A/N: Okay a little one shot that came to me today. Please read and review!
She stared up at him, his eye drawn to her lips as she spoke and then back to her eyes, swimming with rage and unshed tears.
"You have to choose. Him or me."
John blinked, and in that second he hated her, he hated that she was doing this, making him choose. He would never ask this of the doctor, he expected John to be there when he needed him and was thankful when he was. Nothing more or less. Of course he knew, he knew what she really meant by those words, not choose your flat your home or me. She would never expect him to leave baker street she just wanted his promise that he wouldn't work with the detective, that he wouldn't be there that he would be with her. Her or him.
And why not? She was a beautiful woman, large beguiling eyes a full plump mouth and slim elegant figure. She was smart, funny and she had a way of electrifying a room when she walked into it. She was comfort, dependable and reliant. He could have a future with this woman, raise a family buy a cottage in the country...but then what of the detective, with him it was always excitement, action the very real possibility of death around every corner and violent mood swings, being left behind and forgotten. Not being considered...but that wasn't fair. He would be considered but only in the future, long after when it mattered.
With her he could have lazy Sundays filled with walks around the park and returning to cuddle up on the sofa. It was holidays in France, weekends in the Cotswolds and soft warm hugs that left him grinning. The soft lilt of her voice in the morning, her hair fanned out on a pillow in a halo, coffee dates and going to the movies. She was beautiful and he would relish in the jealous stares of the other men as he walked her, arm in arm through the streets. The smell of her perfume on his sheets, the songs she would sing to remind him how much she loved him.
With him it was frantic nights filled with trips to the morgue, flights to Munich and Texas and the underbelly of Tokyo to find mass murders, thieves and fiends. It was tight clinches, too hot and lingering. The booming intensity as he unravelled a crime scene, well tailored suits and silken shirts rumpled from days spent crushed in the back of taxis or crouching in alleyways, strange dark pubs filled with suspicious characters and Chinese for tea every night. He was handsome, intense intelligent eyes, full smirking lips and cheekbones many a model would die for.
He would receive his fair share of stares, whispers and glances as they paced the halls of Bart's or strutted the length of baker street. He smelt of copper and fire and spice, surrounding the doctor as they were forced together, hiding in cupboard as gangsters argued just behind the plywood, the songs he would play after a long case's successful end. The smirk when he watched John clean, his childish glee as the doctor remembered something that was common knowledge but Sherlock had long deleted from his brain.
The smart choice, the right choice of course was her, the future the wife the children, everything he had dreamed of. It was the only choice he could make and he stared down at her eyes, placing his hand on her waist.
Then of course there was his choice.
"I'm so sorry."
