asgardmeridiem | well you sure didn't look like you were having any fun [closed]

Who: Sherlock Holmes, Ellie
What: This must be revenge for that breaking and entering business.
When: Backdated, day 335 or so?
Where: Baldr District, House 102

House 102, Baldr District, doesn't, as a rule, receive visitors. It isn't anything to do with the house itself; it's perfectly serviceable, cozy if a bit cluttered, obviously lived-in. It isn't anything to do with its more sociable resident either. Doctor John Watson is hardly ill-liked, and certainly well-known enough amongst the local populace that by rights more feet ought to cross the threshold of House 102 than have done since its current occupants have taken up residence.

The problem, of course, if not with the house itself or with Doctor Watson must lie with the other occupant, the odd, misanthropic if not precisely reclusive housemate. Some might argue that Mr. Sherlock Holmes darkens every room he enters. Even John might, Sherlock suspects, from time to time, when they are one or the other or both of them feeling particularly uncharitable towards one another, a state which never lasts, much to the bafflement of the outside world. Their home is a microcosm, a self-contained world, safe from intruders courtesy Sherlock's odd and unfriendly demeanor -- or something to that effect; even he isn't entirely certain. The fact remains that their house may as well be haunted: the aura of him hangs over it, and neither friends nor strangers darken their doorstep. As a rule.

Rules were made to bear exceptions, Sherlock knows that very well, but even he has to admit that the violation of this particular one is surprising. If any were set in stone, carved into bloody bedrock...

And yet: a knock upon the door. A knock upon the door during clinic hours, when John is out. Most peculiar.

The mystery does resolve itself somewhat once Sherlock peers out onto the street at their -- his? -- caller, head inclined, a ridiculous eyesore, the human personification of toothache, or something similarly irksome but generally easily gotten rid of. The girl. Why the girl? People don't, they really just don't, it's probably not decent.

"What do you want?" Straight to business.

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It horrifies her. Alone is the worst possible thing a person could be, and she knows that truly, deep down, he doesn't feel that way. He wouldn't be so fucking upset if he didn't give a damn about Watson. He wouldn't have saved him, and he sure as hell wouldn't be so upset right now over the guy being pissed with him.

The arrogance of it pisses her off, too -- the way it can only piss off someone in the awkward years between child and adult, with all the heart and need to live and grow, and none of the power to control her path.

"Must just be great," she whispers. "Having so many people who care about you. Enough that you could ever think about throwing 'em away."

Sherlock huffs the beginning of a laugh, just one indignant, darkly amused -- defensive -- contraction of the diaphragm. "Obvious you've never had one if you think that's what they're for."

Which is cruel, perhaps; he can't tell. It's certainly honest. In his mind she's some kind of fortunate if it's true. Given a blank slate, not born into the sort of tangled, awful mess that he was.

Still. Still, that probably bears some elaboration. "No idea where my father is. Don't care to know. He left with the maid when I was seven. Couldn't stand having a freak for a son. Mycroft was bad enough. My brother, Mycroft. Do you know where Moriarty got that extra information about me? The bits he threw in to make his story look legitimate?"

He pauses a moment, mouth set in an unhappy line. "He knew. Mycroft knows plenty about anybody he'd like to. I couldn't escape him if I wanted, but he doesn't give enough of a toss about me not to willingly hand the people who want me dead the ammunition to accomplish it. There's my mother; I suppose she'd have cared once. Doesn't tend to seek me out though. Not in years. I am a disappointment. Brother in politics and all I do is chase madmen around."

There's something in his eyes, a bright conviction, almost fervor. "Family isn't there to care about you. It's there to hurt you, either because they're used to or because they want to. Most murder isn't random, you know. Not strangers at all. Daughters murder their mothers for the insurance money. Husbands murder their wives because they can't stand the nagging a moment longer. I met a woman who poisoned her child slowly, over years, because she enjoyed the sympathy people gave her when the girl suffered. Your poor girl -- family is an excuse to use, and the more you care about someone the more they'll use you. That's how it works."

Ellie sits with him, still angry, still hurting, but still sits with him. She doesn't yell at him, and she certainly feels like punching him, but she doesn't. She knows all about people turning out to be absolutely fucking terrible. She knows all about betrayal, and madness -- but she's also met some good people, some loyal ones.

People who'd give their life to keep someone they loved safe. To keep their family safe.

And she's seen people who couldn't go on, couldn't live with failing that promise to themselves.

She thinks of Sam and Henry, thinks of how senseless their deaths were, how much they loved each other. How hard Henry tried to keep Sam safe, and in doing so, was overbearing and controlling and even hurtful, sometimes.

She thinks of Joel, and how he's never forgotten Sarah. At how much pain her death still brings him. And she thinks of Tommy, and how much he and Joel fought, but how they still greeted each other with a smile and a hug, grateful to be alive and together again.

"You got fucked over," she finally whispers.

Sherlock is equipped to see the worst in people. To weasel out every last inch of their hypocrisy. He had wanted to understand, and so he'd taught himself to see, but in doing so had only distanced himself further from that particular goal. Other people are, by and large, obscure to him. All he does know is that every last thing they do and every last idea they have is meant to serve themselves, even -- especially -- when they're not supposed to.

That most of them aren't worth investment is obvious, and the idea that those that are become that way out of simple genetic proximity is laughable.

"How? I was only born to them; it hardly means anything at all." Perfectly arbitrary, once instinct ends and the reality of human complexity sinks in.

"It doesn't matter. Supposed to, people say that, but I hardly see the point. Doesn't stop me choosing." Which, clearly, he already has done; that's the point. What is this current living arrangement if not something better than family?

Ellie snorts, and almost smiles.

"... I get that. I kind of ended up choosing, too."

Even if he's not here, she chose. Firmly. It had taken a long time for the both of them to be sure. A lot of pain. A lot of bullshit, but the world had happened.

"So that's who John is?"

"John is my flatmate." And Sherlock had jumped. Given his very mixed feelings on the subject the human race in general, that says enough. He isn't inclined to add to it, especially given the risk. Whether or not he trusts her is irrelevant -- information has a way of spreading, and he certainly doesn't trust anyone else.

It's probably futile. It's probably obvious, but he doesn't want to invite any further attempts to use John against him either.

"Would, therefore be nice if he'd stop wandering about shooting me tragic looks, as I'm going to have to live with him."

Yeah. Ellie gets it, and she nods to herself. Whether Sherlock tells her or not, she gets it.

"You want me to talk to him or something?"

She's content enough to be an outlet for listening, but she'll always offer to help with moving forward, even if it's not realistic.

"Can't imagine what you'd say that wouldn't just have him interrogating me as to what I'd told you and why," Sherlock responds drily, though there's a hint of surprise in the reflexively suspicious narrowing of his eyes. For a man who so enjoys surprises, he is remarkably suspicious of them, regardless of who they come from. Stasis is easier, even he has to admit that.

"Find him a girlfriend or something to shoot, those tend to cheer him up. Can't imagine why as both tend to end poorly." Maybe that is why. That would be irritating: if John is attracted, however subconsciously, to things that are bound to end poorly (and the balance of evidence is in favour of it, given the circumstances) then he's always going to have to be lobbing himself off buildings, or at least fielding the anger and the moping.

Fine. Not fine, really, but he'll do it; as long as he knows he'll get through it's only a minor nuisance. "No accounting for taste, I suppose."

"Eh, you're right."

Ellie shrugs her shoulders, giving Sherlock an arch look. A girlfriend, huh? There's an idea. What sort of lady does John even like? She's a bit curious, but wise enough to realize that she's going to have to deal with Sherlock as much as John.

"I guess I could give him more archery lessons. We started during the festival."

well you sure didn't look like you were having any fun [closed]

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