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“I believe in Sherlock Holmes,” he said defensively, crumpling the newspaper in his hand.
“Yeah, well that won’t bring him back,” Lestrade replied definitively, turning and walking away.
God, those words have haunted him ever since he first had that conversation with his boss. He blamed himself for Sherlock’s suicide, doubting him in the end, all those little insults and always unnecessarily giving him a hard time. But the newspaper had gone too far, claiming he was a fake when Anderson knew that he wasn’t. Not Sherlock, not that brilliant bag of dicks who could make deductions about who was sleeping with who based off deodorant and had no problem announcing their worst secrets to the world.
Provoking and insulting Sherlock was his favorite pass time. It wasn’t because he hadn’t liked Sherlock. It was because he had liked Sherlock a little too much. It was a banter between them that he had come to love and he didn’t mean anything by it, never knew it would hurt him so much.
As Nathan Young once said, “It's much easier to humiliate, degrade and just generally shit all over someone than it is to admit that you love them,” and Anderson thought that was a beautiful representation of what he and Sherlock once had.
It was confusing to say the least, never really knowing what the other was actually feeling. There were times when Anderson felt Sherlock had the same feelings for him, small instances where he just detect a hint of something.
For one thing, he didn’t treat anyone else the way he treated Anderson, not in the least, and Anderson liked to believe it was because he was the only one Sherlock was truly comfortable enough around to insult. It wasn’t one of those lovey-dovey relationships that they both hate so much, it was something better, the love/hate that came with those comments was fun and interesting.
“Anderson, don’t talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the entire street.” An insult reserved just for him, quite creative don’t you think? Sherlock had put thought into that insult and had waited until the opportune moment to say it. He didn’t waste that kind of energy on anyone else.
When he had pointed out the fact that Anderson’s wife was away and that he and Donovan might have gotten up to something… Well, Anderson thought he detected a bit of jealousy in Sherlock’s voice. The fact that two other people on the team were having an affair, an obvious affair that Sherlock could have easily picked up on, yet he said nothing about them, only proves that Anderson was his primary target. His insults always grew in intensity when Anderson and Donovan were together, which Anderson thinks speaks volumes.
When the DI needed to orchestrate a fake drugs bust on Sherlock’s flat to find whatever piece of evidence Sherlock was inevitably hiding, Anderson had been the first to volunteer. Anything to put Sherlock on edge, anything to get a chance at a uniquely created insult just for him, because really those were the funnest moments.
“Never mind that, we found the case! According to “someone,” the murderer has the case, and here we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath,” Anderson provoked Sherlock, waiting to see what clever retort he had in store for him this time.
Sherlock whirled on him and in his best condescending tone countered, “I’m not a psychopath, Anderson, I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research!”
In fact, Anderson did go home and “do his research” on what exactly Sherlock was saying. He found out that psychopath and sociopath had very similar meanings and that actually Sherlock wasn’t even close to the definition of sociopath. Sherlock had just said that to annoy him.
What was more, Anderson could tell that Sherlock always found it difficult to think when he was around. Sherlock tried to play it off as “Anderson you’re so stupid it’s contagious and I literally can’t think about anything other than your stupidity when you’re around I hate you so much," which only made Anderson smile. He knew there were other people Sherlock had to deal with that were so much dumber than Anderson, so much more intolerable, yet he never got quite as distracted.
"Shut up everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe, I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way, you're putting me off."
Their banter had always been the highlights of his day, provoking and insulting, and he found a day without Sherlock was dull and boring. No one else could come up with quite as creative insults as Sherlock. Eventually he started making up excuses to go see him, Sherlock always acting annoyed but secretly pleased that he was there.
When the Yard decided to give Sherlock the deerstalker as a sort of cruel joke, knowing full well that Sherlock hated hats and would be frustrated with the gift, and Sherlock had put the hat on for the press with a most grievous look upon his face, Anderson had to bite his lip at how adorable he looked--like an annoyed Pomeranian bearing its teeth trying to be threatening but really just being cute.
And then there had been the Christmas party at the Yard. No one had really expected Sherlock to turn up, but he did anyways. It had been a night of insults and increasingly sour dispositions, and no one but Anderson and Lestrade really wanted him there (though Anderson would never admit it even under torture). Then somehow Sherlock had caught Anderson under the mistletoe. They were both horrified as the Yard, frustrated from the insults and seeking revenge, thought that the best thing to brighten the night would be for Sherlock to kiss his seemingly worse enemy. So, under the cacophony of revengeful shouts and mocking laughter, they had kissed, and that had been the absolute best moment of Anderson’s life (though, again, he would never admit that). And from then on, Sherlock and Anderson got a little more, shall we say, affectionate with each other in the shadows.
Eventually they began getting sentimental, always hoping that the other would show up on a case. On his birthday, Sherlock bought Anderson a small plastic dinosaur, claiming that his child-like brain would appreciate something like that. Anderson claimed to have hated it and found it completely demeaning. He never told him that he kept the dinosaur on his nightstand beside his bed so that he could see it every night before he went to sleep.
“Sherlock you’re going to kill yourself one day, you know that right?”
“Anderson, please shut your stupid face, I’m trying to think.” Sherlock was hovering over a potentially dangerous experiment and they were alone in his flat.
“Oh, make me,” Anderson retorted bitterly, not fully realizing the implications of that statement.
“Fine.” The next instance, Sherlock crashed his lips into Anderson’s for a moment then turned back to his experiment as if nothing had happened. Anderson was just a bit too shocked to say anything else. All in all it had been a win/win.
When Anderson’s wife had left him (“Oh come on, this was inevitable, you had to see this coming”), Sherlock had stayed up all night with him. It had started out provoking and aggravating on both sides, both sharing some harsh words with each other, but eventually they had ended up curled up on the sofa together as Anderson fought unsuccessfully to conceal his, as Sherlock would say, ‘juvenile’ feelings, eventually relenting to frustrated, bitter tears that he couldn’t stop, and Sherlock pet his hair soothingly. Eventually Sherlock had somehow distracted Anderson into talking about something else, and soon they were laughing about something completely unrelated, perfectly content in each other’s arms. When they eventually realized that they were, in fact, in each other’s arms, they reverted back to playful provoking insults so things wouldn’t feel too cheesy or stupidly sentimental. But that night had started a tradition, and every week (except when there was a case) they found themselves curled up together on a sofa, watching crap telly or just talking about whatever random things had their interests that week, always throwing in a loving “psychopath” or “idiot” here or there.
Eventually they went public with their… er, relationship? Neither of them would ever call it that really, but that’s what it was. The Yard was horrified, Donovan wouldn’t talk to him for a week, and Lestrade had to excuse himself to go laugh it off for about five minutes before he could take their announcement seriously. But eventually everyone grew to accept it.
They were still completely professional at crimes scenes. Well, as professional those two idiots could be, still constantly bickering and insulting all the time, always insinuating that the other was somehow contaminating the crime scene. But they started going out in public more, held hands in restaurants despite the odd looks anyone who knew them would give, walking down the road with arms around waists, catching a quick kiss then a scathing insult about intelligence or social awkwardness or whatever else they decided to come up with.
“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Anderson said, swatting Sherlock away from his stack of case files.
“No. You’re confused. Assholes are the things that produce crap, but the only one that produces crap between us is obviously you.” Sherlock replied, evading Anderson’s defenses and grabbing the first file from the stack.
“Fuck off,” Anderson replied, distracting Sherlock with a quick kiss as he retrieved the file. Sherlock laughed, then smiled warmly as he stood and left, the second file from the stack firmly in his hands. Anderson sighed in defeat. He would have to get that back from Sherlock later using a bit more sophisticated techniques.
But then one day everything had gone wrong and Sherlock was being accused of some dangerous things. They went to arrest him, but he of course escaped and ran as a fugitive. Just like Sherlock, never simple, never caged. Before the next day had finished, Anderson received the call that Sherlock had jumped off the side of St. Bart’s, and he had never felt worse. A part of him blamed himself, for all the provoking, for going to arrest him, for never actually coming out and saying how much he loved him. And now Anderson wished nothing more than for Sherlock to come back.
Well, it was three years later and Anderson got his wish. He was outside of Scotland Yard staring down the sidewalk at Sherlock Holmes, completely alive and well, who was just standing there staring back. Neither of them moved for a moment, unsure of what to do. Anderson was the first to move, running down the sidewalk to the man he had thought dead. But of course he wasn’t dead. This was the stupid brilliant Sherlock Holmes and he was back.
They ran towards each other and embraced, tears streaming down their faces.
“I knew you were alive, I just knew it!” Anderson cried, voice muffled into Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Oh shut up you idiot, your feelings are so pathetic.” Sherlock embraced him tighter, placing a gentle kiss in Anderson’s hair.
“I missed your insults,” Anderson said sentimentally, leaning his head back to gaze into Sherlock’s face.
“I missed your stupid face,” Sherlock replied, taking Anderson’s face with both hands and engaging in a very passionate kiss.