Oh wow I forgot to cross-post this here. Whoops. Written for tomoe-kudo, for the December Johnlock Gift Exchange. Her prompt was "love triangle/cheating," so since I have a massive thing about jealous!John...
Naturally I don't own anything.
Met somebody today. –SH
"Somebody?" –JW
A man, to be specific. I was immediately impacted. Is that usual? –SH
Uh…yeah, it can be, but I never pegged you for the love-at-first-sight type. –JW
I doubt it's love, but it's certainly mutual attraction. –SH
I won't be home until late. We're doing dinner, then drinks back at his flat; don't wait up. –SH
Wow, already? Really poured on the charm, huh? Congratulations. –JW
You don't sound as pleased as I expected. –SH
Sure I am, I'm elated for you, just…surprised. –JW
Thought you were married to your work? –JW
Only a marriage of the mind, it seems. –SH
Right, okay. Well, tell me about him? He must have been something to have caught Sherlock Holmes' attention. –JW
Oh god, it's not a criminal mastermind, is it? –JW
If you say Moriarty I will kill you. –JW
Relax, John. It's not Moriarty. He isn't quite on the right side of the law, but he's no mastermind, just a little bit of a con man. –SH
His name is Victor Trevor. –SH
A con man? I figured you wouldn't be interested in someone vanilla. Too boring. –JW
Mm. Are we really using flavours as metaphors for personality traits? What would I be? –SH
Chocolate? –SH
Everyone but you does, yeah. I wouldn't say you're chocolate, though-too sweet. Maybe…espresso. You wake things up. –JW
Never mind. That's stupid. Delete that. I dunno what flavour you'd be. –JW
If you insist. –SH
I do, yeah. Anyway, I've got a patient, so…I'm gonna stop texting you. Have fun tonight. –JW
I shall certainly endeavour to do so. –SH
John put his phone back in his pocket with a slightly sick feeling to his stomach as his next patient-a Mrs Wilkins, a sweet old lady who was convinced she had a different illness every week-walked in. For the next fifteen minutes, he went through the motions of a routine checkup, managing to reassure her that she was perfectly healthy and had nothing to worry about with minimal preoccupation by Sherlock's…date.
For that was what it was, after all; no point pretending it wasn't. No point pretending Sherlock was only doing it for a case. John couldn't begin to imagine what was so special about this con man that had beaten out Sherlock's commitment to his work, but it had to be rather spectacular, and that was what left him queasy.
He'd been okay, knowing his feelings were never going to be reciprocated since the moment he'd come to terms with them. It was fine, it was all fine, and Sherlock simply didn't do that sort of thing. At least he was permitted to be the man's closest friend, be confided in; that was better than nothing. Even now that was still a very nice place to be, but knowing that Sherlock dated and didn't consider John better than this...stranger...It did kind of hurt.
Well. He had no claim upon the man; Sherlock was free to do what-or who-he wanted. John had no right being jealous, none at all.
And telling himself didn't help that in the slightest. He finished out the last few hours of his shift, the constricted feeling in his chest never easing, and chose to walk home in the hope that the brisk air would help. It didn't.
As he walked through the darkening streets of London, John couldn't stop thinking about this con man. Of course. If Sherlock was going to fall for anyone, it wouldn't be an ordinary, law-abiding citizen, would it? It wouldn't even be a mostly law-abiding citizen who occasionally shot cabbies for him. It would be a full blown criminal as likely to be playing him as not-John sighed as that spat of acid crossed his mind. The possibility that Sherlock wouldn't realise he was being deceived was infinitesimal, and it wasn't hard to imagine that someone would be just as charmed-magnetised, allured- by the detective's lunatic brilliance as John was.
But does he see the worst of him and love him for it anyway, John thought sullenly. He stopped dead in his tracks. This was exactly the sort of behaviour he hated in people-clingy, overly clingy. Possessive was fine, when one had a claim-which he still didn't-but clingy was never good. Probably Victor Trevor was, despite his profession, a perfectly nice man.
Trying to keep that thought firmly in mind, John continued home. Sherlock was already gone-of course. Well, at least he could take advantage of the empty flat, he thought, forcing himself to look at the bright side. When was the last time he'd felt comfortable just pouring himself a scotch and settling down with a book? Answer: never. Sherlock always decided he was boring and opted to start practicing his tortured-cat routine for the next time Mycroft came over.
After perhaps a few more than he should have had, John got into the beer, enjoying the way the warm fizzy buzz killed off the envious ache in his chest. A few more bottles of liquid courage later, and he had no compunction at all against shooting off a text to Sherlock, who no doubt right now was enjoying dinner-or, perhaps, "drinks" already-with his little con man.
Lkovve u. -jW