tartanfics

Title: Selective Blindness
Fandom/Ships: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock/John if you squint just right.
Word Count: 1040 words
Rating: PG for a terrible penis joke.
Disclaimer: Really not my characters or universe.
Warnings: Spoilers for the end of A Study in Pink.
Notes: This is the fic that was originally the second half of Reminders, re-edited to stand on its own.
Summary: John notices that Sherlock’s ability to be a little bit normal applies to no one but John.

After John shoots a man for Sherlock, after giggling at a crime scene, after bloody hell, Sherlock’s brother is as mad as he is, after they go home to 221B Baker Street, John begins to understand that he is special. John’s seen Sherlock insult Donovan, embarrass Anderson, ignore Lestrade, and be impressively inconsiderate of everyone else. John always feels an odd twist between his stomach and his lungs when he is reminded that yes, Sherlock actually sometimes does have a concept of normal human interaction. That twist only grows when John notices that Sherlock’s ability to be a little bit normal applies to no one but John.

On his phone, one afternoon:

Bringing home Thai.
You want the Phad Prik King?
SH

When answered affirmatively:

I think it’s your testosterone
that likes Prik King, not your
stomach.
SH

Sod off, John types back, but he’s perfectly happy to eat the food when it arrives. Sherlock even brings the spring rolls John likes, and refrains from mocking him. Mostly.

-

On a Friday evening a few days later, both Sherlock and John are ensconced in the sitting room. For a Friday night it’s alarmingly domestic, but they’ve spent the last two days tearing all over London tracking down a lost manuscript (the step-brother took it) and John’s feet hurt. Sherlock seems to want a quiet night in as well, though it’s always hard to tell what Sherlock really wants.

John’s sitting in the armchair typing up the case for his blog, but he’s having trouble focusing. Sherlock, lying on the sofa, is plucking at his violin rather aimlessly. John types another two words, and then sighs and looks up at Sherlock. “Will you quit doing that?”

“My playing bothers you?”

“It wouldn’t if you were playing something.”

Sherlock seems to consider this a moment, then sits up and settles the violin on his shoulder. He plays a couple of notes, trying to find the right one, and then he starts playing an actual song. It’s “Norwegian Wood”.

John stares at him a moment, and then lets him play, his fingers lingering over the keyboard. He doesn’t often hear Sherlock playing proper songs; he doesn’t want to miss it when it happens. John listens in silence, staring blankly at his screen. He looks up when Sherlock finishes the song, holding the bow still against the strings. “Norwegian Wood?” John asks, clearing his throat.

“Is that what it’s called?”

“Yes, of course—you know how to play it but not what it’s called?”

“It’s one of your favourites.”

“How do you—no, I won’t ask.”

“Play count on your iTunes.”

“Ah.” He’s quiet a moment, idly contemplating the curve of the violin under Sherlock’s chin. “The Beatles sound funny on the violin.”

“The what?”

John’s mouth opens of its own accord. “The Beatles? You’re serious?”

“I suppose this is another one of those things everyone knows.”

“The Beatles?!”

“John, there’s no good reason I should know anything about every musical group to have played in the last fifty years. If you can think of a reason besides ‘everyone else does’, by all means, tell me.”

John knows this is hopeless. “Fine. What else have you learnt off my iTunes?”

Sherlock plays “Octopus’s Garden”, another of John’s favourites, clearly ignorant of any connection between it and the last song. “That’s another Beatles,” John says when he finishes.

“Hm. I like them. Everyone else you listen to plays the same song twenty times with slightly edited lyrics.”

“They don’t—“ he begins, but Sherlock gives him a look. “Fine, carry on.”

“I’ll make you a bargain. I play, and you don’t tell me whose song it is and why I should know who they are. I don’t need that much useless information.”

“If you insist,” John says, and watches Sherlock settle the violin back against his neck.

They’re all songs John knows, and soon he’s able to mostly ignore the music, typing out his blog entry in more than two word intervals. He finishes the entry, reads it over, and posts it, and when he looks up again Sherlock is still playing, perched on the edge of the sofa, back straight as a rod, looking at him. John closes the laptop and sets it aside, feeling awkward and watched. The song fades out, slowly. “Shall we get something to eat?” John says in the lull, though he’s not hungry.

Sherlock sets the violin aside, almost hastily. “Yes. Angelo’s?”

John follows him to the door.

-

And then there are the experiments. Ever since the incident with the disembodied ears, when John yelled and chucked a fork at him, Sherlock has started tidying up. John never sees him do it, but lately Sherlock’s messes seem to be cleaned up by the time John gets home. For a relative value of “cleaned up”, at any rate. The head has been removed and the fridge has been scrubbed. The rat is in the freezer, but at least it’s in two layers of plastic bags. There are still petri dishes, but they’re organized on a tray at the end of the counter. John is pleased, and a little afraid to question the change for fear he’ll have to go back to finding dead things in next to the milk and eggs.

Sherlock’s sudden willingness to clean seems to be part and parcel of the way he changes around John. When he’s working around John, he is different. More… considerate is the word, perhaps, but Sherlock doesn’t do consideration for others because it’s a social nicety. He still heckles Sergeant Donovan, still baits Lestrade, still ignores Mycroft. He leaves his coat, his scarf, and sometimes his laundry over the banister until Mrs. Hudson mentions in to John, who mentions it to Sherlock. It’s not that Sherlock has become considerate—it’s that John has been elevated to a special role in which Sherlock considers him.

Sometimes, of course, John is unpleasantly reminded of Sherlock’s lack of real consideration. He still makes John do the shopping, still complains if John brings home the wrong kind of bread. He can still be infuriatingly blind to the idea of actually helping out.

He is not blind to John. John takes what he can get.