Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

A/N: This was a request from my much-beloved, fantastic, hilarious, energetic, and singularly lovely friend WrightAWay for her birthday. :D The prompt was "John is jealous after A Scandal in Belgravia, then finds out that Irene is still alive." Happy birthday! May your life be long and, as all good lives are, filled with Johlock!

"Yes, fine," Sherlock said into his phone. The level of exasperation in his voice told John, as he entered the living room, that he was speaking to Mycroft. "Tell her I—" Oh, they were fighting about their mother this time. "No I will not!" Offering Sherlock a government case again? Honestly, Mycroft, when will you learn? "I'm not interested. Leave me alone." Definitely Mycroft.

Sherlock violently hung up his phone, which is difficult, seeing as it was a mobile.

"Mycroft?" John asked, mostly to be polite. "Wanting you to work for him?"

Sherlock nodded moodily, and John tried not to care that he was able to deduce all of that just from Sherlock's tone of voice. They might be a little codependent, but then, that wouldn't really be news to anyone, least of all John.

"And you turned him down," he continued, still being polite.

"Obviously."

"Too dull?"

"It sounded quite interesting, in fact, but it is not catastrophically consequential and I am not willing to work with my brother again so soon. Can't have him getting used to my assistance."

"What was it?"

"A fantastically vulgar sex scandal. It seems the same member of the royalty as portrayed in your 'A Scandal in Belgravia' cannot keep her hands to herself. There are no pictures this time, but wouldn't it be interesting if it was The Woman back again?"

It was the first time he had mentioned her in months, and John felt a cube of ice slide down his spine. He had hoped Sherlock had deleted her, made himself forget her, or at least that he would never bring up that... lady... ever again.

"How could it?" John said shortly, employing his best lying abilities but almost certain that Sherlock would see though him. "She's... in a witness protection program in the United States, remember? She can't possibly be texting you..."

"John," Sherlock sighed, and gave him a meaningful look.

Oh. He knew. Of course he knew. He was Sherlock-bloody-Holmes, he knew everything, so why Mycroft (possibly the only person in the world Sherlock wouldn't instantly know was lying) had decided to let John break the news that 'Irene was in witness protection' was a mystery to the poor soldier. Mycroft would have been able to pull it off. John? John was a paperback novel to Sherlock, try as he may to keep some things to himself. So Sherlock had known all along that The Woman was dead... he had taken that rather well.

"I'm sorry," John said on an exhale. "Mycroft told me it would be better if I told you she was safe, rather than the truth..."

"You know the truth?" Sherlock asked, puzzled.

"Irene Adler is dead," John agreed solemnly. "I'm really sorry, Sherlock."

"Yes, she is."

In his guilt and relief at finally being able to come clean about the subject, John almost missed the small shifting of Sherlock's body in his chair.

Almost.

Sherlock was a fantastic liar, but even he had tells and John was fairly certain that he was one of the only people on Earth who knew what they were. There was some setting in his brain that left him constantly watching for them, and he knew he missed some occasions but this time he didn't. Sometimes, he really liked being John Watson, best friend/handler/only trusted confidant of Sherlock Holmes.

A lot of the time, he didn't.

But, yes, most of the time it was pretty okay.

"What... aren't you telling me, Sherlock?"

The response was just a fraction of a second too quick, a hair's breadth too controlled. "Nothing."

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"You're lying. You shifted in your seat a little. When you tell the truth, you're dead still. That, or flailing around like a maniac. So what aren't you telling me?"

Sherlock grumbled something about trained too well and shouldn't have taught him that. "Can't I shift in my chair in my own flat without being interrogated?" he tried.

But John wasn't having it, and told him so with a pointed look. The detective shot a cold one right back. John stared him down for a while, arms crossed like he had absolutely nowhere to go today and would happily stand right there until Sherlock told him. He was willing to take the gamble that Sherlock didn't care to remember that John was, in fact, meant to be at the surgery at 7 the next morning, so he'd be needing to go to bed at some point and couldn't stand there all night.

John won that bet.

Sherlock cast his eyes to the ceiling and dropped his head over the back of his chair. His eyes slipped shut. In his very best 'long-suffering' voice, he said, "Can you not just take my word that it is unimportant?"

"I don't trust your definition of unimportant," John informed him. "The last thing you claimed was unimportant ended up being radioactive. Tell me."

"The Woman isn't... exactly... dead."

"So what, is she mostly dead?"

"For all intents and purposes," Sherlock said under his breath.

"What?"

"I saved her. I... dressed up and... look, it's a long story, but it involved a sword and she's now living in China, probably. But she definitely isn't coming back to London."

John gaped at him. It was impossible. It was horrible. It was anticlimactic. It was... it... explained everything.

"So Irene Adler is alive."

"Correct."

"And you just helped her escape and whisked her away somewhere."

"Yes."

"And you didn't tell me!"

Sherlock dug a hand into his hair and rolled his eyes hugely. "What does it matter? She's gone!"

"Because you lied! Because I've felt horrible about it for months, thinking you believed her to be alive when she was really dead!"

"You lied as well," Sherlock pointed out, more to win the argument than because he cared, "and I was fine with it."

"I did it because Mycroft made me and because I thought I was protecting you! You don't have that excuse! So why'd you do it?"

"Because I knew you'd react this way and it's exhausting to try to deal with your emotions!"

"My emotions!" John snorted. "You're the one who can't handle them when he feels them! You nearly killed a man by dropping him out a window last time someone pissed you off! And, apparently, you were able to get it up enough for that sodding Woman to want to save her life, unfortunately!"

Sherlock put his teacup down with more force than was necessary, the porcelain ringing loudly against the wood of the table. "It's a bit uncharacteristic of you to wish someone dead, isn't it?" he said sharply.

John froze.

"This isn't about her being alive or dead," he managed, confused. Was it? "It's..."

Well, there was no doubt, he was struggling. Did he actually wish Irene was dead? That wasn't very doctorly of him, but he could always play the 'also a soldier' card if it came to that. He'd done it before.

But no, of course he didn't wish she was... expired. But he did want her gone, not around him or Sherlock ever again, and her being dead made the likelihood of this wish being fulfilled much higher than her being 'gone' did.

Because she had hurt Sherlock. She had made him write sad music like a teenager after a breakup, and John did not want to see that again. It was heartbreaking and lonely and horrible to see. It was also annoying because it's not like Sherlock stopped for a silly little thing like 'three AM.'

Sherlock was getting impatient. He huffed at John's long pause. "It's what?"

"Shut up, we can't all think as fast as you," John snapped back automatically, without venom. "The... possibility of her coming back."

"What would it matter if she came back?"

"Because... you felt something for her and she... she manipulated you."

Irene had been in love with Sherlock, there was no question of that. In John's opinion, it made her a bloody awful lesbian, but it didn't actually change the fact that she had manipulated him. Her loving him as she did it didn't actually make the manipulation okay. It made it worse, in fact, and the thought made John feel even more puffed up but no more sure of his answer.

"I don't love The Woman, John, if that's what you mean."

"Sherlock, there is not a single other person in the world you would have done that for."

"There are exactly three other people in the world I would have done that for, actually, outside of it being necessary for a case," Sherlock corrected him. "Possibly four, if Mycroft ever becomes slightly less impossible."

John wasn't so insecure that he had to ask if he was one of the three people. "Okay, yes, fair. But... you wrote sad music when you thought she was dead!"

"I did?" Sherlock frowned, thinking back. He leapt to his feet and to his massive piles of compositions, flipping through them until he was at the time period of Irene Adler's supposed death. "Oh!" he said, eyes scanning the pages and remembering what he had written. "Yes, I suppose these are all on the melancholy side."

...Why had it never occurred to him that it could have been a coincidence?

John was officially clutching at reasons to be upset and finding very little to go on. Seeming to sense this, Sherlock said, exasperated, "John, even if she had died, you've lived with me long enough to know I don't particularly care about things like that."

"But she had to be special to you," John argued.

"She is interesting. I saved her because, at the risk of sounding like Hannibal Lecter, the world would have been a duller place without her in it." He added, "I have also never been so blatantly propositioned as by her comment about our table, either, which is saying something."

"Like you don't get asked out in strange ways all the time?" John scoffed. "I didn't even know you before I accidentally asked you out at Angelo's."

"That's the way it usually happens for me."

That made sense. Most of the time, once people actually knew him, they immediately lost all desire to ask him out or even be in the same room as him. Except, apparently, John thought, for me. Because I'm mad.

"Okay, but... you don't find a lot of people interesting, you know!"

He was being petulant and he was aware of it, thanks. But finding out Irene was alive sucked, and he didn't understand why, and he certainly didn't enjoy being upset that someone wasn't dead. For a moment, he tried to pretend that, despite what Sherlock said, it was because he was mad at her for hurting Sherlock (which she apparently hadn't). Then he spent another moment trying to pretend it was because Sherlock had lied to him (yeah, because that was a new experience). In a last-ditch effort, he even took a shot at convincing himself that he was upset because, if alive, Irene might cause another scandal and almost bring down the government. Again.

Unfortunately, John was a grown-up. He actually considered himself pretty mature, in fact, and he recognized the feeling he was... feeling... and it was called, plain and simple, jealousy.

He also considered himself fairly straightforward: uncomplicated and drama-free. So, "I'm jealous," he said flatly.

"Of what?"

...Well damn, that was a good question. Not so good at identifying the reasons for his emotions, then. Why was he jealous? Even if Sherlock had loved her, was that something to be jealous about? Was it really that important that John be the only person Sherlock ever found interesting?

"Of almost dying and then being saved by me?" Sherlock prompted, curiosity tilting his head.

"No!" He didn't think so, at least. That would be silly. Right?

"Because I'm pretty sure we've done that a few times."

"No, Sherlock, look, I don't know, okay?"

Was he jealous that Irene got Sherlock's attention? Couldn't be: Sherlock paid attention to people all the time and John never felt this ridiculous. Was it because Sherlock had solved a case for her? That didn't even make sense. Was it that she managed to trick him, the great detective? That she spoke to him, looked at him, touched him, flirted at him...

John's gut gave a little answering twist that made John momentarily nauseous.

Sherlock was watching him, as he always did, with an interested expression that told John he must be making some pretty amusing faces. He was, however, too used to this (and too floored by this revelation) to be distracted from his thoughts.

He had been afraid this would happen.

When John had moved in with Sherlock, when he'd shot a man for him after only one day, when he'd found himself already totally devoted to the idea of following Sherlock to the ends of the Earth, he'd begun worrying that one day he'd have some awful epiphany where he realized he was in love with Sherlock. Because, really, wasn't that just typical? Two people, flatmates, best friends, everyone says they're in love, and then they suddenly realize they are? John's life always had been melodramatic...

John felt Sherlock's bare foot connecting lightly with his shin. "John, it is irritating not to know the thoughts associated with that twisted-up facial expression you are making."

"I'm in love with you," he grumbled, crossing his arms huffily.

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock had supernatural hearing. Additionally, he had shifted in his chair. He was a filthy liar.

"I'm in love with you!" John complained louder. "I'm all in love with you and that's annoying because you're you and I have to live with you and you're impossible and it means Harry and Anderson and Sally and everyone on the blog and in restaurants were right. Ug, I hate that."

"Don't forget Mycroft," Sherlock added pleasantly.

"Oh, of course he— wait, what?" Why wasn't Sherlock freaking out? Why wasn't he declaring his monogamous relationship with his work? "Why aren't you...?" John gestured wildly with his hands. "I don't know, reacting?"

"To what? This sudden realization of yours?" The detective shook his head condescendingly and John just about withdrew his confession. "Please, John, if you learned something from your 'Scandal in Belgravia' it should have been that the physical signs of attraction are obvious. At least to me."

"Well clearly you're allergic to telling me things. 'Oh, by the way John, I know that Irene's alive. Oh, just so you know, John, you're in love with me.'" He shot Sherlock a glare. "So your plan is to just ignore this?" He was trying not to be hurt. And worried, actually, because when someone ignored a love confession, it was generally a bad sign for the one doing the confessing. To be fair, this was Sherlock Holmes, who had ignored more love confessions than most people had ever received, and it didn't seem to affect his opinion of them most of the time.

"Hm?" Sherlock pondered the wallpaper for a moment before returning his gaze to John. "I thought the matter was rather well resolved. You have finally gotten round to admitting your feelings for me, and since I have never once objected to anyone's assuming we were together I can only assume that you deduced my feelings for you, as well. Since neither of us is interested in the other physically, there really isn't much else for us. Unless... oh, of course. I see."

John sat gaping as Sherlock, nodding to himself, popped up from his chair. He took a step closer to where John sat. The doctor looked up, wide-eyed, in time to see that Sherlock had put a hand on either arm of the chair and was now bent almost in half, and... well, he was really quite close now, wasn't he? And then a pair of cool lips brought themselves firmly to his own.

John's mind whirled to a halt and everything went white and bloody fluffy. Four minutes ago he hadn't even been aware that Sherlock had feelings for him, let alone that he was madly in love with Sherlock, and now he was kissing the greatest detective in London like it was no big deal, as if it were simply the most logical course of action.

Suddenly the lips were gone and Sherlock straightened back up, looking pleased. "There. Sealed with a kiss, as it were." He tossed himself back into his chair and promptly resumed his tea.

Dazed, John was delighted that he was able to make his statement as accusatory as it ended up coming out. "You kissed me."

"Correct."

"Why did you kiss me?" he demanded.

"Because my research tells me that that's what couples do," was the airy response.

"So we're a couple?"

"Do you honestly believe I just kiss anyone who says they love me? Honestly, John. I would only kiss my life partner."

"Now we're life partners?"

"Obviously. It was bound to happen eventually."

"Well yes," John clamored, "but I think that's going a bit fast—"

"You moved in with me after only one day," Sherlock pointed out.

"This is a little more permanent than—"

"Is there someone else you want, then?" Sherlock's eyes were only on him and suddenly very intense, and John wondered for a second if Sherlock might not be feeling something like jealousy, as well. Other than that small part, though, the only evident emotions were amusement and certainty. Because he knew. Of course he knew. "Is there anyone else in the world who you want, more than you want me?"

John didn't even have to think about it. "No," he said simply.

Sherlock leaned forward and stretched out for John's hand, interlacing their fingers when John finally provided it. He twisted John's hand until he could kiss it, slowly, and look up at John through his hair. "This. Us, me. It is something that The Woman can never have."

Deliberately, softly, John said, "You're going to use that against me for the rest of our lives, aren't you?"

Sherlock nodded, and then he smiled.

That smile he never gave anyone but John.