A/N: I don't want to go on, but this is my first fic… so, please, tell me what you think?

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters *sigh*…

Thanks to some constructive criticism, and few ideas of my own, I have made some small edits.

What Do You See In Them?

Sherlock sighed. Really, this was happening far too often lately. He'd be just sitting there, thinking, deducting, or trying to distract himself from doing so, and then… John. John Watson would invade his mind. His smell, the way his honey-coloured eyes danced when he laughed, or lit up when they had a case…

So what are you going to do? Sit there and moon like a lovesick teenager? Sherlock laughed at his own ridiculousness. Yes, he cared for the doctor. But he wasn't sure… he didn't know exactly what he felt. It's not like he's an expert on… emotions. He could certainly never remember feeling this strongly about… anyone. He had tried telling the skull his problems, but it wasn't particularly responsive. So he simply lay, sprawled across the sofa, glaring at those empty sockets.

This, of course, led him to think about John. About where John was, right now. He glanced at his watch. It was 10 O'clock. John had left roughly 1 hour, 58 minutes and 32 seconds ago. Only 2 hours 12 minutes and 27 seconds to go; if John was coming home tonight. What Sherlock didn't understand was what was so special about her. What it is about her that makes her deserving of John's time? John's attention. Ugh. He thinks that the current one is called… Lucy? Linda? Something beginning with an 'L', anyway…

Every time John leaves, Sherlock finds himself with nothing to do. He always ends up sprawled on the sofa, having a staring contest with the skull, or the ceiling. He undoubtedly ends up with his thoughts on John. Then, he spies it. John's jumper. His favourite one. The soft, thick, beige one, that always makes Sherlock want to reach out and see if it is as soft and warm as it looks. And reach out he does. He plucks it from the back of the sofa, where Sherlock remembered him throwing it after they had returned home. It had been a particularly warm day, and they had chased a particularly fast criminal.

Sherlock also remembered very clearly, the way John's muscles had tensed and stretched, and how his thin T-Shirt had ridden up as he tugged the jumper off over his head. The small glimpse of John's skin had been burnt into Sherlock's brain, and it danced on his eyelids every time he closed his eyes.

Sherlock remembered the look on John's face, a week ago, when he had limped into the flat, to find Sherlock sprawled across the couch, after having had finally tracked down the assassins that had been sent to kill his friends. He remembered how hard he had tried, at first, to convince John that he wasn't a hallucination. He remembered how John had then turned, and flung his arms around Sherlock, and he remembered John's speech to his grave. Sherlock had not yet shared his miraculous return to the living with anyone else. John had said he wanted to make sure everything was okay, but what he really meant was I want to make sure you're really here, really alive. The danger was gone now, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and… John were safe. The assassins had been… dealt with.

Sherlock could clearly remember the way John's arms had felt around him, anchoring him securely, and reassuring himself that Sherlock was here, and that he was safe, and alive. Then had come the anger, for what he had put him through. Since then, John had been a little distant. Still there, but… not. But it was okay, because Sherlock knew that John had every right to be upset with him. He had apologised profusely, but that hadn't stopped him from being wracked with guilt at causing John pain. John. His best friend. The man he cared about most in the world. The man he lo-

Stop.

Sherlock squashed that thought right there. He did not feel for John in that way. Nope. They were friends, good friends, best friends. But that was it. That. Was. It.

Sherlock sighed. He glances down, to see that while he was thinking, he has moved. He is no longer simply clutching the jumper in his hand. Oh, no. Whilst lost in thought, Sherlock realized he had brought the jumper to his chest, clutching it tightly, clinging on to it like a lifeline. What the hell… he thought, and did what he longed to do, deep down. He brought the jumper to his face, and inhaled. The scent of John; the scent of tea, London and a deep, spicy undertone that was John, John, John.

Sherlock smiled, as he snuggled his face into the material and relaxed, glancing at the clock. He still had 1 hour, 17 minutes and 7 seconds before John would come back.

If he came back tonight.

Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of John, and he felt safe. He slowly began to relax.

The sound of John's key clunking in the lock jerked Sherlock awake. He checked the clock… 43 minutes and… 5 seconds early… why would he…?

Then, Sherlock realized he was still cuddled up to John's jumper. He flung the jumper back onto the back of the sofa… something about the footsteps wasn't right. At that moment, Sherlock cursed his sleep-fuddled mind. Two sets. Two sets of footsteps! John had brought her home. He sprung from the sofa, and went into his own room, slamming the door just as John opened the door to the flat. Sherlock picked up his violin, and played out his feelings.

It started out as a jerky, angry tune, gently slipping into a calmer, more relaxed melody. Sighing, Sherlock went to go and check on John… he had to. Just as he was leaving the room, Sherlock caught sight of his face in the mirror.

And froze.

The pattern of John's cable-knit jumper was very clearly pressed onto the side of his face, now being wonderfully highlighted by the slight flush of embarrassment spreading across his cheeks. It would take ages to fade. He couldn't even look at John while he looked like this. Sighing, he threw himself down onto his bed…

About an hour later, John began to worry about Sherlock.

About an hour and a half after that, John had a fight with her. She left. Sherlock sighed. How could she be so stupid? How could she be so blind to what she had? She had John, John Watson, the one thing, the one person, that Sherlock Holmes wanted.

The one person he couldn't have.

Knowing that the marks on his face had now disappeared completely, Sherlock made his way into the living room, to find John slumped in his armchair, his face buried in his hands.

"John? Are you okay?"

"What does it bloody look like, Sherlock?"

Sherlock had known he would be upset, but he wasn't usually this snappy with Sherlock, unless…

"I'm sorry… that was a stupid question…"

John looked at him.

Sherlock was suddenly unsure of himself; even as the words fell softly from his lips.

"It was because of me, again, wasn't it?"

John just sighed, and buried his face in his palms again, and that was enough of an answer for Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, John…"

John looked at him, startled by the apology. Something in his eyes changed, and he looked down at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but at Sherlock. Sherlock was confused. What had he done wrong? He ran the conversation back through his head, but he couldn't figure out what had suddenly made his doctor so cold to him.

John cleared his throat awkwardly, and then he got up to leave.

"Why does it matter so much, John?"

Sherlock surprised himself. He never meant to voice his question out loud.

John froze.

"What?"

"Why does it matter so much? Why do they matter so much? What do you want from them that is so important, that you waste your time and effort on them when you deserve so… much…more…?

This had all burst out of Sherlock in rather a hurry, and his words had trailed off at the expression on John's face.

"Not good?"

John laughed, humourlessly.

"Bit not good, yeah."

"Sorry… I just… you get so cut up, every time, and I just… they're not worth your time… they're not worth you!"

John sighed, and shook his head.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

He went up to his room. Apparently, that was the end of the discussion. So Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, yet again, and he thought about John. He could think about John all night, and he often did. There was an entire wing of his Mind Palace dedicated to John, the way he smiles, the sound of his laugh, the exact colour of his eyes, the look on his face when they run through the streets of London together, how he looked standing at Sherlock's grave…

So, Sherlock decided to put his mind to good use, and solve the problem of John's girlfriends.

By the time dawn breaks, and light begins to filter uncertainly through the window, Sherlock has a plan…

So, what did you think? Opinions, please?

I hope I wasn't too OOC, but getting Sherlock right is quite hard…

The next chapter shouldn't be too long; I have plenty of ideas…