"Jesus Christ!" John cried.
Automatically he reached for something to cover himself with as well, but Sherlock was sitting on the blanket that had been kicked to the edge of the bed and the sheets were completely hijacked; it was obvious she wasn't going to relinquish them.
John gave up trying to be decent and spit, "What the fuck are you doing?"
Sherlock raised one eye brow and said, "If I were feeling like pointing out the irony, I'd ask you the same thing."
John grit his teeth. "Get out. Get OUT."
"John, you know I wouldn't intrude unless it was of dire importance—"
"You always intrude!" he interrupted. "You have no sense of personal space or of other people's privacy—"
"—and I need your help," Sherlock continued as if John hadn't spoken. "We need to go to the Tower Bridge and the Millennium Bridge. Oh, and Knightsbridge too—he thought he was being so clever with that, using the same puns as in Gaiman's Neverwhere, but he hadn't considered I'd be familiar with the Rider-Waite tarot deck—"
"Sherlock, please," John pleaded in annoyance.
"What?" the detective asked, as if slighted.
John sighed heavily and gave him an exasperated glare. Sherlock studied him a second with furrowed brows, then glanced over his friend's shoulder at the woman still gaping on the far side of the bed.
"Ah . . ."
"Yes, ah," John repeated, full of venom.
The woman John brought home finally found her voice. "Y-you're Sherlock Holmes!" she croaked.
Sherlock barely batted an eye. "Yes."
John sighed again and rubbed his eyes hard enough with the palms of his hands to see bright flashes of light behind his lids.
"He's leaving," John said forcefully.
"John, I need you to—" Sherlock started.
"No!" said John.
"I'm leaving," she said at the same time.
"What?" both men asked.
"I'm leaving," she repeated. Over John's protests she loudly continued, "Obviously you're needed elsewhere. I'd heard . . . well, I never really read your blog. Not much of it, anyway. I never thought all those stories that go flying around the clinic were true, but now. Now I can see they aren't made up."
John was dumbfounded at her unexpected anger as well as what she was saying. "What are you talking about? I don't understand—"
"Oh, really? About how you and Mr. Sherlock Holmes have this odd relationship and do everything together. About how you get involved in these crazy things, about how people around you get threatened and endangered, and, and . . ."
So much for Sarah keeping her mouth shut, John thought bitterly, and then, so much for dating anyone from the clinic now, before trying to insist, "Wait, wait—we're not together, not like that! I'm not going with him, you heard me tell him to get the hell out—"
She shook her head resolutely and got out of the bed, pulling the sheet with her. For once, the one damn time John needed him to back him up, Sherlock kept his mouth shut, and even demurely turned away as she gathered her clothing angrily and got dressed.
She stomped out of the room, spitting over her shoulder, "I'll show myself out, thanks. Have a good evening, Dr. Watson."
And she was gone.
John bit his lip with enough force it almost bled. He looked over to Sherlock, who hadn't moved.
"You can be a real prick, you know?"
Again Sherlock looked surprised and affronted. "She wasn't right for you."
"Really? What the hell do you even mean? She was nice, we had a good time—would have a better time, if you hadn't—"
Sherlock scoffed.
"Just because you don't have human feelings doesn't mean the rest of us don't," John snarled. "One-night stands aren't uncommon! Sometimes it's okay to just be with another person—"
"That's not you," Sherlock insisted.
"It could have been more than that!"
"Oh? What was her name, again?"
"Her name is . . . her name was . . ."
For the life of him, he drew a blank. John caught a glimpse of that superiority that graced Sherlock's face so easily and saw red.
"Her name was Sarah!"
"Sarah? The same name of the other woman you dated from the clinic. Interesting."
"It's a common name!" John insisted, even though he wasn't sure. He knew Sherlock could tell his uncertainty, and that made it worse.
"You're not the kind of man who is comfortable with one-night stands," Sherlock told him quietly. John blinked. "You'd feel guilty in the morning, and even though it was plain that she wasn't the type of woman you could have a long term relationship with, you'd feel obligated to see her again and again.
"I didn't mean to interrupt your evening, but in the end, it's probably for the best."
That red haze that filtered through John's vision faded slightly. Fuck Sherlock Holmes and his sociopathic, oblivious, selfishness! Fuck Sherlock Holmes for never having any couth!
Fuck Sherlock Holmes most of all for being so fucking right.
"So. You'll need more clothing than that," Sherlock said brightly, as if they'd just a pleasant chat over coffee, "there's a chill in the air! I expect to find the Tower card of the Major Arcana at the Tower Bridge, and World card at the Millennium. Knightsbridge, Knightsbridge will be the true hunt—"
John sighed and fished around for his pants. It was a difficult pill to swallow, admitting that Sherlock knew him so well and saved him hardship in the long run. And it was the most frustrating way in the world to demonstrate friendship, but in the end, it was Sherlock's way.
fin.
