Title: The Live-In PA, Part 2
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: John/Sherlock (UST), John/Sarah (mentioned)
Wordcount: ~900
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, and I do not make any money from this fanwork.
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is Iron Man. John Watson is still his long-suffering personal assistant.

"You bought me strawberries," John says, looking over the large stack of papers in front of him to see the container Sherlock just placed on his desk. Sherlock lounges in the chair across from him, looking unaccountably satisfied with himself, like a cat that's just dragged his master a very large, very dead, rat.

"Yes, John," Sherlock replies simply. John wonders how difficult it was for him to refrain from saying something derisive. Sherlock always hates when John states the obvious. John doesn't particularly care what Sherlock hates, right about now.

"You bought me strawberries to apologize for crashing my Valentines date with Sarah?" John asks, but it is more of a statement than a question. Sherlock is fortunate it was a statement and not a scream - accompanied by John chucking his stupid strawberries at his stupid head. John is too mature to vent his anger in such a way.

He'll wait until spring and sign Sherlock up to play the Easter Bunny in every Easter Egg Hunt John can find that will take him. John will bribe the organizers if he has to - with Sherlock's money, of course.

Sherlock frowns. It is fairly obvious to John that he doesn't like that John explicitly called his offering an apology.

"Stop being angry with me," Sherlock tells him, a command more than a request.

It does the opposite of what Sherlock intends. Before, John was simply angry. Now John is very, very angry. But he is good at being quietly angry, and he's not even sure Sherlock realizes just how angry John is. That's okay: John will make it clear to him.

"Mr. Holmes," he says sharply, firmly enunciating the name. "I am your employee. I am not your babysitter, your slave, or your belonging. I worked until 11 pm for two weeks to free up enough time to take Tuesday night for myself. I informed you a month in advanced that I would need to leave work at precisely 5 pm on Tuesday, February 14th. You crashed my date by literally crashing through the roof of the most expensive restaurant in London to terrorize Sarah with your extremely personal deductions, before kidnapping me in front of 92 witnesses to work a 'case' that you solved in approximately 10 minutes."

Sherlock opens his mouth, but John shuts him up with a sharp glare as he continues.

"I know there were precisely 92 witnesses, because I had to read every single police report and will spend the rest of the day writing apologies to these individuals for disturbing their romantic evening. You will be lucky if you do not have six dozen lawsuits against you, in addition to that from the restaurant. I will be working overtime for weeks to try to clear up this fiasco, and you got your name - and worse, mine - smeared in every major newspaper and tabloid. You made us both look like fools. Ah! Don't open your mouth, because I will gag you with these strawberries. You created all this work and trouble for absolutely no reason. Rather than apologize, you bought me strawberries. Of all the food items in the world, I am allergic to exactly one. Do you want to 'deduce' what that is, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock just looks at him sullenly.

"No? You can't guess?" John asks, his tone deceptively mild.

"I don't guess," Sherlock mutters stubbornly. "You're allergic to strawberries, John."

"Yes, I'm allergic to strawberries. Good observation, you brilliant genius you," John answers dully. "Now please leave. I will stop being angry with you when I damn well feel like it."

Sherlock stares at the strawberries on John's desk like they are the root of all evil.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmurs quietly, still looking down at the strawberries. "I'm sorry, John."

John sighs, a lot of the anger seeping from him at those words. Not all of it, though.

"We'll be fine," he replies. "We always are, eventually. Now I have a lot of work to do. Please leave."

Sherlock swallows heavily: John can see his Adam's apple moving with the motion.

"I don't like it when you spend time with other people," Sherlock tells him. His voice is quiet, hushed. It is almost endearing that Sherlock thinks his jealousy is any secret: to John, or to the world.

Almost endearing, of course, is not quite actually endearing. John is still half-tempted to conk him on the head with the strawberries. John has excellent self-control, though, so he simply grabs the next document off his stack of paperwork and resumes working.

"Bring me Thai for dinner and we'll talk about it," John tells him, not bothering to look up from his pen. "Sometime between 6 and 8. Have JARVIS set you a reminder. And please, come in any suit that isn't metal."

"My birthday suit?" Sherlock questions in response. John can practically hear the smirk in his voice, but he refuses to look up and give Sherlock the satisfaction.

"If you show up naked to the office, I really will sue you for sexual harassment," John responds, ducking his head further to hide his smile. "After I trip and accidentally collide my fist with your face, of course. Now go explain to your brother why you were crashing through roofs last night. I do believe that is his car pulling up now."

"Interfering busybody," Sherlock mumbles as he walks to the door.

John just shakes his head and continues with his work. Just another day as the live-in personal assistant of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Iron Man and the world's only consulting detective.