What Sally Said
When Sherlock had stood over John that night, pulling on the string to his tea bag, questioning John about the conversation he had with Sally, John had pretended to be lost in thought about something else. Took a moment to recall the details and then told Sherlock it was about his advancement as a detective.
The consultant had taken these words to be true, and they were, sort of. Sally had started out their conversation remarking upon John's newly developed skills, but several sentences in, it took a dark turn. Sherlock and John had only been more than flat mates the better part of a month at this point, and John was blissfully unaware anyone knew but the two men (and of course, Mrs. Hudson, because, what didn't she know about her tenants?).
"So why are you nailing the freak?" said Sally, so ready to be rude to the object of Sherlock's desire after how long Sherlock had been insolent to her.
"Excuse me?" John coughed, shifting on his feet.
"Everyone knows."
"And how does everyone know?" John asked, feeling scarlet rise up the back of his neck. He was not comfortable discussing his relationship with Sherlock yet.
"Lestrade," Sally disclosed.
"How does Lestrade know?" John's voice was several pitches shriller than normal.
Sally shrugged. "Dunno. And calm down, no one cares. The freak is..." she looked over to Sherlock, going through the dead man's pockets, "Less of a freak when you're around," she admitted her voice low.
"Well, that's good?" John suggested.
Sally looked back at the war veteran, the good doctor. "It won't end well," she told him, bluntly.
"Why's that?"
"Because he's a psychopath. Excuse me, sociopath. He doesn't have any real emotions. Well, unless you want to count arrogance and the petty need to show everyone up, as real emotions."
"You don't really know him," John said.
"And neither do you," Sally remarked. "He eats people up, like a monster. Wears people out. It's only a matter of time before he goes through you," she said.
"Has he gone through lovers before?" John asked, his voice still uncomfortably high.
"You're the first I know of. But he gets bored, and often, and," she stopped.
"And what?" John pressed.
"You might just be a cure for his boredom, John," she said.
"John," Sherlock's voice across the parking lot, bending down by the body, now with the dead man's shirt partly untucked. "Come look at this, will you?"
John gave one last look to Sally and scurried away.
John sat, half comatose on the couch later, staring at the wall, contemplating this.
Sherlock doesn't have any real emotions.
It sunk down into his soul. Did he really know Sherlock at all? Sally had been around the man much more than John had, at this point in their relationship. But he lived with the man - saw the way he interacted with Yorick and Mrs. Hudson and, well, almost everyone else. He saw Sherlock fake emotions to suspects and witnesses, and nothing Sherlock ever did with him seemed fake.
But still, it nagged at him. Because it was, somehow, so genuine when Sherlock faked emotions.
With Sherlock's intellect, John found it hard to believe that a relationship (or even a good shag), were a decent cure for boredom.
But, then again, people do get so sentimental about their pets.
Moriarty's words combed backwards through the darkness to John.
Pets are just a living cure for boredom, so, was John Sherlock's pet?
But before John could really contemplate this, Sherlock sat beside him on the couch, grabbed hold of his shirt and pulled him to his lips.
It was the first time Sherlock ever kissed him first.