Author Note:
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters unfortunately. That lucky pleasure goes to BBC, Moffat and Gatiss.
And a thank you to everyone for the reviews, favorites and story alerts. You have no idea how much this means to a fledgling writer like me! Eternal hugs to you all! I shall back you internet chocolate chip cookies.
Sherlock groaned and threw the pillow at Mycroft. "Piss off."
Mycroft neatly dodged the pillow, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
"How… mature." Mycroft surveyed Sherlock's emotional state and feigned a smile. "Like I said, I was hoping to talk to you about John."
Sherlock grumpily rolled over on the couch, turning his back to Mycroft, but said nothing.
Mycroft took this as a sign to continue. "I know we don't… talk often," he said hesitantly.
Sherlock huffed. "I think there's a good reason for that. Why don't you leave now why you're still ahead?"
Mycroft continued, ignoring his little brother. "You're confused. You've finally come across something that doesn't present a solution in a logical, clear fashion. God knows I'm not the expert about this either, but I can't just sit here while you drive him away."
"What are you going on about? Are you ill? All those ridiculous diplomats getting to your head?" asked Sherlock spitefully.
Mycroft sighed, and Sherlock heard the tell-tale squeak of the arm chair as Mycroft sat down. This peaked Sherlock's interest. Mycroft was showing weakness, to him of all people. Sherlock didn't turn around but lay on the couch, still and attentive to what Mycroft had to say next. He would never put himself through this whole uncomfortable situation unless it was something truly important.
As to why Mycroft was even doing this was a whole other question that he would have to look into later. There was the rustle of paper. Mycroft must have picked up the newspaper sitting on the coffee table, and was reading through it.
They both sat for several minutes in silence. As time dragged on, Sherlock's mind went back to the problem at hand. The number. John. Somehow, he thought, this must all be related. He was playing with the cushion in front of him as he thought. He never does something without a reason. Somewhere, at some point, his mind must have thought of some brilliant plan involving all of this and there was some mental block stopping him from figuring it out.
Sherlock jumped slightly when Mycroft began to speak again. "Would it have been terribly difficult for you to offer some tea? But that would have been expecting too much. I should really know better. Hmm… I'm going about this the wrong way aren't I?"
Sherlock snorted.
"You've been doing well recently. Really well. Better than I ever had cause to hope six months ago. And I'm really glad, Sherlock. I may not act it, or look it, but I am. I came here today though because I'm afraid you're on the verge of losing everything."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Losing everything? Really? That's what you're trying this time? How melodramatic. I think I can handle myself, thank you."
"Sherlock…"said Mycroft warningly. Sherlock fell silent, still giving the air that he was pouting even though his back was turned. Mycroft sighed again, and Sherlock could picture him shaking his head in disapproval, like always.
"I don't know a better way to do this, so I'm just going to put it bluntly. Sherlock, you like John."
Sherlock sputtered and jumped up to face Mycroft. "Well, of course I like him. Obviously—"
"Sherlock. No," said Mycroft cutting him off. "You misunderstand me." He paused again like this conversation was personally causing him pain. "You're more than friends. Do you think friends depend on each other more than they need sustenance? Do you think they go from being complete strangers to killing to save the other's life in the matter of a day? Do you think friends stare at each other like you two have been caught doing? No, Sherlock. I don't think you've experienced anything like this before, which is why you're so confused. "
Sherlock just stared at him, with his mouth open. This clearly was not a topic he was expecting Mycroft to be talking to him about at all.
"Oh, how do I explain this without sounding more like those horrid teenage movies they have out these days? Sherlock, you love him. He reciprocates these feelings, as I can tell from the best of my knowledge, but he hasn't realized it either. You two are equally idiotic in this respect."
Mycroft looked Sherlock in the eyes, trying to gauge what he was thinking.
"Oh just don't stand there with your jaw hanging. It looks so… undignified. Sherlock?"
Sherlock just shook his head and sat back down, putting his head in his hands and slowly ruffling his dark brown hair. He was clearly trying to process this new information.
It was Mycroft's turn to roll his eyes. "Well, I'll let you sort out that for now. The Portugal ambassador is supposed to call in an hour. He's always so unpunctual, though, unfortunately. If you need me, texting will be preferable."
Sherlock continued to stare at the floor, with his head down, as Mycroft got up and started walking out of the apartment.
Just before Mycroft reached the stairs, Sherlock, without looking up, spoke one word. "Why?"
Mycroft gave a knowing smile and replied, "Believe it or not, little brother, but I care. I don't want you to lose him before it's too late." And with that he was down the stairs and out the door.
The second the door closed below, he jumped up.
Sherlock started to frantically pace the apartment muttering to himself. He needed to make sense of all the facts he had previously and all the new data coming in. Could what Mycroft said be true? He, Sherlock Holmes, liked John Watson? His mind went back to earlier that day.
Every conversation he had with the man could be remembered with surprising clarity. Usually, he would just delete all the mundane chit-chat he had with mates, if you could call them that, in the past. Not necessary to his work, information like that would just clutter up his brain. But now, when he was actually standing here thinking about it, Sherlock could remember every single conversation with John. How John looked, what he was wearing, what he had eaten that day, his diatribes, his voice, his smile.
In the midst of all of this emotional turmoil that Sherlock was going through at the moment, he could feel a small smile creeping on his face, and a new funny sort of feeling in his chest. No, it wasn't new; he had just never acknowledged it before. If he didn't know any better, he would call it fondness, but he wasn't sure about anything anymore.
Sherlock shook his head. Earlier today. Right. Focus Sherlock.
His brain started working on overdrive to solve this problem, like he did with his most difficult cases. He was tired. Tired of not understanding something for once. Tired of the emotional upheaval. Tired of John walking out on him, giving some of his precious attention to someone else that was not Sherlock. A someone who didn't deserve the attention. Sherlock clutched his head as he muttered in disgust. Jealousy, his brain whispered.
Was that the problem? The meanest, most primitive human emotion? Sherlock almost shuddered. He had never experienced it before, but he had seen it time and time again with husbands and wives and adultery and lovers. Too many dull murders he had come across could be traced to that motive. So predictable. So obvious. Neither of which described Sherlock, but he was feeling it all the same. He had to be. There was no other explanation for the facts. John declared to have plans with Sarah. Sarah. Waltzing into their lives, messing up the balance, throwing him off. The case now was almost abandoned as he lost all ability to concentrate after the mere mention of one little date of theirs.
He could trace this inkling of jealousy as far back as when he first heard about Sarah, but the feeling wasn't as strong as he felt it now. Ergo, his attachment to John must have grown. His emotional attachment? Physical? He didn't even know how to classify it. As Mycroft put it, him 'liking' John.
Sherlock shuddered for real this time. He didn't even know himself anymore. Thinking about emotions towards others, and in regards to himself. He never used to care. He was above all of that. John, though, seemed to have found a way around this unintentionally or not. John.
Funnily enough, Sherlock didn't think he regretted it. But Mycroft was right about something: he couldn't let John leave. He knew that now and believed it with his whole mind.
He needed John all to himself. Otherwise, he encountered problems like this, which take his mind thoroughly away from his work. His work was all he had right now. Now, how to get John all to himself. He could research Sarah and reveal her deepest, darkest secrets and then John would have no choice but to dump—no. John might not like that.
Go to Sarah and threaten her to get away from—bad. That would probably be bad. John wouldn't like that much either.
He paced around the flat, kicking random objects that were unfortunate enough to be in his path, attempting to think of a play to rid his world of Sarah. Sherlock's hands slipped into his pockets while he thought. His fingers brushed against a small slip of paper. Sherlock abruptly stopped walking as his heart skipped a beat. Of course! How could he be so thick? This number! This was the missing piece of the puzzle that was this whole damn crazy day.
This number, he thought, as he held the paper up to the dim light by the dusty window, will help him solve everything. If he came to terms with his feelings because of jealousy and a bit of nudging, than why couldn't John?
If Mycroft was right about John unknowingly liking him back, than a little jealousy would do him good. Sherlock would show John that he was the only person he could ever be with. No one, not even Sarah, would be there like Sherlock could. He knew he could barely tolerate Jim, but if it gave him back his sanity, his ability to work and John, he would do anything.
Sherlock grabbed his phone from where he had left it by the couch and dialed the number. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Nothing. Sherlock's heart dropped. Perhaps this Jim guy wasn't interested anymore.
The fourth ring was suddenly cut off though. Jim had presumably picked up. All he could hear was soft breathing on the other end. As the silence stretched out, Sherlock raised his eyebrows in annoyance, but continued on, for John. "Hello?"