Disclaimer: I don't own House or Sherlock.
Now that finals are over, and my holiday has started properly, I can update!
"House?" asked John curiously.
"My friend."
Anyone else probably would not have noticed the slightest hesitation before 'friend'. But for John, who had been struggling for a word to call Sherlock that was not 'friend' precisely, because they were both something more and something less. Colleague was safer than partner, which suggested a whole host of other issues that John didn't want to admit—like his apparent flexible sexuality.
John smiled wryly, and thought he understand Wilson just a little bit better.
"What's he like?" John asked, shifting a little to face Wilson.
"Brilliant. Frustrating. Mostly frustrating and juvenile."
"Are you sure his name isn't Sherlock Holmes?"
John's phone buzzed and he rolled his eyes. "Speaking of."
He had been wondering how long it would take Sherlock to collar him once again. As usual, the man showed no self-restraint.
Come back now. SH.
No. JH.
These juvenile antics are beneath you. SH.
I'll find you. SH.
The game is on. SH.
John sighed gustily and thumped his head against the back of the closet. Never a moment's rest for those around Sherlock, who could and would run on stubbornness and nicotine alone.
"Problems?" asked Wilson, sounding sympathetic.
"You could say that," said John, closing his eyes.
"I recognize that look." Wilson smiled gently. "I've worn that look."
"It's nothing," John insisted.
He was a bit leery of opening himself up to a total stranger, no matter how friendly the man seemed to be. And yet he had shot a man for Sherlock. Whom he had only known for barely a day.
John, m'boy, you trust too easily.
Not something his therapist would've said, but John recognized the quality in himself even if she didn't.
John met Wilson's brown eyes. The other man looked at him curiously.
"Right, so I was invalided home from Afghanistan..."