Chapter 10

Jealousy is a Blue Eyed Monster

London had a distinct buzz to it; there was the usual excitement that came with bringing in a new year. John was like all the rest-happy and energized, but Sherlock took a more morose view. His mind spun round and round, jumbled with half-formed thoughts and answerless questions and observations that were all upside-down. Everything seemed crooked, out of place.

John tried to coax him out of his bad mood with corny jokes and biscuits and numerous mentions of new cases. Sherlock did not take the bait. Of course John was happy. He was in love with Mary, truly. An hour didn't pass without John uttering Mary's name in conversation and flushing in pleasure at the sound of her name in his mouth. He hummed about the flat and Sherlock once caught him admiring a photograph of himself with Mary, arm in arm, beaming at the camera. These instances were very painful to Sherlock, who felt as though someone had salted his wound, then plunged a knife in and twisted it around.

He was reduced to a moody, gangly, perverse heap, and poor John had no idea what to make of him. Sherlock often gazed at the secret plan on his laptop, his list of commitments to make John his, and tried to pull himself together. But it was plainly impossible for him to walk around as if nothing was wrong when it was, to speak to John like there wasn't a permanent lump in his throat when there was, to go about his business like all was well and good, when nothing could be further from the truth. Limbo was very frustrating for Sherlock, for he was no longer "just friends" with John (your heart isn't supposed to pound wildly when your "friend" walks in the room), nor was he in a romantic relationship with him. It tortured Sherlock, drove him mad, and no one could do a thing to alter it. He often had private little fits of temper, during which he would noisily, passionately scrape his bow over the strings of his violin, playing loudly enough for the whole of Baker Street to hear him. He didn't do this to annoy John—never! Rather, he just needed some way of releasing his fountain of emotions without doing something rash, perhaps even violent. It was times like this that Sherlock found the temptation to revive his old drug addiction more difficult to resist than ever. Nevertheless, after imagining John's hurt, stunned and disappointed expression in his mind's eye, Sherlock shoved that idea into the closet of his heart and would not, would never open the door.

Now, leaning against the window frame and staring darkly down at the snow-covered street, Sherlock submitted to the constant ache, and rubbed his forehead, shockingly tired.

"I have a proposition to make," started John, bustling into the living room behind Sherlock.

Without turning around, Sherlock sighed deeply. "What is it?"

"It's New Year's Eve, Sherlock. Mary and I are going out tonight to celebrate and you're bloody well coming with us."

Sherlock felt a stab of hope. "Why would I do that?" he asked. "It would be terribly intrusive."

"No, it wouldn't," John insisted. "Seriously, Sherlock, we're flatmates. Screw that, we're friends! You're coming along even if it means I have to drag you."

Sherlock turned around then, and stopped, lost for words. For once, John wasn't wearing a jumper. Instead, he wore a steel gray button-down, figure flattering dark jeans, and a new belt. The gray in his shirt emphasized his blue eyes to a striking pitch. And Sherlock? He couldn't look away, not even if a pistol had been held to his head.

"What?" asked John, embarrassed. "Too formal?"

"No," breathed Sherlock. "Perfect."

John went pink; whether from discomfort or pleasure Sherlock couldn't tell. They stood in silence for a few breaths, then Sherlock strode past John and down the hall to his bedroom, deciding that would go along after all. Clad in a two-piece suit, he walked back into the living room to see John already in his jacket and gloves. "Mary's to meet us at the bar," he informed Sherlock, without looking up.

"Right," said Sherlock, brushing against John's shoulder on the way over to retrieve his coat. On reflex, John looked up and cleared his throat.

"You look…nice."

"Thank you." Sherlock straightened his scarf, coat on, and looked expectantly at John. "Shall we get a cab, then?"

"Right, yeah, of course." John shook his head with an apologetic smile. "I was just thinking, sorry."

Sherlock held the door wide and stood aside to let John pass. They pounded down the stairs and into the night, quickly catching a cab and arriving at their destination within ten minutes. The bar was upscale and quite large; a great deal of Londoners were milling about, drinks in hand. Mary was waiting for them at a four-person table. Upon spotted John, she leaped to her feet, blushing like a schoolgirl and hurried over to hug him. "Hi Sherlock!" she said over John's shoulder. Sherlock flashed her something that slightly resembled a smile, if one squinted.

John and Mary lapsed into conversation at supersonic speed, leaving Sherlock isolated and bored. Muttering a perfunctory, "I'll be back in minute," he slipped off and wandered over to a vacant corner where he leaned against the wall and folded his arms. Within minutes, four women had approached him in quick succession, each of them saying hello, hoping for a chat and—most likely—something more. Sherlock had discouraged each of them with a dispassionate, "Not interested," and they'd let him alone. To his surprise, a few blokes had cast him appreciative glances and smiled his way, but Sherlock was as interested in them as he was the women.

His heart was for John and so it would remain.

It was during an irksome battle with a woman that couldn't seem to be dissuaded from flirting with Sherlock that John came strolling up, without Mary this time. Seeing the woman's obvious interest in Sherlock, a shadow crossed his face and he glanced between the two of them with a note of…jealousy?

Sherlock felt a rush of euphoria at the very thought, and ignored the woman to talk to John. "Having a good time?" he asked.

John nodded distractedly, his eyes flickering back to the flirtatious female behind Sherlock. "Er, yeah. I'm just getting Mary a drink. Can I get anything for you?"

Sherlock waved this off. "Thanks, but I don't drink. It would impair my judgment."

John smirked. "Yeah, we can't risk that. You having a good time, Sherlock? You're certainly bringing in the women." Yes, there was definitely a twinge of anger in John's voice.

"What are you implying, John?" Sherlock asked quietly. "That I want them? If that's what you think, you're dead wrong."

John crossed his arms and glared up at Sherlock, his rage coming out of the blue. "Why can't you just stay put, instead of wandering around the bar and breaking people's hearts all over the place?!"

"Seeing as I was completely cut out of your conversation, it seemed tremendously pointless to hang around!"

"I was under the impression that the three of us could talk!"

"You're on a date, John! There's no other way to put it. So frankly, no, I didn't have the fortitude to sit and listen to you and Mary whisper sweet nothings into each other's ears and snog!"

"Why would that bother you?" growled John. "Why the bloody hell would that bother you?"

"I don't know, John, why does it bother you that the female species takes an interest in me?" Sherlock gave John a long, significant look. "I'll let you work that one out on your own."

He walked away.

"Sherlock, come back! I'm talking to you!"

"Later!" Sherlock did not break pace, and was out the door and into the soothing night air before John could extricate himself from the crush of people. If those dating and relationship websites were at all legitimate, this was progress.

...Well?

-Spark Writer-