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Pride

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Pride: n. /prīd/ 1. A feeling of pleasure from one's own achievements, the achievements of those with whom one is associated.

v. 1. Be especially proud of a particular quality or skill.

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John trudged down the stairs from his upper floor bedroom, only to discover the rest of the flat in disorder. From first glance, it would appear as though there had been a break-in. However, the clear and shrill screeching of Mrs. Hudson's voice told him that this was entirely Sherlock's doing.

"Those were my sofa cushions, young man. This is coming out of your rent. I've had it. I really have. You absolute delinquent." She yelled from the kitchen. As John rounded the corner, he was met with the evidence of her cause to be upset. The kitchen was covered in strips of leather, and strewn with giant chunks of stuffing.

"What the hell happened in here?" John asked with widened eyes. He immediately looked to Sherlock, who was childishly rolling his eyes as the maternal figure fussed about.

"I was conducting a series of experiments to determine what the most durable material of a sofa was. However, I was interrupted." He shot a glare to Mrs. Hudson, who simply scoffed.

"He's all yours, John Watson. He's gone off the deep end this time, like he's hit his head or something." She waved her hands dismissively, before storming off and out the door. John looked to her retreating form, before snapping his attention back to the petulant man.

"Why?" John asked.

"Why what? You'll have to be more specific." Came the automatic response. He sighed quite loudly, before continuing.

"Why do you have to conduct experiments that ruin poor Mrs. Hudson's flat, or her furniture?" John really had to agree with the older lady, especially the way he'd been acting lately. 'Maybe he did hit his head.' He missed half of Sherlock's ranting before he finally listened in again.

"...and I find it completely senseless if it doesn't mean anything to my work." John's eyebrows took the fast track up his forehead.

"Do you know how full of yourself you sound? The sofa may not pertain to your work, but it does take a position in your life. My God, do you have any idea how arrogant you sound? Have you even gone to apologize to Molly yet?" He yelled, feeling his own anger boil inside him.

"No. why would I waste my time apologizing for something that wasn't my fault?" Sherlock responded with a wave of his hand as he continued working. John had finally had it. He slammed his fist on the table, and sucked down some of the seething frustration that had bubbled over.

"The coffee, maybe not. But you yelled at her, for being herself. She was being herself, and you made her feel bad about that. Again. Ya know, if it weren't for her, you'd probably not have any of that precious 'work' you do. She has everything to do with your work, and you still treat her like she's nothing. I thought you loved her catering to your every bloody whim. Apparently, it's only when you deem her worthy. No wonder the girl has such a low self esteem." John could feel the flare in his nostrils. Sherlock had at least shown the decency to listen. However, he made no remark, and John simply threw his arms up in defeat.

"You know what, Sherlock? Forget I said anything. I'll just go do it for you. No sense in you going. You'll just muck it up and make her feel worse about herself. That poor girl, being so bloody head over heels for such a git like you." John said, turning to leave the flat. He slammed the main door shut behind him, and stomped down the stairs, before slamming the street door shut as well. The consulting detective had brooded for awhile, before deciding to go pay a visit to the small pathologist in question.

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"Really, Mary, it's only a few blisters." Molly said, trying to calm her furious best friend.

"It could have been prevented were it not for that twat!" Mary exclaimed, quite loudly, just as the offending 'twat' entered the lab. The two women looked over, and flushed red. Molly, from the usual nervous fluster he inflicted on her. Mary, from pure, unrefined anger.

"Ah, Miss Morstan. I trust you're doing well." Sherlock spoke ever-so politely, which only fueled the fire to the short blond woman.

"Don't pander to me, Sherlock Holmes." She responded with a snide voice. Molly touched her on the arm. When Mary turned to look at her, she caught a look of pleading.

"Mary, please." She whispered. The petite woman sighed, before nodding. She gave her friend a hug, and left, all the while glaring down the detective. With the lab left to just the two now, Molly sucked in a nervous breath. She moved to work, only to be stopped by Sherlock's voice.

"I am told I should apologize for yesterday's events." Was his phrasing. Molly looked up at him, and gave a weak, albeit her attempt at brave, smile.

"Oh, it...it's alright. It was an accident. You don't need to apologize." she replied. He nodded his head adamantly, agreeing with her words.

"That's what I said. See, why can't John understand that? So, we're in agreement. Good." He gave a curt nod, before walking over to settle behind his usual microscope.

"Molly, I need to see those samples of algae from the Thames case. Also, coffee. Black, two sugars." He said the command. Molly, who had been working on running a blood sample, looked over to the man with widened eyes. She looked appalled, and therefore couldn't stop her sarcastic though from slipping past her lips.

"Oh, so it seems I'm not entirely pointless to his highness." She muttered with a disdainful tone. Sherlock's head shot up from his work to look at her.

"What?" He asked, almost in a shocked voice. He saw her eyes go wide as she realized she'd spoken the thought aloud, and then watched her recover in a flash.

"Nothing, just a mental note." she said with a smile. "I'll be right back with your coffee." Sherlock was about to confront her on vocalized thought, but Molly was out of the door in an instant. Her words played over and over in his head. 'Not entirely pointless.' It was the way in which she had said it, he knew her heart's true feelings on the matter. She still didn't realize that she counted. He'd made her feel unwanted, unimportant, pointless.'

The detective suddenly felt ill. He grabbed his coat and quickly carried himself out of the lab. In a moment of clarity, Sherlock had decided he needed to apologize, for everything. As he neared the cafeteria, he saw the back of her high ponytail. However, all thoughts and clear headed revelation fell away as he watched her laughing in the company of another man. She giggled lightly, and placed her hand on the man's arm. 'She's flirting? Why is she flirting? How dare she flirt.' His mind thought rapidly to itself. His thoughts mixed and mingled as the man was revealed. The pathologist had moved to one side, to give a very clear sight of none other than John Watson. Somewhere in his misfiring brain, something had snapped with the deducing genius. 'She's flirting with my blogger. No. My blogger is flirting with my pathologist.' Sherlock's thoughts felt venomous to him, but he soaked in the toxic ideas just the same.

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Ooh, I bet you can all guess what the next chapter is called, and what it will be about. But I'll give you a hint...who likes the jealous Sherlock? I know I do...he's fun to write. Anyway, thanks for reading, I hope you're still reading. Please still be reading. If you are, let me know. :D