Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read, so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to Renaissencebooklover108, coMMOnplace, INeedAUserName, Seraphim Earl, zeynel, LadyK1138, Tierney Beckett, AlyssKingsleigh, Florence, Katya Jade, R and Ski October. And in answer to your question, R: Yes. I am the fanfic baby Jesus. Have you only realised that now? Bow down and worship me- But before that, let's get on with the Holmes-related torture…
~ I Didn't Hand You The Watermelon, Sherlock, (And I Didn't Make You Carry It Either) ~
He's impossible for the rest of the day, and John knows why.
It's because of little Molly Hooper and her big brown eyes and her big, tall, handsome new gentleman caller who- from what little John has seen- could give even the great Sherlock a run for his money in the Posh Ponce With Cheek-Bones department.
And that's saying something.
John snickers, watching his best friend pout and fiddle with his mobile phone, barking out orders to their cabby as they make their way back to Baker Street. He sounds so miffed he should have Klingon subtitles, and judging by the long-suffering look he shoots him, the cabbie agrees with that assessment. It's actually quite funny; Sherlock spent all those years hating the fact that Molly clearly fancied him, and now she might not anymore, he's wandering around with a face on him like a smacked arse.
The wonders of the human heart are many, John reflects dryly.
And the wonders of Sherlock Holmes' ego are likewise multifarious.
Not that John thinks this is just about ego though, not really. If he did, he'd just find himself a nice, comfy spot to watch from- any pissing contest involving Sherlock Holmes is entertaining- but he wouldn't be showing the situation the sort of attention he's giving it. Sherlock would just need to be left pouting in a corner until his snit had run its course. This is different though, he and Mary are agreed upon that. One of the reasons Mary suggested sending Molly away was to give Sherlock some time to reflect upon her absence: It had been no surprise to either John or his wife that Sherlock was a bit of a git about her broken engagement. The drugs had had a lot to do with it, John knows, but Sherlock's own less-than-stellar ability to handle his emotions was clearly the real culprit-
So they'd sent her away, let him get a taste of what life was like without her.
And lo and behold, when she had been gone during the Moriarty Hoax, Sherlock had clearly… fretted over her absence.
He'd never mentioned it but the detective had kept a ridiculously close eye on New York, even going to far as to hack into Mycroft's system to spy on Stark Tower. He'd jealously scanned any public interactions Molly had with the Avengers, particularly Tony Stark (given his, "egregious reputation with the more trusting members of the fairer sex, of which Molly is definitely one, John,") and Steve Rogers ("Given the fact that he's clearly an overly armed Ken doll which a miniscule notion of anything beyond the size of his biceps, Mary.") Molly hadn't come to see him in the hospital (that he knew of) and he hadn't had a chance to explain the situation with Janine to her, which even Sherlock had accepted was a Bit Not Good. In essence they had parted on bad terms, and the notion that anything would happen to her before they made up had seemed to be gnawing on what little Sherlock had that passed for a conscience. So he'd kept a close eye on her and things had gone from there.
It had been… Well, "heart-warming," is the word John wants to use.
Apparently Mary thought the more appropriate phrase was, "absolutely bloody hilarious."
He might not be admitting it right now, but John sort of agrees with her.
It's the ability to weather these little differences that makes them a strong couple, Watson knows.
The cab reaches Baker Street then and Sherlock hops out, all but throwing money at the cabby before storming inside. John grins, imagining the scene he's going to endure when he follows him: Now he has a home to go to-alone- he can afford to laugh at his best friend's huffs. He follows Holmes into the flat, opens the door to hear the hiss of a violin being tortured. There's another squawk of noise before Sherlock settles into playing an actual melody: For a moment John assumes it will be Beethoven- when Sherlock's in a mood, it's always Beethoven- but he belatedly realises his friend is playing Led Zeppelin's Kashmir as loudly and as aggressively as he can, kicking anything even remotely within reach in order to punctuate the song's hammering, percussive beat.
It's a good job, John reflects, that they don't own a cat.
The Union Jack cushion John bought when he first moved in has already received a bollocking, as has the living room rug, and several bits of china look to be on decidedly dodgy ground with their owner. Watson doesn't want to find out what Sherlock will decide total next, so- seventies heavy rock classics in the hands of a genius not being something which bodes well- he takes off his coat and sets it down. Makes a cup of tea for himself and Sherlock. Waits for Sherlock to get through the song once- since he'll just whine and pout if he doesn't- before calmly walking over, kicking his friend lightly in the shin and, when he's distracted, taking the violin off him. Sherlock opens his mouth to object but John quickly stuffs a biscuit in his mouth with his free hand, stalling the argument, before placing the violin out of Sherlock's reach on the table behind him and handing Holmes a cup of tea instead. He smiles that smile which always works, the one which reminds his best friend that he could absolutely shoot Sherlock if he has to and that most of their friends would back him one hundred percent-
Unsurprisingly, perhaps, Sherlock elects to sit down.
Again, Sherlock opens his mouth to object (through a mouthful of chocolate chips and crumbs, no less), again John silences him with a look. They've been through this enough times to know the procedure: John will say his piece, Sherlock will mock it and start playing again. After an hour of this Mrs. Hudson will go visit her "friend," Mr. Gupta up the road to get some peace and quiet. In about 24 hours Sherlock will realise that John was right and follow his advice, though he will never admit this and John will, once again, have helped his friend engage with his fellow humans in the same way a kindly kindergarten teacher helps a particularly slow child trust crayons enough to draw with them instead of eating them with his packed lunch. Apparently Sherlock has some idea that's what's coming up because crosses his arms in an alarmingly adversarial manner, glowering at John as if to say, Well, what next?
John sits down, takes a sip of his tea. Looks at his friend over the rim of it.
"So," he says. "You. Molly Hooper. That ponce in the canteen this morning. It's making you feel all tingly in your man-parts, is it?" He takes another sip of tea. Raises his pinkie finger with exaggerated elegance. "Let's explore that."
Sherlock blinks at hearing his feelings characterised thus, having clearly expected one of their delicate, thoughtful little man-to-man talks, but there's no way John's tiptoeing his way through this.
He leaves Sherlock to reflect on why he might be bothered that Molly has a new boyfriend and his grandchildren will be in college before Holmes figures out what his problem is.
"She- I-" Sherlock clears his throat, gives his head a little shake as if to clear it.
"I never said I had a problem with her new… companion," he says stiffly.
Interesting, John thinks, that he said "companion," and not "prospect," or, "interest," or- heaven forbid- "boyfriend." Very interesting indeed.
"And yet," John rejoins cheerfully, "the last time I saw you look at someone like you looked at him, we were inside a swimming pool and I had a bomb strapped to my chest. Explain please."
Sherlock scoffs. "I did not give him the full Moriarty," he says.
John can't help his grin. "No, you gave him the full Holmes. Glaring, condescending, all you needed was the funny hat. And then, when you saw him do that trick of yours with your coat-collar, you all but threw your toys out of the pram. Does any of this sound familiar to you?"
Sherlock sputters, more annoyed this time, and makes to take the violin up again. John bats his hand easily out of the way, pushes another biscuit into it instead; The pout Sherlock shoots him this time could peel paint off the walls but John's not buying it.
Sherlock's like a puppy: He has to learn what he can and can't chew on. It's a life-skill. So-
"Again," John says, "you. Molly Hooper. Her new prospect. What's going on there?" John smiles beatifically. "And don't give me that wank about it being nothing. You can tell me, or you can have this conversation with Mary and Mrs. Hudson and your mother. Your choice, mate." Sherlock visibly blanches at those options: Clearly he feels threatening to bring his mother into this was a low blow, but he'll thank John when Molly shows him what his man-parts are actually for. So John lets his smile widen- "That's what I thought," he says, "so spill already-"
Holmes heaves a martyred sigh.
In the dictionary under "sulkiness," there's a picture of his current pout.
"Fine," he snaps. "If you insist on having such a frankly ridiculous conversation then lets get on with it." He glowers at John. "As you mentioned, my man-parts are tingling and there might be danger about." John snorts at the jibe- he's tempted to ask whether Sherlock's man-parts have always been so instrumental in deducing possible jeopardy- and Holmes shoots him the ghost of a grin, some of the stress leaving him. He looks slightly forlorn without it.
He rakes a hand through that curly mop of hair, sighing as he does so, and for the first time it occurs to John that he's genuinely worried. That this might be more than a pissing contest for him.
"I don't think that that fellow Serrure is good for Molly, alright?" Sherlock says eventually. "I mean, yes, physically he's her type but there's just something about the git that makes me… uncomfortable. And before you ask, yes, I've looked, I've tried to deduce him, but I can't find anything worrisome- yet."
He puffs out a frustrated breath.
"Which doesn't mean that there's nothing there. Not that- I mean, yes, physically we're quite alike and yes, Serrure might possibly, potentially, have as much panache when it comes to dressing as myself, and a similarly elegant take on modern London style-" John fights the urge to roll his eyes- "but he's- That's- I mean, that's not enough to make you good enough for Molly. Cheek-bones, some experience as a clothes horse and a public-school accent are not nearly enough to make him suitable for m- that is to say, our dear Ms. Hooper."
He clears his throat. "She deserves a great deal better, clearly."
And amazingly, two slight red spots appear on Sherlock's cheeks.
He shoots John a glare which dares him to mention them.
John really would like to take out his phone and take a photo of this moment, but he suspects now is neither the time nor the place- Though God he wishes he didn't know that.
He'll have to satisfy himself with relating this story to Mary when he comes home tonight.
John takes a deep breath. "So basically, you don't think he's good enough for her, and something about him makes you think he might not be… ok as a boyfriend?" he says. "Reliable, maybe? Someone you want to encourage in Molly's life?"
Sherlock nods vigorously. "Exactly!" he says. "I mean, when she's chasing after me, she's clearly out of danger. You leave her alone though, and either she takes up with someone who's completely wrong for her- What on earth was that thing with that "Tom," bloke about anyway?- Or else she goes for evil higher functioning sociopaths, which is clearly not the sort of behaviour we should be condoning. Or encouraging."
John has to swallow a grin. "So if she's going for higher functioning sociopaths, then she should go for nice ones?" he asks innocently.
"Exactly!" Sherlock nods. He looks relieved that John understands him.
"Nice higher functioning sociopaths?" John ventures. "Like, for example, you?"
"Precisely!" Sherlock nods again. He's bouncing about in his seat now, apparently unaware of what he's just admitted.
Smartest man in the room, my arse, John thinks.
Watson's grinning though. "So basically, instead of running after this Serrure bloke, you think she should be running after you," he says. "Does that about cover it, mate?"
Sherlock nods excitedly. "Exactly. I mean, why does she want to chase after anyone else when she has me?"
John shakes his head. This cannot be this easy. "But Sherlock," he points out, "she doesn't have you. You and she aren't going out. Before she went off to New York you didn't even talk to her about that thing with Janine..."
He leans in, tries to make his friend see.
The fate of Sherlock's man-parts may be in the balance here.
"And besides, Molly Hooper wants a boyfriend Sherlock," he tells him. "She wants someone to care about, someone to spend time with. Someone who will at least do naughty, naked, sweaty things with her to the joy and delight of all. And if you're not the higher-functioning sociopath applying for that job, then she's going to find another one who's interested-"
Sherlock crosses his arms. The toys-out-of-the-pram look is back.
"Well, that's not good enough," he announces haughtily. "And we shall just have to do something about it-"
Yes we shall, a voice which seems to come out of nowhere announces. Why on Earth do you cretinous little mortals think I'm here?
It sounds… It sounds suspiciously like that Serrure bloke, but John knows that's impossible.
And then Serrure simply appears- that's right, simply materialises- inside 221B, and John's notion of impossible, whatever it is, goes right out the window.