Asperger's

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"You know, he's secretly pleased to see you here."
"Yeah, he likes to see familiar faces together. It appeals to his…"
"Asperger's?"
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The large pile of papers made a satisfyingly large thumping sound as they hit the bottom of the recycling bin.

John smirked, rubbing his hands against the knees of his jeans in an attempt to rid them of the inevitable dust and dirt. Slowly, he stood up, straightening with a grimace, stretching his back after long hours of cleaning. Looking around the room, John saw progress.

The room was far cleaner than it had been in the morning. John, finally convinced Sherlock to move his most important papers into a cabinet and allow John to throw out or organize the rest, along with the other kinds of mess the two had acquired. It had been no easy feat. John had been, figuratively, knee-deep in Sherlock's books, equipment and body-parts along with John's own medical texts, papers and other random rubbish.

Sherlock was no help.

"If you must fix was isn't broken," He'd said, sitting by his desk, staring at his laptop and not even bothering to look up at his flat-mate. "By all means waste your time."

"Sherlock-"

"I've moved any papers of importance. You can obviously handle the rest considering how eager you are."

And that was the end of that conversation, John mused, noting that Sherlock hadn't moved at all since then, still typing away at his laptop. "Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock said, finally looking up at him, and taking in the new state of the flat as well. "I see you've been working." The way he said it made it sound like John had been filling out a coloring book for three hours.

"Yes, Sherlock. Hard." John said defensively. "You couldn't see the kitchen counter before I had a go at it."

Sherlock turned back to whatever he was working on. "And I suppose you'll be this irritating when you have to repeat this experience-"

"Irritating?!"

"In a few months. It is a vicious cycle, you know." The detective finished sarcastically.

John huffed frustratingly; he knew he shouldn't be surprised by his friend's attitude. He was always like this. Throw away the fact that most of the mess was his anyway. "Fine. Well, I'm mostly done anyway, so it's not like I need your help anymore. If you need me I'll be straightening up the loo."

Not unsurprisingly, Sherlock didn't answer and John moved to do finish what he started in silence.

The small bathroom honestly was the easiest room to clean, only needing for John to throw out some old bottles and generally straighten up the place. It was one of the few places that John was the main source of the mess. Sherlock was as meticulous as a cat when it came to his own cleanliness, keeping whatever products he used organized on the shelf, each being replaced when need be.

John started throwing his own items away, empty bottles and one comb that had seen its end. That simply done, he moved to the cabinet under the sink, checking to see if he'd missed anything. There were mainly spare tools and parts stored there, in case either of them ever needed to fix something that couldn't wait for a repairman.

However… John was a little startled as he moved the toolbox, an unexpected item meeting his sight. 'Why,' he wondered. 'is there a random box hidden under our sink?' It must be Sherlock's, he figured, because it certainly wasn't his, especially since he'd never seen it before. Taking it out from where it seemed to have been hidden, John wondered what sort of item was inside that it was necessary for the detective to hide it.

As he moved it, he could sense that the box wasn't empty. Maybe Sherlock had something of sentiment? 'No.' John thought, 'That's not his style.' Curiously, and with some hesitation he opened it.

Both emotions fled and faded into the deep coldness that settled in his stomach.

"Sherlock."

Nothing.

"Sherlock!"

Maybe it was the tone of his second call that made Sherlock take him seriously, almost instantly appearing in the doorway with a curious, annoyed and yet somewhat alarmed expression. "What is it?"

John found it hard to form the words. "I thought… I thought you said you were clean."

Sherlock sighed, alarm fading from his expression while annoyance and boredom took over. "I am."

"Then what is this?" John ground out, showing the detective his findings. Not one but three orange medication bottles were in his grasp.

At the sight of them Sherlock started, eyes going wide. He looked honestly started, fearful even. "John-"

"Sherlock. I trusted you." John said, taking in the harsh truth that his friend had hid medication from him and was now attempting to cover it up even more. He was almost shaking. Grateful for his knowledge as a doctor, he studied what exactly his friend had been taking behind his back.

"John-"

Sherlock was still trying to appeal to him. "Shut up, Sherlock." John growled. Luvox, Risperdal and Zoloft. "Why the hell do you have these? Two of these are anti-depressants and one of these is practically a tranquilizer if you used enough! What, had enough with the usual seven percent solution?"

His words were harsh, and had he been in his right mind, John may have noticed his friend's shortening of breath and taking a step back, as if the doctor's words had physically hit him. "John, I-"

"Enough." Unfortunately, John was not in his right mind, his anger taking over. "The night after the first drugs bust," He said, remembering, sadness and betrayal now hitting him full-force. "You promised me that nothing would ever be found here. That you were clean."

"I am-"

"Then what. Is. This?" John was beyond angry now. "Why did you hide this from me? Never mind," He interrupted himself. "I know why you hid this from me. You're Sherlock Holmes. You think you can do anything and it won't effect you- all for the sake of what? Oh, I guess, 'Stimulating your mind' would be the answer right? Of all the stupid, stupid things you've done this has got to be the-"

"They're mine."

Sherlock spoke so quietly that John almost didn't register the admission until partway into his speech, the shock brining it to a full halt. "What?"

"They. Are. Mine." Sherlock said, quietly but yet still gaining back some of his usual frustrated tone.

"What do you mean?" John said, trying to wrap his head around what his friend was saying. Was he actually admitting to-

Sherlock snorted. "Did you check the labels?"

"Of course I did! What-"

"Did you check the name?"

He had not. John, in his anger, had just jumped to the names of the medications. Rolling them over in his grip, he looked at the bottles more closely, glancing over the name of the person they had been prescribed to. He gasped.

Printed clearly was the name: Sherlock Holmes.

"What?" John whispered, his brain seeming to go in shock. "Why…?" He looked up at the detective, who was giving him a soft, imploring look, as if giving him space and willing him to come up with the answer on his own. John couldn't fathom the answer, unless…

"Sherlock, are you depressed?"

Sherlock made a face at this and John recognized it easily: Disappointment. He was hoping John would have deduced something far more than that. "No." He responded shortly, shaking his head as if the idea was ridiculous.

"Then what…"

The detective shook his head, again giving his friend a look that willed him to just think. John knew that if roles were reversed, Sherlock would have accurately guessed the reason in seconds. "John…" Sherlock said, starting to look uncomfortable, like he was trying to say something but was too hesitant. It made John worry even more. What was going on?

After a moment, Sherlock seemed to settle at a solution. "I'll give you some hints." He said, not looking at John. "I have a condition," John started at this, but Sherlock gestured at him to calm down. "Non-threatening. I've had this since birth and will have it until I die," The doctor flinched at the thought. "I've been medicated, since I was a child, at times wrongly medicated, since this condition wasn't considered a trustworthy diagnosis until recently, and I am constantly displaying symptoms," He spat the word as if it was unfair but obligatory. "of this syndrome. Now John," Sherlock finally stopped to look at his friend, staring with an expression of seriousness that John couldn't title. "as a medical man, what can you deduce from that?"

John considered it, staring at the bottles in his hands as if they could provide some sort of answer. "Luvox," He said, not looking up at Sherlock, attempting to use the information his friend provided. "Is used for depression… and…" John blanked. This wasn't his usual area of medicine.

"Control repetitive behavior." Sherlock provided, sensing John's difficulty. John glanced up at him, seeing that Sherlock again wasn't looking at his friend, but was seeming to find the floor very interesting. He looked tense.

"And Risperdal is normally used for agitation in…" John stopped, the conclusion he was forming just didn't seem right. And yet it made so much sense. "Sherlock." He said, attempting to grab the detective's attention.

Sherlock's gaze moved back to him, and John could sense that his mind was attempting to predict his friend's reaction to what he had gathered. "Sherlock," John probed, gently. "Are you autistic?"

The detective flinched, closing his eyes before nodding and muttering. "Asperger's."

Realization hit John full force. It explained so much. He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Sherlock didn't seem to take that very well. "Is it a crime?" He almost snarled, obviously on the defensive, like an angry cat ready to strike if the wrong move was made.

John started, surprised. "Of course not!" He said, standing up and trying to appear neutral.

It was Sherlock's turn to sigh. "Right." He said, looking down at the floor again. He looked extremely tense, nervous and uncomfortable. Obviously, he was still expecting some sort of reaction from John, probably for the negative. John couldn't help but sympathize. This seemed to be Sherlock's biggest secret, now laid bare before him - he had a right to be nervous.

In what he hoped would be comforting gesture, John stepped forward, putting his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Sherlock-" Sherlock instantly flinched away from the touch, almost tensing up even more. John put his hand down, sympathizing again. He'd heard somewhere that people with Asperger's had, at times, sensitive sensory perception-

"Don't. I know what you are thinking."

John almost jumped at the sudden halt of his train of thought. "'Don't' what?" He asked.

"Sympathize, theorize or… categorize." Sherlock replied, deadly quiet, serious.

"What?" John repeated, confused.

"Just…" Sherlock sighed angrily. "Don't sympathize, because there is nothing wrong with me. Don't theorize the cause of my actions because of what I have and don't…" He paused, closing his eyes. "Don't categorize me."

"Categorize?"

The detective glared at him, eyes like ice. "All my life people have tried to classify me." He took a deep breath. "Trying to figure out how I worked, why I am what I am." He turned away, slowly walking towards the living room, John anxiously following. "'Sherlock'," Sherlock said mockingly. "'shows signs of an intense social disorder'. 'Sherlock displays the symptoms of high-functioning psychopathy and sociopathic behavior'. 'Sherlock obviously has a social phobia'. 'Sherlock must have an issue in the chemical balance of his brain'."

He stopped, still in the middle of the room. "In 1992, Asperger's was considered a diagnosis. At the time Mycroft and the doctors were treating me for psychopathy." John winced, treatment for that usually involved medication that would likely dull Sherlock's mind. "A.S. made so much sense. Developed language at an early age, leading to being mocked by my peers, repetitive behavior-" He looked over to John. "Have you ever boiled the same kettle over and over until you've started a fire?"

John's raised eyebrows answered for him.

Sherlock sighed. "I have. It also explained my astounding memory and at least some of my mental ability, along with my… agitation at certain senses." He moved towards the window, staring out it coldly, back to John. "It also defined my failing at social graces. Lack of empathy, expression, and strange posture." He said this, raising his hands flat together, placing them under his nose in a familiar gesture. "But it doesn't matter."

"Why?" Asked John, hesitantly, stepping towards his distressed friend.

"It shouldn't matter. Don't you see?" Sherlock asked, turning towards him. Obviously, John didn't. "Of course, it did matter in the case of medication. Having been diagnosed correctly and having something that actually worked was a relief."

"You mean you used to be worse than you are now?" John joked, hoping Sherlock would take the bait.

Luckily for him, Sherlock smirked. "Hard to imagine, isn't it?" He replied.

Sensing a positive shift in the air, John finally got the nerve to ask something that had been bothering him. "Sherlock…" He asked, taking the detective's glancing over his shoulder at him to be a good sign. "Why the Zoloft?"

Sherlock turned his gaze away from him again. "It's for the anxiety."

"Anxiety? Do you have panic attacks?" John asked. He found it hard to believe.

Never the less, Sherlock nodded. "It's been some years…" He said. "I've been told that it's common for those with A.S." The uncomfortable stance returned to his features. "They were more frequent when I was younger." He explained.

John nodded, his last question coming to mind. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I never tell anyone." Sherlock replied. "Mycroft is the only person in my… immediate circle that knows anything. And now, you I suppose."

"Why?"

Sherlock huffed again, obviously frustrated. "I've said it already. It shouldn't matter. I don't tell everybody because it would seem to explain me. What I do. How I work." He stared directly at John then. "If someone were to classify you with, let's say, 'Watson Syndrome', and the 'symptoms' were a general kind nature, a want for social interaction and the apparent need to embrace danger, what would you think? Especially with everyone around you saying or thinking something along the lines of 'He does that because he's got Watson's?'" He turned around to face John fully. "I don't want people to think they can explain me beyond that I am what I am. There aren't many people that accept me for just that, and that's okay, I'm more lucky than I ever thought I would be in that regard. But, I'm still viewed by everyone as just me. Promise me John."

"What?" John breathed. "Anything." And he meant it.

"Don't forget that."

John smiled. "Of course." Nothing had changed. Sherlock was still brilliant, arrogant, impulsive, and, now, autistic, but John wouldn't have it any other way. Sherlock was just Sherlock.

He saw the tension in Sherlock's shoulders drop as he returned the smile back to his blogger. Relieved and satisfied, he moved towards where his violin lay.

"I still have one more question." John said, moving towards his desk while Sherlock sat at his chair.

"Of course."

"What happens if you get kidnapped or held hostage or something and you run out of meds?" John asked, taking the detective's occupation into account.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I always keep some on me when I go out." Obvious.

"Great." John sighed, sitting down and readying his laptop, though he knew this conversation would definitely not go on his blog.

"Along with an epipen."

John froze. "An epipen? You're allergic to something? Any other medical conditions you need to inform me about?"

Sherlock smirked.