John Drops the Ball (and a bombshell)

John had just got out of the supermarket when his phone rang. Being that he'd managed to survive the shopping trip without any technological failures he should have been in a good mood, but for various reasons he felt tense and uncomfortable. Thus, when he answered his phone, his greeting came out a little sharper than he'd intended.

"H'llo"

"John? Are you alright? It's me, Greg." He sounded really worried, which caused John's hackles to rise.

"I'm fine, Greg. Why wouldn't I be? Has something happened to Sherlock?"

He heard Greg sigh out a deep breath and could picture him rubbing his temples. "No, it's just...maybe I misunderstood."

"Misunderstood what?"

"Sherlock was here a while ago, about that knife."

"Right," John responded, recalling keenly the argument they'd had over the phone the day before.

"Well, I left him in my office for a bit, and when I went back he'd disappeared into one of the store rooms and was...I dunno, contemplating something. He looked all wound up."

"Has he been working on something?" John asked, frowning. No cases at the moment, he was sure of it.

"I've no idea, he said not. Which, bad sign, I know. But then he said he was worried about you. That you were in some kind of danger, but not the sort of thing that concerned the police. Wait...no, he said not the sort of danger that the law could help with. That's his exact words, I think. What does he mean?"

Greg sounded genuinely worried and not a little bewildered, and really, John would have told him everything, if he were able to. However, he didn't have the faintest idea what Sherlock had meant, and he told Greg so in apologetic tones.

"I wonder if he's worked out that somebody's going to do something to you," Greg offered reassuringly.

"I don't know. It's possible, but I think he'd have at least texted me if he thought I were in danger. He usually thinks to do it if it's something that gets him that wound up."

"You want me to send a couple of officers over to Baker Street? They might come in handy, just in case."

John shook his head, an old habit that stuck even though he knew Greg couldn't see him. "I'm sure we'll be fine, but thanks. I'm nearly at the front door now, so I'll stay put until he gets back, then see if I can grill him."

Greg chuckled faintly. "Better you than me, mate. Call me if you need anything, alright? Or if anything weird happens. Don't suppose you happen to have a purely self-defensive, questionably acquired firearm about your residence?"

"Me officer? Why, no officer!" John replied, managing a grin, and Greg said goodbye with another dry laugh and hung up.

What the bloody hell was this going to be about? Last time Sherlock had been worried about John's life being in danger, he'd caused a huge panic for most of the staff of the surgery, only to reveal that Mrs Hudson had done a load of laundry for them (after Sherlock had broken their washer) using biological detergent, and Sherlock hadn't realised that John's allergy was only mild. While it was nice to get an explanation for the annoying itchy sensations across his back, John was not amused by the chaos Sherlock had caused by turning up in the mid-morning busy period, shouting and ranting about anaphylactic shock and imminent death.

He went up to their flat and began putting the shopping away. Mrs Hudson was on the phone to her sister; he could tell by the repeated refrains of 'I know! I know!' drifting up through the floor boards. He was just about finished with the groceries when he heard the front door open and Sherlock's footsteps hurrying up the stairs. John steeled himself and went out into the living room, standing right in the middle of the floor to limit the possibility of Sherlock not noticing he was there.

He needn't have worried about that, however, as Sherlock, dishevelled and out of breath, burst into the room and made straight for him.

"John! John you must promise me!"

"Promise you what? And what have you been telling Greg? You know, he was really worr-"

"Just promise you'll do one thing for me. Say you'll promise and then I'll explain."

John frowned. Then he pulled himself up to his fullest height, folded his arms across his chest and stared Sherlock dead in the eye. Sherlock gave a start.

"John, this is no time to be-"

"No Sherlock, it is. You want me to promise you something – and you know how seriously I take that – without having the faintest idea what it is? No, I'm sorry, but it's going to have to be explanations first."

"But I can't explain it yet, because-"

"Because you know I'm not going to like it," John said evenly, and Sherlock's jaw snapped shut. An expression of near-toddler-like frustration and annoyance crossed his face, then seemed to be pushed away by force of will.

"Alright," he said, and his eyes broke contact with John's to glance agitatedly around the room. "You can't see Molly again."

John had to pause a moment and be sure he'd heard right. "What?"

"You. Cannot. See. Molly Hooper. Again. Ever!" Sherlock enunciated, his cheeks turning pink as he spoke.

Oh Christ, he'd finally worked it out. John sighed; he should have known it would only be a matter of time. He was surprised it had taken him as long as it had.

"Sherlock, is this what that talk the other night was about? Do you think I'm going to leave you for Molly?"

Sherlock made a moue and fixed his gaze pettishly at something behind and above John's head.

John grimaced. "Look, I'm fond of Molly," he said, noticing Sherlock flinch again. "But that doesn't mean we're in love or anything. She's not really the type of person I want to be with. And just because we had sex in a...well, in a tense moment, it doesn't..." His words trickled to a stop as Sherlock's eyes suddenly fixed back on him. Sherlock's face was paper white, his eyes wide and bewildered, his jaw hanging.

Oh god, he hadn't worked it out after all.

"Sherlock-"

"Your hair!" Sherlock cried, pointing an accusing finger at John.

"What?" John asked, raising one hand self-consciously to his head.

"On the night of the shooting, I could tell from your hair that you'd been sweating, but there was no good reason for it. But it was because you'd been..."

Apparently unable to force the words out, Sherlock turned and took a determined step towards his bedroom. John wasn't having that though, and he reached out to grab Sherlock's shoulder and force him to turn back around.

"Sherlock, what exactly did you think was happening between me and Molly? He asked, struggling to keep his voice even.

Sherlock stared at him, twisting his lips together, for some moments. Then, with the rapidity that usually only came out during deductions, he began to speak.

"She was planning to ask you out. She's been flirting aggressively with you for weeks, and she finally had plans to make her move. But Molly isn't socially confident, so why would she suddenly decide to pursue somebody in whom she has previously shown no interest? I thought at first that you had bonded while comforting her over the matter of the shooting, but I see now that it was something more than comfort! - that you offered her."

Only the word 'comfort' was shouted, but that was bellowed out like a gunshot, and made John take a reflexive step back.

"She wants you to herself, John. Surely even you can see that! I demand that you see no more of her! Now, it'll be tricky, but by planning carefully when we work in the morgue, we-"

"No," John interrupted, gritting his teeth. "That won't do, Sherlock. I'm not just going to do what I'm told like I'm your fucking pet!"

Sherlock looked startled for a second, then scowled, but John continued before he could begin to speak again.

"I'm a grown man and I can do what the bloody hell I want to. And that includes seeing who I want, sleeping with who I want, and, yes, even going and living with who I want! Do you understand that Sherlock? Because if you can't get your vast and glorious brain around that simple concept, then maybe you aren't the man I thought you were!"

"Don't leave!" Sherlock said immediately, desperately, and the weakness in his voice sucked all the air out of John's sails. He looked...he actually looked confused.

"John, I don't want...I don't understand!"

"How can you not?!" John cried, then realised that that was a stupid thing to have said. Anger and indignation were still boiling away inside him, but he could see now the state that Sherlock was in. There were shadows underneath his eyes and an unusual pallor to his face. God, he must have been really worrying about this. John rubbed his hands over his face, feeling suddenly weary.

"You know what, Sherlock? I can't deal with this. Not now. So what we'll do is, I will go for a walk and then I will come home and go to bed. And tomorrow, when I've calmed down, and we've both had a chance to think things through, we can have a talk about this and see what's going to happen. Alright?"

Sherlock looked mutinous, but nodded anyway, and slouched off into his bedroom. John pulled his jacket off the hook and left, a bit too quickly to be entirely good, out the front door and off down the street with his hands shoved into his pockets.

He felt awful. Not because he'd shouted at Sherlock, or even because he'd shaken him up so badly, but because some part of him was delighted at how terrified Sherlock was of losing him. And what did it say about what a mess John Hamish Watson was that he still doted on the bastard? It had flickered, briefly and almost unnoticeably, into his mind during their conversation, that Sherlock might be upset because he wanted John to himself. And even with all the grief and aggravation that Sherlock had given him, he had been sorely disappointed when it didn't turn out that way.

Feeling like a tool, he walked round and round the park for an hour or so, cooling off. Then, feeling he should eat despite not being hungry, he went and bought a sandwich and ate it on a bench, as dusk fell around him. When he finally returned, the flat was dark and the door to Sherlock's room was closed. John could have opened that door and gone through. He was tempted to do so. But, if Sherlock was inside, he had no idea what he would say to him, and was rather afraid that he'd end up saying far too much.

He went upstairs and got ready for bed, expecting bad dreams.

::

Once again, I was expecting this to be a fun, silly story. I don't know how it turned out like this, except that it has a mind of its own!

A couple of people have pointed out that people in the UK can't own firearms. I know this, partly because I'm English and also because I grew up in the country where many farmers own guns. Firearms licenses for private citizens are rare, but not unheard of, especially in the case of people who have livestock that they may need to protect. It's kind of an unwritten rule that, if you know the right people and can come up with a good reason, you can get a license. John and Sherlock know Mycroft. That's a good enough explanation for me of why John still has a gun. Just in case it was bothering anyone.

Pip pip, cheerio!