Fic: Alternate Hypotheses (3/5)
Title: Alternate Hypotheses
Rating: T
Genres: Romance, Crack
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: 2,794 (this chapter); 13,400 total
Beta: percygranger
Apparently, Sherlock is experimenting on John without his consent. John is going to kill him. Right after he makes a cup of tea.
Chapter 1: John, Guinea Pig
Chapter 2: Uncooperative Test Subjects
Chapter 3: Experimental Error
John stared, mournful, out the window behind him as the train pulled away from South Kensington station. From the corner of his eye, he saw a young woman seated across from him with curvy hips and a ruby red mouth. She glanced at him periodically as she worked on her cross stitch.
She was gorgeous; just his type. The copper highlights in her auburn hair gleamed in the flickering fluorescent lights of the carriage, and her skirt was long enough to be modest but still short enough to show off her frankly spectacular calves.
He could move to sit next to her; engage her in conversation. Her occasional glances indicated her interest plainly enough.
Fiercely shushing his inner Sherlock (so obvious that even John Watson can pick up on it - now that's saying something), John threw a smile in the woman's direction the next time he caught her stealing a glance. "What are you working on?" he asked.
She nearly dropped her needle and thread. "Oh! Sorry. This? Um. Gift for my mother." Her cheeks were flushed pink and she was biting gently on her lower lip as she smiled over at him.
"Oh?" John asked, trying to bite back his smile. "Mind if I take a closer look?"
The woman shook her head violently, curls bouncing against her shoulders. "Of course not! Please."
"I'm John, by the way."
"Mary."
They ended up exchanging pleasantries for the next few minutes; apparently Mary was a primary school teacher who liked Ethiopian food, cross stitch, and rugby.
When Mary started packing up for her stop, John hesitated. "Could I get your number, Mary?"
"Oh, yes. Do you... have any paper?"
John patted his pockets absently. "Ah, no, as it happens."
Mary smiled. "That's fine. Give me your hand."
As John sat there, Mary's head bent over his hand, scrawling digits into his palm, he was reminded of a case he'd been on with Sherlock a few weeks ago. Sherlock's phone had run out of battery and John's had met its watery death in the Thames during the chase, and for some reason Sherlock had insisted on scrawling a note on John's arm with permanent marker. He smiled briefly at the memory, and when he refocused on the auburn head in front of him, he felt his stomach clench.
Mary seemed like a lovely girl. He could ask her for a drink. Take her to dinner. Go on three or four dates, avoiding his flat and flatmate for as long as she would put up with his silence. Go back to her place for a coffee - and then what?
At the end of the day he would go home to face Sherlock. Searching eyes, sharp tongue, calculating mind. Long, lean, pale lines, a wardrobe from a fashion magazine, the feline grace of a body that hid muscles of steel behind a wiry frame.
He would go home, and face the thing he wanted, and could not have.
John could believe that Sherlock liked John; he appreciated their friendship and he even occasionally made tea or put on a film when he sensed he was in John's bad graces.
John could believe that Sherlock found him attractive; he'd never said as much, but he'd implied he was gay, and John had caught him staring one too many times to be coincidence. Sherlock's dilated pupils three weeks ago had just been what caused John to look, actually look, at the effect he had on Sherlock. The occasional well timed stretch (reaching for tea on the top shelf to reveal that strip of skin between jumper and jeans, or bending over to pick up his dropped mobile with his arse conspicuously angled towards Sherlock) had been sufficient to bring a flush to the man's pale cheeks. John felt a stir of pride (and perhaps something else) every time he caught Sherlock looking.
But a relationship? Commitment? The one thing John wanted, truly desired?
(Well, besides the chance to get his hands on that exquisite arse.)
Sherlock's previous discussion of the subject had been more than enough to make his opinion clear.
I consider myself married to my work.
Will caring about them help save them?
I've been reliably informed I don't have one.
Since Sherlock wouldn't have him, John had searched for alternatives. But no one had been able to make his heart race, to make the blood sing in his veins, to fascinate him so. How could anyone ever compete with this brilliant madman?
He bit his lip as he reflected on his conversation with Sarah not forty minutes ago; the entire reason for abandoning his shift early and ending up on the tube at three in the afternoon when he should have still been at the surgery filling out paperwork.
He hadn't even heard her open the door to his office. She had cleared her throat and he'd tensed up, raising his head from the nest of his folded arms.
"Sarah. Hi."
"John Watson, you are the consummate professional. Case keep you up late?" Her mischievous grin faded when she caught sight of the expression on John's face. "God, John, what's wrong?"
John let his eyes fall shut as he straightened in the chair. So much for keeping a stiff upper lip. "Nothing."
"Sherlock."
It was a statement, not a question, and John couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up out of his throat. It came out in a rasp of sound, almost a cough, bitter and harsh.
When John opened his eyes, Sarah was looking at him with a guarded expression. She pulled out the chair in front of John's desk and sat. "Want to talk about it?"
John didn't say anything, just swallowed and looked away.
"You could find a different flat, you know. Move on. I think I know a friend who's looking-"
"No." His voice sounded strange in his own ears. "Sarah, no. That's not..."
"Go home, John."
He snapped his eyes back to her face. She looked serious. "What- I'm fine, Sarah!"
"No, you really aren't. And I don't want you treating any patients when you're in this state. Go home and get your head straight. You only have one more patient this afternoon, anyway. Mindy can take him."
John had almost said something - he had to literally bite down on his tongue to prevent himself from arguing. But instead, he had just stared at Sarah, and she had stared back, gaze firm. Eventually, he'd just nodded, picked up his things, and left.
He wasn't entirely sure he'd have a job when he came back for the next shift.
He'd checked his watch, then: half past two, and six degrees outside. Too early for a pint. Too cold for a walk. Too embarrassing to call up an old friend for comfort or advice.
So he walked for as long as he could stand, braving the winter chill and damp, until his shoulder burned and his toes were numb and his fingers felt like to fall off. At that point, even facing Sherlock was starting to sound a pleasant alternative.
He'd found the nearest tube station and huddled into his jacket as he waited for the train. Miss auburn hair, dress suit, and cross stitch had smiled at him from the opposite platform, and he'd manoeuvred his way into the same carriage.
John blinked, shaking himself out of his reverie. He looked over to the seat next to him, at a warm, open face and kind eyes.
He thought of Sarah, of Trillian and Claire and Janette. He thought of the man waiting back in Baker Street. Suddenly queasy, he'd turned to look out the window. "Ah, look, Mary, I think you should know-"
He felt, rather than saw, the woman draw back, her mobile number only partially applied to his palm. "Oh. Sorry. I thought..."
John forced his eyes back to hers, to see for himself the embarrassment and the pain of rejection reflecting back at him. "It's not-" He inhaled. "I'm just not ready for a relationship right now, is all."
"Right." Her smile was tight. "I should get ready to go, my stop is coming up soon."
"Yes, of course."
He turned back to the window and watched the tunnel walls whisk by in the dark for a few long minutes. When he next looked up, he was relieved to see that Mary was gone.
***
When John finally trudged up the seventeen stairs to the flat and walked into the sitting room, he slipped out of his coat and padded over to the kitchen to make some tea. The door to Sherlock's room had been shut, and John could hear the faint clack of fingers against keys, emanating from behind the closed door.
Sherlock was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now. He collected his tea (some rubbish Irish breakfast blend), grabbed the morning paper, and collapsed in his armchair with a soft thud.
He flipped through the paper for a few minutes, absently noting the murder in Dunwich - he'd have to ask Sherlock who the culprit was - and flipping over to the horoscope section. Rubbish. Complete and utter rubbish. Good for a laugh, though.
Cancer: Don't give up on love just yet. It always seems darkest before the dawn, and for better or worse, a period of recent uncertainty is finally drawing to a close.
Bollocks. It wasn't even funny this time. He should just stick to the crossword section.
He nearly leapt out of his seat when he heard a click and saw the handle of Sherlock's doorknob turning. Without thinking, he took a giant mouthful of tea and tried to swallow it without choking to death.
Slow gulps, Watson.
When he finally opened his eyes, Sherlock was standing across from him, stopped dead in his tracks. He was staring at John, eyes wide and jaw slack.
John set the mug down and wiped off the residual moisture from his panicked swallow with the back of one hand.
Sherlock was still staring. John should say something. "Finally decided to join me?" he asked.
John felt something twist in his stomach as Sherlock's gaze drifted to John's mouth and lingered there. "New tea?"
Why the bloody hell was Sherlock asking about - oh, right, the tea.
"It's got this sort of bitter aftertaste, but at least it was only one-twenty for a fifty gram box." John flexed his jaw, tongue and upper palate still stinging from half a cup of scalding liquid dumped unceremoniously in his mouth all at once.
Sherlock jerked his head to the side and started striding to the door. He reached for his coat in one fluid motion.
By all appearances, Sherlock was attempting to get away from John. If John didn't know better, he'd think Sherlock was embarrassed for having been caught staring at John's lips too long.
John shifted in his chair. "Is there a case?"
Sherlock turned back to look at him, shaking his head, but not meeting John's eye. "No. Going to the shops." He looked thoughtful. "I need oranges for the mould study."
Going to the shops, John's arse. More like "doing something you won't approve of but lying about it so I won't get a scolding." John might as well make the best of it, though. "Oh! Right then. Can you get some beans, while you're at it, and more jam, thanks?" He flashed his sunniest smile at Sherlock, who promptly grimaced and stormed off, slamming the door behind him as he went.
***
Just when he thought his life couldn't get any more complicated, a knock sounded at John's front door.
"Bloody hell," he swore under his breath.
He opened the door to reveal Mycroft Holmes, smug as ever, clad in an impeccably tailored suit.
John took one look before simply turning and walking wordlessly to the kitchen, expecting Mycroft to follow.
"He's not here," John remarked calmly as he pulled the Irish breakfast from the cupboard.
Mycroft ignored John, as per usual. "One sugar, please."
John set out a mug for Mycroft and scooped a spoonful of sugar into it as he waited for the kettle to boil.
"How have you been, John?" Mycroft asked, leaning on his umbrella.
John didn't look up. "Fine, thanks."
"I assume you know why I'm here."
John sighed as he closed the tin back up and set it on the shelf.
Mycroft was silent behind him. John could feel eyes burrowing into the back of his skull.
Of course I know why you're here, Mycroft. I keep thinking about buggering your little brother, and it's driving me slowly mad. One of these days I'm going to snap and just bend him over the sofa.
"No, actually." John poured hot water into the mug and handed it to Mycroft silently before heading back into the sitting room.
Mycroft settled gracefully into Sherlock's chair and sipped at his cup delicately. "Sherlock has been spending more time in his room of late."
John said nothing, just lifted his eyebrows. So?
Mycroft set the mug down on the chair arm, long fingers curling elegantly around the handle. "It seems he has become absorbed in a new experiment."
Deep breaths, Watson. Do not punch Sherlock's brother. Sherlock would want the chance to do it himself.
"Yes, well," John said, picking his own tea back up, "you know how he is. Always involved in something or other."
"John," Mycroft said, his tone suddenly scolding and his mouth turned down at the corners, "I am merely interested in your, and his, well-being."
John snorted into his mug. "Right."
The sigh emanating from Mycroft was impressive in the magnitude of its conveyed irritation. "My brother has come to depend on you, Dr. Watson. I simply do not wish to see him drive you away."
John grit his teeth. "That's none of your business."
"It is if it concerns my brother's happiness."
The urge to do violence was slowly creeping past the limits of John's self control. "Are you done with your tea? Look at the time. I'm afraid I'll have to excuse myself, Mycroft. I'm sure you can see yourself out."
Mycroft quirked an amused eyebrow even as John rose to his feet. "Thank you for the tea, Dr. Watson."
John snatched the proffered mug from Mycroft's hand and marched to the kitchen to dump the nearly untouched tea into the sink.
When he turned around, Mycroft was gone.
***
After Mycroft left, John decided that he was done. Done with the damn experiment. Done with Mycroft's overbearing interference. Done with Sarah's insinuations.
He made a full sweep of the flat, removing cameras from their hiding places and dumping them on the kitchen table for Sherlock to find.
When he got to the sitting room, he plucked the camera facing his armchair off the shelf and stared at it for a full minute. (It had been hidden in the hollowed out spine of a reference on surveillance equipment - Sherlock had probably had quite the giggle planting that one.) As he stared at the camera, though, his anger melted away in a wave of exhaustion.
Sherlock... probably meant well. He was curious about John. He cared about him, whether he ever admitted it out loud.
And maybe it wasn't so bad to let him keep one camera intact. Sherlock was on the sofa more often than John was, anyway. It was easy enough to avoid, and there was something charming about the way Sherlock kept trying to find excuses to get John onto the sofa with him.
And if he did remove all the cameras? If his attempt to disrupt Sherlock's experiment was successful? What then?
No more blatant manipulation of John's emotions.
But no more flirting, either. No more "accidental" touches. No more intense stares - well, no, those would probably stay. They'd just be much more annoyed in nature.
"John, of course he didn't die of dysentery. He was eaten by wolves. Just look at the man's forehead. Any imbecile could tell that."
He started going through the motions of putting the kettle on, the feel of the tap cool under his hands, the rush of the water a comforting buzz in his ears.
John pressed two fingers to his temple as he let the familiar movements wash away the tension in his muscles. As John had long suspected, tea could fix just about anything.
Even knowing that you would never see the adoration you felt reflected back at you.
Even being monitored without your consent and experimented on like a lab rat.
Even being in love with your flatmate.
Yes. Even that.
Something tight uncurled in John's chest, and suddenly he could breathe again. He smiled to himself as he settled in to wait for Sherlock's return.
Chapter 4: The Inappropriate Sofa Incident
Rating: T
Genres: Romance, Crack
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: 2,794 (this chapter); 13,400 total
Beta: percygranger
Apparently, Sherlock is experimenting on John without his consent. John is going to kill him. Right after he makes a cup of tea.
Chapter 1: John, Guinea Pig
Chapter 2: Uncooperative Test Subjects
Chapter 3: Experimental Error
John stared, mournful, out the window behind him as the train pulled away from South Kensington station. From the corner of his eye, he saw a young woman seated across from him with curvy hips and a ruby red mouth. She glanced at him periodically as she worked on her cross stitch.
She was gorgeous; just his type. The copper highlights in her auburn hair gleamed in the flickering fluorescent lights of the carriage, and her skirt was long enough to be modest but still short enough to show off her frankly spectacular calves.
He could move to sit next to her; engage her in conversation. Her occasional glances indicated her interest plainly enough.
Fiercely shushing his inner Sherlock (so obvious that even John Watson can pick up on it - now that's saying something), John threw a smile in the woman's direction the next time he caught her stealing a glance. "What are you working on?" he asked.
She nearly dropped her needle and thread. "Oh! Sorry. This? Um. Gift for my mother." Her cheeks were flushed pink and she was biting gently on her lower lip as she smiled over at him.
"Oh?" John asked, trying to bite back his smile. "Mind if I take a closer look?"
The woman shook her head violently, curls bouncing against her shoulders. "Of course not! Please."
"I'm John, by the way."
"Mary."
They ended up exchanging pleasantries for the next few minutes; apparently Mary was a primary school teacher who liked Ethiopian food, cross stitch, and rugby.
When Mary started packing up for her stop, John hesitated. "Could I get your number, Mary?"
"Oh, yes. Do you... have any paper?"
John patted his pockets absently. "Ah, no, as it happens."
Mary smiled. "That's fine. Give me your hand."
As John sat there, Mary's head bent over his hand, scrawling digits into his palm, he was reminded of a case he'd been on with Sherlock a few weeks ago. Sherlock's phone had run out of battery and John's had met its watery death in the Thames during the chase, and for some reason Sherlock had insisted on scrawling a note on John's arm with permanent marker. He smiled briefly at the memory, and when he refocused on the auburn head in front of him, he felt his stomach clench.
Mary seemed like a lovely girl. He could ask her for a drink. Take her to dinner. Go on three or four dates, avoiding his flat and flatmate for as long as she would put up with his silence. Go back to her place for a coffee - and then what?
At the end of the day he would go home to face Sherlock. Searching eyes, sharp tongue, calculating mind. Long, lean, pale lines, a wardrobe from a fashion magazine, the feline grace of a body that hid muscles of steel behind a wiry frame.
He would go home, and face the thing he wanted, and could not have.
John could believe that Sherlock liked John; he appreciated their friendship and he even occasionally made tea or put on a film when he sensed he was in John's bad graces.
John could believe that Sherlock found him attractive; he'd never said as much, but he'd implied he was gay, and John had caught him staring one too many times to be coincidence. Sherlock's dilated pupils three weeks ago had just been what caused John to look, actually look, at the effect he had on Sherlock. The occasional well timed stretch (reaching for tea on the top shelf to reveal that strip of skin between jumper and jeans, or bending over to pick up his dropped mobile with his arse conspicuously angled towards Sherlock) had been sufficient to bring a flush to the man's pale cheeks. John felt a stir of pride (and perhaps something else) every time he caught Sherlock looking.
But a relationship? Commitment? The one thing John wanted, truly desired?
(Well, besides the chance to get his hands on that exquisite arse.)
Sherlock's previous discussion of the subject had been more than enough to make his opinion clear.
I consider myself married to my work.
Will caring about them help save them?
I've been reliably informed I don't have one.
Since Sherlock wouldn't have him, John had searched for alternatives. But no one had been able to make his heart race, to make the blood sing in his veins, to fascinate him so. How could anyone ever compete with this brilliant madman?
He bit his lip as he reflected on his conversation with Sarah not forty minutes ago; the entire reason for abandoning his shift early and ending up on the tube at three in the afternoon when he should have still been at the surgery filling out paperwork.
He hadn't even heard her open the door to his office. She had cleared her throat and he'd tensed up, raising his head from the nest of his folded arms.
"Sarah. Hi."
"John Watson, you are the consummate professional. Case keep you up late?" Her mischievous grin faded when she caught sight of the expression on John's face. "God, John, what's wrong?"
John let his eyes fall shut as he straightened in the chair. So much for keeping a stiff upper lip. "Nothing."
"Sherlock."
It was a statement, not a question, and John couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up out of his throat. It came out in a rasp of sound, almost a cough, bitter and harsh.
When John opened his eyes, Sarah was looking at him with a guarded expression. She pulled out the chair in front of John's desk and sat. "Want to talk about it?"
John didn't say anything, just swallowed and looked away.
"You could find a different flat, you know. Move on. I think I know a friend who's looking-"
"No." His voice sounded strange in his own ears. "Sarah, no. That's not..."
"Go home, John."
He snapped his eyes back to her face. She looked serious. "What- I'm fine, Sarah!"
"No, you really aren't. And I don't want you treating any patients when you're in this state. Go home and get your head straight. You only have one more patient this afternoon, anyway. Mindy can take him."
John had almost said something - he had to literally bite down on his tongue to prevent himself from arguing. But instead, he had just stared at Sarah, and she had stared back, gaze firm. Eventually, he'd just nodded, picked up his things, and left.
He wasn't entirely sure he'd have a job when he came back for the next shift.
He'd checked his watch, then: half past two, and six degrees outside. Too early for a pint. Too cold for a walk. Too embarrassing to call up an old friend for comfort or advice.
So he walked for as long as he could stand, braving the winter chill and damp, until his shoulder burned and his toes were numb and his fingers felt like to fall off. At that point, even facing Sherlock was starting to sound a pleasant alternative.
He'd found the nearest tube station and huddled into his jacket as he waited for the train. Miss auburn hair, dress suit, and cross stitch had smiled at him from the opposite platform, and he'd manoeuvred his way into the same carriage.
John blinked, shaking himself out of his reverie. He looked over to the seat next to him, at a warm, open face and kind eyes.
He thought of Sarah, of Trillian and Claire and Janette. He thought of the man waiting back in Baker Street. Suddenly queasy, he'd turned to look out the window. "Ah, look, Mary, I think you should know-"
He felt, rather than saw, the woman draw back, her mobile number only partially applied to his palm. "Oh. Sorry. I thought..."
John forced his eyes back to hers, to see for himself the embarrassment and the pain of rejection reflecting back at him. "It's not-" He inhaled. "I'm just not ready for a relationship right now, is all."
"Right." Her smile was tight. "I should get ready to go, my stop is coming up soon."
"Yes, of course."
He turned back to the window and watched the tunnel walls whisk by in the dark for a few long minutes. When he next looked up, he was relieved to see that Mary was gone.
***
When John finally trudged up the seventeen stairs to the flat and walked into the sitting room, he slipped out of his coat and padded over to the kitchen to make some tea. The door to Sherlock's room had been shut, and John could hear the faint clack of fingers against keys, emanating from behind the closed door.
Sherlock was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now. He collected his tea (some rubbish Irish breakfast blend), grabbed the morning paper, and collapsed in his armchair with a soft thud.
He flipped through the paper for a few minutes, absently noting the murder in Dunwich - he'd have to ask Sherlock who the culprit was - and flipping over to the horoscope section. Rubbish. Complete and utter rubbish. Good for a laugh, though.
Cancer: Don't give up on love just yet. It always seems darkest before the dawn, and for better or worse, a period of recent uncertainty is finally drawing to a close.
Bollocks. It wasn't even funny this time. He should just stick to the crossword section.
He nearly leapt out of his seat when he heard a click and saw the handle of Sherlock's doorknob turning. Without thinking, he took a giant mouthful of tea and tried to swallow it without choking to death.
Slow gulps, Watson.
When he finally opened his eyes, Sherlock was standing across from him, stopped dead in his tracks. He was staring at John, eyes wide and jaw slack.
John set the mug down and wiped off the residual moisture from his panicked swallow with the back of one hand.
Sherlock was still staring. John should say something. "Finally decided to join me?" he asked.
John felt something twist in his stomach as Sherlock's gaze drifted to John's mouth and lingered there. "New tea?"
Why the bloody hell was Sherlock asking about - oh, right, the tea.
"It's got this sort of bitter aftertaste, but at least it was only one-twenty for a fifty gram box." John flexed his jaw, tongue and upper palate still stinging from half a cup of scalding liquid dumped unceremoniously in his mouth all at once.
Sherlock jerked his head to the side and started striding to the door. He reached for his coat in one fluid motion.
By all appearances, Sherlock was attempting to get away from John. If John didn't know better, he'd think Sherlock was embarrassed for having been caught staring at John's lips too long.
John shifted in his chair. "Is there a case?"
Sherlock turned back to look at him, shaking his head, but not meeting John's eye. "No. Going to the shops." He looked thoughtful. "I need oranges for the mould study."
Going to the shops, John's arse. More like "doing something you won't approve of but lying about it so I won't get a scolding." John might as well make the best of it, though. "Oh! Right then. Can you get some beans, while you're at it, and more jam, thanks?" He flashed his sunniest smile at Sherlock, who promptly grimaced and stormed off, slamming the door behind him as he went.
***
Just when he thought his life couldn't get any more complicated, a knock sounded at John's front door.
"Bloody hell," he swore under his breath.
He opened the door to reveal Mycroft Holmes, smug as ever, clad in an impeccably tailored suit.
John took one look before simply turning and walking wordlessly to the kitchen, expecting Mycroft to follow.
"He's not here," John remarked calmly as he pulled the Irish breakfast from the cupboard.
Mycroft ignored John, as per usual. "One sugar, please."
John set out a mug for Mycroft and scooped a spoonful of sugar into it as he waited for the kettle to boil.
"How have you been, John?" Mycroft asked, leaning on his umbrella.
John didn't look up. "Fine, thanks."
"I assume you know why I'm here."
John sighed as he closed the tin back up and set it on the shelf.
Mycroft was silent behind him. John could feel eyes burrowing into the back of his skull.
Of course I know why you're here, Mycroft. I keep thinking about buggering your little brother, and it's driving me slowly mad. One of these days I'm going to snap and just bend him over the sofa.
"No, actually." John poured hot water into the mug and handed it to Mycroft silently before heading back into the sitting room.
Mycroft settled gracefully into Sherlock's chair and sipped at his cup delicately. "Sherlock has been spending more time in his room of late."
John said nothing, just lifted his eyebrows. So?
Mycroft set the mug down on the chair arm, long fingers curling elegantly around the handle. "It seems he has become absorbed in a new experiment."
Deep breaths, Watson. Do not punch Sherlock's brother. Sherlock would want the chance to do it himself.
"Yes, well," John said, picking his own tea back up, "you know how he is. Always involved in something or other."
"John," Mycroft said, his tone suddenly scolding and his mouth turned down at the corners, "I am merely interested in your, and his, well-being."
John snorted into his mug. "Right."
The sigh emanating from Mycroft was impressive in the magnitude of its conveyed irritation. "My brother has come to depend on you, Dr. Watson. I simply do not wish to see him drive you away."
John grit his teeth. "That's none of your business."
"It is if it concerns my brother's happiness."
The urge to do violence was slowly creeping past the limits of John's self control. "Are you done with your tea? Look at the time. I'm afraid I'll have to excuse myself, Mycroft. I'm sure you can see yourself out."
Mycroft quirked an amused eyebrow even as John rose to his feet. "Thank you for the tea, Dr. Watson."
John snatched the proffered mug from Mycroft's hand and marched to the kitchen to dump the nearly untouched tea into the sink.
When he turned around, Mycroft was gone.
***
After Mycroft left, John decided that he was done. Done with the damn experiment. Done with Mycroft's overbearing interference. Done with Sarah's insinuations.
He made a full sweep of the flat, removing cameras from their hiding places and dumping them on the kitchen table for Sherlock to find.
When he got to the sitting room, he plucked the camera facing his armchair off the shelf and stared at it for a full minute. (It had been hidden in the hollowed out spine of a reference on surveillance equipment - Sherlock had probably had quite the giggle planting that one.) As he stared at the camera, though, his anger melted away in a wave of exhaustion.
Sherlock... probably meant well. He was curious about John. He cared about him, whether he ever admitted it out loud.
And maybe it wasn't so bad to let him keep one camera intact. Sherlock was on the sofa more often than John was, anyway. It was easy enough to avoid, and there was something charming about the way Sherlock kept trying to find excuses to get John onto the sofa with him.
And if he did remove all the cameras? If his attempt to disrupt Sherlock's experiment was successful? What then?
No more blatant manipulation of John's emotions.
But no more flirting, either. No more "accidental" touches. No more intense stares - well, no, those would probably stay. They'd just be much more annoyed in nature.
"John, of course he didn't die of dysentery. He was eaten by wolves. Just look at the man's forehead. Any imbecile could tell that."
He started going through the motions of putting the kettle on, the feel of the tap cool under his hands, the rush of the water a comforting buzz in his ears.
John pressed two fingers to his temple as he let the familiar movements wash away the tension in his muscles. As John had long suspected, tea could fix just about anything.
Even knowing that you would never see the adoration you felt reflected back at you.
Even being monitored without your consent and experimented on like a lab rat.
Even being in love with your flatmate.
Yes. Even that.
Something tight uncurled in John's chest, and suddenly he could breathe again. He smiled to himself as he settled in to wait for Sherlock's return.
Chapter 4: The Inappropriate Sofa Incident