What If?
The Small Print
I sat in 221B with Ginger Sherlock (Well, we needed a way to differentiate.) pawing at my leg as I typed up the last case with John. I sat quietly, typing rather furiously as I frowned at the screen. John knew what was wrong, he could just tell. Sometimes he was even more observant than Sherlock when it came to social interaction. The detective wandered in and out of the flat, boredom taking it's tole between texts, pacing before that damn Adler woman's ringtone sounded on his phone. It annoyed me. And yes, I admit it, I was jealous. He sat down in John's arm chair, texting quickly as I glared over the top of the laptop screen.
The past few days, this was all he did. He didn't sleep, didn't eat, just like he was on a case. But he wasn't. Irene Adler had been pestering him. From what I'd heard about her from John, I didn't like her. Sherlock seemed to think she was smarter than me, more entertaining than me, and obviously more attractive than me. I'd never met her yet I hated her with a passion. I generally didn't get jealous, (The Rory issue hadn't counted.) but I'd noticed increasing frustration as the detective and the woman shared texts more frequently. I was falling hook, line and sinker and the only thing I really cared about was losing to some flash cow who could be half way around the world. The fact that I even thought we were in competition made it clear in my own mind. You stupid ginger, you fancy Sherlock.
John glanced between us, rolling his eyes and shaking his head slightly. I typed loudly, hoping to catch Sherlock's attention for just a few seconds while he waited for a reply. The tone sounded again and I slammed the laptop shut, glaring at him severely.
"Can you put that on silent? I'm trying to work, you know." I snapped, and he turned to look at me in mild surprise. The phone fell down the side of the chair, a second thought for the moment. I opened the laptop once more, frowning at the screen as I continued to type. Sherlock stood, staring at me for a moment before muttering,
"You're annoyed with me."
"Well observed." I said quietly, then choosing to ignore him. It would annoy him, he needed a taste of it, in my opinion. Grating annoyance. I smiled curtly as he just stared, John wandered out to the kitchen to make another cup of tea. Possibly out of boredom. It got like this, sometimes. When we'd have pointless little arguments and bicker over silly things. It had become more frequent recently, I think John was fed up of it. There were the few moments when I thought of the poor doctor in all this, but then realised. If I backed down at any point, Sherlock would always feel that he'd win, and then no one would be able to tell him what to do if his ego took over. It was a battle of wills living with him.
"What ever I've done, I'm... sorry?" he said awkwardly. John had taught him this one in an effort to resolve arguments more quickly. But an apology from Sherlock generally meant absolutely nothing, and he'd already used this earlier in the week when I'd found a severed finger in the microwave. I ignored him.
I just waited it out. I'd so far been the only person that had ever broken his patience. It was rather entertaining to see how long he would be able to in turn ignore me. He sat at the other side of the desk, staring at me as I typed. I carried on, not even acknowledging his presence. His pale fingers tapped on the desk in strict rhythm, and I switched on my selective hearing. A few minutes passed, I heard water running in the kitchen. John was washing the dishes. He usually let our little squabbles work themselves out, avoiding us both until we decided to call a truce. And then the silence broke.
"Amelia Pond. Are you jealous?" he asked, frowning. I glanced up at him, and then back down at the keyboard. He'd earned eye contact, he was getting somewhere. I coughed lightly, and the penny seemed to drop as he muttered a surprised little "Oh." He stared at me still, in comfortable silence before he said rather sincerely, "I'm sorry." He then retrieved his phone, switching it off and throwing it down on the desk gently in plain sight. I stared at it, and then up at him.
"Thank you." I said quietly, shutting the laptop again as I picked the fat ginger cat up from under the desk. I needed to relocate Ginger, once too often he'd gotten comfortable in 221B and refused to leave. It hissed at me, and I held it at arm's length as it tried to wriggle out of my grasp. Sherlock laughed gently as I struggled to control the tabby, and he stepped in when I nearly dropped it. The cat still seemed to have a liking for it's namesake, and seemed quite content as the detective held him under his arm, patting the top of it's head. I hated my cat with a passion but I didn't have the nerve to get rid of it.
"I have to go, I promised Molly I'd help her finish packing." I sighed, glancing at my watch. Amy Pond, best friend for hire. It aided the moving process, made things quicker, soon they'd be gone.
"Ah, yes. They're making the last trip tomorrow, aren't they?" he said, eyes fixed on me as if he expected some random emotional outburst. But no. It was fine, the feeling of sinking jealousy was long gone and it didn't seem to be coming back. I would be fine. Like I always was. "I'll take the cat into your flat, Molly's likely getting impatient even if you aren't late."
I nodded, smiling slightly as I grabbed my jacket from it's usual hook. Pulling it on, I headed out of the flat before Sherlock called after me hesitantly.
"Pond... Amelia." he mumbled, and I looked back at him trying to find words out of the air. The cat mewed before he spoke, and he patted it again to shut it up. "Bridget Jones is on tonight, I thought you might want to watch it..."
I narrowed my eyes at him, breaking into a smile. He knew the way to my heart. Hugh Grant films, tea and jammy dodgers. It seemed like he didn't care, but he did. He cared enough to record all the little details, things that made me happy. Take up space in his 'mind palace' for the little things that didn't matter to any one but me.
"Are you asking me out, on a night in?"
"Possibly." he replied quickly, and then added, "Probably," before with a slight smirk he finally settled upon "Yes, Pond."
"Thought you'd never ask." I smiled, leaving the flat as the consulting detective stared after me, a fat ginger cat under one arm and a brilliant smile on his face.
The past few days, this was all he did. He didn't sleep, didn't eat, just like he was on a case. But he wasn't. Irene Adler had been pestering him. From what I'd heard about her from John, I didn't like her. Sherlock seemed to think she was smarter than me, more entertaining than me, and obviously more attractive than me. I'd never met her yet I hated her with a passion. I generally didn't get jealous, (The Rory issue hadn't counted.) but I'd noticed increasing frustration as the detective and the woman shared texts more frequently. I was falling hook, line and sinker and the only thing I really cared about was losing to some flash cow who could be half way around the world. The fact that I even thought we were in competition made it clear in my own mind. You stupid ginger, you fancy Sherlock.
John glanced between us, rolling his eyes and shaking his head slightly. I typed loudly, hoping to catch Sherlock's attention for just a few seconds while he waited for a reply. The tone sounded again and I slammed the laptop shut, glaring at him severely.
"Can you put that on silent? I'm trying to work, you know." I snapped, and he turned to look at me in mild surprise. The phone fell down the side of the chair, a second thought for the moment. I opened the laptop once more, frowning at the screen as I continued to type. Sherlock stood, staring at me for a moment before muttering,
"You're annoyed with me."
"Well observed." I said quietly, then choosing to ignore him. It would annoy him, he needed a taste of it, in my opinion. Grating annoyance. I smiled curtly as he just stared, John wandered out to the kitchen to make another cup of tea. Possibly out of boredom. It got like this, sometimes. When we'd have pointless little arguments and bicker over silly things. It had become more frequent recently, I think John was fed up of it. There were the few moments when I thought of the poor doctor in all this, but then realised. If I backed down at any point, Sherlock would always feel that he'd win, and then no one would be able to tell him what to do if his ego took over. It was a battle of wills living with him.
"What ever I've done, I'm... sorry?" he said awkwardly. John had taught him this one in an effort to resolve arguments more quickly. But an apology from Sherlock generally meant absolutely nothing, and he'd already used this earlier in the week when I'd found a severed finger in the microwave. I ignored him.
I just waited it out. I'd so far been the only person that had ever broken his patience. It was rather entertaining to see how long he would be able to in turn ignore me. He sat at the other side of the desk, staring at me as I typed. I carried on, not even acknowledging his presence. His pale fingers tapped on the desk in strict rhythm, and I switched on my selective hearing. A few minutes passed, I heard water running in the kitchen. John was washing the dishes. He usually let our little squabbles work themselves out, avoiding us both until we decided to call a truce. And then the silence broke.
"Amelia Pond. Are you jealous?" he asked, frowning. I glanced up at him, and then back down at the keyboard. He'd earned eye contact, he was getting somewhere. I coughed lightly, and the penny seemed to drop as he muttered a surprised little "Oh." He stared at me still, in comfortable silence before he said rather sincerely, "I'm sorry." He then retrieved his phone, switching it off and throwing it down on the desk gently in plain sight. I stared at it, and then up at him.
"Thank you." I said quietly, shutting the laptop again as I picked the fat ginger cat up from under the desk. I needed to relocate Ginger, once too often he'd gotten comfortable in 221B and refused to leave. It hissed at me, and I held it at arm's length as it tried to wriggle out of my grasp. Sherlock laughed gently as I struggled to control the tabby, and he stepped in when I nearly dropped it. The cat still seemed to have a liking for it's namesake, and seemed quite content as the detective held him under his arm, patting the top of it's head. I hated my cat with a passion but I didn't have the nerve to get rid of it.
"I have to go, I promised Molly I'd help her finish packing." I sighed, glancing at my watch. Amy Pond, best friend for hire. It aided the moving process, made things quicker, soon they'd be gone.
"Ah, yes. They're making the last trip tomorrow, aren't they?" he said, eyes fixed on me as if he expected some random emotional outburst. But no. It was fine, the feeling of sinking jealousy was long gone and it didn't seem to be coming back. I would be fine. Like I always was. "I'll take the cat into your flat, Molly's likely getting impatient even if you aren't late."
I nodded, smiling slightly as I grabbed my jacket from it's usual hook. Pulling it on, I headed out of the flat before Sherlock called after me hesitantly.
"Pond... Amelia." he mumbled, and I looked back at him trying to find words out of the air. The cat mewed before he spoke, and he patted it again to shut it up. "Bridget Jones is on tonight, I thought you might want to watch it..."
I narrowed my eyes at him, breaking into a smile. He knew the way to my heart. Hugh Grant films, tea and jammy dodgers. It seemed like he didn't care, but he did. He cared enough to record all the little details, things that made me happy. Take up space in his 'mind palace' for the little things that didn't matter to any one but me.
"Are you asking me out, on a night in?"
"Possibly." he replied quickly, and then added, "Probably," before with a slight smirk he finally settled upon "Yes, Pond."
"Thought you'd never ask." I smiled, leaving the flat as the consulting detective stared after me, a fat ginger cat under one arm and a brilliant smile on his face.