Sharing Sherlock (Sherlock BBC Fanfic)

Set before Ep 3

November 22nd, 21:07

Current Mood: blah

Current Music: classic FM

Sherlock Holmes liked to be admired. Even in the first few days of their friendship, John had been well aware of this fact. Sherlock needed an audience and for some reason his hi-jinx hadn't bothered John all that much. He'd been happy to grapple with the danger of the cases Sherlock included him in and ignoring the idiosyncrasies of his new flatmate had given him something to do between times.

John didn't even mind that people tended to forget his name or the fact that he was even in the room when Sherlock was around. He'd never been one for the spotlight; fading into the background suited him just fine.

So it was hard to pinpoint exactly why he was so irritated about Sherlock's new friend Phillip Evans. Well, new wasn't the right word - they'd attended University together. Friend perhaps wasn't the right word either, because Sherlock treated Anderson with more warmth than Evans got. The man had run into them on their way back from a crime scene that Sherlock had pronounced 'only mildly boring'. Sherlock had some samples to test and Phillip apparently had access to a lab that outdid St Bart's, as well as the stuff they had at the flat so Sherlock had gone there to complete his analysis. John had not been invited. He hadn't really minded because he'd been tired, in pain as the cold gnawed on his once wounded shoulder and due to go to work later that morning. He'd had a nap on the couch and headed off to the surgery, his arm held stiffly inside his jacket. Sarah had applied a heat pack when she'd realised what was going on, though John hid it in a drawer of the desk when he had a patient. No one wanted to be treated by a sick doctor - it didn't inspire confidence.

He'd returned to Baker Street with the heat pack fastened in place by his coat to find Phillip and Sherlock emerging from a taxi. Phillip was laughing and gushing about how 'unbelievable' it was that Sherlock had solved the crime so quickly, this despite being an apparent witness to said solution. Sherlock looked like he was enjoying the praise so John was a good friend and asked him what had happened, allowing his flatmate to regale him with the tale, while Phillip interjected with a series of admiring adjectives and clarifications that just prolonged the whole process.

At the end of it all, Phillip insisted on taking Sherlock out to dinner to celebrate and John had waved them off, citing a long day at the surgery as a reason for staying in for an early night. His flatmate hadn't been fooled if the look that Sherlock shot him was any indication. John had reheated the pack in the - thankfully eye ball free - microwave and had an early night.

Phillip kept turning up after that. He'd show up in person - possibly because Sherlock didn't respond to texts, emails or voice calls - and find a way to get involved in whatever case Sherlock had on hand at the time. If there was nothing doing, then he'd entice Sherlock out to 'catch a crime before it happened', which had actually worked on two out of the five occasions he'd managed to get Sherlock to agree. Those two prevented crimes had triggered another bout of what John was beginning to think of as 'over appreciation', though once more Sherlock seemed to eat it up.

John tried not to mind that he only saw Sherlock four out of seven days of the week now; that Phillip seemed to have included himself in the cases that John had once helped out on. DI Lestrade didn't seem impressed with his replacement, if the text he'd sent John was anything to go by.

The problem, as John saw it, was that Sherlock had such a narrow social circle that any friction in said circle tended to take on gargantuan proportions. John didn't want to be one of those people who could only befriend the eccentric consulting detective when no one else would, so he made an effort not to mind that Phillip came along on the rare occasions that Sherlock would agree to have dinner out, or join John for a walk. If Phillip insisted on coming to a crime scene with them, then John would wait outside as Lestrade's patience was already worn thin enough. John was a mature adult and more than capable of sharing his friends with other people - there was no point in getting into a snit about things, after all. Sherlock wouldn't understand it, and John hated having to explain things like that to him, so it was better not to let on that Phillip's presence in their flat and cases bothered him.

Mrs Hudson had noticed, and didn't approve. She'd never said anything to John about it of course, but he had a feeling she'd button-holed Sherlock once or twice about it. John had walked in on an earnest conversation that had stopped dead when he'd appeared. His joke about having a burning ear had needed to be explained to Sherlock, who'd gone into a huff about the 'illogic' of it all. Their landlady had scolded the thin genius before telling John she was going to bring him up 'a nice spot of soup and a sandwich, you're skin and bone dear'.

Things came to something of a head when Mycroft insisted on kidnapping John to yet another disused warehouse near Canary Warf. Anthea - who didn't seem to recognise John from his previous kidnappings - was her usual taciturn self, but he wasn't too worried about the situation. Mycroft would at least take him back to Baker Street when he was finished with his kidnapping, though John had made a point of reminding Sherlock's elder brother that he had a phone. He knew Mycroft had the number.

"Ah John," Mycroft was seated at a small patio table where a pot of tea steamed beside a plate of digestive biscuits, "Sit down."

John sat, mostly because it would be rude to tower over the British Government, partly because he was feeling run down and needed a break. He'd pulled long shifts at the surgery this week to cover for a doctor who'd eloped unexpectedly and had been disturbed several times at four in the morning by his flatmates violin. Mycroft scrutinised him from head to toe and tutted.

"You really should take better care of yourself, doctor. You've lost three and a half pounds since I last saw you," the British Government murmured and poured tea into the two cups sitting on their fine china saucers, "I'll be mother, shall I? Help yourself to a digestive as well, you need it."

John bristled and folded his hands in his lap, annoyed that one brother was ignoring him and the other was bossing him about. He'd been saving lives whilst under fire only a few months ago - he didn't need a bloody keeper. Mycroft favoured him with a knowing look and added a biscuit to the saucer of John's cup himself.

"It's come to my attention that Sherlock has renewed his acquaintance with Phillip Evans," Mycroft sighed, "I must say I'm rather disappointed in him. Phillip is not at all the right calibre of associate."

"Perhaps you should take this up with Sherlock," John was proud that the words came out so even and polite. What he felt like doing was knock the table over and storm off. He was not Sherlock's keeper; he was his friend, something that both the Holmes brothers seemed to have little understanding of. Mycroft sighed and sipped at his tea, putting the cup back in the saucer with a precise clink.

"I don't think I'm wrong in saying that you dislike the man yourself," Mycroft raised a lazy eyebrow at him, "I don't understand why you haven't done something about it already. Clearly the situation is having an adverse affect..."

"Look, Mycroft," John had gotten very good at interrupting and correcting a Holmes, "Lots of people have told me, Sherlock included, that my flatmate doesn't have friends. In fact I'd have agreed with them once upon a time, because I counted myself as his only friend. A man can have more than one friend and if Sherlock chooses to expand his social circles then I'm not going to pout in the corner like some teenage girl. If you have a problem with Phillip Evans, take it up with him, or Sherlock."

"Surely you know that the fastest way to guarantee that Sherlock clings to this new associate is to forbid him... ah, I see. Very wise John. By accepting Evans into your circle you're ensuring that Sherlock will eventually tire of him and return to his close association with you. I should have seen it before - can't think how I missed it, really," Mycroft tutted, shaking his head, "You're very knowledgeable when it comes to social interactions, John. I must remember that."

A more ominous compliment, John had yet to hear. He mustered up a vague smile and sipped the cooling tea in his cup for something to do, realising only after he had swallowed it that it was drugged.

"Not to worry, it's only a mild sedative. You look like you need a decent rest," Mycroft smiled in a way that John guessed was supposed to be comforting, "I'll ensure you make it back to Baker Street safely."

John's last thoughts before the sedative took him were not at all complimentary. Part of him hoped that Mycroft was as good at reading his mind as the younger Holmes appeared to be.

Sherlock was hovering over him as he woke, a slightly stricken look on his face. Phillip was in the background, looking bored, though John knew that expression would disappear before Sherlock could turn around to see it.

"John, how do you feel?" Sherlock asked nervously, "You've been asleep for six hours."

"If that's mild I'd hate to see his idea of strong," John muttered, "I'm fine, Sherlock, just a bit groggy. If you'll excuse me, I'll head up to bed and sleep the rest of this off."

"Good idea, John," Phillip chimed in from behind the consulting detective, "That way we won't have to worry about disturbing you."

"New case, then," John surmised as he pushed himself with heavy arms to an upright position. Sherlock got that crooked little grin he always had when John had made a deduction that was correct and John grinned back at him tiredly, "Have fun solving it."

"It's more fun when you're around," Sherlock steadied him as he swung his feet to the floor, "And I'll be texting Mummy about this. It's not on, you know. Mycroft can't just kidnap you when he wants information about me."

"You spy on Sherlock?" Phillip chimed in again, ruining the warm feeling John had from his friend's last comment, "That's not cricket!"

"Of course he doesn't," Sherlock snapped, turning to glare at Phillip, "Though he probably should - we could split the fee."

"Next time he offers money for information I'll accept it," John said in a pacifying manner, not really up to explaining that little in-joke to Phillip: nor did he want to. He and Sherlock had a history all of their own - no outsiders need to apply.

Examining that last thought proved to John that he needed to go to bed, not stay up whilst compromised by drugs where he could put his friendship with Sherlock into jeopardy. He took a deep breath and stood, the roaring in his ears overwhelming whatever Phillip said in reply. Sherlock replied quite sharply and John debated staying to sort things out or leave them to it. A glance at the expression on Sherlock's face - the one John had privately labelled his 'pissed off pure blood' look - decided for him. John shuffled out of the room and made heavy weather of the stairs before collapsing gratefully onto his bed, pulling the duvet around him without bothering to undress or even get properly into the bed.

His phone chimed and he groaned, pulling it out and looking at the number. It was blocked, which meant it was probably Mycroft.

Well played. I wager he'll be out of our lives within the hour. M

Resisting the urge to text back with profanity, throw the phone or otherwise react in a way that would alert Sherlock to his brothers interference, John dropped the phone onto the duvet and closed his eyes. If the sounds below were any indication, Mycroft was right about that.

Part of John was relieved. He didn't attempt to quantify exactly how much that was.

END

Disclaimer - characters and setting as depicted in Sherlock BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.