A/N: Hi guys! Sorry it's taken me so long to get this chapter up for you. I just started at a new school so between that and the ridiculous amount of birthdays in our family near the beginning and end of the year, I haven't really had time to write... and yeah I know this is short and nothing much happens but IDGAF! I WROTE THIS WHEN I WOKE UP AT 2 AM SO WHATEVER! I also couldn't find an 'ation' word that fit this chapter but I have some for the next couple so yeah...
I won't take up anymore of your time. Read and enjoy!
Man or Mouse
Chapter 13: Jealousy
Sherlock tapped his foot testily as he waited for John in the lounge room. It was already six o'clock. If they didn't leave soon they wold be late. Not that Sherlock minded. He and John had barely had enough time to eat and rest before Mycroft showed up and demanded that they come for dinner. They were both exhausted and hungry. This was the last thing they needed. Sherlock rolled his sore shoulder to alleviate the throb and called up the stairs.
"Honestly, John. I don't understand why you want to dress up for my brother!" Sherlock turned and began pacing angrily. Dress up for me. He froze, blinked and shook the thought from his head. Where had that come from?
"Because your brother is the British government, remember? It couldn't hurt to leave a good impression."
Sherlock threw his hands up in resignation and dropped grumpily into the lounge. He muttered mixed complaints about his state and disdain for his brother until the door finally clicked open. Sherlock looked up as John walked shakily down the stairs. Sherlock's jaw nearly dropped. John wore a pair of tan trousers, a white shirt tucked in, a black tie and a black suit jacket. It was the most grotesque attempt at formal dinnerware that Sherlock had ever seen.
"What do you think?" John asked, smiling.
Sherlock jumped from his seat, grabbed John by the arm and dragged him back up the stairs. Sherlock pushed him onto the bed and stomped to the wardrobe. He pushed the door open, ignoring John's complaints, and began rummaging through the hangers. He grabbed a few items and threw them at the doctor.
"If you want to impress my brother then don't dress like you just came from the salvos." Sherlock turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him. He waited until John emerged once more. This time he wore a fitted navy dress shirt and a pair of black slacks with no jacket. The shirt was untucked and the first few buttons of the shirt left undone, exposing his collar bones. Sherlock turned his face away. "Let's go." Sherlock walked out of the flat and down to the street to hail a cab. He kept a hand over his reddening face. He couldn't look at John in those clothes. When he did, his thoughts went to unfamiliar places. The shirt came in tightly around John's chest and middle, highlighting the muscles usually hidden beneath those ridiculous sweaters. Sherlock remembered the way John looked standing in the coatroom just that morning. Sherlock knew that image would stick to t back of his eyes for weeks to come.
A cab pulled over to the street just as John stepped down onto the sidewalk. They both climbed in and Sherlock gave the cabbie directions. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed to the window, watching the world scroll by and trying to focus his mind anywhere but John. How many times? The question pestered his thoughts with never ending persistence. How could he ask the doctor? He could feel his eyes on him, watching his disregard curiously. John could tell Sherlock was ignoring him but he didn't know why. Maybe he was upset about the dinner. John knew well that the Holmes siblings didn't exactly get along. He also knew that Sherlock hadn't been taking care of himself while John was missing. He could see the rings under his eyes and the painful slenderness of his body. John made a mental note to scold the detective later. John kept watching. He noticed his rigidness and the close attention he was paying to the drifting scenery. John cocked his head. Sherlock was covering his face. His hand had remained firmly fixed to his mouth and cheek since they entered the cab and his face stayed turned from the car's other occupants. What was he hiding?
"Sherlock-"
Just as John was about to ask, the cab came to a screeching stop in front of a large estate house. John checked his watch and noticed he'd been regarding the detective for over an hour. Startled, he stepped out of the cab after his flatmate who was already hurrying down the path toward the house. On the doorstep John suddenly felt very intimidated. Before him were two enormous oak doors with mosaic front panels and golden door handles. The grandness of it all seemed like something out of story. Like the palace of some prince.
"Let's get this over with," Sherlock growled beside him. John closed his mouth. He didn't realise it had been open. Sherlock rang the doorbell and within seconds a small plump middle-aged lady opened one of the palace doors. "Mrs Denton!" Sherlock laughed. "Does Mycroft still have you answering doors after all these years?"
"Sherlock dear! Well, there's never a shortage of guests. Oh, it's been years. Just look at you!" Mrs Denton straightened out Sherlock's jacket and patted his cheek affectionately. John smiled. Sherlock had that look on his face. That genuinely happy look. How long had it been since he'd seen it last? John couldn't even remember. Mrs Denton suddenly slapped Sherlock's shoulder, startling the detective. "Well, don't be rude then! Who's your friend?" She gestured to John and turned her smiling face to him.
"Ah, Mrs Denton, this is Doctor John Watson, my colleague. John, this is Mrs Denton, Mycroft's housekeeper. She's been like a mother to me."
"Sherlock," she warned, "If your mother ever heard you talk like that…"
"She would probably tell you to scold me," he smiled bitterly.
"I just might if you keep on like that! It's lovely to meet you, doctor. Mycroft is waiting in the parlour. Come on in." Mrs Denton moved back inside and held the door for them. Sherlock led the way and John pottered slowly after him, still unsure of his legs. The palace was just as awe inspiring on the inside as it was on the out; from the roof of the cavernous entry room hung a gilded chandelier that cast a beautiful golden glow over the various portraits that hung on the alabaster walls and reflected warmly off the polished marble floors. It was straight out of a fairy tale. This couldn't be where Mycroft lived. There was no way!
"John," the doctor turned his attention from the décor. Sherlock was standing at the other end of the room next to an archway staring at the doctor impatiently. John hurried as quickly as he could manage to his side. Sherlock quickly looked away from him and continued down the corridor at a pace that put him just a few steps ahead of John so that he couldn't see his face. Is he still ignoring me? The detective led them through a series of winding extravagant hallways to a small unassuming door. Compared to the rest of the house this door seemed oddly out of place. It was a plain light wood with a brass handle and nothing but a small plaque that read 'Parlour' adorning its surface.
John turned to Sherlock. The detective was frozen. His eyes were locked on the door with an intense mixture of hatred and fear. His chest shook with short shallow breaths as he struggled to maintain the same calm mask he was famous for. John had never seen Sherlock like this. It scared him.
He reached out and grabbed Sherlock's arm. The detective's eyes turned to the doctor. They rang with warning but John ignored it. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing," Sherlock insisted as he shook John's hand off but he wasn't giving up so easily. He grabbed Sherlock's shredded shoulder and squeezed. Sherlock bit back a grunt and glared at the older man. "Nothing important," he corrected.
"If it's got you worried then it's important. Don't lie to me, Sherlock."
"Then why'd you lie to me?" he hissed. John was stunned. That was a question he'd never expected and hoped never to be asked. "The way you lied to Mrs Hudson, how do I know you've never done that to me?" Sherlock couldn't hold the question back anymore. It had been eating away at him since he'd seen it. How many times? "How many times did you say you were going to visit Harry and went to that cage?"
"Never." Sherlock stopped in the middle of his rant. "I haven't been to that cage in five years. I never lied to you about going there." John slid his hand down to Sherlock's wrist and tried again. "Sherlock, I know that's not what's bothering you so tell me the truth."
Sherlock dropped his face to his shoes and mumbled into his chest, "I don't want Mycroft to find out about you," before shaking off John's hand and pushing through the door, leaving a stunned doctor in the hall.
A/N: So yeah again sincerest apologies yadda yadda yadda. I'll try to get back on a more regular upload schedule. Thanks for reading and sticking around despite the gap! See you next time!