Sherlock

Tea. Jam. Sunlight. Rage.

I don't have to look up to know he's here. John. He pads across the kitchen in socked feet. Hair: damp. (Can tell by sound his fingers make when run through the strands. Scrubby.) Jumper: clean. (Lavender wash detergent. New. Must have run out of unscented and had to borrow from Mrs. Hudson. I remember to complain.) John.

"Morning, Sherlock," he says cheerfully, crossing to the counter and setting the kettle on to boil. I let myself glance away from the computer screen (not mine. John's. Need it for a case. Terribly important) and at him. My heart stutters, which is a normal human reaction to seeing an object that incites both emotional and physical pleasure, and yet I am still shocked by it. One of the only things that ever shocks me. Been happening since the day I met him. Conclusion: I should be over it (him) by now, but I'm not (never will be).

"It's ten thirty," I say. I look at him. Wait for him to turn around.

He does. (Predictable.) Eyebrows up. Mouth in a pleasant line. "Yeah, ok, it is," he says. Mouth shifts; is now a half smile. I think about telling him that he shouldn't be allowed to smile like that. Then I think about telling him that he shouldn't be allowed to smile at anyone like that but me. I do neither.

"I take it your date was acceptable?" I say, because it's true. She isn't in his bed (didn't even come home with him last night) but he looks happy and he got a full night of sleep (no nightmares; no screaming; I know because I made sure). John is content.

The kettle whistles and he turns, pouring two cups. Over his shoulder he says, "Tea?" Even though he's already poured mine and spooned the sugar in. I can taste it.

"Obviously," I say, and then wonder why John's obtusity doesn't annoy me like other people's does. Perhaps because no one else makes tea like this. Or perhaps because of that smile.

John picks up both cups and sits down across from me at our table, shoving a plate of fingernails and a dissertation about tomato seeds out of his way. He's still smiling. "Date was fine," he says. "Evelyn's interested in what you do. What we do." Smile is bigger. I feel like smashing something. "Wants to meet you."

I force myself to look back down at John's laptop. Scan pictures of third degree burns until my mind stops wheeling. Look back up. "To meet me," I repeat in a monotone. "Does she have a missing sibling that she wants me to find? Grandmother? Lover? Because those are so tedious, John─"

"Sherlock─"

"We're on the middle of something monumental for Lestrade right now John, you know that, I don't have time─"

"Sherlock."

"To cater to the whims of one of your vapid, temporary bedfellows─"

"WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES."

My head jerks up and I stare at him. Sun comes in a steady stream through the window behind me and bathes John. He glows. I wonder if this is what the Egyptian sun god Ra looked like, his hair an iridescent halo, his skin kissed with gold. I doubt that he was half as beautiful.

John knows my whole name.

"Who told you?" I ask. (Maybe Mycroft.) (Definitely Mycroft. Asshat.) I allow him to life one of my hands and wrap my fingers around my cup of tea. Warm. The mug, and his skin when it makes firm contact with mine. I want to wrap myself in him.

He doesn't answer my last question, his own average brain still caught up on my first. "No missing family. No lovers, either. At least I hope. That'd be bloody embarrassing for me," he chuckles. He thinks he's amusing. I don't, but I keep my opinions to myself. John's eyes meet mine over the rim of his cup. Blue today. (Not always blue. Sometimes brown. Sometimes grey. Always beautiful.) "You don't have to do any deducing with this one, Sherlock. In fact, I'd prefer if you didn't. Just... be pleasant."

"You aren't providing me with sufficient information, John," I say. I drink the tea automatically. (Fact: Displays comfort. Displays the fact that we are falling into some sort of routine, John and I, and that it is becoming normal and regular for me to sit down every morning and have tea with my flatmate.) Sugar: at least three tablespoons. Poison: none. I remember that time in Baskerville as I sip.

That is why John now makes the tea.

John finishes his tea in one long swallow (not good for him) and stands, bringing the cup to the sink where he rinses it carefully and places it in the dishwasher. (Always order. Always calm. It's like the man who screams at night and the man I see in the mornings aren't even the same. Remember to ask him about it. Wonder if that is crossing a metaphorical line. Wonder if I care.) He turns and leans one hip against the counter, crossing his arms and looking level at me. "She just wants to meet you. My flatmate."

This implies intimacy between John and this woman. (I do not remember her name. I've deleted it. Not important.) (Correction: possibly important, if this conversation means anything. Which it does.) The fact that she wants to meet the flatmate of her potential sexual partner for reasons beyond business tells me that she is 1. putting up her best front for John (ie trying like the things that he likes, which, in this instance, I suppose she thinks means me) or 2. scoping out the competition by making sure that I am just that: a flatmate. Nothing more. Nothing... sexual.

"She doesn't have to worry there," I say out loud. I realize that I want to avoid this meeting at all costs.

John tilts his head. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Having a conversation that no one outside your head understands."

"It's simple, John."

"Simple for you, Miss Marple. Now explain it out loud."

I sigh. "Your potential mate wants to ensure that you and I aren't having sex, John."

It's a good thing John has already set his cup down, because he definitely would have dropped it. His eyes are enormous and his mouth hangs open. "That we aren't what?"

"Having sex," I repeat, annoyed. Fact: he heard me the first time and, fact: he is simply reiterating in order to establish better understanding and, fact: it won't help.

"Why─why─why─why the hell would she think that?" John explodes. Indignant. And yet I can see his pulse leaping at the base of his throat, dancing just above the thick cream weave of his jumper. Erratic. I want to touch it, but I doubt that that would help my case, so I refrain. It takes an admirable amount of restraint. (Remember to reward myself in the form of body parts from the morgue. Molly will understand.)

"Two grown men living together a tiny flat, one perpetually single, one chronically unable to keep a girlfriend─"

"Hey!"

"Who run about and solve crimes with impressive like-mindedness and demonstrate remarkably few personal space boundaries," I finish, going back to my computer screen.

"Excuse me, I have completely normal personal space boundaries. You're the one who hangs all over me at crime scenes, Sherlock Holmes," he says in a clipped tone. I raise my eyebrows but don't look at him. It's obviously a struggle for him to keep his voice under control, but he manages. (Ever the soldier.) "Evelyn is coming over tonight. We are getting take out." He says it like he's giving orders. I find that I don't mind. "You will be nice─"

"I'm always nice."

"You will be nice, and you will not embarrass me, and no talking about sex. Got it?" he growls.

I ignore the growl. It's best. "Of course, John. Anything for you."

John

This is going to be a fucking disaster.

"...and so I said of course I can take on seven kittens, love, I only have a dog and two birds back at the flat, it's not like I'm busy, or anything," Evelyn laughs, rolls her eyes, leans forward towards Sherlock who's sitting across from us and looking stoic. He leans fractionally backwards. Luckily she's looking back at me now, and misses the look of unadulterated disgust that he sends her way.

"That's─that's funny, Evelyn," I say, and laugh. Evelyn might have missed it, but there's no way in hell Sherlock didn't catch how fake it was. I very carefully do not look at my flatmate.

Evelyn's enormous smile calcifies slightly and the cup of red wine in her hand tilts dangerously to the left as she stares at me. "No it's not funny, John, it's─it's─"

"Unfair on the part of your sister because she knows you're busy with your many other mammal obligations. Fact: your sister doesn't care about your life so, fact: your sister is an ass."

Jesus Christ.

I let myself look at him─really look─for the first time since Evelyn got here. He's wearing one of his ridiculous suits with a black shirt underneath, buttons straining because god forbid he ever wear something that has a bit of give to it other than that coat, and he's lounging in his chair, legs crossed at the knee, like a king. I wonder why I thought this would be a good idea. This is not a good idea. Evelyn's probably going to want to sleep with him, instead, sitting there looking as gorgeous as he does─

"That's exactly what I meant." Evelyn smiles at him. It's her twenty-four-karat smile, the one that first dazzled me in the clinic last Monday and led to her sitting in our living room and flashing it at him. She tears her eyes away (he's not even smiling back, she's got absolutely nothing to go on, and yet she's looking at him like he hung the moon, like he is the moon, and damn why is it so hot in here?) and glances at me. "Pay attention, John," she says, mockingly playful.

"Yes John, do pay attention," Sherlock murmurs from his chair.

"So, ah," I say loudly, taking a bite of my curry and wracking my brain for something to say. "Anything you wanted to ask the great Sherlock Holmes?" As soon as it's out of my mouth I wish it was back in. He's going to hate this. He probably already hates this. I hate this. Horrified, my gaze darts to him, but his face is smooth and impassive. If I didn't know him as well as I do I wouldn't have a clue anything was wrong.

But I do.

"Oh, of course, but who doesn't?" Evelyn giggles. I think about taking her wine away, and then I give myself a mental slap. She isn't a child. And we're on date for god's sake. I shouldn't be worrying about Sherlock, I should be worrying about the pretty woman that I have here in my flat. "What's it like?" she asks, leaning forward again. "Having such a large brain?"

I send Sherlock a look that I hope translates to please don't be an ass because even I realize that that was an incredibly stupid question and then lean back, closing my eyes in silent prayer. Dear whatever is up there. Please let him be pleasant.

Sherlock stays perfectly still in his chair, but his stillness says more than anybody elses squirms would. He's been sitting like this the whole time (because even if I didn't let myself look at him I can still feel what he's doing, sense his pissy moods) not eating or drinking or talking. I thought it was awkward then. Now I long for it.

"The relationship between brain size and intelligence, both among humans and between different species, has never been particularly well-defined," Sherlock begins. His gaze is steadily fixed on Evelyn, and I get an absurd urge to push her out of the way and make him stare at me. "Humans like to believe that our exceptional cognitive abilities must indicate that we are the kings of the animal kingdom in terms of brain size, or at least that we have the largest brains relative to our body size. Both of these common assumptions are incorrect. Whales and elephants have much bigger brains than humans, and we have about the same brain-to-body mass ratio as mice. Since it would be against human nature to admit defeat, scientists have crafted a third measure of brain size called the encephalization quotient, which is the ratio of actual brain mass relative to the predicted brain mass for an animal's size (based off the assumption that larger animals require slightly less brain matter relative to their size compared to very small animals). By this metric, at least, humans come out on top, with an EQ of seven point five far surpassing the dolphin's five point three and the mouse's measly zero point five. However to say that my brain is bigger than, say, John's─" and he's up out of his chair now and kneeling in front of us, his forehead against mine, his hands on either side of my skull as he measures. Please grant me the strength not to throttle the living daylights out of him, amen. "─is not determinable without extensive x-rays." He pulls back, hands still cupping my temples, and now he's staring at me. "Which I would be more than willing to have Molly run, if you'd like," he offers.

"Molly isn't even qualified─" I begin, but now he's standing again and he isn't looking at me anymore, he's looking back down at Evelyn, and─

"My intelligence is more significant than my partner's, though, which does lead normal people to believe that my brain might naturally be larger than his is." He finally smiles at her (I wonder how I ever found Evelyn's smile sunny, compared with the blinding thing that lights up his face now) and then turns that smile on me, and even I can tell he wants us to be impressed. Wants me to be impressed.

Of course I fucking am. And he better be glad, too, because if I wasn't there's no guarantee that Sherlock Holmes would live to see another day after tonight.

"Staggering," I say, because that's my job. Trail along behind him and watch as he boggles the minds of everyone he meets, and then offer up accolades when everyone else is too speechless to say anything. It's annoying that I don't mind.

He blinks at me. "You've expanded you're vocabulary."

I give him a half smile. "Thought you might be getting bored with the old phrases."

His smile softens a little around the edges and does something funny to my stomach. (Maybe it's not the smile. Maybe it's the curry. I tell myself it's the curry.) "You never bore me, John Watson."

"Are you kidding me right now?"

It's Evelyn. Damn─she exists. I jump like I'm scared (might be true) and my curry tumbles off my lap and into the floor. I hear Sherlock make an admonishing noise but I'm not paying attention to him, not right now. I'm staring at Evelyn who's staring at both of us. Her head whips back and forth like one of those bobble-headed things that underpaid taxi drivers and old men who work in paper companies put in their car windows, and her mouth hangs in a perfect O. O for orange. O for of-bloody-course this date isn't going to work out, either. I open mine too but she starts speaking immediately and I know that any chance I might have had at this (us) (Evelyn and me) is gone for good now.

"Was this some sort of joke?" She's holding on to her glass tightly now, knuckles grooved and white, and I'm afraid she's going to break it. Those glasses aren't even ours (Sherlock's and mine). They belong to Mrs. Hudson. (Imagine if we broke one of Mrs. Hudson's wine glasses. She's had them since her wedding.) (On second thought, she might not mind.)

"Evelyn," I say, because nothing springs to mind. No witty rejoinders or easy outs. Sherlock could think of something if he wanted to. But he doesn't want to. I don't even have to look at him to know that. But it doesn't matter because there is no pause in her stream of words. No way I can interrupt. Probably best. (Definitely best.)

"Did you jut invite me over to have a good laugh?" She asks, even though I'm pretty sure we all know the answer to that question. Invited herself over, didn't she, wanting to know all about the infamous Sherlock Holmes and his faithful sidekick Dr. John Watson. Well, now she does. "You aren't even good at hiding it, you know, John, it's written all over both of your faces, and I suspected from the minute I walked in but I said to myself, I said 'No, Evelyn, give them a chance, you could be wrong' but I wasn't, was I John? I wasn't wrong." She stands, still holding the glass, and grabs her purse from where it sits wedged between us on the sofa. She clutches it to her chest with one hand as she kicks her way through my spilled curry and stomps to the door. "I hope you know what a terrible person you are, John Watson," she hisses at me.

"We aren't having sex," says Sherlock helpfully.

"Like hell you aren't!" Evelyn shouts back, shoving her purse under her arm and flipping both of us off with expert precision. She downs the wine and then drops the glass in such a way that it has to be deliberate. It shatters on the floor. A shard skids under the sofa. And then she is gone, her heels clicking in an asymmetrical rhythm down the stairs. The echo of the slamming door wafts up to us.

"Not good?"

And suddenly I'm mad. I can feel myself heating up, my skin tightening across my face, my hands winding tightly into themselves. I turn to Sherlock. He's just standing there, his arms hanging at his sides, his palms brushing loosely against his thighs, his fingers gently curled. His face is smooth, untroubled, nothing but an almost microscopic crease between his delicate eyebrows belying anything other than cool impassivity, and I doubt that that shred of concern he does have is for anything other than the curry and the wine littering the floor. He doesn't have a clue. Not a single goddamn clue.

(I get the feeling that I don't have a clue either, that I'm even more lost than he is, lost in the feeling that I'm relieved that Evelyn is gone and we are alone again, and I don't want to think about it.)

I see the moment he realizes that I am, in fact, 'not good.' The crease deepens. I shake.

"Of course it's not good, Sherlock, you completely ruined my date. Again! How many times are you going to do this? First it was Sarah, then Karen, then─then─"

"Stacy."

"Right, Stacy." (I actually don't mind that that one ended. She'd collected cat skulls and second hand pom-pom balls. But still.) "This is the fourth time, Sherlock. It's ridiculous. What the hell do you have against me that you're constantly trying to sabotage my life? Can you just not resist ruining every bit of happiness that I have that's not related to you?"

Immediately I know I've gone too far. Sherlock doesn't move and yet he seems to shrink, growing smaller, losing some of that unique arrogance that makes him him. His arms are stiff now, long pale fingers curled in on themselves like mine are, but not with anger. His eyes cloud and the crease is now a divot, a canyon, an imperfection on an otherwise perfect image, and something that nobody would notice but me. (I want to reach up and smooth it away with my own fingers. I want to feel his cool skin under my hands, his perfect forehead, to let my fingers slide down and trace the bow of his lips. To run my thumbs across velvety eyelids and stroke the thin, straight bridge of his nose. I want to feel him.) My anger is gone but a small part of me, a part of me that is used to living in places where admitting weakness or defeat meant being weak and somehow less, anchors my voice deliberately in my throat. And I am mute, helpless to do anything but watch him sink in on himself and know that it is my fault.

I forget sometimes how much he needs to know. To know that he is perfect. To know that he is enough.

Sherlock doesn't say anything. He just turns and walks into his bedroom, the door shutting with an impossibly soft snick that leaves my feeling empty and frustrated.

He starts playing his violin at midnight. I can tell he's composing, the melodies weaving and winding and leaving me breathless beneath my thin cotton sheet as I listen. I fall asleep eventually to the haunting soar of a chromatic scale, played over and over. When I wake up, he is gone.