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John shifted the tall stack of files against his chest, freeing one hand so he could grope for the handle of the door. Somehow, Sherlock had talked his doctor into performing yet another errand on his behalf - in this case, delivering files back to Lestrade's office en route to the clinic. It had necessitated a detour that cost John his breakfast. By now he was seriously questioning his sanity, which seemed to have disappeared into a black hole alongside his ability to say no to a certain lanky detective. Especially when said detective started to pout. It was getting ridiculous.
John was so distracted by pangs of hunger that he almost failed to notice what Lestrade was saying to Donovan. However, suddenly hearing his flatmate's name was enough to pull him up short before he could open the door. Every word Lestrade was saying could clearly be heard from where John stood. Curiosity got the better of him.
"Did I tell you what Sherlock got up to last night? Only woke me up at 2am. He literally dived onto my stomach from the end of the bed. Mad bastard! Honestly, if he weren't such a gorgeous bugger I'd have made him sleep on the sofa. But - there's worse ways to be woken up. He purred all night in my ear. He does love it when you pet his head a certain way."
Lestrade sighed happily. Sally tittered in a way that made John's skin literally crawl. John drew back from the door handle in dismay. What? Sherlock? And Lestrade? What?! He didn't stop to question what it might meanthat his stomach dropped two feet at the thought. It was, he could admit, something that felt suspiciously like jealousy.
"The worst part is the scratching - he just gets so carried away, you know? People keep noticing the marks and asking about them. It's embarrassing. But - well, when he curls up in my lap, you know how it is. You take one look at those adorable green eyes and all is forgiven. I mean, I know he's a manipulative little shit, and he's got this way of glaring at you as if he detests you most of the time. But you know, I really think it's mostly just for show - and before you say it, yeah. I know I'm smitten. Kindof pathetic, isn't it? At my age. He's just so god-damn cute!"
Sally's snort reverberated in the tiny office space. She sounded as unimpressed by her boss's sentiment as John felt himself to be.
Cute? Sherlock? I must be dreaming. By now John was pretty sure he had lost the capacity for speech. He couldn't classify the strange sensation in the pit of his stomach. But he knew he didn't like it. Manning up, he wrenched open the door and marched into the office. He deposited the files on Lestrade's desk, gave one long glare at the DI, did an about-turn, and left the room. He didn't even glance at the photo of a small furry animal on the mobile phone the DI was waving in Sally's general direction. Gregory's puzzled call of "John?" chased him down the corridor and into the lift.
***
The thing was, John had always considered himself exclusively heterosexual. That said, having grown up with a lesbian sister, he was about as far as you could get from homophobic. He, himself, didn't fancy men. Fair play to those who did. But it was not for him. Which left him at a loss when it came to analyzing the pangs of unease he was feeling now. Feelings triggered by the thought of Sherlock and DI Lestrade getting together. It could almost be described as painful. He stalked up and down the park near Baker Street as he tried to make his peace with the idea. Why did it matter so much?
John counted the points off on his fingers. Definitely not homophobic. Nothing wrong with Lestrade himself - on the face of it, an excellent choice of partner for someone like Sherlock. Not jealous. No. Not. At all. And a happy (loved-up? Why did his stomach do a flip at that thought?) Sherlock would undoubtedly make for a much more pleasant home life. But - this was Sherlock - he just didn't do that kind of thing. Did he? He must. Why was that so surprising? He was - well he must be only human. Wise up, Watson, he told himself. Just because he never showed you that side of himself before - doesn't mean it doesn't exist at all.
John firmly stuffed any negative emotions somewhere dark and deep, right alongside the unwanted memories of his time in Afghanistan. He would endeavour to be happy for his friends, they both deserved to find affection, even love, in their lives. God knows they were both good people and - at least in Sherlock's case - had been isolated and alone long enough. But in spite of all his good resolutions, he still couldn't suppress a sigh. Neither could he quite bring himself to talk to Sherlock about it when he got home. Sherlock would tell him when he was ready - he hoped. In the meantime the knowledge of it sat between them like a particularly unsavoury smell. John made his excuses and turned in for an early night.
However, he was still awake when he heard Sherlock leave the flat just before midnight. And he tried not to think about why sleep eluded him right up until he heard his flatmate return shortly before dawn.
***
Two days later - having still not received any acknowledgement of the situation from Sherlock - John found himself in company of both parties at a crime scene. Sherlock was doing his usual routine, bent over the corpse. Lestrade looked much as he always did - rumpled and lacking in sleep. John couldn't help feeling that they should be acting - well, differently - around each other. If he hand't overheard Greg, he would never guess they were involved. The thought did little to quell his unease.
While Sherlock was inspecting the corpse, Greg, Sally and Anderson were huddled by the nearest wall, waiting for the genius to come to some sort of conclusion. John made his way over to them, in time to hear the end of Lestrade's conversation.
"It's funny really, he has this whole 'I'm so amazing, go worship me from afar' thing going on, and he kindof glowers at me most of the time. But the effect is completely undone when he rolls over and presents his belly for a rub."
The group broke into laughter. To John's ears, the merry peals sounded harsh and cruel, and he immediately saw red.
"Oi - that's no way to talk about him! How can you - I mean - don't you care at all about him? You're supposed to be on his side, not giving these morons ammunition to make fun of him, for God's sake. Whose side are you on, anyway?"
All three faces positively gaped at him in surprise. John's face was heating up, he was incandescent. His words may have been accompanied by some spittle. How could someone claim to be in a relationship with Sherlock - the most amazing, gorgeous, intelligent, and yes, sensitive person in the world - and then stab him in the back by talking about him in that way?
"John?" Sherlock said, pulling gently on his flailing arm and looking from an angry John to a speechless Lestrade with a frown. "What is it?"
"Nothing!" muttered John, unwilling to cause Sherlock pain by recounting, in public, what he just heard. "I just expected better of the Detective Inspector, that's all." His eyes flashed.
"I'm done here anyway, for now," Sherlock said, finally. "Let's go home."
***
Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on John in the cab as if John was some kind of puzzle. Half way back to Baker Street, his face morphed into the 'aha, I've got it' look and he let loose with his deductions.
"You thought Lestrade was making fun of me. You only ever get that angry when you are trying to protect me. Or when I've ruined something in an experiment. But mostly when you're protective instincts have been triggered."
He waited for John to nod, briefly, before continuing. "Given the level of anger, it must have been something you consider personal. Something that would hurt my feelings. DI Lestrade is normally beyond the crass jibes that Anderson or Donovan are wont to fire at me, and in any case you've heard those before, they wouldn't call for special treatment. No. Something was said that is out of the norm entirely."
Sherlock paused, lips pursed, watching the micro-expressions flit across his Doctor's face. "Ah," he said. "I see. You heard him say something that you believe was indicative of an intimate relationship between us, and one that he seemed to disrespect with his choice of words."
John couldn't hide his surprise at the speed at which Sherlock had arrived at this deduction. How? How could he know?
"Oh John, it's obvious. Your protective instincts would fire for nothing less. It had to be personal. And it had to be something you thought would genuinely hurt me. Given that their laughter had preceded your outburst, it's clear that you felt not only that they were laughing at me, but that it had to have been about something more intimate than the usual idle subjects of their mockery. Also your anger was focussed on Lestrade, who generally laughs at me to my face, not behind my back, and in ways that are never intentionally cruel."
Sherlock seemed to take John's silence as assent. He nodded to himself, then continued.
"Of course, you're wrong. There is no relationship between myself and George."
"Greg," John mumbled, "his name is Greg." He paused. "But - but - I heard him. He was talking about you purring for him. And in his bed. And asking for belly rubs -"
"John," Sherlock said. "As ever, you see - or in this case hear - but you don't observe. Had you taken a few minutes to do so, you would undoubtedly have noticed the hairs on the DI's trousers and shoulder - cat hair, to be precise, where there was never hair before. As I have never in my life been within ten feet of the DI's bed, nor have I ever purred for him, I can only take it he must have been talking about a cat. A new pet cat. He most likely for some reason has named his cat after me - though God knows why. Ridiculous name for a cat. It certainly can't have been me he was talking about, now can it?"
Relief washed through John as he realised Sherlock must be speaking the truth. In the back of his head he vaguely remembered Greg talking about his appointment at the pet shelter last weekend. Suddenly the comments made a lot more sense. He looked up at Sherlock, dismayed to see a rather knowing look on the consulting detective's face.
"Your concern for my, ah, feelings, is touching, John. But your relief on learning that there are no such feelings to protect is perhaps rather excessive. Am I to infer you did not especially like the thought of myself and DI Lestrade engaging in a romantic relationship?"
John felt his face redden again, in spite of himself.
"Err, well, ah. That is to say. Erm. I - I never thought you - I didn't know that - I..."
"Quite," said Sherlock. "Well, just so you know, yes, I do. But not with Gaston. Not with the majority of people, not in a long time. But - I would be amenable." His eyes drifted to away from John, to the floor of the cab. "With you."
John sat in stunned silence for three long seconds, before his heart gave a lurch of something remarkably like joy.
"Really?" he asked, and in spite of all the previous 'not-men' and 'not-gay' assertions, from this point on he could no longer delude himself with the belief that he could ever be indifferent, not to Sherlock. "Erm. Me too. With - you."
"Be warned, John Watson. I may possess a certain feline quality - but I do not roll over and I never purr. A cat has no master. A cat is not owned. However - it chooses those from whom it seeks affection. And I choose you."
They spent the remainder of the journey curled together in the back of the cab. John permitted himself the small indulgence of petting Sherlock's unruly locks, loving the feel of the silky tresses under his calloused fingers. Both men were smiling.
For the record, Sherlock did not purr - and even if he did, it was nobody else's business, anyway.
***
John's apology to Lestrade was made the very next day, in the offices of NSY. Greg was tickled pink to think John had taken him to mean the real Sherlock. He went out of his way to show John copious images of his new kitten and it was obvious the man adored his pet. It was, for sure a very cute cat. And - Lestrade had been right. It bore a certain look of regal superiority, very much a la Holmes, about the eyes.
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