Disclaimer – as always… the characters and settings as depicted by the BBC series are not mine. No money is being made (unfortunately). Plot is mine.

Game On

It isn't until the day after The Pool – and yes, the capitals are supposed to be there, he was turned into a walking, talking IED and that deserves capital letters at the very least – that Sherlock made his grand announcement. John wasn't sure he'd heard the man correctly at first. Sherlock hated to repeat himself, but since what John thought he'd heard was so very, incredibly, fantastically wrong, the thin genius would just have to suck it up and repeat himself.

"Come again?" John put down the cup of tea – the first cup of the morning and one that he preferred to savour as it was often the only one he'd get to drink while stationary – he'd been cradling and tilted his head at the curly haired burke who was posed dramatically against the fireplace.

"I said that you can no longer work with me," Sherlock repeated, narrowing his eyes at John in a way that the doctor thought was supposed to make him look intimidating. It made him look peevishly short-sighted, but John hadn't the heart to tell his flatmate that.

"And why, pray tell, is that?" John asked in his mildest, I-am-not-going-to-dismember-you-just-yet voice. He was no genius detective, but John had been half expecting this from the moment they left the pool last night. All that remained to determine was the reason that Sherlock was cutting ties with John. There was only one that would be accepted and John very much doubted that it had even occurred to Sherlock.

"Because you're a liability," Sherlock sniffed, apparently not realising he was courting a proper Telling Off, "You're far too easy to kidnap. I can't be constantly worried that you're in the hands of the enemy."

"I see," John nodded, paused for effect and then shook his head. A small part of him was meanly glad when Sherlock's face fell slightly, "No, actually, I don't. Too easy to kidnap? Which orifice did you pull that one out of?"

"There's no need to be crude, John," Sherlock wrinkled his nose, all posh school sensibilities and offended maiden aunt. That look was also probably not what he was going for either, but again, John didn't like to disturb Sherlock's sensibilities. Sherlock was already disturbed enough as it was, really.

"There is every need to be crude, Sherlock, but I'm restraining myself," John replied in his most patient and patronising tone. Sherlock hadn't heard that one yet and for a moment he looked like a startled owl, "And I'm waiting for your explanation."

"Within hours of meeting me, my brother kidnapped you and drove you clear across London. Granted you had a psychosomatic limp at the time, which might have hampered you slightly, but still," Sherlock began. John held up a hand like a constable directing traffic and was impressed when it actually worked. It was always best, he found, to cut Sherlock off before he got up a properly dramatic head of steam. It made the ensuing argument easier to manage.

"Mycroft didn't kidnap me, Sherlock," John corrected, "He stalked me through the CCTV, made some phones ring, made a completely pathetic threat and then had his car pull up and the driver open a door for me. I got in of my own free will – out of curiosity before you ask – and despite the child locked doors and windows I could have gotten out again at any time. What's your next excuse?"

Itemised arguments were also the best way to proceed with Sherlock. Trial and error had revealed that it was important to address things in the proper order or he'd stalk off in a huff.

"Moriarty also kidnapped you and you'll never convince me that you gave in of your own free will," Sherlock snapped; reluctant triumph in his tone and his eyes.

And that was the reason that John didn't believe for a second that Sherlock wanted him gone. Sherlock was being Good and Protective, something that didn't come naturally and said everything about how much he really valued John's friendship and presence during the Work.

'Sociopath my arse,' John thought fondly. It was always fascinating to watch Sherlock navigate the waters of friendship. That didn't mean the genius was about to get his own way in anything, however.

"Of course I didn't give in of my own free will, you numpty," John retorted, "He used a tranquiliser dart, shot from what must have been a ruger rifle which had been modified to take one and hit me from behind. I staggered into an alley trying to get away and managed to knock out two of his … lets call them henchmen… before the drugs took hold and put me down. I woke up already strapped to the semtex and wired for sound. By the time you swanked in I was only just coherent, or did you think that it was normal practice for me to faint with relief like some Victorian heroine once you got the semtex off?"

Sherlock got quieter and paler the longer John spoke, perhaps in response to the sheer fury in John's voice and face. John rarely took this tone with Sherlock – he did exasperation and disapproval, but rarely did he give vent to true fury.

"The only person who has actually managed to catch me off guard was General Chan's little flunky, and for the record I wasn't exactly thinking with the head on my shoulders when I opened our front door to the Chinese man delivering the Chinese food I'd ordered," John stood up, abandoning his morning cup of tea in his effort to make his point. Sherlock and the Work had been the saving of him and he was damned if he was going back to those dark and broken days now.

"So I'll make a little deal with you, Sherlock Holmes. If you manage to sneak up and kidnap me any time in the next week, then I will move out," John jabbed a finger into the thin chest, relishing the shock in his friend's eyes. This was quickly replaced by Sherlock's overweening character flaw – hubris.

"That is hardly a challenge, John, given our mental disparities," Sherlock replied. John grinned at him and gave the only answer that would force Sherlock into playing along. A lot was riding on this little challenge and he wanted Sherlock to bring his best game. For all that he was a genius; the man leaning against the mantelpiece could be astoundingly obtuse at times.

"Game on, then."

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