Chapter Text

PART ONE

Jealousy: A sentiment which is born in love and which is produced by the fear that the loved person prefers someone else.

- Littré

It was two hours after sunrise one rather overcast morning when Sherlock Holmes stomped up the stairs to 221B Baker Street. The dramatic clomp to his steps and the scowl etched on his face were clear indications of his particularly foul mood. He’d just devoted eight fruitless hours to following an insipid moron about on a stake-out that proved mind-numbingly dull without the presence of John Watson. Usually the many varied expressions that John’s face rotated through when he was thoroughly bored was entertainment enough on a slow night. Sherlock had been deprived of this diversion, however, since John was currently embroiled in a project of his own that he called ‘maintaining a personal life’.

The parameters of this project dictated that at least one night a week, John would go out with ‘mates’ to a noisy pub where they would drink beer, watch some sort of sports game, and pretend to care about the mundane details of one another’s lives. Sherlock was supposed to respect the sanctity of these nights and understand that John would not respond to any texts below an urgency level of 7.5. After a great deal of debate on the subject, there was an actual list tacked onto the wall above the desk that detailed what exactly constituted an urgency level of 7.5 and what did not. (Boredom was in fact underlined and highlighted under the NOT column.)

For the most part, Sherlock made his very best effort to respect this arrangement because John was noticeably more relaxed since embarking upon his Personal Life Project. In the year following the Mary debacle, John had not been particularly easy or pleasant to live in close quarters with and in fact there had even been times when John’s unpleasantness had rivalled Sherlock’s own rather impressively. Sherlock had discovered that watching John Watson embroiled in a misery that Sherlock was unable to cleverly alleviate was completely intolerable, so now he found himself willingly sacrificing a night a week or so just to hear John tromping up the steps at 2 am humming a jaunty tune or laughing under his breath.

What made Sherlock freeze in his tracks not two paces off the staircase on this particular night were the sounds of someone fumbling about and opening drawers in the kitchen while the kettle boiled. Whoever was doing so clearly did not know where anything was located, judging from the number of times the same cabinets were opened and shut. Not Mrs Hudson then, and certainly not John, who could be heard humming under the spray of the shower in the bathroom.

John normally only hummed or sang in the shower after particularly vigorous intercourse. The volume and enthusiasm of his musical aspirations appeared to have a direct correlation to his level of satisfaction with his most recent sexual activity.  This morning John’s humming echoed fairly loudly through the flat and into the stairwell.  

A woman, then. It had been several months since Sherlock had been forced to endure this particular hardship regularly, after a steady string of women winning a one night only all-access pass to Dr Watson’s Bed in the months immediately following the official dissolution of John’s ill-fated marriage. At the time, Sherlock had clandestinely thumbed through several books with ridiculous titles on the variation of ‘dealing with divorce’, so he understood that this was considered the ‘rebound process’. He’d rather hoped it would be over with by now.

Granted, none of those books had a chapter on how to handle ending a marriage to a secret international assassin with a stolen identity who used to work for your greatest enemy, and the subsequent stillbirth of the only reason you’d even attempted to forgive her in the first place.

Sherlock steeled himself to face the nightly catch, straightening his shoulders and pasting a bland expression on his face as he opened the door and stalked into the sitting room. He methodically shrugged off his coat, hung it up, and then sat down at the desk to boot up his laptop, determined to ignore John’s leftover until she saw fit to conveniently disappear. It was moderately pathetic when they lingered too long the next morning— John always professed that he intended to call them later, but he almost never did. As much as Sherlock disliked that these women interacted with John at all, he derived a significant amount of satisfaction from knowing that they were on a whole quite disposable and interchangeable.

“Do you have any mugs?” a man’s voice asked from the kitchen. “All I can find are these beaker things, and one is full of finger nails? Bit creepy.”

The mental file in which Sherlock had already begun correlating the paltry data gathered from his pointless surveillance from the previous night dissolved into a cloud of pixelated dust as Sherlock’s brain stuttered and ground to a screeching halt.

“John, is that you?” The man asked again, peering around the corner of the sliding divider between the kitchen and the sitting room.

Sherlock’s head snapped to the right, where he fixed his gaze upon the rather unexpected development that was a man standing in their kitchen wearing nothing but his pants and a t-shirt. It was in fact one of John’s shirts—the overlarge one with a random American band name that his sister sent him for Christmas one year. Although John never wore it, he never could bring himself to dispose of gifts. 

“Oh, sorry—I thought you were….” The man stared at him with a quizzical frown, apparently trying to figure out who Sherlock was and where he’d come from. Only an idiot would think that it had been John who somehow walked through the front door, when John was obviously still in the shower. Sherlock was reduced to blinking back at the stranger rather stupidly for a long moment until his brain finally sputtered back online and he began rapidly processing a great deal of information.

Unexpected…was this unexpected? Shortly after meeting him, Sherlock had easily deduced that John was not uninterested in men sexually. This was something that John was at least mildly conflicted about and overcompensated for constantly. It was likely that he’d experimented with this interest at least once in the not too distant past, although this was one point on which Sherlock was chronically uncertain. And Sherlock hated being uncertain.

Clearly, John was somewhat less conflicted about all of this now given that he was still humming enthusiastically in the bathroom. Sherlock let the silence draw out uncomfortably as he studied the new specimen he’d been presented with.

The man was in his early thirties with a horrible goatee, dark black hair that was tousled with too much product, and he was very tall--  1.88 meters or 6’2 feet, with long, slender limbs and a lean physique that was only sparsely muscled. The t-shirt that would have been overly large on John looked ridiculous on him, riding up to bare his flat stomach every time he shifted his arms. He was evenly tanned in a way that was impossible to achieve in London without the aid of regular trips to the tanning bed, likely at the same time he had a lifelong overabundance of body hair thoroughly waxed.

The man fancied himself a writer, and a pretentious one at that because he had callouses on the fingers of his left hand from the ornate fountain pen that he favoured. He didn’t own a television and most likely claimed to never use a computer. This was, of course, clearly a bid to appear both hip and quirkily apathetic towards technology, and also a blatant lie because everyone used a computer, even Mrs Hudson.

He had also moved Sherlock’s microscope off the kitchen table and set it on the counter to clear a spot. The mould samples Sherlock had been culturing on a saucer for six weeks were tossed in the sink, ruined.

“-honestly didn’t mention anyone else, I just assumed he was available or in some kind of open arrangement…” The Pretentious Writer was rambling, visibly uncomfortable under Sherlock’s silent scrutiny as he subtly shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He was perhaps not a complete idiot, because he’d managed to infer that Sherlock’s silence was not in any way welcoming.

“He’s not,” Sherlock said abruptly.

“Sorry?”

“He’s not in an open arrangement.” This was not a lie, but the man predictably drew the incorrect conclusion and began to backpedal.

“I swear I had no idea he had a boyfriend or I never would have…”

Sherlock slid his chair back smoothly and stood to his feet, disliking immensely that drawing himself to his full height still brought him up two inches short. To make up for it, he let his eyes flash with the most imposing severity he could summon as he stalked over to place himself directly in front of this man. From this proximity, Sherlock observed the beginnings of a light bruise forming just above the man’s collarbone that fit the exact dimensions of John Watson’s mouth.

That last observation made Sherlock’s stomach twist with vague nausea.

“You’re leaving now.” Sherlock’s voice was pitched low as he enunciated each word to menacing effect. This tactic was effective, because despite his taller stature the Pretentious Writer immediately stepped back.  “Preferably after you’ve put on your trousers, although the order really makes no difference to me.”

The man’s expression slowly rippled from confusion to annoyance before he seemed to rally himself enough to step forward and look down at Sherlock with a frown. “Look, I told you I didn’t know he was involved with anyone. I’m not looking for trouble.”

“Turn around,” Sherlock ordered flatly.

“What?” The man was discomfited again, and his eyebrows drew together in confusion.

“Turn around and open the refrigerator.” Sherlock suddenly smiled an overly bright smile that stretched his mouth up at the corners but didn’t reach his eyes. He knew that most people found it disconcerting. “Top shelf.”

The man stared at him for another moment before hesitantly following Sherlock’s instructions. When he opened the fridge, he scrambled back with an almost comedic expression of shock. On the top shelf, a greying human hand stretched up from a bowl of water that had been ice the night before.

“Fucking hell,” Pretentious Writer swore, slamming the door shut hastily and looking distinctly greenish in hue. Sherlock always envied those who were able to achieve that particular palette, since his skin could only attain variations of chalk white. “What the bloody fuck—”

“Off you go.” Sherlock clasped his fingers together under his chin. “Unless you’d like to make yourself available for my next sample. I am in need of a larger than average male foot.”

***

John emerged from the bathroom in his bathrobe, towelling off his damp hair as he walked down the short hall to the kitchen. He felt even more relaxed after a long, hot shower, although the fact that he’d heard Sherlock’s voice earlier did plant a seed of apprehension about what his friend’s reaction might be to his latest guest.

John would be lying if he didn’t admit that he was just a bit curious about that particular response. While he certainly hadn’t planned for the two men to meet, he hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to avoid it, either. Sherlock usually favoured coldly ignoring the women John brought home, at least after he had provoked John’s wrath by making one of them cry.  To say Sherlock had become a little territorial after John’s disastrous marriage would be a massive understatement: John wouldn’t have been surprised if Sherlock ran a background check on every single woman he so much as made eyes at. How he’d react to a man was anyone’s guess.

John hadn’t set out at the beginning of the night to take anyone home, much less a man. But after Bill, Mike, and the handful of other lads he’d arranged to grab a pint with had all made their excuses and left fairly early, John had lingered at the pub only moderately drunk and vaguely unsatisfied. He hadn’t gone through fits to carve out this time for himself away from Sherlock just to turn in before midnight like the middle-aged curmudgeon that he was. When a moderately attractive and quite friendly man had approached John and offered to buy him a drink, he’d thought… well, why not?

It had been years since John had visited that particular end of the spectrum to his sexuality—not since Sholto in Afghanistan—  but lately it had been preying on his mind more often than not. He’d found himself in a bit of a rut when it came to women, and to be honest there were very few, if any, who truly excited him anymore. He’d thought at first it was just a matter of shagging Mary out of his system, like a proper detox program, but in the end this left him just going through the motions and feeling like a cad.

Last night had been something completely different. The sex had felt new and thrilling all over again. John hadn’t realized how much he missed that exhilarating high that lingered the next morning after a sexual encounter, instead of a ball of creeping regret settling in almost immediately as it had been lately. There was a bounce in John’s step this morning that hadn’t been there for some time.

The man himself had very little to do with it. Although he was friendly he still seemed like a bit of a pretentious twat— definitely not someone John could imagine wanting to have many actual conversations with. But he’d been perfectly serviceable for the night, and somehow this didn’t make John feel like as much of a bastard as it did with women. This bloke probably didn’t want to sit around and have long conversations with him either, and that was just fine. It was just as well, because for the life of him, John couldn’t remember his name. Nate? Blake?

“I forgot to tell you, don’t open the refrigerator,” John called out amiably as he walked to the kitchen and stopped, glancing around when he only saw Sherlock sitting at the table peering down into his microscope with a pensive frown.

“Tea?” Sherlock offered without looking up from his precious mould samples that somehow looked a little worse for wear today, and he gestured vaguely to the counter where a hot cup of English Breakfast tea was waiting for him.

John stood where he was, a puzzled expression on his face. “Did you happen to—”

“He left.” Sherlock still did not look up from his microscope, although this wasn’t of itself unusual. Sherlock could lose entire days staring into that contraption. It was a wonder he didn’t need glasses. “Pressing business.”

“Right.” John watched Sherlock for a moment of sceptical silence, sensing there was perhaps more to the story behind why the perfectly nice bloke who offered to make tea while John showered had abruptly vanished from the flat without a word. To be honest, though, John was a little relieved— he was always rubbish at making small talk the morning after. It didn’t help that Sherlock was usually lurking somewhere in earshot pretending not to listen but making derisive snorts at every inane thing John said anyway.

When Sherlock seemed resolved to ignore him, John just shook his head and walked over to retrieve his tea.

***

Sherlock should have been using his time to re-evaluate the details of his current case, now that one suspect had been eliminated. There was, after all, a grieving sister waiting impatiently for the justice that the police seemed unlikely to deliver on the low-priority murder of a common whore.

Instead, Sherlock spent the morning staring at his laptop screen blankly while he was actually deep in contemplation on the matter of John Watson. John didn’t seem the least bit conflicted or embarrassed about his most recent conquest as he went about making breakfast. He smiled eighty percent more than he usually did after a night of sexual recreation, and was still faintly humming under his breath while he fried up an enormous portion of eggs.

For all his protestations about not being homosexual, John acted as though there was nothing at all unusual about what obviously occurred last night. And from the way John was walking, what had occurred was in fact very obvious. If John was willing to be penetrated by a perfect stranger during a casual sexual encounter initiated at a pub, then Sherlock’s suspicions concerning John’s experience were clearly confirmed: this was not John’s first sexual encounter with a man, and quite likely not even his second. It was possible that he started as far back as university, but it most definitely happened at least once in Afghanistan. Sholto was a viable candidate—‘ex commanding officer’, indeed.

There were certain conversations and interactions with John that Sherlock revisited periodically in his mind when searching for clarity, and that very first night at Angelo’s was one of them. Sherlock had really only allowed John a minimal amount of his focus at the time, which had been a mistake. He’d known from the start that John was fascinating, but hadn’t yet realized that he was important.

Sherlock rarely second-guessed his deductions, but he did occasionally wonder if he’d misread the flicker of interest John had shown in him that night. It had seemed obvious at the time, but in hindsight it was entirely possible that John had only been awkwardly trying to deduce Sherlock’s sexuality with all the delicacy of a ham-fisted toddler. All of the facts from that night on seemed to support the latter interpretation: John doggedly denied any attempt from others to pair them together, and very intentionally pursued only women (and so many women).

But now there was a completely new dataset to analyse. John had brought a man home, had intercourse with him in his own bed, and seemed completely satisfied with the results. More satisfied, in fact, than he had been in a long time. The data also strongly suggested the possibility that John Watson had a type. From the correlations between the man this morning and (possibly) Sholto, said type was perhaps moderately close to Sherlock himself in stature and physique, if nothing else: tall, lean, somewhat imposing in demeanour.

The implications shattered Sherlock’s concentration completely.

There was a room in Sherlock’s mind where he’d carefully tucked away his more complicated feelings for John. By now this room was filled to bursting with years of material: the catalogue of every single variation of John’s smile and what precisely called each one forth; the way perusing said catalogue made Sherlock’s chest constrict with a peculiar tightness; an album of every instance where John had ever told Sherlock he was brilliant or amazing, which didn’t happen as often as it used to but never failed to make Sherlock swell with pride; a memory of John leaning up against a wall with his chest still heaving from a spike of adrenaline after chasing down a suspect, which had made Sherlock’s own pulse begin to race for reasons unrelated to the chase; a different memory of John shortly after Mary had left for good—John standing in the empty sitting room of their former house surrounded by boxes, with his hands balled up at his sides in frustration and a desolate frown carved deeply into his features, and the way it made Sherlock want to cover John’s hands with his own and press his mouth against that frown just to see if he could make it curve up at the edges.

The door to this room stayed locked and bolted shut, even though it stubbornly insisted on creaking open anyway every now and then. John Watson was off limits for a great deal of reasons, and just because another one of those reasons may have resolved itself didn’t mean it was any less ill-advised. Sherlock needed John at his side, in whatever capacity would lend itself to keeping him there the longest. Without John every victory was hollow— even solving cases was no longer satisfying when John was removed from the equation.

Clearly even if pursuing John romantically was a viable option, it simply wasn’t worth the risk.