This is a sequel to "Intransigent", which you would probably want to read first.
NOTES: This is dedicated to my wonderful friends who never fail to encourage me in my strange literary endeavours and who gave me the best birthday presents a fangirl could hope for. To quote Sherlock himself in freeform: I'm a ridiculous person whose only redeeming feature is my taste in friends.
After "Intransigent" I didn't really want to let go of Sherlock's sister. I'm glad many readers enjoyed her company as much as I enjoyed bringing her to existence.
Comments and feedback is much appreciated, as always.
—
In My Place
"Boys? You decent?" Mrs Hudson's sharp soprano floated in through the doorway. "Sorry to barge in like that you you see, I've let in Octavia Alice- - " The sight that greeted her when she used her master key to open the door to the upstairs flat was not strange on the 221b Baker street scale but an average person might have raised an eyebrow. Good thing that she was not an average person, then.
Dr John Watson lay on his back on the carpet, hand stretched far above his head, holding a rather battered-looking smartphone. Laying sprawled on top on him was Sherlock Holmes, who seemed to be climbing up the aforementioned doctor like a vine in order to reach said phone. "Goddammit Sherlock, you're not getting it until you learn to bloody behave!" Although the scene might have looked like it had playful undertones, John's voice held a stern, indignant edge.
Sherlock looked up, looking somewhat flustered but mostly frustrated, and clambered up from the floor. "I don't confiscate your phone whenever I feel like it," he complained.
"Yes you do and you know it." John made a point in placing Sherlock's phone on the kitchen table behind where he was standing.
Mrs Hudson took this as a cue to show Octavia Alice Sherrinford Holmes into the flat. "Come in, dear, I'm sure the lads will have their lover's spat sorted in no time at all."
Once John Watson would have vocally opposed such characterisations of his and Sherlock Holmes' relationship. That was before he realised that whatever he had been looking for in the arms of a seemingly never-ending line of women had been right there in front of him the whole time. Right at home at 221b.
Not that being in a relationship of any sort - friendship or romantic - was easy in any aspect. Sometimes John wished that they had gone through the usual formal courtship phases - at least then he would have had some sort of a roadmap of what to expect. But had he wanted reliable, easy to predict or ordinary, he would have declined Sherlock's original offer of flatmateship.
He'd been a goner the minute those blue-green-whatever eyes had homed in on him. It was a bit embarrassing, really, how adamantly he himself had remained oblivious to the fact that had been quite easy to deduce for everyone else in the vicinity - that he'd fallen head over heels for the tall detective. It had been the arrival of the third Holmes sibling that had acted as a catalyst for certain epiphanies.
It had been such a surreal, weird and wonderful experience to learn that Sherlock gone through the very same kind of unrequited pining. Sherlock, who so loudly had boasted living by the credo that feelings were a distraction, an unpleasant and completely useless bodily function best avoided. To John, such a conviction did not seem as illogical as it once had, now that he had learned of what sort of experiences Sherlock had had in the past when he had acted on such feelings. Octavia had not shared many details with John, only a vague summary, but it had been enough to help John realise what a thin ice he was skating on, embarking on a relationship with Sherlock.
Mrs Hudson seemed to think it best to leave. She flicked a wrist as a farewell wave to Octavia, and quietly let herself out of the flat.
John picked himself up from the floor as well, and he seemed somewhat calmer than he had been a minute prior. He dusted his trousers and pocketed the phone. Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms and descending onto the sofa in a flurry of blue dressing gown.
Octavia put down her handbag and claimed an armchair. "What's this about, then?"
John cleared his throat. "This idiot here thinks he doesn't need to ask my permission to text around whatever photos he manages to snap of us."
Octavia stifled a laugh. "Probably the same photo I got a couple of days ago."
"You too, huh?" John shot an icy glance at Sherlock, who tried to look innocent. "You and everybody else. I'm sure Lestrade's got his already printed and hanging in the lobby. Mycroft is one thing, Sherlock, he probably sort of needs to know and the man mostly can keep a bloody secret but all of our friends. Bloody hell. This is why you need to talk to one another when you're in a relationship."
"During our time together, you have expressed appreciation for my honesty and what you consider to be endearing quirks. How was I to know this was a particular occasion when it was more prudent of me to behave unlike my usual self?"
Octavia smiled sadly at John. It wasn't her place to start lecturing her little brother about social etiquette. It didn't take much hanging around Sherlock Holmes to realise such confrontations never worked. Bless John and his almost naive optimism to think he could actually alter some aspects of what made Sherlock, well, Sherlock. Like his utter lack of discretion.
"You think you're so bloody clever but sometimes you're so incredibly thick. Would it really never cross your mind that I might not want it announced to the whole nation that yes, indeed, everybody knew I wanted to shag Sherlock Holmes before I realised it myself. Hello world, Three Continents Watson has transformed into Two Genders Watson."
Sherlock's expression suddenly changed from annoyed to something very different. To John it almost seemed like hurt, which Sherlock clearly was trying to hide. "You mean you wish to keep us a secret, then? That being involved with me somehow lowers your social standing?"
John sighed. He was still too angry. "That's not what I meant, it's just that you never - -"
Sherlock opened his mouth to interject a protest, but Octavia suddenly stood up, looking rather determined. "Right. You - -" She pointed at her brother, "Shut the hell up. And John: me, you, pub. Now."
John tore his coat from the rack somewhat more violently than was reasonable. "God, yes."