A/N: Hi, this story started as a one-shot but I have thought up a whole story out of it, reviews and suggestions are welcome. Hope you enjoy!
"Goodbye," Sherlock smiled gracefully yet as the door slammed shut his face transformed into one of tremendous and unrelenting disgust. "Eurgh, I thought he would never leave!" He exclaimed and flopped onto the sofa. "John, why did he keep touching me?"
"I believe that was flirting Sherlock." John replied offhandedly whilst retreating to the kitchen endeavouring to finally do the dishes.
"Flirting? I've briefly studied the psychology of courtship, and I'm certain that touching someone to that extent is not flirting, it's manhandling."
John let out a little laugh, "studied," he muttered to himself, smiling.
"It's not a subject matter worth much experimentation," Sherlock called out in defence, "reading a few journals on interpersonal attraction is sufficient for the Work."
John sighed to himself, "Sherlock, what is it with you and selective hearing. Why is it you can hear the most silent comment uttered a room away but when I say, 'don't leave out a decomposing pig's heart on the table because I'm bringing someone over', you conveniently don't hear?"
"The term 'selective hearing' is rather self explanatory, John."
The doctor scowled reminiscing for the thousandth time, that night a few days ago where he thought that maybe if he brought home a man for the first time in ages, instead of a woman, that that man would not be so easily repelled by Sherlock as the women had been. It turned out to be a grave error on his part. He could remember clearly the guy dry retching at the smell and leaving pretty sharpish; the night had been going so well...
John's musings were interrupted by the sound of a laptop booting up- his laptop to be more precise.
"Sherlock, are you using my laptop?"
"John, why do you ask questions that you evidently know the answer to?"
John padded into the room, tea-towel in hand to the sight of the detective sitting up at the dining table, oblivious to his deed.
"How many times have I told you to leave it alone? You have a fucking Macbook Pro for goodness sake! What could you possibly want with my ratty old Dell?"
Sherlock calmly looked up from the screen, pausing his flow of typing to say, "Convenience," before returning to his previous activity.
John became visibly frustrated, his breathing increasingly rapid and his jaw began to clench.
"Sherlock, I-" he halted. Sherlock could sense a rant coming on, concluding that they really needed a case that required them to leave the flat before John imploded. He made a cursory glance at his friend who appeared to be going through his calming mantra for when his anger got the best of him. This mantra tended to start with deep breaths and ended with him going out for a walk, which, in Sherlock's perspective was him pulling a strop.
He was about to turn and do his going out routine in 5... 4... 3... 2...
"You know what I hate about living with you? You make me feel like shit sometimes. I mean when it's great, it's wonderful, brilliant even. But then there are times like this, when you undermine any authority, or dignity I may have so that you can have, what you call convenience. I was an army surgeon for fuck's sake! I have lived through so much, and yet here I am, the wrong side of thirty running around after a man who treats me like... You know what, Moriarty was right. I am your puppy. Your fucking Labrador!" He paced and threw the teatowel on the floor. After a second he realised he'd have to pick that up later and so snatched it up and took it to the kitchen, where he stood, hands on the counter trying to prevent himself from punching Sherlock squarely in the nose.
His friend remained glued to the chair, frozen in fact, his expression blank canvas as his brain for the first time in a very long while actually failed him. He blinked repeatedly and then frowned.
The sound of John re-entering the room alerted him to reality as John shrugged on his coat.
"John," Sherlock called quietly, internally shocked by the timid voice that left his lips.
"John," he tried again, this time with a bit more control over his voice. His efforts succeeded as older man's hand refrained from turning the door knob.
"Don't leave."
"Goodbye Sherlock." He opened the door, only to find the detective bolt out of his seat to the door in order to slam it shut again.
John turned, refusing to make eye contact, staring at the wall behind Sherlock as he folded his arms.
"If we fight right now, I can promise you, I will win. Let me out."
"No."
Their eyes met and instantly John's resolve lessened, he mentally chastised himself for his stupid reoccurring weakness to Sherlock bloody Holmes.
"I am sorry for taking your laptop."
The shock of actually receiving an apology from Sherlock dislodged another brick out of his wall of resolve, but 'this time' he thought to himself, 'this time, I'm going to retain whatever is left of my dignity and stop running around after him'. He cleared his throat and said, "thank you for the apology Sherlock, but I-" John looked away, and for a moment he wasn't sure he could go through with it. "I cannot do this anymore. You are the most brilliant man I have ever met, the adventures, the danger- nothing compares. It's just... I don't want to be your assistant forever. I don't think my ego could stand it much longer. Today it's my laptop, tomorrow..." He couldn't think of an example, but he knew one was not necessary, he was certain Sherlock had a plethora of examples of times he has done such actions.
"You can't leave. You belong here."
"Sherlock-"
"With me."
"You've got Mrs Hudson and-"
"Partners."
"What?"
"Would you stay if we were partners?"
John gawked at Sherlock.