A/N: I'm shipping Pondlock to death, so I'm going to make a drabble series involving that pairing. I hope you enjoy, and review if you can! x
(Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or Doctor Who.)
"John could see it, though. He could see it right now."
The atmosphere in 221B Baker Street was unusually and unnervingly quiet; especially so, seeing as the television was playing some rubbishy soap- the kind of trashy telly that Sherlock constantly cursed, jibed and corrected from his position on the sofa. In fact, that was the only reason why Sherlock Holmes watched television. So he could insult it.
But today, he remained silent. Not one word word about the horrendous attempts of acting, or revealing the storylines which were 'completely obvious' when they really weren't before they'd even been shown. For once, John Watson missed the running commentary that Sherlock supplied- it was like you don't know how much you miss something until it's gone.
But that wasn't the most unusual part to this situation.
Sherlock and John hadn't been alone in 221B for quite a long time now. They'd been joined by a female, Amy Pond, who they'd met in not the most usual of circumstances- then again, John never met anyone in the usual (depending how you define the word) circumstances since he met Sherlock. But Amy… It was complicated. She turned up this one time a while back now, and she'd sort of just stayed with them ever since. And that was okay. John liked Amy. In a different way at first, but not anymore. She was his friend, that was all.
Amy and Sherlock were incredibly alike, in a way that John had never seen. They were both clever and witty and terribly argumentative- and that, at first, wasn't great for John. The two of them were constantly sniping at each other (which could last for hours. John had gone out and came back and they were still shouting the odds at each other) and John would frequently end up in the middle of these arguments. But, at one point, Amy and Sherlock hated each other so much it formed a sort of love between the pair of them. The kind of cruel, bitter but powerful love a man as complicated as Sherlock Holmes and a woman as impossible Amelia Pond could perceive.
But they would never say that out loud. Never, ever would Sherlock admit that he had certain feelings about someone. He wasn't like that. He'd keep it locked up in his cold, locked cage of a mind because that's just who Sherlock Holmes was. Amy, though, was different to Sherlock. She was so intelligent in different to the ways Sherlock was, but the way they guarded their feelings was much the same. They just didn't talk about them, and if they were brought up, they just shook it off.
John could see it, though. He could see it right now. Even from behind the screen that his newspaper created, he could see it.
Sherlock was sat on the sofa opposite, silently viewing the frankly terrible television programme with that same unblinking stare on his face. His hands were gripped tightly on each side of the chair but between his legs sat Amy. Her long, red hair cascaded over his knees, while her head lay lopsided on his left thigh.
To be honest, Amy Pond was making as close as intimate contact as she could get with Sherlock. And Sherlock was doing nothing about it.
There weren't many women in Sherlock's life; definitley none that he would allow to get as near to him as Amy. Well, there was Mrs Hudson, but that wasn't in the same context as this. There was a sort of unsaid, unmentioned but compulsory restraining order between him and Sgt Donavan, seeing as they both hated each other. Molly, bless Molly, clearly had a bit of a thing about him but Sherlock just didn't. And Irene Adler, well let's just say she was a bit of an anomaly. But Amy… Despite the heated arguments, the door slamming, the rage-enriched text messages- there had always been something between them.
The kind of love that only John saw because everyone else deemed it in impossible that Sherlock could possibly have a heart. He could see a look in both their eyes, the way their hands brushed against each other on occasion (accidentally or intentionally, he didn't know), just little things like that. The classic example of skinny love. Two people who obviously shared the same feelings but just don't realise- and this being between the man who claimed he couldn't love and the woman who was waiting. Waiting for what though, exactly?
The soap on the telly switched to the adverts, and Amy flinched from her position on the floor. "I'll just be a second."
She wrenched up, pushing down on Sherlock's knees (who didn't move an inch) and exited the room, offering John a small smile as she did so.
John smiled back and folded up his newspaper, before leaning back in his chair with his arms folded and a bemused look on his face.
Sherlock didn't look away from the advertisement on washing powder. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
John didn't even bother to ask how he knew he was looking. "Like what?"
"You're smiling, John." Sherlock replied.
"So? Maybe I want to smile." John responded.
"No you don't." Sherlock answered how he always did, "You look… Smug. You've been looking like that for the past half an hour."
"Fine." John reached forward, grabbing the mug that he'd laid on the coffee table. "You and Amy."
"What about me and Amy?" Sherlock said, still not dragging his eyes away from the telly.
"You know what about you and Amy. Of course you do." John kept smiling. He was toying with Sherlock. Something he didn't regularly take liberty in doing.
"There is nothing going on between me and Amelia, John. You know I don't indulge in such trivial activities. I'm married…" Sherlock began, but John cut in.
"To my job, I know, I know," John smirked, "But you say that as if you know what I was hinting at in the first place. I thought that Sherlock Holmes didn't even think about things like that."
There was a silence, and they heard Amy shut the bathroom door.
"It scares me, John." Sherlock's voice croaked.
That surprised John immensely. He nearly spat out his coffee. "What? What scares you?"
Then Amy burst back through the living room doors, in her usual whirlwind manner, settling back into her original position. Again, Sherlock didn't fight it off. He just let her sit there, between his legs.
Sherlock's arm had moved. No longer was it taut round the arm of the sofa. It was centimetres away from Amy's hair.
It wasn't only John that could see it.
Sherlock could see it too.