Days passed uneventfully, which was eventful in and of itself. John had a regular schedule at the surgery to keep, and the criminal underbelly of London seemed to be taking a collective holiday, which left Sherlock very little to do around the flat. Normally, this would have been catastrophic; John certainly expected it to be, as he often hesitated just outside the door and took a bolstering breath before crossing into the flat as of late. However, while he generally found Sherlock stretched languidly across the sofa, there was a very conspicuous lack of destruction and mayhem around the flat.
Very curious. John was getting concerned, which Sherlock could only consider to be a positive tick toward his venture. Truthfully, this seducing John business had begun to prove itself to be marginally more difficult than he had originally anticipated, which was almost lucky in a way. It provided something for him to think about and distract himself with while he waited for Lestrade to bring him something worth puzzling. It wouldn't be enough for very long, but for now, it was sufficient to keep him from blowing things up out of frustration and boredom.
Puffing his cheeks out, Sherlock balanced his notebook atop his knees, boring a hole into the wall opposite him as he thought. John Watson, for all he was an agreeable, polite, calm, understanding man, was remarkably difficult to get to the heart of. He put up with much more than anyone else Sherlock had ever met, and yet when it came time to really attempt to woo him, Sherlock found himself at a loss. It was frustrating, but also fascinating in a way, because he always knew how to get at people. A well-placed look, a deepening of his tone... a brush of fingers that lingered for just a moment longer than propriety demanded. All very subtle, stylish indicators of interest that would provoke an equal reaction in an already besotted party and more than likely inspire as much in a previously disinterested one. He'd tested his theory many times, largely to get information (and access to the morgue; poor, hapless Molly) and had yet to come across someone as seemingly unmoved as John.
Frustrating. But fascinating. John was a challenge, and not just because he was a man, though that certainly played a bit into it; despite the obvious physical attraction, John seemed reluctant to act on it, and so Sherlock was well aware he would have to do a bit of persuading in that area if he decided to ever make the relationship physically intimate. On that mark, he was still uncertain; current data indicated that it would not be necessary, as John doggedly pursued Sarah despite any lack of physical intimacy, but he was not prepared to close off any possible avenues prematurely. While Sherlock did not require physical stimulation most of the time, he was, as always, the exception to the rule.
The fact that John was apparently the exception to many other rules was not lost on him, but for all intents and purposes, he was very much an ordinary man. Well, an ordinary man with select extraordinary qualities that had attracted Sherlock from the very start.
He'd never been overly worried about Sarah (or any other woman, when it came to that) because largely he assumed John was seeking eventual sexual gratification. While an important part of many relationships, to be sure, it wasn't absolutely necessary for a functioning, healthy partnership, and so Sherlock had given little care to the idea of John satisfying his base needs elsewhere. He'd been on a few of John and Sarah's dates and, while the physical chemistry was apparent, he didn't worry overmuch about emotional chemistry between them. It was certainly there, but Sarah seemed to be the sort of woman who wouldn't allow one sort of intimacy without the other. Unluckily for John, who was a gentleman, that was rendered almost impossible due to the circumstances of his present life.
Sherlock was not sorry. If he had to choose between having a lover and having a staunch, steady companion, he would always choose the latter - and he had come to realize he would always choose John for the latter. He couldn't allow him and Sarah to become a true couple, because John was the sort of man who would go ahead and marry her, and then he would have to find a new partner. (Partner? Hadn't John begun as his assistant? Well. Things changed.) The level of comfort, security, and all-around well being that they had both attained by their working arrangement would be lost, and that was completely unacceptable.
The telltale thump of boots on the stairs reached him, and Sherlock shifted on the sofa, stuffing his notebook deep underneath the cushions where it wouldn't be found. Unless he knew there was something to be looking for, after all, John generally kept to his own pursuits lest he disturb something he didn't really want to know about.
It was sort of endearing, in a way. Willful ignorance to prevent himself from being unduly annoyed with Sherlock. Well, it made him smile, anyhow.
The first thing he noticed when John entered the flat was that he looked remarkably cheerful. Cocking a brow, Sherlock greeted, "Evening."
"Good evening." A small smile on his face, John took off his jacket and hung it on a peg, still smiling pleasantly. "No disasters? I almost don't know what to do with you. It's like you've been domesticated."
For some reason, this seemed hilarious to John. Sherlock sighed internally, lacing his fingers in front of him and bowing them between his knees. "I've been working on a project. Why are you so pleased?"
Lowering himself into his habitual chair, John shrugged, turning on the television. After a few moments of mindless channel surfing, he gave in to Sherlock's pointed stare and admitted, "Date with Sarah tomorrow. Boring, dull, completely mundane by your standards. Still," he added, unable to help his grin. "I'm looking forward to it."
Sherlock's hands vised in front of him, but John didn't notice. A date with Sarah? But things had been going so well. Ever since the fiasco with his experiments in 221C, they'd settled into something of... well, a quiet, nearly tedious life. They'd survived stretches like this before, of course, and things were certain to pick up before long, but this was not going at all according to plan. After his compromise with the flat sharing and the general lack of disturbance over the past few days, he would have thought that John would have come to the proper conclusion by then - that he needed no one else but Sherlock.
It was so irritating to be reminded that John was a simple, stupid man at the core of it. He couldn't be expected to come to the proper conclusions all on his own. Poor man, he was still chasing after Sarah as though she had the ability to fulfill him the same way Sherlock did.
"Is that really necessary," he asked, perhaps more sharply than he should have.
John snorted. "Yes, it is. For me, anyhow. I understand that you've no interest in women, and that's your business and that's fine, as I've said. But I quite like Sarah."
"Women." Sherlock rose, pacing the length of the flat. "Relationships. More work than the payoff involved, if you ask me."
A comedy show was on, but John wasn't paying much attention to it. Rather, looking amused, he asked, "How do you figure? Certainly they're work, but I'd have to argue there's... a certain pleasantness to the entire ordeal."
"Oh, yes." Rolling his eyes, Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa, arms tucked tight against his chest. "Pleasant indeed. Someone always wondering where you are, what you're doing, who you're with. The moment you promise yourself to someone it's as though they never trust you again. You're expected to please them at every opportunity, satisfy all of their needs - even the really unreasonable ones - and take time out of your day and your life to humor them when they're sad or fussy or lonely. And then when you throw sex into the picture-" He just shook his head here, turning his shoulders away from John.
John, who had a date with Sarah tomorrow.
"Sex is really excellent, actually," John said, and Sherlock could see he was making an effort. "Well, not always. Sometimes it's bloody horrible. Actually-"
"I've had sex, John," Sherlock interrupted, shooting him a long, withering look. "I just don't believe that sexual gratification outweighs the general inconveniences associated with maintaining a relationship. For purely physical release, there are plenty of alternatives to maintaining a steady partner, most of which require minimal effort and distraction from daily life."
For all the attention John paid to it, the television might not have even been on. "Do you really believe that?"
The look Sherlock tossed him could not have implied otherwise.
"Hang on." John lifted his hand, looking a bit disbelieving. "No, I can't believe it. You're just jealous."
For a moment, something fluttered in his chest. Panic? Fear? Preposterous, and yet - "Jealous of what, exactly?"
Smug, John crossed his feet at the ankles. "Things are looking up for me, and you're stuck here, bored out of your sodding skull. I'm sure Lestrade will have something for you soon. Don't worry."
Ah, no. Relaxing, and slightly disappointed at the same time, Sherlock muttered, "Jealous. Hardly. Do try not to be so pedestrian, John."
Turning fully away, he tucked his robe underneath himself and scowled at the back of the sofa, ignoring John's chuckles all the while. He certainly wasn't jealous.
He would simply have to step up his game.