like her.” He frowned.
John rolls his eyes, “Romantically, Sherlock.”
“Oh.” He whispers, eyes darting around in thought. “No I haven’t.”
John makes his way over holding two mugs of tea. Sherlock takes one quietly.
“Well? Do you?”
Sherlock blows the steam away from the mug. “I don’t know.”
Their door knocks, both men watch it. Sherlock looks at John expectantly he sighs and goes for the door. It’s pulled open and you smile at John in greeting.
“Hi, (y/n)” He chuckles, “We were just talking about you, come in, please.” He stands aside and you walk in lugging the white shopping bag with you.
“All good I hope.” You smirk spying Sherlock on the couch glaring at the liquid in his cup for burning his tongue.
“Of course.” John nods returning to his mug. You hold up your bag.
“I brought goodies.” Sherlock looks up a grin spreads on his face.
“All fresh samples too.” You laugh letting him grab it from you and hurry to the kitchen table. Around ten different slices of skin were in separate containers in the bag. He spreads them out.
“What’s with these ones?”
“Five are poisoned, one steak, and eight beatings with three different weapons.” You gesture to the lot of samples, “Label each one with cause of death and see how fast you can do it. I say a week, tops.” He laughs.
“Give me two hours.”
“Impress me. Do it in one.” You tease. He looks over at you. Strong and confident, wickedly humorous and game for everything. The curve of your mouth, the edges of your eyes, the one tuft of hair that never sits right and your ability to never make him bored. You frown at his stare, “Come on Sherlock, time’s ticking.”
“Right. Yes.” He turns back to the game, “Off you pop, you’re distracting.” He waves you away softly, never using a harsh tone towards you. You turn to John who was watching with a small smile plastered on his face.
“What’s got you so cheerful Watson?” He looks at you innocently.
“Nothing, he was complaining about his mind palace before. It seems he can’t with your little challenge at hand.” You nod.
“Little does he know that there are actually two steaks, it should confuse him for a bit.” You wink, John laughs, “See you in an hour handsome.” You trot out of 221b happily. John was like a brother to you and teasing came naturally to both of you. Back in the flat Sherlock was chewing his cheek again.
“Handsome?” He asks accusingly.
“It was a joke. You don’t have to worry, plus I don’t have any feelings towards her at all.” John holds his hands up in surrender.
Sherlock feels a little defensiveness bubble in his stomach, “Is she not good enough for you or something?”
“No, I just don’t have feelings towards her.” John smirks, “You on the other hand…”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“It’s all over you. You like her.” John pauses, “No, you like-like her.”
“Shut up.” He growls, “Go write your stupid blog.”
“My stupid blog gets us clients, so it’s not stupid.” He argues.
“Mmmhmm.” Sherlock hums bored with conversation. John shakes his head and gathers his coat.
“I’m going out.”
Sherlock doesn’t reply. He merely marks the first and eighth box as ‘steak’ with a permanent marker muttering “like-like” under his breath.
“Excuse me, coming through. Look, I’m a doctor!” John yells forcing past the ‘do-good-ers’ of society. He hurries over to the young girl who was collapsed on the road. She had been hit by a car. Walked across the road not noticing the speeding vehicle rounding the corner. She had dragged around a metre, scraping covered her arms. Her ankle was definitely broken from the angle it was at and there wasn’t a driver to be found.
John knelt beside her, checked her pulse (thanked God it was there), and carefully rolled her on her back.
“(Y/n)?” He asked carefully making sure you weren’t damaged anywhere else he could check. You groaned, there was a tear rolling off your cheek from the pain.
“John? What… what happened?” You mutter feeling lightning jolts of pain up your spine and neck. Oh, it hurt.
“You’ve been hit by a car, geez, the ambulance is coming. Hang in there.” He assures pushing your hair back tenderly like the protective man he always was.
“Really? I thought I fell over or something.” You mutter flitting your eyelids away from the sun. Medics had swarmed in once the ambulance arrived, John had left your vision. But once they started to cart you away he returned to your side, holding your hand tightly. He pulled out his phone.
Sherlock groans tossing the texta down from where he was busy scribbling notes on the samples to gather the mobile buzzing relentlessly against the couch. He picked it up and answered the call promptly. “What?”
It was John, he was the most probable person to call him, maybe he forgot something? He was panting… Something was wrong. “Queen Elizabeth Hospital, Sherlock, now. (y/n)’s been hurt.” Click. Phone was off.
Sherlock wasted no time.
“Turn it off, hit snooze or something Sherlock.” You mutter flailing out for the bedside table. You were still in dream mode, the drugs in your system making your mind fuzzy and groggy. You were having a dream about Sherlock again. Nothing bad, just thinking about how life would be with him, waking up in the morning with the heady smell of his sheets, feeling his breath on your neck as he allows himself more time to be lazy with you. God, it was so perfect until that goddamn alarm.
“I’m afraid it’s keeping you alive.” He whispers looking down at your fragile form. You roll your eyes.
“How is an alarm clock keeping me alive?” You ask going to sit up but feeling a whole wave of pain flood your insides. You cry out helplessly and freeze in place, Sherlock looks to John worriedly who hurriedly guides you back down on the bed as gently as possible. “Sherlock?” You ask blinking until he focused, “What happened? It hurts.”
He reaches out and holds your hand, “You don’t remember?”
“Short term memory loss, common in patients with this calibre of injury.” John says helpfully.
“I know.” Sherlock replies.
“I don’t,” you interrupt, “What the hell happened? I just left your place and now I’m here!”
“You got hit by a car, (y/n)” John shrugs, “Being hospitalised for a few days. We’ll have you home soon.” You shake your head.
“I don't want to go home, I’m alone there.” You mutter, Sherlock sits in a chair beside you, his cold London air chilled hands kept a firm grip on you.
“You can stay with us, John can administer the morphine.” He nods at your thankful glance.
“Fine.” John nods, “Tea, anyone?” They both decline. John totters down the hospital door.
“I can’t sit here though, my job requires me to be working twenty four seven and you know I can’t miss a deadline.” You grumble biting the nail of your thumb angrily.
“I’ll talk to Molly, she can organise it. You don’t have to worry about a thing.” Sherlock pulled his phone out mid sentence and began to type furiously.
“Can’t you just bring work here for me? Holmes? I’m going to get bored sitting here.” You plead, Sherlock flicks his eyes up to meet your with a knowing grin.
“You won’t be bored while I’m around.”
John reaches the room you were stationed in and see the mess of burnt lino squares and empty sticks littered around the open window where you were watching the sky with awe.
“Yes, John?” He asks over the bang of another colourful rocket jumps to life whistling through the air.
“Are you seriously setting off fireworks in the hospital?”
“Well, of course.” He smirks as a cheer rings from you when golden sparks grace the sky.
“Don’t stop now Holmes! We have an audience.” You nod to the crowd below. “John, grab a fire cracker! Light ‘em up!” To your surprise, he does. You block your ears as the fuses burn down and push the rockets off and into the awaiting sky. There was a buzz in your pocket. You pull out your phone and answer it. “Hello?”
“(y/n), are the fireworks coming out of your room, perhaps?”
“Greg! You can see them?”
“I’m eight blocks away, of course I can see them. Is it Sherlock?”
“Of course it’s Sherlock.”
On hearing his name Sherlock takes the phone, “Lestrade, you enjoying my show?”
“Damnit, Sherlock you shouldn’t do that in a bloody hospital!”
“I said you gave me permission.”
“Sherlock you idiot, that’s illegal.”
“But it makes her happy.”
Lestrade sighed and hung up. He knew there was no convincing him, S.W.A.T squad or not. John was getting into this now too; his smile was almost as big as yours.
Upon lighting another Sherlock was close enough for you to grab his hand. He looks down curiously. You were still grinning. “Thank you Sherlock.”
“Anything for you.” He replies as the firework blew up the sky again.