Part 12 - Sherlock
Sherlock hadn't had slept that night, even though there was no case, trying to figure out what kind of relationship there was between Rose and his doctor. Then he had stumbled about that thought – 'his' doctor – and had thought about that.
And that in turn had led back to 'the day John had changed' and to the 'Case of the missing Razor Nick'- It just... didn't... make... sense!
The thought had come to mind that John wasn't John anymore, but had been replaced by... whatever... but then he'd thought again and had concluded that nobody could mimic all that little details that made John John as well as that. Even a twin wouldn't have had the same kind of smirk, the same kind of twinkle in his eye when he grinned, the same kind of way he held his arm when the weather changed and made his scar itch, the funny way he tied his shoes (he made a knot into the two bows instead of wrapping the string around one bow and then looping the second bow through.), the exact amount of time, day by day, John took to brush his teeth, how he seemed to have an in-built measuring weight for the sugar he put in his tea... and... oh, was he done obsessing about John already?
He had turned onto his other side on the sofa and the circle of thoughts had begun again. Irritatingly so, for he wasn't used to his thoughts going in circles.
And then Rose...
Working class, obviously, cared a lot for how she looked and how she was looked at, judging by her taste of clothes, young, much too young for John to be interested in her. He preferred women close to his own age, but not older than him, Sherlock had noticed. Face interesting, the bone structure out of the norm, a face that stood out in a crowd, that feature even more accented by her choice of make-up. Oh, he could see somebody falling for that face in a matter of minutes, but not John. And why she would kiss boring, ordinary, old, normal John (Not! Not! Not! Not! Something inside of him protested, but he squelched that), he couldn't fathom.
But John seemed to be happy about having met her, and being happy put a smile on John's face and that in turn made Sherlock happy. Made Sherlock happy? No, he wasn't happy about John having met that 'Rose'. How could he be happy and unhappy at the same time? Aargh! It.. just... didn't... make... SENSE!
When John came down that morning, Sherlock greeted him with an icy cold demeanour. John stopped, looked at him and shrugged. "Still sulking? Well, I'll leave you alone then."
Spoke, turned, grabbed his things (checking for wallet and phone first) and was gone.
Sherlock was up from the sofa and behind the curtain as soon as he heard John reach the bottom of the stairs. Again, John turned in direction of Regent's Park, and walked off, a happy swing in his steps and... was he whistling?
Sherlock was pissed. How could John be whistling happily when he, Sherlock, had showed him that he was not happy with him? It was all because of that 'Rose'. He decided he hated her.
Lestrade had texted him about a case and, still sulking, Sherlock had refused to inform John about it and taken off without him. The case had been quite simple and so Sherlock returned, Lestrade in tow, and only feeling slightly better, to 221b Baker Street very late that night. And froze when he found John still up, sItting at the kitchen table, holding hands with HER.
