Chapter 2

What a day. A twelve hour shift at the surgery, he'd had barely time to choke down a sandwich roughly eight hours ago, and being vomited on no less than four times by various flu patients. John was ready to shower, order take away, and pass out while watching crap telly with Sherlock. He was thoroughly exhausted and not up to much of anything. At this rate he'd be lucky if he didn't fall asleep waiting for dinner to arrive.

He opened the door into the kitchen and was possessed of the urge to turn around and make sure he had come in the right flat. The kitchen was clean. Sparkling. He could operate on the table if necessary. Although first you'd have to move the two formal place settings, bud vase with a single rose, and candle. A candlelight dinner? John's heart began to pound…

"John?"

John raised his eyes to see Sherlock striding toward him, impeccably dressed, holding a glass of red wine...and behind him was...who?

"I'd like you to meet David Cavanaugh, and old friend from uni. I bumped into him today at my tailor's and, well, we decided on dinner tonight. David, this is my flatmate, John Watson."

Flatmate? He didn't even rate a 'friend' introduction anymore? On autopilot, John extended his hand and took in the Adonis that was David Cavanaugh.

He was, if possible, slightly taller than Sherlock, and just as dark as Sherlock was pale. His olive skin gleamed in the low lighting and his thick jet black hair had just the slightest wave to it as it fell elegantly to his shoulders. Amidst all of this was a pair of the most shockingly green eyes he had even seen. They had to be contacts, they just had to be. Where Sherlock was whipcord lean, David was muscular without quite approaching body builder size. When David smiled, his perfect, even, white teeth fairly leapt out at you, like something out of Johnny Bravo.

But the most disturbing thing, was how Sherlock's eyes followed David's every movement, like a caress. Between that and the 'flatmate' introduction, John had never felt like more of a third wheel. He plastered what he hoped was a smile on his completely numb face.

"Pleasure to meet you, David. I hope you'll excuse me, had an exhausting day, and am really looking forward crashing out."

"Are you sure you won't join us? I could set another place at the table…" Sherlock's tone was doubtful.

"No, no, I'm just really tired." John turned stiffly and strode from the room in what he hoped wasn't too rude of a manner.

"Rest well," called David as John headed up the stairs. God, even the man's voice was beautiful.

John collapsed on his bed and just sat there. Staring at the floor. What the hell was that? Sherlock had a date? It was obviously a date. He couldn't even console himself with the idea that Sherlock wasn't aware of the romantic nature of the situation. His attention was totally on David, his body oriented toward David's the whole time. Sherlock not only knew this was a date, he was undeniably attracted to David.

And who could blame him? John certainly didn't look his best tonight, but even at his best, next to David he was nothing more than a short, aging, nobody. The two of them looked absolutely striking together, a study in contrasts. John was certainly a contrast, but not in any sort of favorable way! Even in his most fit Army days of fifteen years ago, he never would have compared to David Cavanaugh. Most assuredly now, at forty, he was particularly pathetic.

He stripped, put on sweats and a t-shirt and climbed into bed. As drained as he was, he didn't for one moment think he was going to sleep anytime soon.

~0~0~0~0~0~

Lying in his bed, alone, that night, Sherlock felt the night had gone quite well. John's obvious discomfort with the situation was promising. Was he jealous? More importantly, was he jealous enough to say something?

Even now, he could faintly hear John's bedsprings as he tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep. Sherlock and David had been just loud enough in their conversation to ensure that John could hear their voices, even through his closed bedroom door. Of course, David was in on the whole plan, had been the perfect choice really.

David had had quite the crush on Sherlock back at uni. Sherlock had, of course, done nothing to encourage him and nothing had ever happened between them. David obviously had the ulterior motive of trying to make Sherlock fall in love with him under the guise of making John jealous. It would never happen, but it would certainly make David's performance convincing. Contacting him and persuading him to act in this particular play had been ridiculously easy.

Ah, there it was, the sound he was waiting for. John's feet hitting the floor as he gave up and got out of bed. Any minute now he would stagger downstairs and switch on the kettle. Sherlock would give him a few minutes and then join him in the sitting room and maybe they could get this sorted tonight!

Hmm, some movements around in John's room, perhaps looking for his dressing gown? It was in the loo, hanging on the back of the door, as always. What was he doing? No matter, there were his footsteps on the stairs. Wait, he was continuing down, to the front door.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open as he heard the front door close behind John. He was leaving?

He was leaving!

Sherlock bolted out of bed and ran to the living room window, but John was nowhere in sight. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen!

He dashed up the stairs to John's room. Sighed in relief. All of his things were still there. He hadn't packed. Hadn't left. Just went out to get some air. Fair enough. It was John's go-to method of dealing with stress. John would go for a walk, sort through his feelings, and then come home. They could have this all put right by breakfast.

~0~0~0~0~0~

By three, John had had enough of tossing and turning in bed. His first thought was to get up and make a cuppa, but the thought of Sherlock possibly still being in the living room was unbearable. He knew David had left, had heard Sherlock walk him down to the door and a few moments of quiet (a goodnight kiss?), before the front door had closed and Sherlock had bound happily up the stairs. That had been just after midnight and John had done nothing since but imagine their goodnight kiss, and how they must have looked together when it had happened.

Was it a deep kiss? Full of longing and promise for their next date? And there would be another date, no doubt about that. He could hear them talking and laughing over dinner, never quite loud enough to hear exactly what they were saying, never quite loud enough to ask them to keep it down, but just loud enough to know that they were having a wonderful time together.

How could he possibly handle this? Could he live here and watch Sherlock fall in love with someone else? If he had ever believed that Sherlock could feel genuine affection for him, he was disabused of that notion now. Seeing who Sherlock was interested in, he now knew beyond any doubt that Sherlock was way out of his league.

Suddenly, 221B was the last place he wanted to be. He quickly put his shoes on, grabbed the first jumper he lay hand to and yanked in on. He headed down the stairs as quietly as he could, snatched his jacket off the peg by the door, and he was out in the calming night air.

He didn't even make it to Regent's Park before the sleek black car pulled up alongside him. He sighed, still looking straight ahead. Had he really expected anything else? John leaving in the middle of the night, without Sherlock, obviously not dressed for an emergency at the surgery, no case for Lestrade, and Mycroft kept tabs on both Sherlock's and John's blogs so he would know there was no case there. Of course, Mycroft would want to know what the hell was going on. For that matter so did John.

Oh well, no use fighting it. John turned toward the car, opened the door and slid in next to Mycroft.

"Good evening...or morning rather, John."

"Let's skip the pleasantries, please, Mycroft. What do you want?"

"I am concerned, John. Is that so hard to believe? It is not normal for you to leave the flat at such an hour, and in such a state as this. What has my foolish brother done this time?"

"It's nothing, certainly none of your business."

"Has it anything to do with the gentleman who was here earlier this evening? An elegant individual, I have been lead to believe."

John sighed. Was there nothing that escaped this man's notice? Hell, Mycroft probably knew everything anyway.

"Does the name David Cavanaugh mean anything to you? He was Sherlock's date tonight."

"Date?" Mycroft looked positively alarmed, for all of a second. Then his face went nearly blank as he fit pieces together in his head.

"Ah. Yes. I see." Mycroft contemplated matters for several seconds. John had never seen him take so long to arrive at a conclusion.

Mycroft's brain was whirling. It was only too obvious to him what Sherlock was doing, John was simply too close to the situation to see it. Clearly Sherlock was trying to make John jealous, and David Cavanaugh was definitely suited to the job, given that Mycroft knew how David felt about Sherlock. However, he could easily see this blowing up in Sherlock's face if the defeated expression on John's countenance was any indication. Sherlock had chosen someone whom he believed would act the part well, he had not considered that John would be so intimidated by David's appearance. Sherlock probably hadn't even noticed David's appearance he was so obviously enamoured of John. Why wouldn't these two idiots just talk to each other already? After everything they had already been through, it was evident that nothing was going to keep them apart, so why couldn't they just get together already?

Mycroft knew he was going to have to tell John what Sherlock was up to. If he did this right, both John and Sherlock wouldn't be more than mildly irritated with each other, the air would be cleared, they could move forward (maybe even have a laugh about their own antics), and perhaps Mycroft could benefit as well.

When he had told Sherlock that he wasn't lonely, he hadn't been lying. During his busy days, there was no time for something so personal as being lonely. There was a reason he took so little time to himself to sleep and care for his own needs. He had a large well appointed flat, every luxury he could want, but it was empty, and he hated spending time there. As he got older, he was beginning to regret not engaging in at least a few personal pursuits. He could not commiserate with even his most trusted staff; they needed to see him as invincible and confident at all times, so that they could present a strong front as well.

There was one individual he felt he could talk to, and indeed to whom he had a debt of gratitude. Mycroft may have put Sherlock through rehab, but it was Gregory Lestrade who had called him when Sherlock had overdosed, saved his life, and continued to save him for years by challenging him to stay clean. Until John Watson had come along, Gregory Lestrade had been the fine line between Sherlock staying clean or being found dead in an alley somewhere.

Greg's divorce was several years old at this point, and recent CCTV images placed him at several venues that catered to the not-so-straight side of London. He hadn't been undercover, but nor had he pulled. Testing the waters, perhaps?

As necessary as his Ice Man persona was for his work, Mycroft knew it made him seem quite unapproachable. And if relationships weren't Sherlock's area, then Mycroft was even more of a fish out of water than his brother. As puerile as Sherlock's scheme was, Mycroft had to admit it had possibilities. John had obviously had a reaction to Sherlock's date, even if it wasn't the one he was hoping for. Any reaction at all would undoubtedly spur them to eventually make their confessions. Perhaps the same tactic could be employed in his case. Not to make Gregory jealous or course, but just to let him see that Mycroft wasn't as unavailable as he seemed.

Conclusions reached, Mycroft turned to John.

"I am sure you are aware, John, that emotional maturity is not Sherlock's strong point." At John's terse nod, Mycroft continued. "You know my brother cares for you deeply, he would never have gone to such lengths with his 'death' for anyone else. Your wedding, and all the events since have been quite hard on him, more so than you truly understand. It is my belief, after careful consideration, that Sherlock has no interest at all in David Cavanaugh, and is simply trying to provoke a reaction from you."

"What's that?" John sorted through Mycroft's speech at least three times. No, there was no other conclusion to be drawn. "He's trying to make me jealous? Why that…"

Mycroft watched as John's demeanor catapulted from depression to full blown anger in less than a half second. Oh,this would not do.

"Hear me out, John. What sort of experience do you really think Sherlock has with close, personal, intimate relationships? Far less than you think, I guarantee. His only real exposure has been your girlfriends, your marriage, and whatever crap telly you and Mrs. Hudson have watched with him. Can you understand that his grasp on that particular reality is a trifle skewed?"

John seemed to calm down, a bit. He was clearly thinking through everything that Mycroft was telling him.

"The true issue here, John, isn't what my brother feels for you, but rather his inability to talk to you about it. Instead, he chooses an elaborate plan to manipulate you into doing what he wants. Sound familiar? Does Baskerville ring a bell? Falling from St. Bart's? Even his handling of the bomb-rigged train carriage under Parliament. All manipulations. If you go back, and talk to him about this now, it will simply teach him that these methods are effective in getting what he wants. I do not see where you have any alternative but to break this cycle or it will become the standard operating procedure at Baker Street."

"Oh God, you're right. You know I hate telling you that, Mycroft, but you are right, this time." He took a deep breath. "What can I do? You know I care for him too, or I wouldn't be here right now. I don't know if it could work or not, but you're right. We don't stand a chance if he can't learn to talk to me about something other than just cases."

Mycroft smiled.

"As it happens, John, I have a plan."