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Not even two weeks after moving in, John was working alongside Sherlock. The murders startled him at first, the way Sherlock seemed completely at ease around the dead bodies. John had seen his own fair share of corpses, of course, but never before had he seen someone completely dissect them the way Sherlock did. It was then that John realized their first meeting wasn’t a fluke—Sherlock could deduce everyone the way he did John, living or dead.
By the third case in one week, John was fairly certain he had used all synonyms of the word ‘amazing’. (Sherlock had started to make a game of counting how many times per day John made some awe-struck comment, but John quickly shut that down.) Sherlock didn’t seem to mind though, lighting up proudly with each compliment. Another thing John realized immediately—Sherlock was vastly under appreciated. Not by Lestrade, necessarily, who seemed to understand just how valuable the detective was, but by everyone else. John had already come close to punching Anderson, and only held back because of Sherlock’s quick insult, which sent Anderson to pout in a corner.
One case, though, proved to be different than the rest. John and Sherlock were walking away from the scene and convoy of police cars, bickering over where to go for dinner, when a mysterious black vehicle pulled up. Sherlock’s face dropped from his signature smirk—he had been winning the argument, much to John’s dismay—and into a scowl in a millisecond. He dropped John’s hand just as quickly. John frowned in confusion as a man, taller than Sherlock and more well-fed looking strolled up to them casually.
“Sherlock. You’ve been ignoring my calls.”
“And yet you apparently haven’t gotten the message.”
The man sighed and put up an offended expression. “Come now, is that any way to speak to your dear brother?”
“Brother?” John’s eyes widened a little. “You didn’t tell me you have a brother.”
“You didn’t tell me you sister is an alcoholic,” Sherlock replied quietly. “Much for the same reason. It is an irrelevant fact.”
“How did you—no, nevermind. We’ll talk about it at home,” John sighed, straightening up and turning to Mycroft, hand outstretched. “Hello. Doctor John Watson. I’m—“
“Currently in a sexual relationship with Sherlock. Yes, I know,” Mycroft looked down at John’s hand with a sort of bemused smile.
John flushed and put his hand back down, curling it to a fist by his side. “I’m dating Sherlock. There’s a difference.”
“Brave, isn’t he?” Mycroft chuckled, turning his attention back to Sherlock. “Or simply stupid. They tend to be one in the same.”
“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock snapped, stepping just a fraction in front of John. Defending him, John noted mentally, and wondered if it was conscious or not. Either way, it was sweet, he decided.
Mycroft pursed his lips, the air between them now suddenly serious .”You’ve been keeping him a secret.”
“I have a right to a private life,” Sherlock responded coolly.
“She’ll want to meet him.”
“Perhaps I don’t want him to meet her.”
“You’re acting like a child, Sherlock.”
“I am not!”
John finally sighed and stepped between the two men, back completely to Mycroft as he addressed Sherlock. “Meet who?”
Sherlock didn’t answer for a few moments, crossing his arms over his chest. “My mother,” he finally muttered petulantly.
“Your mother? Why wouldn’t you want me to meet your mother?”
But Sherlock just ignored John’s confused question, easily looking over his head to fix Mycroft with another glare. “And what about you? I noticed you ogling Lestrade over there.”
Simultaneously, John and Mycroft looked over to see the DI suddenly turn and look at Donovan, though his face was visibly red even from their distance. Sherlock smirked as Mycroft cleared his throat and tried to look dignified, saying, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” John couldn’t help but snicker, earning him a cold look from the elder Holmes. “Talk to mother,” he said, enunciating carefully, threatening. “Or else I will.” With that, Mycroft turned on his heel and went back to his car.
“Well that was… interesting,” John said after the car was gone.
“I am sad to say that that was Mycroft at his best,” Sherlock sighed. He took John’s hand again and started pulling him back towards the street.
John stumbled a little to keep up with Sherlock’s brisk pace. “So what are we going to do?”
“We’re going home. Where did you think we were going?” John rolled his eyes and slid into the cab Sherlock had managed to hail.
“No, I meant about what Mycroft said.”
Sherlock shrugged noncommittally. “I suppose you’ll have to meet her eventually. Provided you’re still around.”
John immediately frowned and asked defensively, “Why wouldn't I still be around?”
With a heavy sigh, Sherlock squeezed his hand gently. “Because two weeks isn't enough time to completely get to know me and decide is I’m worth the effort I will undoubtedly require. You wouldn’t be the first person to simply give up—and I’m not saying that to get pity or sympathy, before you say anything. I’m simply stating facts. I haven’t entirely discounted the possibility of you leaving. I’m not going to let you meet my mother just to have you move out a month later. That would be incredibly foolish of me.”
John wanted to be mad at the lack of faith coming from Sherlock, but when put like that, he could only feel a certain sadness that no one had ever stuck with Sherlock for any length of time. Sherlock apparently saw this and scowled, letting go of John’s hand and turning his head to look out the window.
“I told you, I don’t want pity. I was explaining myself,” he grumbled.
“No, I know,” John said quickly. “I just… I don’t know. It’s just kind of sad to hear that. I know it’s still early, but providing you don’t do something completely insane, I don’t imagine I’ll be leaving anytime soon.” He said it more as a promise than a simple comment, and he tentatively went for Sherlock’s hand again.
Though he didn't look back over, Sherlock did hide a smile, and accepted John’s hand.