A/N: this is a birthday fic for the lovely KimberlyTheOwl – she writes wonderfully – go read her stuff!
Do not own. Wish I did. Sigh. My mother never promised life would be fair, but…
The Bag
His new flatmate was sitting in the chair across, pecking away at the laptop keyboard, typing away in the most ridiculously time-consuming manner he had ever seen. He appeared to be deep in thought. He appeared to be in his own John-world, which could not be as remarkable as a mind palace. The detective was certain he was not paying the slightest bit of attention. John's bag newly placed at John's feet was open, not far from where Sherlock had settled. The doctor hadn't had a chance to put all of his things away yet and the bag was there as a convenience. The detective was curious and he coveted the contents of John's bag with great craving. So many bright and shiny things must be in there that Sherlock, magpie-like, wanted to take out and examine. John, he was certain, would be stingy and wouldn't ever let him play with the contents. His only chance to look at its treasures was a glance when John had quickly opened it to check its inventory.
Sherlock's hands twitched at his side and seemed to move of their own accord, stealthy 'you can't see what I am doing' movements, to reach toward the Pandora's box of John's plain ordinary medical bag.
John was not paying attention at all, he was sure. Well, he was mostly sure.
"Don't," broke the silence of the flat, seemingly not connected to anything, just hanging there.
"Don't what?" flung back, words that pretended to not know what the doctor was talking about.
"Don't even think to touch, open, look inside my bag. Do not under any circumstances think of removing anything from my bag." The other man didn't even look up at Sherlock or acknowledge him. His eyebrows went up and down and he seem to punctuate the conversation with various facial twitches but his eyes never left the computer screen.
"Why John, what makes you think I would be interested in looking, touching or stealing anything from your bag?" He crossed his arms with fake disdain.
"Oh come on now, Sherlock," John laughed, more a breath of air pushed out of his lungs than his usual cheerful snicker. "I haven't known you long, but I have a feeling about you, an intuition, if you will. Don't do it! What if I need something from there and you've used it in an experiment or for one of your disguises or to torment your brother for some weird Holmesian reason? You are not to touch a thing in my bag."
Sherlock sulked the golden sulk of the child who has been nearly caught red handed. He held the indignant hurt of the guilty hard in his heart. How dare John suggest he wanted anything from that intriguing bag of goodies. His arms remained crossed just to prove he was not interested in the bag at all.
John closed the laptop with a satisfied snick. He stretched wide and loud and scratched the top of his head. He looked at Sherlock with a fond smile. "Can I get you anything? I'm going to have some of that soup Mrs. Hudson brought up."
Sherlock sunk deeper into his brooding and refused to answer.
John nodded decisively and stood to walk out of the room. He was leaving the bag behind. Sherlock pretended to ignore it until just the very second John's foot crossed the threshold into the kitchen. Then the lanky younger man stretched and reached out toward the forbidden bag, carefully, cautiously, warily. He had just brushed up against the very edge of the opening…
"Don't do it, Sherlock. I swear I know five different ways to break your hand and I'll use every one of them if you so much as think about touching my bag." John wasn't even in the room. He was hidden in the kitchen out of sight and yet he knew Sherlock was still trying to abscond with the contents of the bag.
The detective narrowed his eyes with satisfaction and delight. Shooting the cabbie was just the beginning. This new flatmate was proving to be more entertaining than he could have ever imagined.