Disclaimer: nothing mine. Obviously.
A.N. I apologize. I have fics I should be updating. But two chapters are being betaed now, and with five new fics to write for the new challenge and a hint of writer's block for my other things, I went and wrote this. Very quickly.
His
Sherlock Holmes doesn't share what he's really fond of. Mycroft could regale you with a number of stories from their childhood that highlight exactly that point. On the other hand, the things – or beings – Sherlock cares about are so few in number that usually people had no problem with Sherlock trying to hog them.
Never sharing one bee plushie? It was surely allowed. Possessive of his dog? It was somehow reciprocal, and anyway Mycroft wasn't very interested in running around with Redbeard. So Sherlock grew up never really learning to share what he really loved, and of course – after so long – it finally became troublesome.
Because Sherlock was very – inordinately so – attached to one John Hamish Watson. And said man didn't seem to understand such a simple truth. The detective made allowances, in regard of John being no pet but a fellow man with his own will – and a stubbornness to match Sherlock's own, considerable as it was.
He didn't like it, but if John wanted to keep his other work beyond being Sherlock's colleague for matters of pride and self-realization, the sleuth didn't protest. At least not unless he needed John for the Work. Even if it was unneeded. He could provide for both of them with his trust fund now that he finally had access to that, since he was clean. And John helped him stay clean – if he found himself tempted to use again, the prospect of disappointing John was enough to dissuade him – so didn't the doctor have some sort of right to the trust money too?
He let John see his other friends without (much) grumbling. Ok, so maybe he texted a bit too often. But most of John's so called friends didn't even appreciate him much. It seemed like a waste when John could be spending time with people who knew how extraordinary he was (that being Sherlock, of course).
What really upsets Sherlock (and he'd love to put a definite stop to it if he knew how, if only to placate the bitter burn in his chest) is the girlfriends John keeps collecting. Each and every one of these useless, dumb females, after all, thinks that she can claim John. That she's allowed – and able – to snatch him away from Sherlock's grasp. Ridiculous. The only part of John that they can claim – the only part of him that will forever escape Sherlock, according to the doctor too-loud proclaims – is his cock. Nothing more. Bit too little for them to take him away.
Still, each time John is on a date, fear and sadness and anger take over Sherlock's soul. Sometimes he just works himself into an epic sulk. Other times – when it's less certain that the girl of the week is so desperately boring or petty that she'll drive John away all on her own – Sherlock needs to move to reassert that John is, undoubtedly and forever, his.
His flatmate. His colleague. His very own conductor of light. His blogger. His admirer (and how sweet John's free, honest praise always is). His doctor. His friend. His moral compass. His protector. His minder – even if Sherlock won't admit it out loud. His saviour (multiple times, at that). In short, his John. Not hers. Never hers (whoever she happens to be this time).
Sometimes he'll take a ridiculous case – a one, even – to be able to call John back from his datewith the excuse of the Work. John, adrenaline addicted that he is, has never been able to resist that particular siren song.
But tonight there's no case, not even a lost pet. He's called Mycroft, and the fat git has refused to be helpful. "You'll have to finally learn to share your toys, Lockie," he said. John is not a toy. John is John. He's infintely more than a toy, and if Mycroft doesn't know that it means all that cake is restricting blood flow to his brain. It was expected sooner or later.
Really nothing else to do, then. Some sacrifices are required. He rolls up his sleeves, and starts one particular experiment that he reserved to a night like this. As he knew it would, soon the erlenmeyer flask explodes, sending glass shards all over his hands, his arms and some even on his neck and face. Nice. Then, he sends There's been an explosion. I'm hurt. SH
The reply is immediate. Coming but for God's sake go to the hospital if you need it. John is running home. Perfect. He's probably imagining Sherlock half disembowelled in the sitting room, too, and it was probably not good of Sherlock to let him think that, but he's worried that John wouldn't have moved otherwise. In the end, the sleuth types (and it hurts with all these shards in his hands, but he's being considerate) Not a very big explosion. Come anyway? SH
Which John does, of course he does. He's run away from his date with nary a word to her, as if chased by bloody hell hounds, and is a good halfway from Baker Street already. What other choice does he have?
The moment John enters the flat, the painful knot in Sherlock's chest loosens. His John is back. His doctor will take care of him. Granted, with much grumbling about proper safety measures and doing bloody explosive experiments in the first place, of course, and how Sherlock ruined (again) a perfectly nice evening and is he trying to cockblock on purpose? (Mmmmh. John is getting smarter. Sherlock's company is beneficial to him. He knew it would be.)
But anyway, what truly matters is that John has once again picked Sherlock over everything else. Everyone else. Everything in the universe is like it should be. Danielle? Donata? Dorry? will understand that she's destined to be forever second best. Soon. And she'll act accordingly, much to Sherlock's delight. John...now, he (despite his growing powers of deduction) might need a bit more to notice the pattern.