Entitled
Verb
to give (a person) the right to do or have something; qualify; allow
to confer a title of rank or honour upon
Property
John closed his eyes, put his hand up to the bridge of his nose, and pinched it, all in the hope that the process would buy him enough time to keep his temper in check. He had a temper. He'd always had a temper. But as a child, he had learned that throwing a tantrum didn't work. Shouting didn't get him what he wanted, and throwing a punch usually resulted in him getting hurt- even if it did hurt the other person just that little bit more, which was so satisfying. So John had learned from an early age to put a lid on it, stuff a sock in it, and just hold his tongue. Count to ten; no, this is Sherlock, it will take at least twenty before I can trust myself again.
The object of his wrath was watching him with a slightly puzzled look. "John, you seem to be upset about something. Care to enlighten me?"
Sixteen, seventeen…."Enlighten you? Oh yeah, I'd be delighted. This is me, Sherlock, me being angry enough to smash something. But, odds are it would be something of yours, as this flat is FILLED with things of yours. It may have escaped your notice, but I don't have many things that I call my own. In fact, I usually pride myself on travelling light. Unlike some other people I happen to share this flat with. To my knowledge, I pay half the rent, but I certainly don't get half the space, and it seems that you have taken a view that says all that I do have I have to share with you."
"John, are you aware that the last bit of that sentence is taken from the Church of England's wedding vows?"
"WHAT?" John's face was now almost apoplectic.
Sherlock turned back to John's laptop and typed it into Google. "Here, see for yourself. It's the fifth line of the Giving of the Rings part of the ceremony; when the bride and groom say 'All that I have I share with you.'"
John finally lost it. He walked over to the table and slammed the lid down, nearly catching Sherlock's fingers in the laptop. "I don't give a flying frig if it's a line from the Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Sherlock. I have said this before, do…not….use…my laptop. Under any circumstances. Not because it is closer to you than your own which happens to be in your bedroom, you lazy sod. Not because you want to read my private e mails, or look at whatever else I might have in my browser history, you nosey git. It's mine. Let me spell that for you, since you seem unable to grasp the concept. M.I.N.E. The property of John Hamish Watson. Not to be mistaken for anything belonging to you. It may be within the confines of the four walls of 221b, but that does not mean you are entitled to treat it as your own. Just because we share a flat it does not mean we share the contents therein. Got it?"
Sherlock looked perplexed. "No need to get your knickers in a twist, John. I'll be happy to not use your laptop, if you'll do me a favour."
"What's that?"
"Would you find my laptop and bring it to me, before you go out?"
The door slammed before Sherlock had finished the sentence.