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Over the next few days, Sherlock observed as John went about his work in an unusually good mood humming as he did the dishes and not even getting really angry when Sherlock set the table on fire.
"Do you know when I was younger, I wanted to be a fireman?" was all he said smiling at Sherlock, as he put away the fire extinguisher and they looked at the charred remains of the table. Mrs. Hudson wailed and scolded Sherlock but he could not hear her over the roaring in his ears. He was thinking of John as a fireman and finding that certain parts of his anatomy were behaving in a very unexpected fashion. (Why? Pyromania?)
He swallowed as he admitted to himself that all his mania appeared to be centred on John.
But what about John who seemed to be so happy these days being besieged by texts from Lestrade. Sherlock had checked. Lestrade's texts had moved beyond casual and into moronic. He now asked John what he was doing, how his day had gone at the surgery, whether he would like to meet up and so on. John replied to all his texts. John had been going to meet him for dinner when Sherlock had set fire to the table.
The idea that John might be slowly warming to Lestrade's advances made him feel strangely cold and hollow so he pushed those thoughts away. He kept testing John's loyalty in small ways and John rarely disappointed him. He still asked him to eat, to sleep, he argued with him and he watched his back. But he might do that for any good friend, a small voice whispered at the back of his mind. John had also not shown any interest in a woman for quite some time now but he had begun to jog regularly and started taking better care of himself.
Just the other day he came back home with a new royal blue colored shirt. Greg had apparently gifted it to him, that sly silver fox!
"Do you like it Sherlock? Belated birthday present. Greg said it complemented my eyes", he said modeling it around the sitting room as Sherlock glared at him over the laptop. John's laptop of course.
"Your birthday was two months ago! And if you had a modicum of sartorial sense, you wouldn't need me to tell you just what a monstrosity that shirt is!" Sherlock said venomously.
"Oh…is it that bad?" John said looking crestfallen.
"I think you should consign it to the garbage dump without further delay", Sherlock said at once. "I can take you shopping the next time you feel like it. From the way you look at my suits, I assume you will agree that I have some expertise in the area."
John turned pink for some reason and escaped to his room mumbling incoherently. Sherlock didn't find him wearing the shirt after that and made a mental note to destroy it the moment he had a chance.
The next day, Sherlock decided that two could play this game. He bought a trendy black jacket and presented it to John.
"Erm…something for you…because you know, birthday and all that…didn't get you anything…I mean besides that book on Victorian murderers…and that was…well you can't wear it. And it's getting colder. The weather I mean. On the news today. They said it would get colder. So thought you might need a jacket to keep you warm. Though you do have jackets…and jumpers. So many jumpers…that beige one…beige is it? Looks warm…suits you. And the one with the stripes. You look nice in that too…. And the red shirt…and…and… Ahem, this is for you", Sherlock ended abruptly, suddenly aware that he had been babbling dangerously.
John gave him a broad smile and put on the jacket over his shirt. It fit him perfectly of course. "Thanks Sherlock! I love it! So, how does it look?"
"Good. Good. Fine", Sherlock managed, turning away shyly.
"And I did enjoy the book about the murderers", John called out behind him.
...
But Lestrade was not to be so easily outdone. The next weekend, he showed up on his bike to take John 'out for a spin' as he put it. He looked rakishly handsome in his blue jeans, leather jacket and Aviators, carrying his helmet under one arm. His windswept silver hair and lopsided grin added to the overall impact.
Sherlock thought about how easily he could kill him with one well placed Baritsu chop to the neck.
He had to make do with a murderous glare instead as John hurriedly put on his jacket and rushed out with him before Sherlock could work up a convincing argument. Obviously this ride had been planned earlier.
Sherlock looked down at them from behind the curtains, seeing how John got on the bike behind Lestrade, his body pressed up against the inspector, one hand gripping his shoulder, his head tilted close to Lestrade to catch what he was saying… As he watched with a pain that seemed to stab him to the core of his being, Sherlock saw Lestrade laugh and pull John's other arm around his own waist before roaring off down the street.
Sherlock had not thought it was possible for him to feel like this. He had trained himself to be on his own. (Alone is what protects me) But sometimes it turned out people became part of your life whether you wanted it or not. John had not thought twice about taking off with Lestrade. And left Sherlock feeling abandoned and utterly wretched.
Sentiment, he deduced bitterly. Apparently he was just as susceptible to it as the rest of the common wealth.
His phone pinged. 'Tell him'.
It was Mycroft of course. Sherlock typed out a flurry of curses, glad to be able to vent his anger on the interfering bastard.
He had to try harder, Sherlock resolved. He could not afford to lose John.