15Author's Note: Hello! This is set after the Great Game, but is sort of ignoring the second series for now, so it's set in between. I'm writing a pretty angsty fic at the moment along side this, so I wanted to try something a little lighter!
And it feels like jealousy
And it feels like I can't breathe
And I'm on, down on my knees
And it feels like jealousy.
Will Young - Jealousy
John Watson was not a jealous man. He was very aware of this, and considered it a good quality. He always thought possessiveness in a relationship was nothing more than a lack of trust and a lack of self-esteem on the possessive party's side. However, he was very protective. Once a person had made their way into John Watson's life and he wanted them to stay there, he would do anything to protect them. So it was no surprise to him that when Anderson was in a particularly snarky mood (because his wife had kicked him out, if Sherlock was correct, and he usually was) and started on a particularly vicious rant about Sherlock, the only way his body knew to react was to punch him in the face.
After a stern telling off from Lestrade, which had ended with both of them in a fit of giggles after Lestrade ended his rant with 'But he did fucking deserve it', John found himself walking into 221b Baker Street to find his flat mate walking about in his underwear.
In the year (God, had it really been a whole year?) that John had been living on Baker Street, he had learnt that there was not much point in questioning why Sherlock Holmes did things. And there was definitely no point in trying to get him to change the things Sherlock Holmes did. Instead the best way to deal with Sherlock Holmes was to simply ignore his strange and sometimes disturbing habits, and try and keep on top of which cartons in the fridge were which so to avoid another 'pigs blood in the tea' incident. So for half an hour John sat at his lap slowly typing up the case which ended with Anderson being punched in the face, not looking up until Sherlock came from behind and swiftly closed John's laptop.
'I hadn't saved that'.
'It's on auto-save.'
'That's not the point'.
Sherlock smirked and picked his long black coat off of his armchair (Considering how often he wears it and how expensive it is you would think he could be bothered to hang it up) and with what seemed to be just one big swishing movement he was covered in it, reaching for her scarf on the table.
'I thought you had a date with Sarah?'
John sighed, feeling his stomach sink. Sarah was smart, funny, pretty and was somehow able to put up with his rather strange living arrangements, yet every time it came around to 'date night' he started to feel sluggish, and almost always tried to find a way out of it.
'I did, but since we're obviously going out, I'll just re-arrange.'
'Who says we're going out?'
John stopped still in the middle of putting his own coat on just to give Sherlock a look.
'You have your coat on, you don't tend to wear your coat indoors, and you only go off on your own when you're sulking or when I have to work, and you are in as good a mood as you can be in, and I don't have work, so therefor I was left with the assumption that we are going out.'
Sherlock smiled the smallest of smiles, and if you hadn't been looking at that precise moment you would have missed it, however John was always looking.
'Why are you smiling?'
'Your deductions, John, are getting rather good indeed. In this case you are completely wrong, of course, but I am very impressed'.
John was getting confused, and while he should have been used to it by now, he didn't like it.
'So we're not going out?'
'Well, technically we are both going out. You are going on a date with Sarah and I have my own dinner plans for this evening. However, by 'we' I assume you meant to ask if we were going out together, and in answer to that question, no, we are not'.
'Dinner plans?' John repeated warily, sure he must had misheard.
'Since when do you have your own dinner plans?'
His scarf now securely round his long neck, the great detective headed for the door, turning to back only to reply to his friend who was now standing in a state that definitely required a shock blanket.
'Now now John, no need to be jealous, I'm not getting another blogger.'
And with the smirk etched on his face, Sherlock Holmes left 221b.
John Watson was not a jealous man. But for the life of him he could not explain why right at this moment he wanted to smash 221b Baker Street to pieces.
Feedback is always appreciated!