#anyway im dipping my toes in hello

[ The first of 29 scenes from an in-progress johnlock fic. ]

It isn’t the heart Sherlock should curse.

The limbic system is a complex set of structures housed within the brain. It includes the orbitofrontal cortex, the piriform cortex, the hippocampus, the amygdala, and a whole host of other cortical, subcortical, and diencephalic areas. The limbic system is responsible for integral things such as learning, problem solving, motivation, and long-term memory. It is also responsible for the ever-present preponderant plague that is human emotion, which is decidedly less integral than its other contributions.

The limbic system is to blame. The limbic system: a necessary feature of the transport, an essential structure of the brain. Sherlock can ignore needs like hunger and sleep until he is either pestered or cajoled into satisfying them by an obstinate John Watson or a coaxing Mrs Hudson, but emotion, the limbic system’s by-product, is not a need. Emotion is something superfluous that clouds judgment and provides distraction, and thus is something he tamps down with expert precision because it is not tangible—it is not a thing he can simply lay flat upon an examination table and flay open like a corpse at the mortuary.

Sherlock dissects decaying tissue samples and detached limbs and the deceased remains of (not so) small animals. He does not dissect sentiment.

Which is why when an obstinate John Watson says, “No. What? No, no, Sherlock—we are not doing this right now,” and places a guiding hand upon the flat of Sherlock’s shoulder blade to steer him away from placing yet another box of awaiting specimen slides onto the kitchen table, Sherlock does not bother to dissect the meaning of the little furl of warmth that runs in an electric current beneath his skin and underpins his own reply of, “Well, youcertainly aren’t,” before relinquishing the box to John’s impatient arm with a very pettish look.

John opens the refrigerator and returns the box to its place on the second shelf. “Look, you haven’t eaten in nearly two days. Just because you think you don’t need a nibble every now and again doesn’t mean your body agrees. Since the takeaway’s gone and the rest of what’s in here’s probably mould cultures or whatever else it is you’re poking at, we’re going out. You mentioned that Thai place last week, yeah?”

“You really shouldn’t use the royal we in situations like this, you know,” says Sherlock, slipping in behind John to pop open the door and withdraw the box from its place on the second shelf. “It can be rather confusing.”

Immediately the box finds its way back into John’s strong, capable hands. Sherlock blinks at the emptiness occupying the space between his own two palms.

“This isn’t the royal we,” says John, brandishing the specimen box in an accusatory manner. His brow furrows, firm, but it isn’t unkind. “This is the ‘we’ we, the ‘you and I’ we, the ‘Sherlock I absolutely will hold this hostage until you eat something’ we. I’m hungry and I know you are, too—no, you are; I heard your stomach from the sitting room, I’m not deaf—and apparently bullying you is the only way to go about it after your post-case bliss. So, come on. Let’s go.”

“Sorry, go?” Sherlock has been bullied by policemen and suspects and murderers, but never by John Watson. This is a new development. Judging by the nice shirt and the whiff of mellow cologne and the three texts John received fifteen minutes ago, Sarah must be unexpectedly unavailable.

Interesting.

“Yeah, go. You know, get dressed, leave the flat, stretch your legs?” John makes an abortive gesture toward the microscope set upon the kitchen table. “You’ve done nothing but sit about the place since the international smuggling ring. I don’t think you’ve moved.”

“I’ve moved,” says Sherlock. He takes a swift step to the right. “See? Moved.”

John sets his jaw and stares down at the specimen box. “Right. You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Perhaps you should have been more specific.”

“Yeah. All right. I don’t think you’ve been outside the flat. Better?”

“Inaccurate. The aforementioned international smuggling ring brought me outside the flat not four days ago.”

“Okay, fine. I don’t think you’ve recently been outside the flat.”

“You’re going to have to define the scope of ‘recently,’” says Sherlock, “because the word itself is an arbitrary—”

“Oh, for God’s sake. I will leave with this, Sherlock.” John gives the box a threatening shake. The glass slides within clink together. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Sherlock casts a surreptitious glance at the box. “I could always procure another set of samples from Bart’s. Molly would be accommodating.”

“Yeah, I’m sure she would, but you’d have to wait for them, then, wouldn’t you? Not like she can just pluck toenails off a corpse and give them to you. There’s paperwork, and by then you’d have to leave the flat to pick them up anyway.”

“Toenails? Really?” Sherlock frowns with disapproval. “Those are not toenails, John.”

John lifts his gaze to the ceiling. “Does it really matter what they are?”

“It does, actually, but you’re not the one conducting the experiment, so I suppose it—”

“No. No, I am not having this conversation with you. You can return to your bloody toenail samples later. Just—” John stabs the box in the general direction of Sherlock’s bedroom. “Just hurry up and put your damn trousers on, will you?”

Sherlock musters a glare. He really had been in the middle of something (cataloguing the decaying rates of various tissue samples is actually important regardless of what John seems to think), and even though it is all he can do to keep boredom at bay, he doesn’t like to be interrupted without reason. And this—eating, going, dressing, whatever—isn’t reason. He knows the transport isn’t hungry enough to where there might be cause for concern; therefore, there is no reason to eat.

However, he also knows it won’t do to have John cross with him as he is much more loath to perform menial tasks (such as retrieving Sherlock’s phone from his pocket or making tea or perusing the newspaper for interesting leads), so Sherlock heaves a long-suffering sigh and stamps off to his room to shed his pyjamas and dressing gown and, per John’s request, put his damn trousers on.

As he shoulders his way into a crisp white shirt and thumbs the nacreous buttons through their proper holes, Sherlock takes a moment to consider the state of things. It has been almost a week since the banker case, two months since the pink case, and just shy of two months since John assumed his (rightful) place in the upstairs room. And in that length of time, short as it is, Sherlock has not found the situation wanting.

There are growing pains, of course. Two people getting used to each other’s routines in the same space. Cohabiting is not without its struggles. John likes to complain about Sherlock’s beakers cluttering the kitchen worktop whilst using the rest of milk for tea instead of saving it for Sherlock’s experimental purposes, and Sherlock often finds the post has moved from where he’d impaled it upon the mantel or discovers an occasional experiment that has been unrightfully binned. But as far as Sherlock is concerned, choosing John for a flatmate has proven to be a beneficial arrangement for them both. Sherlock has someone with extensive medical knowledge during cases who is tolerable and a good shot and rather keen on praising him, and John has a convenient living situation in central London where he can indulge in the adrenaline highs he so misses.

Sherlock pauses mid-button on his left cuff, remembering the old cabbie as he wheezed on the grotty tile with John’s bullet lodged in his chest. That had been a proper adrenaline high for John. And afterward, he had followed Sherlock to the Chinese place at the end of Baker Street, caneless and tremor-free, seeming content with the knowledge that he himself had both put an end to a serial killer’s life and saved Sherlock’s.

John has killed for him once already. And if John continues to be his flatmate and a part of his cases, evidence suggests he may kill for him again. Not that Sherlock desires that to be a constant (like he desires John to be a constant), but the Work does have its dangers, and it is good insurance to have an obstinate John Watson at his side—especially if this Moriarty is as interesting as he thinks they’ll be.

He finishes buttoning his cuff and tucks his shirttails into the unfastened waistband of trousers. No one has ever killed for him before. Save for Mycroft and his incessant meddling, no one has bothered to invest this much thought or time into him, either. It leaves an odd feeling, much like a vital organ has misplaced itself somewhere behind his sternum.

“Come on, Sherlock.” Three stiff knocks rap against his bedroom door. “If this were a case, you’d be out in two minutes.”

A case. God, if only. The very idea is a thrill: a case, a good one, an interestingone—an eight!—would summon him stampeding down 221B’s seventeen steps in his Belstaff, scarf, and gloves with John in his soft oatmeal jumper and nondescript coat trailing just behind. They’d hail a cab to the scene, and Lestrade and his entourage of hapless detectives from the Yard would be milling about, useless as ever. Sherlock would soak in the data with every sense; he’d catalogue it, compile it, and rattle it off in short order to the crime scene’s open forum. Lestrade would be exasperated yet grateful, the rest of the lot would be useless still, and John would be dazzled and call him ‘brilliant’ and ‘extraordinary’ like that wonderful evening in pink.

And the limbic system—the stupid, awful, annoyinglimbic system—tells him he would be all too happy to have that happen.

Sherlock turns his gaze down toward the boxless space between his hands.

Two minutes?

No, he thinks. With John, not even two.