[fic]Jealous

[blown-wish.livejournal.com]

Title: Jealous
Verse: BBC Sherlock Holmes
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, implied Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Rated: R
Warnings: incestuous feelings, reference to masturbation, spousal cheating, reference to gay sex, rushed writing
Word count: 1265
Summary: John is deadly jealous of Mycroft.

She was so calm, so serenely calm as she studied his face. She would be just as calm if she shot him, right now. He tried to imagine the scene, however he did not picture himself on the floor. No, he imagined Mycroft. "Curious." John asked himself why he was carrying that image in his mind. He certainly wasn't jealous...

author's note: My attempt to fill the "why are you carrying that?" prompt is in the above blurb. I regret nothing but you might regret this.

++

How does one solve a mystery involving the world's greatest private deductive mind? Ask the world's greatest deductive mind, full stop, to solve it. This was what brought Dr Watson to his offices, which could only be described as massive, imposing and otherwise nondescript glass cage.

"My brother has entered puberty fifteen years on." Mycroft had a talent for looking as if everything bored him; and for all John Watson knew everything did bore him. Nevertheless, the fact that he had even allowed Watson into the offices of whatever government branch this was, at the time John had requested, indicated Mycroft took some sort of interest in this development. Sherlock had locked himself in his restroom for days on end, making no effort to hide what he was up to: marathon masturbation sessions. "Mother will be so pleased."

John gave up hiding his shock since the game had taken over his life, for better or for worse. Mycroft could roll his eyes all he liked, and he did. Poor John Watson and his mediocre mind paused where a Holmes' drove on. Maybe this was one of the differences between them? "It involves a case."

"And you're asking me because he's been chanting my name."

"Well..." He didn't have access to every device. Watson knew Mycroft didn't need evidence when his mind alone could parse the world into finite, tangible nodes. He was probably expecting this, years ago, and marked this calendar date specifically. "I'd like to know if you have any actual involvement..."

This office was more like a compartment made of glass sheeting punctuated by a desk. Everything inside was visible from the outside, even from the grounds. One could pass by without wondering what was being said or done, just as one could look at Mycroft's face without wondering whether the question at hand was at all pertinent. It was a false sense of understanding; one did not know what one was even looking at. "No."

"I realize," Watson tried to be patient, it was not easy, but damn it all, he had to try, "it is trying for you to actually listen to a question. But it would be refreshing if you could."

"Yes, of course you would express jealousy."

John should have expected that, and perhaps he did. It was blunt and perhaps came a bit too soon. Ah, but he wanted empathetic reassurances that his friend had a special place in his heart and all the niceties a Holmes simply didn't share with the rest of humanity. (When would John learn?) "I just want to get him out of that blasted toilet."

Mycroft turned his back and that was the end of their meeting.

John bicycled back to Baker Street, with a mind to give somehow dose Sherlock potassium nitrate, or at least turn off his wifi porn streams. This was fantasy fodder. Sherlock would figure his usual work arounds until he was done or dead.

Why was he even coming back? The Deviant Case, as he had tentatively titled it for the blog, had taken over Sherlock's life; he was obsessed with stepping into the motivations of a serial killer who stalked amateur porn actors. At first blush this seemed like a silly excuse to do "research." It had obviously gone askew and taken hold of Sherlock.

Obsessive personality did not begin to describe the man.

The apartment door was unlocked. The loo was open, and Sherlock was seated in his chair, as if waiting for John's return. "You spoke to him."

Ah. John suddenly needed tea. The cabinets were stuffed with stale biscuits, medical samples, out of date tins and, yes, there was one bloody bag of Oolong which existed only to disgust John's English sensibilities. "Anything but black tea should be contraband." He took it anyway.

"The likely killer hung himself this morning in his brother's storage closet."

John paused before he put the kettle on. "You're going to say his brother did it."

"Don't be dull, John. It was obviously a suicide. Your tendency to conflate is not endearing, despite what your wife has told you."

He was blissfully silent until John managed to pull something like a cup of tea out of that damned kitchen. "Did you clear your browser history?"

Sherlock was so kind as to present his phone. Of course John refused to touch it. "What, precisely, did my brother say?"

Oh, of course he knew John went to Mycroft. "Something about discovering puberty at twenty seven. And he knows..." John waved at him. "You he knows he is, ah, a focus of yours."

"Did he mention you?"

Bloody fucking minded bastards! John nodded. "Why do I have the feeling I'm being dragged into yet another Holmesian family drama?"

"Probably. Did he mention jealousy?"

"Yes."

He jumped up and began furiously pacing on the well worn track of what was once a glorious Persian rug. "In our adolescence he had deduced my latent homosexual attraction, given my tendency to both mimic his abilities and reject his own tendencies toward strict rationalism. My relationship with you is, obviously, my attempt to reconstruct my childhood by putting myself in his place and indulging the younger brother, somewhat. He is, therefore, indicating I would be jealous of the object of his affection--"

"I never said I was jealous of him!"

"Don't be tedious." He stopped pacing. "Mycroft doesn't have a physical object of affection. He only loves the application of logic. I am competing with a concept."

"Oh, congratulations." The tea was criminal. John wanted to make Sherlock drink it as penance. He took the cup back to the kitchen in the hopes that one day in the near future it would be washed. This was just as probable as black tea, so John rolled up his sleeves. "Are you done masturbating to your brother, since the case is over?"

Sherlock said nothing. In fact, he wasn't even there. John shouldn't have been surprised. He suspected Sherlock had left the apartment, and, of course, hollered in shock when Sherlock emerged from the toilet, pants around his ankles. "A simple no would work."

"He does have one." He pointed to himself. "I embody it from time to time. He simply doesn't approve of my non complaint nature."

"Noncompliant." Yes, that was one way to describe Sherlock's impressive erection. John couldn't have stopped staring if Mary was standing over him with an army of divorce attorneys and a sharp shooting scope. God help him.

"My hand is cramping and you've been hovering around the flat pretending not to be aroused."

John blinked. "Are you actually asking me to reenact incestuous fantasies in your toilet?"

"Will you stop being tedious?" He pulled John by the shirt and slammed the door shut.

John left the apartment hours later, paranoid that Mary would be able to sense what had happened, even if she couldn't detect any outward signs. She gave nothing away as he unlocked the door. She simply smiled as he stepped inside.

"Have you ever thought about becoming an assassin, again?" He nervously leaned against the kitchen counter as she blessed him with black tea.

"Why?"

She was so calm, so serenely calm as she studied his face. She would be just as calm if she shot him, right now. He tried to imagine the scene, however he did not picture himself on the floor. No, he imagined Mycroft. "Curious." John asked himself why he was carrying that image in his mind. He certainly wasn't jealous... anymore.

Mary narrowed her eyes.

Comments

[ancientreader]

One could pass by without wondering what was being said or done, just as one could look at Mycroft's face without wondering whether the question at hand was at all pertinent.

What a great line. What a twisty little tale!

[blown-wish.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much! You are too, too kind.