A/N v.2: Doodly doodly do. Don't mind me, just Purging. Details on my profile.

This was inspired by S2E1, A Scandal in Belgravia. This is a little one-sided Johnlock, set after the scene in the warehouse. I'm sorry if they're a little OOC, it's my first attempt at Johnlock. More than ever, reviews are loved. I really would love to write these two in the future, in a much happier fic, and I would appreciate feedback on if I wrote them correctly, and what I could do to make them better. :) Thanks, guys. And I hope you enjoy Competition.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock. I just take the characters. And play with them. XD

Competition

John stared at the dark ceiling, watching the fan spin lazily. He didn't know how long he had been staring at it, but it had been several hours at least. He turned his head finally and glanced at the clock. It read 12:43. Sighing, he swung his legs off the bed and sat up. Pulling his house robe on, he traveled to the kitchen. He hadn't been able to sleep, and maybe a glass of warm milk would help.

He sighed again when he opened the fridge. He had forgotten they were out of milk, and on top of it, Sherlock had one of his experiments stored in the fridge again. John closed the door without getting a good look at it; it wouldn't help him. He brushed some papers off a seat and sat down in it, staring off into space.

He wasn't aware of the when the first tear fell. He wasn't aware of when the second or third tears fell either, for that matter. It seemed to him that one moment his eyes were completely dry and the next they had turned into a miniature waterfall.

Of course Sherlock would never see what the rest of the world seemed to see so clearly. Oh, he kept denying it, of course, but the truth of the matter was that he was gay and in love with Sherlock. Molly, Janette, even Irene Adler had managed to see that with just a few glances. But what could John do? He couldn't verify their suspicions, not when Sherlock watched his every move. He couldn't give Sherlock that weapon, not when Sherlock would never love him back.

Because Sherlock loved Irene Adler, not John Hamish Watson. Sherlock had loved her since almost the very beginning, even if he didn't want to admit it, even if he couldn't admit it. Just like he didn't know with John, so he didn't know with himself. John would bet any amount of money that Sherlock had no clue how deep his feelings toward Irene Adler ran. The man was a genius, all too experienced with matters of the mind and all too inexperienced with matters of the heart. He wouldn't know love if it danced stark naked in front of his face. In fact, John though wryly, Sherlock would most likely take its measurements so he could crack its safe later.

John wiped his hands across his cheeks, swiping away the evidence of his unrequited love, and stood up. Head down, he made his way to the door so he could attempt to catch at least a few hours of sleep. Because of that, he let out a sound of surprise when he ran into a firm, toned chest. "Sherlock," he murmured, looking up into those piercing eyes. "Why are you up?"

"I could ask the same question," Sherlock answered. "I heard noises and came to make sure there hadn't been a burglary, if you really must know. As for you…." His eyes traveled up and down John's body, as if scanning him. "Hm. Your psychosomatic limp is back, indicating that you are experiencing a great amount of mental stress; however, your hands are clenched, suggesting this stress is causing you emotional pain as well. Your robe is inside out, meaning you put it on in the dark, now what would be the cause of that? Clearly you have either just woken up or have been awake for some time. But the unwrinkled state of your clothes underneath your robe suggests that you haven't tossed and turned very much at all, which means that you have been awake for quite a while, as you toss and turn a lot when you sleep. Your lip is trembling slightly, and couple with your bloodshot eyes, it becomes obvious that you have been crying. The final answer? Some great amount of mental stress has kept you awake for the majority of the night; most likely you came down to drink some milk or water to help ease the stress so you could fall asleep. Sometime after you decided this, the trouble in your mind became too much and result in your shedding tears. Tell me, John, what is it that has upset you so?"

John looked away and let out a breath. "She's alive," he whispered hopelessly. He didn't know why he was telling Sherlock this, but if Sherlock asked him later, he could always say he had been hallucinating or some such. "How can I hope to compete with her if she's alive? If she were dead, I might have had a chance, but she'll always hold your attention now that she's alive." He sat back down in his seat, avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock moved one of his experiments off of the chair next to John's, then sat down himself. John knew that Sherlock knew exactly who he was talking about, or his name wasn't John Hamish Watson. He dreaded to see what Sherlock would make of that information.

"And do you honestly believe you don't hold my attention, John?" Sherlock asked, amused. John winced. The small hope he had stupidly held of Sherlock confessing his undying love for the doctor died instantaneously. Of course it was amusing to the detective. How could it be otherwise? But then Sherlock continued, "You have no competition with her. You will always be first and foremost. It is true that she has evoked certain…feelings in me that few people have ever before evoked, but I hold you much closer than I hold her. She is simply an equal, someone as intelligent as I. A distraction; a game. But you, John…. You are my companion, partner, flatmate, blogger, follower, minion, doctor, comforter, translator, entertainer, liaison, peacekeeper, advisor, helper, friend. You are so much more than Irene Adler could ever be." John looked at Sherlock in surpirise at the word friend, but before he could comment on it, Sherlock stood up. "Well, John, is that's all that you are worried about, I do hope I've put your mind to rest. I'm going to sleep now; I suggest you do the same." With that, he exited the kitchen, leaving John alone with his thoughts.

A moment later, John stood up and left as well. While he knew that Sherlock was still in love with Irene Adler—even if Sherlock still didn't—it was enough to know that he considered John his friend—his only friend, if John wasn't mistaken. He had known that Sherlock would never return his love, and he was resigned to that now. But oddly, it was enough to know that he occupied a special place in Sherlock's life.

If friendship was the best he could get, he'd just have to make the most of it, wouldn't he?

FIN