John Watson

At times, they all wished they were John Watson.

Molly, Sally, Mycroft, Lestrade sometimes. Hell, even Anderson wondered what Watson's life was like. All of them for different reasons of course.

Molly, because John was the only one he looked at with a hint of lust in his eyes. While he never showed any affection towards the man physically in front of Molly, she still knew that John was the lust and love of his life. He got to be alone with him, not in a morgue, but in their house. He got to see the parts of Sherlock that no one got to see (physically, emotionally, intellectually), and for this, Molly would be eternally jealous. (That is, until Sherlock finally took pity upon her (mostly at John's urging) and set her up with a tall, oddly-handsome man they'd meet on a case who had the same ability to never shut up, like Sherlock, but unlike Sherlock, he was very warm and friendly.)

Yes, John was the only one who was ever really alone with Sherlock, but he as also the only one Sherlock ever dared listen to. Even if John was wrong, he'd still listen. While whatever brief moments Lestrade was actually right about something, Sherlock was too busy talking over him to notice.

Lestrade had also noticed (almost instantly, in the first case Sherlock dragged John along to), that John was the only one Sherlock watched work. Like a teacher, he was making a protégé, or at least, an assistant. He was the only one he gave time to, to draw conclusions while he was actually, for once in his life, silent. Frankly, Lestrade was a bit jealous.

Sherlock, not a jealous man, but knowing the woman is fine with getting busy with taken men, found his chest a bit tight when he spotted Sally standing almost nose to nose with Watson while they held a whispered conversation. She was playing with her necklace, tugging the charm on it back and forth. A perfect tell for attraction and Sherlock's right hand fisted up against his will while Lestrade mumbled about the case. His ears were too hot to hear and it was taking every ounce of his self control not to stomp across the parking lot (right over a dead body, mind you) and slug Sally for daring stand that close to his Watson.

But he'd pulled himself together, solved the case before sunset and had John to himself at home with a cup of unsweetened black tea.

John sat still on the couch, sort of lazily staring out into space when Sherlock stood over him, still pulling on the string to his bag of tea, up and down, up and down. They'd been together nearly six months now and John knew that motion meant agitation.

"Yes, Sherlock?" he asked.

"What did Sally talk to you about?"

John shrugged. For him, the conversation had been anything but memorable and he honestly couldn't think of the topic for a moment. He scratched at the stubble on his chin, thinking back to that afternoon.

Sherlock pulled on the string on his bag of tea a little harder, up, down, the muscle to the left of his nose twitched and he wished he had punched out Sally for a moment.

John then rubbed behind his ear and said, "Oh yeah. She was commenting on how my detective skills have grown since moving in with you. She was asking me how I'd picked it up so fast."

Sherlock's hand stilled. "She was talking about being a detective with you?"

"I suppose?" John replied, half a question, shrugging.

Sherlock flopped down beside John on the couch.

"'Lock?" John asked, staring at his bewildered lover.

"I thought she was flirting with you," he admitted, dryly, so John wouldn't know how upset it'd made him.

John giggled, that strange, boyish giggle of his and then stopped, "Wait, she might have been?" but he didn't know.

Honestly. He didn't know.

Sherlock set his cup of tea down on the floor and proceeded to grab John by his sweater's collar and pull his mouth into his, hard and fast, sucking on John's bottom lip till he heard him gasp and still not letting up.

Sally wanted to be Watson because being around Sherlock had made him a decent detective - and she was always looking for improvement in the skill. Mild flirting was accidental (a habit created by a male-dominated career field).

And the fact that John hadn't even noticed, while forever socially challenged Sherlock had noticed, made Sherlock realize that the good doctor only had one person on his mind.

And yes, everyone wished they were Watson, if only for brief moments - to collect a bit of Sherlock's affection (Molly), to absorb some of Sherlock's genius (Sally), to always be in the heart of the action (Lestrade), to make sure Sherlock isn't in over his head (Mycroft), or to see if that obnoxious man ever shut up (Anderson).

But the only one who ever dared deal with all of him - batty, starved, voluble, savage, observant, restless, Sherlock Holmes - was John Watson.

Because John saw him as a complete person - not merely an object of affection, or a mind to set loose on a puzzle, or just a high functioning sociopath, but someone with many sides, some which are pleasant, many which aren't, and all which make up Sherlock.