The Jealousy Fic
Fandom: Sherlock BBC/Doctor Who
Pairings: Sherlock/John, River/Eleven, (background) Rory/Amy
Warnings: Slash, het, drunkeness, oblivious geniuses and, in case you didn’t see that, crossover-ness.
Summary: River and John have a Plan. It’s a brilliant Plan, if a bit unoriginal. That’s alright though because the people they’re enacting the plan for take the term ‘socially retarded’ and prove exactly how much of an understatement it is. And, as capable as the Doctor and Sherlock are of adding one and one together, if the equation doesn’t involve actual quantifiable values, it goes straight over both of their heads. Which is rather why they had to resort to the Plan in the first place. Because hopefully their genius idiots know enough about emotions to know what to do when jealousy rears its ugly head…
Chapter: 4/7
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Five weeks passed before the plan was mentioned again, but John wasn’t an idiot, wasn’t blind to what River was doing. She’d surprise him when he finished the later shifts at the surgery, greeting him with a bounding hug and a sloppy kiss to the cheek. She’d take him out to dinner or to go ice skating or to the theatre. On one memorable occasion she picked him up from a crime scene having been abandoned there by Sherlock (again) on a motorbike that Lestrade had eyed enviously.
But she made sure to avoid Sherlock. She draped herself over him, and he reached for her not caring who saw. Not thinking about what it would look like. It was never more than hugs and kisses to the cheek or forehead. To them it was never anything other than entirely platonic, a simple exchange of human touch and affection that neither of them received from anyone else. But to anyone else it would look like a couple who were unashamed to hug and hold hands in public but polite enough to keep anything else in private.
Sherlock knew, of course. The first night that John had met River (who normally went by either River Song or Melody Pond, not a drunken mishmash of the two) the consulting detective had frowned at him as though trying to puzzle out something that didn’t quite fit into the expectations he’d set for his flatmate. John has secretly quite pleased that this expression was not an uncommon one.
“You slept with a woman last night but you did not partake in coitus with her. That’s not like you, John, I hope you’re not suffering any erectile dysfunction?” he’d asked coolly some time later, apparently unable to draw a conclusion he was entirely happy with and resorting, instead, to asking. How Sherlock must have hated it.
John smiled a little to himself. It was always a pleasant surprise when he managed to baffle Sherlock. And he did, perhaps, draw a little of his own hope from the fact that Sherlock hoped that ‘little John’ was all in working order, so to speak. “I had a little too much to drink and the woman in question was a relative of Amy and Rory. If I ever were to have sex with her it would be when I was fully cognizant. We just ended up sleeping in the same bed.”
Again, Sherlock frowned. “Amy and Rory have a large townhouse with two guest bedrooms and a study with a futon in it. Why would you need to sleep in the same bed?”
“We didn’t need to,” John replied, hoping the inflection would be enough to satisfy River’s ridiculous plot to incite their respective loves into a jealous rage… or whatever it was she wanted.
Sherlock sniffed disdainfully and returned his attention to the papers he’d been studying prior to John’s arrival. “You should avoid drinking so much. You know your family have addictive personalities.”
By which Sherlock meant that they were all - or had been, at any rate, since it was only him and Harry left now - drunkards. “Yes, thank you Sherlock,” John snapped, drawing out the ‘s’ phonetic of the ‘yes’ more than he’d intended and revealing his annoyance at the remark more than just the sarcastic comment would have.
Sherlock’s shoulders had stiffened and for half a moment John though he might make another insult, or apologise, or call his emotional response foolish. But then the shoulders relaxed once more and his flatmate had settled into happily ignoring his existence until he needed his help once again. John had berated himself at that - self pity didn’t get anyone anywhere.
But as the five weeks passed, that tension in Sherlock’s shoulders only got worse and the caustic remarks about John’s love life, from anyone else, would seem bitter. Always, always, Sherlock would return to that safe little bubble he built around himself and ask, almost happily; “So she still hasn’t put out for you? You must be losing your touch John.” And he became more and more irritated each time John merely shrugged and smiled.
The wonderful thing, John had noticed, about having a friend who was a time traveller, was that it was up to her when they met. Which meant that there were no plans for Sherlock to destroy, no dates he could plot against in advance, and no way that he could ‘accidentally’ crash whatever activity they’d chosen to do. Sherlock was brilliant, certainly, but he could only know as much as John and it was always River who chose when and where and for how long.
“So do I ever get to meet your latest diversion?” Sherlock eventually grumbled after five weeks of trying to invite himself along to one of their ‘dates’ and failing time and again.
“Diversion?” John asked, chuckling to himself. Perhaps, just perhaps, River’s plan might work. “I’m sure you will at some point.”
“What, is she too good now to meet the lowly Mr Holmes?”
“Lowly?” Again, John questioned Sherlock’s choice of words. If he hadn’t been directly told by the man himself that he was married to his work John might actually think him jealous. “You’ve never been ‘lowly’ in your life,” he teased. Then, “It’s not that I don’t want you to meet her, Sherlock, it’s just that I never know when I’ll see her next. I am at her beck and call.”
“Oh, joy. Finally someone else you’ll follow around like a lost puppy,” Sherlock hissed.
John should really start learning to expect such remarks from Sherlock. Still, having the fact that there was no real need for him to be in Sherlock’s life never failed to hurt, especially when wielded by Sherlock. Regardless, he flinched away from Sherlock, wincing as the emotional pain bloomed across his chest much like a bullet wound might. “My apologies,” he said stiffly to his flatmate, turning his back on him to lend all of his concentration to making the tea.
“John - I didn’t mean to imply that-” Sherlock started, abandoning his repose on the sofa in favour of clambering across the living room to watch John.
“It’s fine,” John interrupted bluntly. “It’s all… fine.”
Sherlock watched as John shuffled about their kitchen. “Your deltoid and trapezius muscles are more contracted than simply holding up your head requires, your left hand is shaking and you are favouring your right leg; an indication that your psychosomatic pain is bothering you. You are not, by any account, ‘fine’.”
“Sherlock. Seriously, just leave it,” John ordered roughly.
And, as ever, Sherlock ignored him. “I am sorry that I implied that your assistance was something I do not appreciate and require. I find it difficult to… share. Your presence is something I enjoy and I dislike being denied it.”
John huffed and placed his tea mug down heavily on the counter. “You git, Sherlock,” he said fondly. “I’m not denying you my presence. Have I ever not responded to your texts when you ask me to meet you somewhere.” He quickly cut Sherlock off when the man opened his mouth to argue with him, “I’m not including any times when I’m half way across London and you need help fetching your mobile from your own pocket.”
Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut. “So if you were on a date with River and I required you to be at a crime scene…?”
“You know you’ve already cut my time with her short no less than four times,” John reminded almost gently. He specifically did not call his meetings with River ‘dates’. He would not lie.
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, surprising John. It was a rare occasion that the other man ever expressed gratitude for anything and normally only in the most dire of situations, usually reluctantly and under a threat of some sort. And this was none of those times, John didn’t even know what it was he had done that required Sherlock to thank him.
“You come first, Sherlock, you know that,” John murmured to the still air between them and it seemed like more of a confession than it really was. If John regarded their friendship a little less - if he was willing to risk everything he had with Sherlock - the words might have been in plain hearing rather than hidden behind something else. If he was less - or more - of a man John might have said ‘I love you’.
“The case comes first, John. Always,” Sherlock responded with a bright grin. It was a joke, supposed to diffuse the tension and eliminate the remaining awkward emotions that Sherlock didn’t know how to deal with at the best of times.
It didn’t stop John’s heart from breaking just a little more and reminding himself harshly that he had always known that Sherlock was married to his work. River’s plan seemed ever more ludicrous in light of this. Still, he’d do it for her sake, so that she might get the Doctor. And then, once she’d married him, John would return to his hopeless love, to being the ‘freak’s sidekick’, as Donovan had taken to calling him, and he would be content with whatever he could get a hold of.
So he smiled and nodded and picked up his tea and a copy of yesterday’s paper and settled into his armchair. Perhaps they ought to consider getting an actual dog if only so that people would stop referring to John as one.
-
It was John who broke the silence about the Plan in the end. Five weeks and two days after meeting River he and Sherlock were summoned to the crime scene of the second of two murders where the cause of death appeared to be choking on a grey, sludge like goo. The difficulty with the case was that there was no explanation for why the goo had not simply been swallowed by the victim or why it was in their mouth in the first place.
Sherlock was mumbling deductions under his breath - this case was too intricate for even a Holmes brain to boastfully show off to anyone within hearing range - when John saw River approaching from the other side of the police barrier. He’d texted her saying that Sherlock had expressed a wish to meet her and suggested that she might want to pick him up early from a crime scene or accompany him home next time. This, apparently, was her response to that.
“I’ll be right back,” John told Sherlock, more for his own sake than the detective’s, who was too busy inspecting the victim’s gums to pay much attention to anything else. Then he made his way over to the police barrier, ducking under it to greet River with an enthusiastic hug.
“Hey, John,” River welcomed, ruffling his hair affectionately.
“Hello, love. We might still be a while yet, I’m afraid, this is looking to be a tricky one,” John apologised. Of course, whether it was or not couldn’t really be predicted at this stage, but the fact that Sherlock was still absorbed by what the body was - or wasn’t - telling him was pretty indicative. He leant against her for a brief moment, silently taking the support she offered, and giving back a smile.
River moved away before long and studied him, looking for answers to questions John didn’t know. “Actually, I’m not just here for you, this time. I know who killed this man and how.”
“You do?” John squawked, before quietening and blushing a little at his outburst. “Is it - something beyond an Earthly scope of understanding?” he murmured, and the question caused her to chuckle warmly.
“I do love your odd little turns of phrase,” River told him, grinning. “And if by what you just said, that the killer’s an alien using alien means - the answer’s yes.”
John couldn’t help but grin back. “Sorry. Bit weird saying ‘alien’ like it isn’t something from a sci-fi movie.”
“You’ll get used to it,” she assured him.
“Yeah?”
River chuckled again. “Well, the Doctor’s on his way and he moves so fast he doesn’t leave enough time to feel weird.”
And didn’t that sound like someone John knew? Smiling, he turned back to look across the crime scene expecting to watch Sherlock crouching over the victim, only to see the consulting detective standing ramrod straight and glaring across at the pair of them. John sighed and dropped his arm from around River’s waist. “I think you’re about to be introduced to one of the most difficult men on this Earth - or any other planet I suspect.”
“And the one you love,” River continued knowingly for him.
“Yes. God knows why,” John agreed amiably, winking to diffuse the implied insult.
Then, sure enough, Sherlock swooped towards them, long cloak flapping out behind him in the breeze caused by his movement. “John,” he said with nary a glance, instead studying River and scowling fiercely. “And you are River, I presume?”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” River replied flirtatiously, batting her eyelids at him. “You are a handsome one, aren’t you?” She shot an approving grin at John, who blushed and looked away.
Sherlock watched the exchange with some measure of confusion, although only those that knew him best would recognise it as such. Confusion on Sherlock, looked like great annoyance on anyone else. “You don’t make sense,” he announced abruptly, considering her head to toe.
John stifled a laugh at that and continued to purposefully not look at either of them.
River was not so shy about her amusement and smiled openly. “Yes, I can imagine that. I’m sure you can tell me anything about myself from what I had to breakfast this morning to where I spend the majority of my time, but I’m sure you can’t work out-”
“Your parents,” Sherlock interrupted her. Breakfast; croissants. Residence; prison. Parents; Amy and Rory? It didn’t make sense. The only part of his deductions he understood and did not doubt in any measure was what she ate for breakfast (also the fact that she was dressed up for a date with John, but considering she was here to pick him up to disappear off to wherever they went, it was so easy a deduction Sherlock did not really count it as such). “If you were younger or they older, I’d say that Amy and Rory…”
“They are,” she told him cheerfully. “And yet, puzzlingly, I’m several years older than both of them. Well, I am at the moment anyway.”
And it was that hint that Sherlock grasped hold of with both hands. “Time traveller,” he concluded, then wrinkled his nose. “Why would you chose John, of all people?”
John recoiled sharply from that question, the easy stance of a civilian with two of his closest friends becoming instead the pose of a soldier balancing on the balls of his feet and ready for battle. “Cheers, Sherlock, for that resounding vote of confidence. I’ll go talk to Lestrade and get our copies of the witness statements, shall I?” Then he picked up the crime scene tape, walking past Sherlock - careful not to touch him - and disappearing back into the house.
“He is being more sensitive than usual,” Sherlock remarked.
“Is he?” River asked. “Or are you being less sensitive?”
“What I said was not a comment as to his worthiness of a partner, merely that he finds no difficulty finding sexual partners but can never keep hold of them for long. I find it difficult to understand why someone who had all of time to chose from would pick someone that they will ultimately spend very little time with.”
“You don’t start a healthy relationship thinking about how it will end. You start one with the assumption that it won’t. The reason that John can not stay with one person is they get fed up with him abandoning them in favour of you. In that respect, a time traveller is perfect, because we can spend as long as we like together and I can still get him home in time to save your life.”
Sherlock considered that for a moment, then shook his head. “He said that his time with you had been cut short four times since the beginning of your relationship. Was he lying then?”
River half smiled, her eyes following the slightly hunched shoulders of John as he remerged from the house, stopping to exchange words with Donavan as he made his way towards him.
“He wasn’t lying. We could have carried on and I could have taken him back a couple of hours, but instead he chose to cut our meeting short. I think, perhaps, you need to consider what that means. Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes.”
Then John was there again, thrusting the pile of papers into Sherlock’s hands and dodging under the tape again. He wrapped an arm around River’s waist, and bid a swift, stiff farewell to Sherlock, before the pair of them turned away and headed down the road, second left, third right and there, at the end, their path would take them to conspicuous blue box.
~To Be Continued~
NEXT>>
Emotional John is being emotional. Not to worry, soon enough it'll all be better. I've only got the last chapter to write and without giving too much away, that's the fun one for all you John/Sherlock shippers out there. (For you River/Eleven shippers the fun's happenin' in chapter six. No porn cos I can't write it to save my life, but I am good at suggestions :D) And with that teaser...
Much love,
Yellow
xx
Pairings: Sherlock/John, River/Eleven, (background) Rory/Amy
Warnings: Slash, het, drunkeness, oblivious geniuses and, in case you didn’t see that, crossover-ness.
Summary: River and John have a Plan. It’s a brilliant Plan, if a bit unoriginal. That’s alright though because the people they’re enacting the plan for take the term ‘socially retarded’ and prove exactly how much of an understatement it is. And, as capable as the Doctor and Sherlock are of adding one and one together, if the equation doesn’t involve actual quantifiable values, it goes straight over both of their heads. Which is rather why they had to resort to the Plan in the first place. Because hopefully their genius idiots know enough about emotions to know what to do when jealousy rears its ugly head…
Chapter: 4/7
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Five weeks passed before the plan was mentioned again, but John wasn’t an idiot, wasn’t blind to what River was doing. She’d surprise him when he finished the later shifts at the surgery, greeting him with a bounding hug and a sloppy kiss to the cheek. She’d take him out to dinner or to go ice skating or to the theatre. On one memorable occasion she picked him up from a crime scene having been abandoned there by Sherlock (again) on a motorbike that Lestrade had eyed enviously.
But she made sure to avoid Sherlock. She draped herself over him, and he reached for her not caring who saw. Not thinking about what it would look like. It was never more than hugs and kisses to the cheek or forehead. To them it was never anything other than entirely platonic, a simple exchange of human touch and affection that neither of them received from anyone else. But to anyone else it would look like a couple who were unashamed to hug and hold hands in public but polite enough to keep anything else in private.
Sherlock knew, of course. The first night that John had met River (who normally went by either River Song or Melody Pond, not a drunken mishmash of the two) the consulting detective had frowned at him as though trying to puzzle out something that didn’t quite fit into the expectations he’d set for his flatmate. John has secretly quite pleased that this expression was not an uncommon one.
“You slept with a woman last night but you did not partake in coitus with her. That’s not like you, John, I hope you’re not suffering any erectile dysfunction?” he’d asked coolly some time later, apparently unable to draw a conclusion he was entirely happy with and resorting, instead, to asking. How Sherlock must have hated it.
John smiled a little to himself. It was always a pleasant surprise when he managed to baffle Sherlock. And he did, perhaps, draw a little of his own hope from the fact that Sherlock hoped that ‘little John’ was all in working order, so to speak. “I had a little too much to drink and the woman in question was a relative of Amy and Rory. If I ever were to have sex with her it would be when I was fully cognizant. We just ended up sleeping in the same bed.”
Again, Sherlock frowned. “Amy and Rory have a large townhouse with two guest bedrooms and a study with a futon in it. Why would you need to sleep in the same bed?”
“We didn’t need to,” John replied, hoping the inflection would be enough to satisfy River’s ridiculous plot to incite their respective loves into a jealous rage… or whatever it was she wanted.
Sherlock sniffed disdainfully and returned his attention to the papers he’d been studying prior to John’s arrival. “You should avoid drinking so much. You know your family have addictive personalities.”
By which Sherlock meant that they were all - or had been, at any rate, since it was only him and Harry left now - drunkards. “Yes, thank you Sherlock,” John snapped, drawing out the ‘s’ phonetic of the ‘yes’ more than he’d intended and revealing his annoyance at the remark more than just the sarcastic comment would have.
Sherlock’s shoulders had stiffened and for half a moment John though he might make another insult, or apologise, or call his emotional response foolish. But then the shoulders relaxed once more and his flatmate had settled into happily ignoring his existence until he needed his help once again. John had berated himself at that - self pity didn’t get anyone anywhere.
But as the five weeks passed, that tension in Sherlock’s shoulders only got worse and the caustic remarks about John’s love life, from anyone else, would seem bitter. Always, always, Sherlock would return to that safe little bubble he built around himself and ask, almost happily; “So she still hasn’t put out for you? You must be losing your touch John.” And he became more and more irritated each time John merely shrugged and smiled.
The wonderful thing, John had noticed, about having a friend who was a time traveller, was that it was up to her when they met. Which meant that there were no plans for Sherlock to destroy, no dates he could plot against in advance, and no way that he could ‘accidentally’ crash whatever activity they’d chosen to do. Sherlock was brilliant, certainly, but he could only know as much as John and it was always River who chose when and where and for how long.
“So do I ever get to meet your latest diversion?” Sherlock eventually grumbled after five weeks of trying to invite himself along to one of their ‘dates’ and failing time and again.
“Diversion?” John asked, chuckling to himself. Perhaps, just perhaps, River’s plan might work. “I’m sure you will at some point.”
“What, is she too good now to meet the lowly Mr Holmes?”
“Lowly?” Again, John questioned Sherlock’s choice of words. If he hadn’t been directly told by the man himself that he was married to his work John might actually think him jealous. “You’ve never been ‘lowly’ in your life,” he teased. Then, “It’s not that I don’t want you to meet her, Sherlock, it’s just that I never know when I’ll see her next. I am at her beck and call.”
“Oh, joy. Finally someone else you’ll follow around like a lost puppy,” Sherlock hissed.
John should really start learning to expect such remarks from Sherlock. Still, having the fact that there was no real need for him to be in Sherlock’s life never failed to hurt, especially when wielded by Sherlock. Regardless, he flinched away from Sherlock, wincing as the emotional pain bloomed across his chest much like a bullet wound might. “My apologies,” he said stiffly to his flatmate, turning his back on him to lend all of his concentration to making the tea.
“John - I didn’t mean to imply that-” Sherlock started, abandoning his repose on the sofa in favour of clambering across the living room to watch John.
“It’s fine,” John interrupted bluntly. “It’s all… fine.”
Sherlock watched as John shuffled about their kitchen. “Your deltoid and trapezius muscles are more contracted than simply holding up your head requires, your left hand is shaking and you are favouring your right leg; an indication that your psychosomatic pain is bothering you. You are not, by any account, ‘fine’.”
“Sherlock. Seriously, just leave it,” John ordered roughly.
And, as ever, Sherlock ignored him. “I am sorry that I implied that your assistance was something I do not appreciate and require. I find it difficult to… share. Your presence is something I enjoy and I dislike being denied it.”
John huffed and placed his tea mug down heavily on the counter. “You git, Sherlock,” he said fondly. “I’m not denying you my presence. Have I ever not responded to your texts when you ask me to meet you somewhere.” He quickly cut Sherlock off when the man opened his mouth to argue with him, “I’m not including any times when I’m half way across London and you need help fetching your mobile from your own pocket.”
Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut. “So if you were on a date with River and I required you to be at a crime scene…?”
“You know you’ve already cut my time with her short no less than four times,” John reminded almost gently. He specifically did not call his meetings with River ‘dates’. He would not lie.
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, surprising John. It was a rare occasion that the other man ever expressed gratitude for anything and normally only in the most dire of situations, usually reluctantly and under a threat of some sort. And this was none of those times, John didn’t even know what it was he had done that required Sherlock to thank him.
“You come first, Sherlock, you know that,” John murmured to the still air between them and it seemed like more of a confession than it really was. If John regarded their friendship a little less - if he was willing to risk everything he had with Sherlock - the words might have been in plain hearing rather than hidden behind something else. If he was less - or more - of a man John might have said ‘I love you’.
“The case comes first, John. Always,” Sherlock responded with a bright grin. It was a joke, supposed to diffuse the tension and eliminate the remaining awkward emotions that Sherlock didn’t know how to deal with at the best of times.
It didn’t stop John’s heart from breaking just a little more and reminding himself harshly that he had always known that Sherlock was married to his work. River’s plan seemed ever more ludicrous in light of this. Still, he’d do it for her sake, so that she might get the Doctor. And then, once she’d married him, John would return to his hopeless love, to being the ‘freak’s sidekick’, as Donovan had taken to calling him, and he would be content with whatever he could get a hold of.
So he smiled and nodded and picked up his tea and a copy of yesterday’s paper and settled into his armchair. Perhaps they ought to consider getting an actual dog if only so that people would stop referring to John as one.
-
It was John who broke the silence about the Plan in the end. Five weeks and two days after meeting River he and Sherlock were summoned to the crime scene of the second of two murders where the cause of death appeared to be choking on a grey, sludge like goo. The difficulty with the case was that there was no explanation for why the goo had not simply been swallowed by the victim or why it was in their mouth in the first place.
Sherlock was mumbling deductions under his breath - this case was too intricate for even a Holmes brain to boastfully show off to anyone within hearing range - when John saw River approaching from the other side of the police barrier. He’d texted her saying that Sherlock had expressed a wish to meet her and suggested that she might want to pick him up early from a crime scene or accompany him home next time. This, apparently, was her response to that.
“I’ll be right back,” John told Sherlock, more for his own sake than the detective’s, who was too busy inspecting the victim’s gums to pay much attention to anything else. Then he made his way over to the police barrier, ducking under it to greet River with an enthusiastic hug.
“Hey, John,” River welcomed, ruffling his hair affectionately.
“Hello, love. We might still be a while yet, I’m afraid, this is looking to be a tricky one,” John apologised. Of course, whether it was or not couldn’t really be predicted at this stage, but the fact that Sherlock was still absorbed by what the body was - or wasn’t - telling him was pretty indicative. He leant against her for a brief moment, silently taking the support she offered, and giving back a smile.
River moved away before long and studied him, looking for answers to questions John didn’t know. “Actually, I’m not just here for you, this time. I know who killed this man and how.”
“You do?” John squawked, before quietening and blushing a little at his outburst. “Is it - something beyond an Earthly scope of understanding?” he murmured, and the question caused her to chuckle warmly.
“I do love your odd little turns of phrase,” River told him, grinning. “And if by what you just said, that the killer’s an alien using alien means - the answer’s yes.”
John couldn’t help but grin back. “Sorry. Bit weird saying ‘alien’ like it isn’t something from a sci-fi movie.”
“You’ll get used to it,” she assured him.
“Yeah?”
River chuckled again. “Well, the Doctor’s on his way and he moves so fast he doesn’t leave enough time to feel weird.”
And didn’t that sound like someone John knew? Smiling, he turned back to look across the crime scene expecting to watch Sherlock crouching over the victim, only to see the consulting detective standing ramrod straight and glaring across at the pair of them. John sighed and dropped his arm from around River’s waist. “I think you’re about to be introduced to one of the most difficult men on this Earth - or any other planet I suspect.”
“And the one you love,” River continued knowingly for him.
“Yes. God knows why,” John agreed amiably, winking to diffuse the implied insult.
Then, sure enough, Sherlock swooped towards them, long cloak flapping out behind him in the breeze caused by his movement. “John,” he said with nary a glance, instead studying River and scowling fiercely. “And you are River, I presume?”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” River replied flirtatiously, batting her eyelids at him. “You are a handsome one, aren’t you?” She shot an approving grin at John, who blushed and looked away.
Sherlock watched the exchange with some measure of confusion, although only those that knew him best would recognise it as such. Confusion on Sherlock, looked like great annoyance on anyone else. “You don’t make sense,” he announced abruptly, considering her head to toe.
John stifled a laugh at that and continued to purposefully not look at either of them.
River was not so shy about her amusement and smiled openly. “Yes, I can imagine that. I’m sure you can tell me anything about myself from what I had to breakfast this morning to where I spend the majority of my time, but I’m sure you can’t work out-”
“Your parents,” Sherlock interrupted her. Breakfast; croissants. Residence; prison. Parents; Amy and Rory? It didn’t make sense. The only part of his deductions he understood and did not doubt in any measure was what she ate for breakfast (also the fact that she was dressed up for a date with John, but considering she was here to pick him up to disappear off to wherever they went, it was so easy a deduction Sherlock did not really count it as such). “If you were younger or they older, I’d say that Amy and Rory…”
“They are,” she told him cheerfully. “And yet, puzzlingly, I’m several years older than both of them. Well, I am at the moment anyway.”
And it was that hint that Sherlock grasped hold of with both hands. “Time traveller,” he concluded, then wrinkled his nose. “Why would you chose John, of all people?”
John recoiled sharply from that question, the easy stance of a civilian with two of his closest friends becoming instead the pose of a soldier balancing on the balls of his feet and ready for battle. “Cheers, Sherlock, for that resounding vote of confidence. I’ll go talk to Lestrade and get our copies of the witness statements, shall I?” Then he picked up the crime scene tape, walking past Sherlock - careful not to touch him - and disappearing back into the house.
“He is being more sensitive than usual,” Sherlock remarked.
“Is he?” River asked. “Or are you being less sensitive?”
“What I said was not a comment as to his worthiness of a partner, merely that he finds no difficulty finding sexual partners but can never keep hold of them for long. I find it difficult to understand why someone who had all of time to chose from would pick someone that they will ultimately spend very little time with.”
“You don’t start a healthy relationship thinking about how it will end. You start one with the assumption that it won’t. The reason that John can not stay with one person is they get fed up with him abandoning them in favour of you. In that respect, a time traveller is perfect, because we can spend as long as we like together and I can still get him home in time to save your life.”
Sherlock considered that for a moment, then shook his head. “He said that his time with you had been cut short four times since the beginning of your relationship. Was he lying then?”
River half smiled, her eyes following the slightly hunched shoulders of John as he remerged from the house, stopping to exchange words with Donavan as he made his way towards him.
“He wasn’t lying. We could have carried on and I could have taken him back a couple of hours, but instead he chose to cut our meeting short. I think, perhaps, you need to consider what that means. Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes.”
Then John was there again, thrusting the pile of papers into Sherlock’s hands and dodging under the tape again. He wrapped an arm around River’s waist, and bid a swift, stiff farewell to Sherlock, before the pair of them turned away and headed down the road, second left, third right and there, at the end, their path would take them to conspicuous blue box.
~To Be Continued~
NEXT>>
Emotional John is being emotional. Not to worry, soon enough it'll all be better. I've only got the last chapter to write and without giving too much away, that's the fun one for all you John/Sherlock shippers out there. (For you River/Eleven shippers the fun's happenin' in chapter six. No porn cos I can't write it to save my life, but I am good at suggestions :D) And with that teaser...
Much love,
Yellow
xx