Chapter Text
“What’s that?” Sherlock asked, pulling something out of the closet.
John looked over, his heart skipping in a beat as he recognized the old blanket.
“Nothing,” he said, yanking it from Sherlock’s hands and throwing it onto the pile of his stuff.
Mrs Hudson had asked they declutter the apartment as much as possible, claiming all of the junk was putting a bow in her ceiling. Sherlock had refused until John told him to suck it up or lose everything he had because John would throw it away.
Now, John was greatly regretting his decision of pushing Sherlock into helping. The man seemed to be pulling everything out the closet John would rather he not find.
Sherlock looked him over with that look he had when decoding a crime scene, but John pretended to not notice. The last thing he needed was the man putting things together in a way he really didn’t need.
John grabbed at a box and started to pull the lid open. Finding only old sweaters, he set it aside in the look-at-later pile.
The next thing John pulled from a top shelf was a box filled with newspaper clippings of all different sizes and colors.
“Sherlock, what is this?” John asked pushing the box more towards his roommate so he could have a closer look.
Sherlock peered into the box. “Ah, yes, my records. I was wondering where those had gotten to.” He pulled several out to glance over before stuffing them back in.
John pulled one of the cutouts from the box, glancing it over. “Sherlock, these are obituaries. Why do you have records of dead people?”
“I like to keep track.” Sherlock shrugged.
John shook his head, pushing the bos towards the rest of Sherlock’s things. “People are going to think you’re some kind of serial killer.”
“Most people already do.” Sherlock said as he reached for another object from the top shelf. “Besides, who’s to say I’m not.”
John rolled his eyes, deciding to work on a lower shelf as Sherlock cleared out the top one. He told himself it had nothing to do with height, just what was easiest to access because of Sherlock’s big head.
“So what is this?” Sherlock said, standing next to his pile and lifting the blanket from earlier.
John sighed, not even having noticed the man had left the task at hand and was now by his things.
“Sherlock, leave my stuff alone,” John warned, eyebrows lowered.
“So you’re protective of it, but why?” Sherlock tuned the blanket around in his hands. “It looks like a child’s blanket, but it’s not worn enough to be from your childhood.”
John stood up, reaching for the blanket. “Sherlock, stop.”
Sherlock yanked it out of John’s grasp, looking the object and his roommate over. “It’s clearly been ripped, but the stitching is careful, so you hold it dearly.”
“Sherlock, please, just drop it.” John begged, reaching for the blanket for the second time, only to have it pulled out of his reach again.
“Maybe it is a child’s blanket, but that wouldn’t make any sense. You have no children, and there is only one blanket. You’re over protectiveness of it means it is yours, but if not from your childhood…”
John’s stomach sank and his hands went cold. Sherlock knew. Shit, Sherlock knew.
John snatched the blanket as quickly as he could, Sherlock in shock or too slow to pull it away this time as John raced up the stairs and to his room. John made sure to lock the door before he fell down on his bed, curling around the blanket as tightly as he could.
It wasn’t like he and Sherlock had never talked about Classifications, but they have never talked about their Classifications, and John had planned to keep it that way. John really didn’t know what he expected, though. Sherlock was a detective. And a damn good one at that. How long did he think he’d get away with putting up a mask?
He’d been really good at hiding it. Considering he’s done it whole life, it almost came as second nature. He wasn’t young enough to be one of those Littles that was easily identifiable because they had almost no bladder or motor control when they were Little. He was skilled at hiding when he did feel younger.
That was how he had been allowed in the Army, after all. Writing in Neutral was easy enough when they didn’t do regular Classification checks on new recruits. His training was good enough and his ability to hide was high enough that he had moved up the ranks quickly without anyone the wiser.
He had left the Army and had been living his life in relative secrecy ever since. Well, until today.
Sherlock would get angry for sure. Maybe John would be kicked out and he’d be alone again. John would go right back to where he’d been before Sherlock had drug him along on this adventure.
Even Harry had stopped talking to him as much when she found out he was a Little--who’s to say Sherlock wouldn’t be the same way?
A knock on his door brought John away from his thoughts. He balled into himself tighter, pretending to ignore the knocks when they came again.
“John,” a voice asked through the door.
“Go away!” John yelled, tucking his face deeper into the blanket.
“John, please open the door before I have to get Sherlock to get a spare key.” The voice asked again.
John looked over at the door, wondering who it could be if not Sherlock himself. No one else had been in the apartment. He decided the best way to handle this situation was to pretend it wasn’t happening and buried his head under his pillow as he crawled under the covers, blanket pressed close to his chest.
If he had just thrown out the blanket like everything else, this never would have happened. Instead, he thought it was safe to just stash it away where he wouldn’t have easy access. How stupid of him. Really, it was no surprise. John was always stupid.
“John, please. I promise we just want to talk.”
“No!” John yelled, the effort hurting his throat. How long had he been crying?
“We’re coming in, okay?” The voice said, followed by the sound of a key being placed into the lock before the door creaked open.
A naive part of him hoped that the blankets and pillows would make him invisible so he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. He just wanted to be left alone to cry in his room without anyone annoying him. They could kick him out later.
A weight on his bed told him his camouflage didn’t work at all.
“John?” The voice asked again.
John peeked out from under the pillow to find Mycroft looking down at him with soft eyes.
Great, Sherlock had called his brother to kick him out. John was going to be removed by the full force of the British government.
“Hey, what’re all these tears about?” Mycroft asked, gently pulling the comforter away.
John tucked under the sheets instead, determined to hide his face. He wasn’t feeling Little--he wasn’t even sure he could be fully Little anymore--but he wasn’t thinking with his full Big brain.
“Sweetheart, can we talk, please?”
John shook his head immediately. Talking led to more talking and more talking led to questions. John didn’t like lying, and everything he was asked he tried to answer as truthfully as possible, just not touch the questions he didn’t like. But there were some things he knew he wouldn’t get away with avoiding right now.
“John, I need you to talk to me for a second.” Mycroft pushed.
John made no move to change the position of his head, and heard as Mycroft sighed.
“How about I talk for a second, okay?” John could feel as Mycroft shifted positions, lifting one leg to cross it over the other before a hand was laid gently on John’s back. “I’m betting that you’ve been hiding for a while? Maybe to get into the Army, maybe to avoid the laws, maybe for another reason. But you’ve been doing it pretty well. Even I hadn’t guessed, which is astonishing. Getting passed not only a Dom and Caregiver, but also going unnoticed by another Little.”
John felt his eyebrows furrow as he pulled his head out from the pillows. “Little?” He asked.
“Yes, Sherlock.” Mycroft said, as if it was obvious.
John let his face fall back into his pillows as he tried to think of any signs of Sherlock being a little. Unsurprisingly, Mycroft was right. Sherlock was impulsive, brash, and constantly forgot to take care of himself. He wouldn’t eat until someone told him to, and he wouldn’t take a break or go to bed until someone demanded it.
“The one thing I don’t understand is that, after having come home and no longer needing to, why did you keep up the act?”
John let the question mill over his head for a bit. He’d been asking himself the same question a lot. Being a Little wasn’t near as bad in recent years as it had been when he was Classified. But old habits die hard, he guessed. And if the military found out he was lying of official forms, he’d be in for one hell of a trip to prison.
But, under it all, he realized it was fear. John was terrified of everyone leaving him because they thought he needed help constantly. He didn’t. He did plenty well in his own, thank you. But his father hadn’t seen it that way when his letter arrived. And neither did Harry, after hearing everything their father had said. What if someone else decided he was too much trouble and did the same thing? He would be all alone. He’d rather be half himself with people he loved than “fully true” as they called fifty-fifty Littles and surrounded by dust and tumble weed.
Littles were supposed to be fifty-fifty, so said the health organizations. They spend half their time Little and half their time Big. It was supposed to be the best way to keep a Little healthy. But John was doing just fine as a hundred-nothing.
Right?
“John, nothing's going to change about your adult life, no matter what you say. You will still be a consultant for Scotland Yard, and still be Sherlock’s flatmate. But it’s not healthy for you to deny yourself like this. And we can’t allow it to go on.”
John let out another sob into the pillow, the small fear of his tears and snot staining it as he moved his face back and forth to get everything off his skin. As much as he hated it, Mycroft had a point. It wasn’t particularly mentally healthy. But John had always summed up mental issues to his PTSD and stored them in the far-back of his mind, never to be over-analyzed.
“I’m not saying it has to be Greg and I, but I’d like to see you taken care of in some way.”
John shook his head, “No, I don’t need a Caregiver.”
“John…”
“Mycroft is really nice.” Sherlock’s soft voice came from the doorway.
John looked up to see his flatmate slumped over, eyes watching his hands as he pulled at a loose thread. It hit him suddenly that he should have guessed from day one, but Sherlock and him just never talked about it.
“Sher, I asked you to stay down stairs.” Mycroft scolded.
“But John’s crying and he’s my friend!” Sherlock voiced, slightly louder than was necessary. “I just wanted to help.”
John pushed against the side of him that was ready to fall into Mycroft’s lap and cry his eyes out. He wiped his face, and with a shaky breath, said, “I’m fine. I’ve been doing just fine on my own.”
It was a full-hearted lie, but John didn’t care. He refused to be a burden, and he refused to be left alone in such a vulnerable state. He’d been through that before and he would never put himself into that situation again.
“Look, just because you know now doesn’t change anything. Just like you said, Mycroft. Our relationship won’t change. I’m not a child, and I don’t need to be taken care of.”
John almost crumbled under the hurt look on Sherlock’s face. Almost.
Instead, Mycroft took a deep breath in and stood up. “Please let us know if you need anything.”
John didn’t respond, watching as Mycroft placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and led him out of the room, closing the door.
John fell back onto the bed, laying on his back and staring at the ceiling. He refused to acknowledge the tears still streaming from his face.
When he heard two pairs of feet walking down the stairs and the front door opening and closing, John stood up with the blanket clutched in his hands. He stomped down the stairs and into the kitchen, opening the cabinet that held their trash bin, and threw the blanket in.
His heart twisted at the sight, but he pushed it down, closed the closet, and went back to his room.