In between looking over the evidence Sherlock has been texting someone every now and again. John keeps glancing at him whenever a new message arrives. I’m getting a little worried about the tick in his jaw. Can’t be good for the teeth.
When the phone vibrates yet again he barely manages to bite down on a sigh.
J: Is that Lestrade?
S: Hm? Oh, no. Just Nadda.
Any previous attempt of sounding neutral is ruined
when John releases a huff that borders on contemptuous. Sherlock’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
J: I don’t have a problem. Why should I? Nadda seems like a nice girl.
Sherlock’s brows crinkle up even further, as he regards John’s tense posture, the way the fingers of his left hand clench and unclench. Then his eyes widen in utter befuddlement.
S: Are you jealous?
John stops. There is no other way of putting it. Apart from a twitch in his left hand, he has frozen in place like a deer caught in headlights. It’s quiet for a second, both of them staring at each other, clearly high strung in anticipation of an argument, before Sherlock throws up his hands in exasperation.
S: Oh, for god’s sake, John. You met the woman once, you can’t possibly be infatuated with her.
John blinks. And blinks. And blinks.
J: Excuse me?
S: That’s why you have been so distracted. You are jealous. That’s it, isn’t it?
S: Well, you can put that idea right out of your mind. Not only is it presumptuous and absurd, but I really don’t think she or her wife would appreciate that kind of attention.
Completely thrown off balance by the unexpected direction this conversation has taken, John seems to have lost his ability to form words. He is gaping at Sherlock, who has gotten up and is stomping towards the kitchen.
There is definately more force than necessary involved in putting on the kettle.