It had been forty-seven minutes and twenty-three seconds since Sherlock had expected John's rejected return home. He had deduced from the older man's happy whistling as he showered and dressed for his date, that he was too overeager and would put the poor woman off within the first hour. He had sat on the floor slumped miserably against the bathroom door and used every ounce of simperingly persuasive guile he could muster, to keep his blogger at home, but sadly to no avail. As soon as the shorter man had left, hurrying now as he had spent too long preparing and arguing with his good, kind, faithful flatmate, Sherlock had picked himself up and put the kettle on. There was no need to worry, John's desperation to be away from him and out with this new girl, this boring, polite, little thing, was obviously just his stubborn determination to reject his latent homosexual desires for his handsome genius flatmate. Sherlock was certain that his efforts had not been in vain, that each time he'd caught John's eye and held it for that split second longer than usual and each accidental brush of their fingers over the handle of a teacup had sent the same bolt of lightening to the doctor's core as it did to the detective's. It was with emotionless mechanical precision of course that Sherlock had orchestrated these developments. On first noticing Doctor Watson's occasional blush and the way he let his eyes wonder when he thought Sherlock was not paying attention, Sherlock had made a decision. John would be his.
It made sense, of course it did, only an idiot would deny the sense it made. John was amorously infatuated with the detective and Sherlock was all too aware of how his relationship with the doctor was out of the ordinary. He had not been able to keep a flatmate, ever. Barely kept acquaintances long enough for them to reject him, so this made John Hamish Watson special and Sherlock wanted to keep him. He had grown to like having his previously only tolerated blogger around. Liked the sound of his tapping at his laptop and the constant supply of tea, so when John had started showing signs of thinking of his future, Sherlock had begun to worry. Those little creases in his flatmate's brow, the lines etched in his expression when he saw a couple out together or when Lestrade felt the need to share that his wife had been somewhat less of the bitch that she usually was, told that John wanted to settle down and have affection and companionship. Going by his browser history, Sherlock had also been able to safely ascertain that John wanted the physical aspects of a healthy relationship too, perhaps more so than most men did.
So since it had already been decided that John would end up staying, Sherlock had decided to give the good doctor what he wanted. After all, they already got on, had the companionship aspect down to a fine art. They didn't get in each other's way, knew when each other needed privacy although John had needed to remind Sherlock of that on a number of occasions at the start. All that was left was the sex, which Sherlock was sure would not be too difficult a task. People had sex all the time and people were idiots so he was sure he was up to it. Now if only John would hurry up and come home so that Sherlock could initiate the next stage in his plan. He placed down his violin gently on his desk when he heard the car pull up outside and watched from window with a very sour taste in his mouth as John helped the pretty blonde out of the taxi.