Title: Expectation

Author: Annaliesegrace

Rating: K+

Summary: Jealousy does not become Sherlock.

AN: Another fic request, this time by L. I'm not sure it quite went in the direction she wanted but hey I tried. If you are interested I might be able to do an M rated Chapter 2, let me know in the reviews.

Oh, and leave a review, I love them, I wont lie.

February 2017

"You cannot go on a date with…him," Sherlock stated emphatically.

They were in the kitchen, Watson quietly making tea and refusing to even respond to him.

"Did you hear me?" he asked and moved closer. "Or are you being intentionally obtuse?"

Slowly she turned from the stove. "What now?"

"Watson-" One slim finger lifted – cutting off the tirade he was about to start.

"No, Sherlock. No. You don't get to decide who I do or do not go on a date with."

"That may be, but in this case it is highly inappropriate. He was a suspect in our last case."

And there it was, she had been waiting to see how long it would take for him to bring it up.

"Was, Sherlock. As in, is no longer one. You caught the killer, remember? Peter was framed." The kettle whistled and she turned, pouring the water into her mug. "You're the one who proved it."

"And still…"

"And still what? This is the third time we've had this conversation, and the last. Don't mention it again." With that she walked out of the kitchen, heading upstairs with her drink.

Face screwed up in frustration he watched her go. When she'd mentioned going on a date with Peter Dunham, Sherlock had nearly had a coronary. The man had been cleared of murder charges only hours before propositioning his partner.

And to his great surprise she'd accepted.

There had been no one since Andrew. Instead she had done as stated and committed herself to the work, he'd found it admirable and very productive. She'd even assisted during a couple of his experiments where previously she would have shrugged him off.

So when he had asked her out on a date Sherlock had anticipated the typical "No, thanks", which had not happened. Instead she'd agreed to dinner. Tomorrow. And for the better part of a week he'd tried talking her out of it - failing miserably in doing so.

He actually considered actively sabotaging the date (knowing the when and where) but knew that would only backfire on him, Watson was smart (he'd taught her after all) – anything that happened out of the ordinary would immediately be pinned on him. Losing her friendship was simply not worth it.

Pulling a mug from the cabinet he set about making his own tea, a routine activity that freed his mind to consider why this date angered him so. When Andrew had shown up he'd thought little of it. The man was smart and did not interfere in his relationship with Watson, the other man was shockingly understanding of what their partnership entailed.

But it had been a long, hard two years since and in his opinion, he and Watson had only become closer for it. He sighed and sat at the table. Perhaps he had gotten far too used to being the center of her attention. Of being the only man in her life – that wasn't the Captain and Detective Bell, of course; though their relationships with her didn't go as deep as Sherlock's.

In the end, it had been a tragedy that'd strengthened their already strong bond to something that was unbreakable.

June 2016

When Watson pushed her hair out of her face for the third time, Sherlock finally snapped.

"Do you not have an ever present elastic to take care of that?"

"I left it at home, you were rushing me out the door," she snapped back.

They were both in irritable moods. This case had gone on for far too long for their tastes and now they were stuck on a stakeout, sitting in an empty apartment observing their suspect.

An empty apartment with no air conditioning during one of the hottest summers on record in New York, the thermometer was pushing ninety with what had to be eighty percent humidity.

"I was rushing you out of the house because I wish for this case to be over and the fastest way to accomplish that task is to keep an eye on our suspect." Sherlock looked out the window and let out a huff of frustration. "Who is doing absolutely nothing."

"Maybe he isn't the guy," she suggested, for not the last time from her perch at the window next to his.

Now he turned toward her fully, putting down his binoculars. "I have no doubt that Daniel Masters is the man who has been violently stalking two women. He fits the profile; his excuses for always being near them both are pathetic at best."

"And yet," she countered. "There is no evidence it's him."

She was baiting him on purpose but the heat and his irritation prevented him from keeping frustration in check and practically shouted at her, "There is no evidence of it being someone else, either!"

For a second she felt guilty, she was pretty sure he was right, but his reaction was over the top, even for Sherlock. "Ok," she said quietly. "Time out for you, go take a walk. A real one."

He was at his limit, and was about ready to snap back at her about how he did not need to take a walk when her cell went off. Initially she ignored it but the irritable look on his face had her grabbing the device from its perch on the window frame.

"Mom, can't talk right now, can I call-" He watched as she visibly blanched and the hand holding the phone started to shake. "What? No…yes. I…oh, God….yes, um…fifteen."

Slowly she hung up the phone and looked at him with an expression that Sherlock would recall the rest of his life, a mix of confusion and grief and sorrow.

"My step-father had a heart attack…he's gone." As she said the words aloud, tears started to fall down her cheeks.

After only a moment's hesitation he moved, pulling her small body into his, wrapping his arms tightly around her. Her head fell to his chest, arms wrapping around his body as her fingers gripped the material of his t-shirt. She was practically silent; he could feel the tears on his shirt but heard no noises. She was holding it in.

Finally she spoke, "I have to go…go to the hospital. Mom is waiting. I…"

"Which hospital?"

"Umm, New York Methodist."

"Cab would be fastest this time of day," he said and moved toward the door.

"But the suspect…" she said, clearly surprised at his intent of coming with her.

"I will call the captain and apprise him of the situation. I'm sure Detective Bell can take over." A sudden thought had him pausing and looking at her. "Unless you do not wish for me to accompany you."

"No, I just…" she looked back at the window - he was choosing her over a suspect. A small feeling of relief settled in her heart. "Please come."

"As you wish," he replied quietly and they left the apartment in silence.

Twenty minutes later they were at the hospital, easily finding Mary Watson in the ER, looking confused and upset.

"Mom…"

"Joan…oh Joanie," she cried and buried herself into Watson, much like the younger woman had done to Sherlock.

"What happened?" Watson asked, voice wavering.

"He was getting ready to leave for a meeting. Collapsed in the foyer….I-I called 911, it was too late."

After several minutes the older Watson pulled away, composing herself. "I called Oren. He will be here tonight."

Just then a younger doctor approached them. "Ma'am, is this your daughter?"

"Yes, yes…"

"Ms Watson," he said. "I am so sorry for your loss. Would you like to…"

Watson didn't need him to finish the sentence and nodded quickly. "Mom?"

Sherlock spoke for the first time since they'd arrived. "I will stay with your mother, go."

They shared a quick look before Joan followed the doctor to a small curtained area before leaving so she could say goodbye.

The next several days passed in a blur, funeral arrangements and visitors and caring for her grief stricken mother had occupied every minute of the day, leaving little time for Watson to grieve. Walking around the townhouse she'd grown up in brought back memories both happy and painful which was emotionally draining as well. Sleep barely came, and when it did it was mostly because her body had simply given out and she would pass out in the guest room that had previously been hers.

And yet, through the chaos and the fog that lead up to the funeral there was Sherlock in sharp contrast. Always there if needed, popping in on occasion to talk with her mother, giving her a much needed break, or bringing her favorite coffee and bagel from the place around the corner from the brownstone. Present but not intrusive, it was exactly what she needed.

The night before the funeral he had shown up again around dinner, ensuring she ate, and at 1 am sitting on the couch together, the rest of the house quiet, he insisted she go to bed.

"I still need to…"

"Nothing, Watson. I have watched you plan every facet of the services in meticulous detail, it will be perfect. Off to bed with you."

Instead of moving she stared at a framed photograph that sat on a table next to the fireplace, it was of the four Watsons at the beach somewhere. Watson appeared to be in her mid-twenties, smiling broadly, her father's arms wrapped around her lightly.

"Graduation present?" he asked.

She looked at him and stood, grabbing the silver frame and returning to the couch next to him. "Uh, yeah. Med school. We spent a week in Tahiti. They were so proud of me…"

"As they should have been."

Still staring at the frame she continued, "I can't believe he isn't here anymore. That I won't hear his voice, calling to tell me what my mother was up to, how work was going or even to talk about the Mets. It's…oh, God…he's gone...really gone…"

With that crushing realization she started to cry, the first time since the call from her mother. He'd been expecting it, Sherlock had watched his partner suffer silently for two days now, the dam was going to break at some point.

One arm wrapped around her shoulder lightly and she leaned into his side, her head falling to his shoulder as she continued to let out the emotions held in check for far too long. The picture frame was still gripped in her hand.

"It will get better Watson…eventually," he murmured to her. "The good memories will no longer cause an ache in your heart and the bad ones…well, they seems less bad somehow."

She nodded and curled closer to him as she calmed.

It was a rare occasion that they physically touched; he typically actively avoided it with other people unless sex was involved. But when she deigned to use him as a pillow he could no more move than cut an arm off. Pleased that she was at least sleeping, Sherlock resigned himself to remaining upright the rest of the night.

The funeral services went exactly as planned, the church had been full, the eulogies lovely. For a moment Sherlock was sad he had barely known the man.

The internment was for family and close friends only, which Watson had insisted he attend. Despite his reservations he accompanied her, if only to provide support.

As the coffin was lowered Sherlock slipped his hand into hers, twining their fingers.

After that their relationship was subtly…different, there was a new, more personal part to it. Maybe he had taken for granted that he would be all she needed. That she would be with him forever.

Clearly he had been incorrect. Her need for the companionship he could not provide had eventually proven to be a force that could not be pushed aside by what had happened to Andrew.

Tapping his fingers slowly on the wood tabletop, Sherlock considered more thoroughly why this sudden date bothered him. The fact Peter was a recent suspect was merely an excuse easily clung to in order to hide the jealously that was slowly simmering his in gut.

Still frustrated he dumped the remainder of the cool tea and settled himself into the parlor to review old case files. Anything to distract his mind.

"You will be late!" he yelled up to her room.

"I will not…" she called back and he heard heels clicking on the wood floors then descending the stairs.

Halfway down he looked up to see his partner looking…radiant. Long hair was swept to one side in a low ponytail, make up done to accentuate high cheekbones and dark eyes. And her dress…oh the dress. Knee length, and deep burgundy it offset her skin tone to perfection, the front was cut low but not too low with thick straps over her shoulders, it was fitted at the top but flared out at her waist.

As soon as he realized he was staring Sherlock averted his eyes back to the experiment he had been setting up.

"Don't know when I will be home," she said and dropped her cell in her clutch, and put on her black wool coat.

A snarky comment was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. Instead pushing out, "Alright."

She looked at him oddly but started toward the door.

"Watson?" he said suddenly and then before he lost his nerve, "You look exquisite."

A faint blush rose on her cheeks and she looked down a moment. "Thanks, Sherlock. Goodnight."

"Good night."

Right now she was having dinner with another man, laughing with him, telling him stories about her life. Stories he already knew, stories he could recite as if they were his own.

Shaking his head he wandered upstairs to the media room, turning on all the televisions at once, determined not to think about her.

It didn't last long when a west coast Mets game appeared on the far left screen.

Did he enjoy baseball? If so, perhaps he was a Yankees fan, surely she wouldn't put up with that.

Glancing at the clock he realized she'd been gone two hours, long enough for a meal. Were they having drinks? Walking through Brooklyn?

Holding hands? Kissing her?

The last thought had his blood boiling with jealously, a feeling that was not all that familiar to him. But the thought of doing these things with her himself, that had a comfortable, warm feeling settling in Sherlock's stomach.

Was it possible? Could he engage in a physical relationship with her? He certainly found her attractive, smooth skin, high cheekbones, deep brown eyes that held intelligence far beyond what he initially had judged.

Sex wasn't completely foreign to him – far from it - but in those cases it was merely a physical release, something that was necessary and yes, enjoyable. But it wasn't something he required on a regular basis, it wasn't an urge as he found with most men. Then again, he put himself above most men in that regard.

Watson had pegged him on day one…he was terrified of connecting with another person which was why sex for him was a one and done. Though really he had good reason to avoid connections, the last meaningful one he'd had had ended…poorly at best. But the sex had been fantastic and at the time had had understood why men had those urges.

In this case however, he already had a connection to Watson that went deeper than that of Irene. Or anyone for that matter.

The more he considered a physical relationship with Watson, the warmer that feeling in his gut became, his body nearly hummed with excitement and anticipation. Of course, if she rejected any advances what would that do for their friendship?

Was it worth it?

The answer came to him instantly. It was.

The front door opened just past 1 am and the clicking of her heels echoed through the brownstone. Anticipation was thrumming through his veins as he heard her coat come off with a swish. This was it, the tipping point for them.

She appeared in the doorway to the parlor and paused, looking at him.

"Finish your experiment?" she asked.

Pulling himself out of the chair by the fire he responded, "No, I have begun a new, more interesting one."

Skepticism covered her face; he had seen this particular expression many times. "Do I need to know?"

"Yes, I would imagine so as your participation is of utmost importance," he replied and walked toward her slowly, the skepticism slowly being replaced by concern.

"What kind of experiment?"

As he closed the space between them like a predator closing in on prey she instinctively took a few steps backward.

"Sherlock?" she asked shakily as he pulled into her personal space, eyes trained on hers. "What-"

Before she could finish his lips pressed to hers, tentatively at first, concerned with her reaction. After an initial moment of surprise she relaxed into him, enough so that the clutch purse fell from her hands, clattering on the floor, contents spilling. Neither of them noticed. A spark had fired in her chest when his lips touched hers, one that was very welcome.

Now she was nearly desperate for him to continue and returned his kisses with fervor. For several minutes they kissed only breaking long enough to take swift, necessary breaths. His hands had found their way to her back, fingers ghosting over the exposed skin of her spine which had her shuddering under him.

When he finally pulled away with a gentle nip at her lower lip she nearly whimpered in disappointment.

"Watson, I have recently come to the realization that for me there is only you. That what I feel for you is…transcendent." He paused, now truly unsure what she would do and…nervous. "If your feelings, however, prevent you from-"

It was her turn to cut him off and she did with a hard, searing kiss, one that sent the warmth that had settled in his chest all the way to his toes. Her small hands clenched at the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer to her, as close as they could be.

As they kissed, he moved them backward until she was pressed against the wall.

Once again he pulled away and once again she felt frustration at losing contact. "Watson, if you do not-"

"Sherlock," she said quietly, need and want clear in her expression and body language. "Shut up."

With that she slipped out from under him and grabbed his hand, tugging him gently up the stairs, toward her bedroom.

TBC or FIN?

You decide. Bwhahaha!