Still The Addict

Monogamy Isn't Monotony

(John's POV)

Sherlock kneels by the table, surveying he body up close with his magnifying glass. He's eye-level with the corpse on the table, one arm flipping over the side as Sherlock grips the wrist, turning it over and inspecting particles of dust under the fingernails. "Scrape under there," he advises Molly, who, flustered, nods and begins to work without an objection or even thought to the process. Sherlock turns, grinning at me with twinkles deep in his eyes. That look he gets when he's truly immersed in excitement. I love that look; it's so pure and a purr Sherlock is a rare sight. "The victim was found in an abandoned building. There could be forensic evidence in the dust gathered under his nails,"

Molly blinks in confusion. "Why didn't the forensic tech think of that?" She wonders aloud at the now seemingly obvious overlooked evidence.

"Because Anderson was the LFI and he's an idiot," Sherlock replies curtly the hidden resentment evident in how his mouth turns down and his nostrils flare slightly. I smile a little, unable to his my affection at how adorable he looks when he's irritated. I've never noticed it before, but he's really cute when he's angry. Thankfully it's something I often have the pleasure of experiencing. Sherlock stands up suddenly, clicking his fingers and swooping out the room, long coat flowing behind him.

"Well, I guess that's solved then," I chuckle to Molly, who's just staring. I wait a few seconds, and she never breaks eye contact. "Is anything... the matter?"

She doesn't move. Frozen in time like a Greek statue, locked into a thousand year stasis. Finally she blinks, breaking me of the trance her icy glare held me in. "How long have you been in love with Sherlock?"

I laughs, but it manifests as a series of gasps and wheezes. Leaning back against the table to support myself, I'm aware of how my eyes glance everywhere but into hers. "I'm not in love with Sherlock. Really," I lie blatantly, but I don't even know why. I'm well past the point of being ashamed of my attraction to the detective. We have a very limited social circle anyway, and everyone has their suspicions of us.

"John, really, it's a good thing!" She encourage, placing her hand lightly on my forearm. It's calming, her crooked smile not exactly reaching her eyes. Sherlock isn't the only one who can observe, and he's somehow always been blind to Molly's devotion. "Just, can I ask exactly what you are to one another? Like, are you gonna get married?"

That's a good question. It's the kind of question Sherlock would ask. The kind of insecurity I'd expect him to have. What exactly are we? What's our relationship? 'Lovers' doesn't seem right. It's too causal a term. And 'partners' is redundant. We've always been partners. So...how do I define us? Do we need a definition, or can we be one of those hipster couple who rejects having labels attached to them?

Those couples never stay together for long.

(Sherlock's POV)

The clock is tickling too slow. John is skimming the newspaper. He's been on the same page for forty minutes. Maybe there's a really interesting news story about a cat. That's a possibility. "John?" I ask, apparently rather tersely, since he looks up I'm alarm. A teacup is left hanging from his curled index finger. He might spill his tea. I would really hate to be responsible for a tea spillage. "Something has been bothering you. Tell me what,"

Concise. Straightforward. People want that from a lover - John should learn to appreciate me more. He puts his teacup down and folds up he paper, scratching the back of his head in defeat, admitting that he's just really easy for me to read. "It's just...Sherlock, what are we?"

I blink. It's the kind of question I'd ask, the kind of insecurity I'm familiar with having. But this time it's the other way around and I'm lost. John is so good at reassuring me, consoling me. Coming up with perfect answers to my complex and confusing questions. Why can't I be that for him? I need to think quickly. It isn't even something I've considered! "We are..." I think about all the aspects of our relationship. "Monogamous, John. We are monogamous. As in, together,"

"That's it?" He looks skeptical and...disappointed. "Just 'together'?"

"Being together is much better than being alone," I try awkwardly. It's awful, but it's a save. It's a lame save. Thankfully John is lame and romantic and leans over, gripping the front of my shirt and kissing me. Since my skin is pale, a hot blush flourishes on my cheekbones. John finds it cute. I am Sherlock Holmes I am not cute!

"Thank you Sherlock. Really," he leans back. "I feel better,"

"Good I nod happily.

"Nobody could feel insecure when they're saying everyone favourite social pariah," he mumbles it, but I hear.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," John smiles that goofy smile of his again. "Shall I go pop the kettle on?"

My turn to grab a broadsheet and pretend to read. "That would be lovely, and a couple of biscuits while you're at it,"