On an underwhelmingly pleasant day, Sherlock decided John was his. He came to the conclusion while he lounged on the couch in their flat—shooting holes in a picture of Mycroft he had pinned to Mrs. Hudson's already damaged wall—and began to reason out why exactly John was his or what John was to him that he could own him. It was not often that Sherlock couldn't put words to his thoughts, and it was not often that he was so stumped that he considered asking someone. Of course that wasn't actually an option, so he shot another three holes before he reloaded the six shooter pistol. He raised, aimed, fired—
One. John was not his friend. Sherlock Holmes did not have friends, unless it was beneficial to say so. He talked to John, and he knew John's habits, but normal people were so simple to catalog. They were boring but
Two. John wasn't boring. He was often near Sherlock on boring days but was never a cause for more boredom or grief. His blog could be quite an annoyance, but Sherlock didn't hold that against him. He was, after all, an average and flawed man but
Three. John was not entirely average. John had an iron stomach and a morbid curiosity; he was one of the few humans that could accompany Sherlock to a gory scene and walk away laughing at some joke about Lestrade or Sally. He was not ever shellshocked and
Four. Sherlock supposed he liked John. He had to like something to want to posses it, and John was his. John lived with him and picked up things for him, and Sherlock did not want John to leave. If John left, no one would clean the table or fold his jeans or buy milk or talk to door-to-door salesmen or pick up his phone when he was busy doing other things but
Five. That wasn't an answer, was it? He could think of no one that made him feel quite the way John did. It wasn't sentiment. Sentiment was trite and weak and ill-advised. Sherlock did not do trite or weak or ill-advised things, but he thought of John grinning like a maniac, his psychosomatic limp left somewhere in a neuron tangle, red-faced and
Six. John was his John. It was that simple. Sherlock reloaded the gun, but John stepped in right when he was about to fire. He sighed. "I'm bored, John. Is there anything on the website? I told you I wanted you home by now. Today has been utterly dull."
The laptop was beside the couch, an arm's length away, and while John groaned, he picked it up and handed it to Sherlock anyway. He then stomped off into the kitchen, clutching cellophane bags. "You didn't tell me anything. You were probably talking to yourself again. And stop shooting holes in the damn wall. Mrs. Hudson has already charged us—"
"Oh look. A murder. Fascinating." Sherlock grinned. "John, get your coat."
John peeked out of the kitchen, lips drawn in a frown, but he got his coat when Sherlock stood to hastily dress and locate his shoes. "I was going to go out with—"
Sherlock was halfway out the door, and John followed, chattering complaints. His John.