"I'm not your housekeeper," quipped Mrs Hudson, folding blankets and resetting the couch.
John nodded his thanks, assuming he would sleep there another night.
"I'm not your handler," sighed Lestrade, glancing at his passengers.
John and Sherlock looked out opposite windows of the police-car, and did not speak.
"I'm not your enemy," grumbled Mycroft, "Don't be childish."
They sat in the government's office, playing a vicious game of chess and discussing John's feelings.
"I'm not important." Molly reminded herself. She set down Sherlock's coffee, sugar glittering on top.
"Thank you, John."
John didn't appreciate Sherlock's latest experiment in laziness; while John was away at work, Sherlock would steal his dressing-gown, sprawl across his bed, hoard his pillows, and protest moving. Sherlock smiled, but did not open his eyes, as John rolled up his sleeves and slipped off his watch. Sherlock waved at his face, until John brushed his curls evenly to both sides.
"I'm not your boyfriend," said John, compulsively.