John was off on another date.

He had lasted roughly 9 weeks (well, 59 days, but it wasn't as though Sherlock was counting or anything) after his breakup with Sarah before resuming his usual crash course of attempted one night stands that unanimously ended with him sitting on the couch at Baker Street, next to Sherlock, bitching about the event.

Sherlock tried not to examine his own reactions to these events too closely. The Incident was a constant buzzing in the back of his brain of how close he had come to losing John, how much he wanted (alright, fine, needed) the man around, and he couldn't risk his personal feelings interfering in whatever strange brand of intimacy was slowly growing between them.

But it was quite hard to ignore: the hurt as John got ready, the emptiness when he walked out the door, the waiting, the triumph when John trudged back up the steps, the guilt at feeling happy about the failure, the need to comfort, protect, keep him safe...

That was the strangest one for Sherlock. He had encountered it with John before, of course. On cases, wanting to run just a bit faster so that he could get the brunt of whatever the criminal they were chasing had to offer. Playing soft melodies on the violin that would ease John out of his nightmares. After one particularly interesting case where John managed to get into a fight with a man who liked using a wickedly sharp knife on his victims, Sherlock nearly killed the man with his own knife. How dare he put his hands on John? What right did he have?

It was stupid, really. John was a soldier, for fuck's sake. He had killed plenty of men, including one in an effort to protect Sherlock's life. He was not incapable. He was extraordinary.

That just made Sherlock want to protect him even more.

But if Sherlock stopped to think about it (something he tried anything he could think of to keep himself from doing so), he knew it went deeper than just an urge to protect the man.

He would study John as they sat in the living room and John watched the telly or read a book. He would catalog every movement, facial expression, lick of the lips, glance- dissecting them. He wanted to take John apart just to put him back together again. He wanted to wipe the traces of every stupid woman who turned him down for a second date of the contours of his lips. He wanted to erase their memories from John's brain as surely as he wanted to stop him from going out at all. He hated seeing John leave, on dates, to work, out with Greg. He wanted him at 221B all the time.

He wanted to possess him.

Surely that couldn't be a healthy compulsion to have about your flatmate.

It was another one of those nights, though, and this time it was even worse. This had been the second date. John had worn his favorite jumper, the one that actually didn't drain the color from his face, brought out a new cologne that at least smelled better than the last one, and even added product to his hair. He had said they were going to dinner then out to the theater. Told Sherlock not to expect him back. He was so hopeful.

Sherlock had wanted to shake him before he left. The woman wasn't going to be taking him back to her place. She wasn't going to go on a third date. She was already interested in another man. It was obvious from the texts on John's phone that she had lost interest somewhere between agreeing to a second date and the follow through on that promise. It would end in another failure.

This time, Sherlock had set out two glasses and the bottle of whisky on the table in the living room, preparing for John to return home even more lost than usual.

The date lasted until 20:30 given the distance from the theater to the flat and John's arrival home at precisely 21:00. Intermission, then. A fine time to tell someone you wanted to leave.

"Why is there whisky on the table?"

"Because you prefer it to beer when you've had a particularly trying day."

"Yes, but I wasn't even home yet. How did you know to set it out? Were you hoping I'd fail?"

"You didn't fail, John. I knew what was going to happen and prepared accordingly."

"You knew she would ditch me at intermission? Why didn't you fucking say something?"

Sherlock hadn't realized how frustrated he was with John until those words were shot in his direction.

"I didn't know it would be intermission precisely, but yes, I knew the second date wouldn't work out for you. I didn't tell you that I noticed the text messages from her when you loaned me your phone the other day. I didn't tell you that it was clear she was interested in someone else. I didn't tell you that her IQ was barely high enough to keep a child intrigued, let alone you. I didn't tell you anything because every single time I've warned you about a date, you brush me off. You don't listen. I'm sorry that I finally started listening to the things you wanted from me and backed off, but please, John, don't take your anger at her out on me because I was willing to sit here and drink with you to make you feel better and you know how I feel about the way alcohol slows my thinking down. Now, take off your damn coat, sit down, and tell me all about how much of a rotten bitch she was to you so I can act surprised like I always do."

"Oh, don't try to pretend like you actually care. We both know that you aren't capable of that. Just fuck off."

That was not the reply Sherlock had been expecting. He wasn't prepared for John to turn right back around and walk out of the flat and down the stairs and back out onto the street. He wasn't prepared for the pain that grew in his chest, spread out along his limbs, worked to shut down his mind until all he could think about was John.

John. The man who didn't seem to have an umbrella to fend off the rain the thunder in the distance was threatening.

John. The man who had looked more hurt and depressed than angry when he came home.

John. The man who wanted someone to hold him, to want him, to care for him, wanted it so much so that he chased around a string of dates that he knew were just going to fail.

Who was so fucking blind that he couldn't see that the reason Sherlock didn't interfere was because he did actually care.

Who had come home only to be ripped into by the one person who usually offered some sort of comfort in these situations.

Yes, that was such an amazingly effective way to show someone that you cared about their situation, Sherlock mentally berated himself. It was precisely what he needed, one more person brushing him off, getting frustrated with him. Couldn't you have just kept a level head? Been rational? You're always so fucking good at being rational until it is actually relevant to your life, then it all goes to hell.

The thunder clap was louder this time, closer, and the steady beat of rain against the windows was a sign that the storm had finally reared its head.

And John was caught out in the middle of it, angry, depressed, frustrated, and without an umbrella.

"Fuck," Sherlock cursed.

He pulled his jacket on and took the umbrella from where it leaned against the wall on the way out. It was big enough for two, at least, so it would be more than adequate for a hunt for a pissed off ex-army doctor.

He followed John's usual path for his walks, walking faster than normal to make up for the head start John had on him. The rain was getting vicious now, the lightning brightening up the sky, turning everything into alien silhouettes for a split second before the thunder roared.

One of those silhouettes was a certain doctor, huddled underneath the awning of a shop that did little to keep all the rain off of him. He was soaked through, huddled up in his coat for any remaining warmth, and didn't even see Sherlock approaching. He only looked up when the umbrella came up to block off the rest of the water from them both.

"What are you doing here?" he spat.

"I saw that you didn't have an umbrella. I was hoping to avoid you getting soaked through, but I was... well, it took me a minute to get myself together and come after you. By then, the rain had started."

"Don't pretend. You wanted to poke at me more. Rub in that my date was a failure, just like all the rest of them have been, and that you knew all along that it would be-."

"I wasn't trying to rub anything in, John. Contrary to what you seem deluded into thinking, I do actually have emotions. I care about you. You asked me not to interfere, so I didn't. I was only doing as you asked. I've been trying to be more compromising with you. I didn't even text you on these last few dates since you told me how much it bothers you. I've been making an effort. The whisky was just so you didn't have to fetch it yourself when you got home. The two glasses were because I know you don't like to drink alone. I was trying to do my best to make it hurt a little less. I must have misjudged my actions. I'm sorry for the miscalculation."

John's shoulders had slumped, the tension faded completely out of them, and he sighed.

"There's no need for you to apologize. I overreacted. I shouldn't have snapped at you. I know... I know you care. Gods. It wasn't even going anywhere with her. I knew it. I saw the signs, I just didn't want to believe them. I don't know why I try. I can never stay focused on them long enough to make a real connection. It's all so boring."

"Then why do you keep trying?"

John opened his mouth to respond then closed it with a shake of his head. "I don't know. Never mind. Can we get home now? I think I could use that drink."

Sherlock wanted to press, but held his tongue. John was coming home, with him. They would sit together, drink together, relax. It was normal, their routine.

And so what if three glasses of whisky in, John was comfortable enough to do something not in their routine- resting his head on Sherlock's chest (his shoulder was too bony, according to the doctor) and Sherlock didn't make a move to push him away? So what if Sherlock let John drift off to sleep there after readjusting to a position that wouldn't make John's shoulder ache in the morning? So what if Sherlock caught himself muttering things like, "You're mine," and, "No one can have you," and "I'll tie you down if you think about going on another date with some woman who is going to hurt you and who certainly is not me because you are mine and no one else can change that?"

Sherlock was greedy. This was something John would have to learn to live with.