I really just…don't even know how this happened. It was 1:30 in the morning, I was browsing through Facebook, Socially Awkward Darcy popped up, and I just…rolled with it. I originally had no intention of turning this into Johnlock, but you know how these boys are. Anywho, I use a few direct quotes from The Lizzie Bennet Diaries, which are emphasized through italics. Also, I do not own LBD. Or Sherlock. Or SAD (although I love it). If you don't know what LBD or SAD is, this isn't the story you are looking for. Kudos goes to the SAD administrators for being awesome and inspiring this story with their general badassery. If this all seems rather ridiculous and rushed…you are correct. I have no shame. (Vaguely dedicated to Ashlee for putting up with my near constant Benedict Cumberbatch spamming. Feel better, my dear!)
Socially Awkward Sherlock
The flat was silent save for the occasional faint clicks of John's fingers across his laptop's mouse pad, allowing Sherlock the necessary requirements for delving into the recesses of his mind palace in peace. Lestrade's most recent case had sounded promising at the start – not bodies, but pieces of them, strewn seemingly randomly about the city of London in an almost undistinguishable pattern – and was quickly proving its worth. Humming softly to himself, Sherlock's eyelids fluttered closed, ghostly fingers shifting frantically through shelves of information, searching out the nearly unnoticeable notation that could possibly make a difference. The fingers paused, tips fluttering softly as they caught the folded edge of a thought, creeping slowly forward as they extended themselves nervously forward. They were brought to an abrupt halt, knuckles straightening and growing instantly rigid, by a sudden low chuckle coming from the direction of the armchair across from him.
The detective's eyes shot open, glowering menacingly at the patch of hair barely visible over the top of his laptop's screen. The light strands bobbed almost imperceptibly, the only sign that the doctor was even awake on the opposite side. A second choked sound emanated from his direction, slightly louder than the first, and caused Sherlock to huff out a sigh.
"John, your distractions are insufferable," he remarked, watching as the man in question bolted upright. His blue gaze peaked over the laptop's edge, eyebrows raised in surprise and confusion as he studied his friend.
"Distractions?" the voice behind the laptop muttered, pupils darting back down to the screen before meeting Sherlock's own once more.
Sherlock frowned, lowering his hands from below his chin to the arms of his chair, thumping out an unrecognizable beat against the fabric. "Those dreadful noises you keep making, John! How am I expected to think under these conditions?"
The brows lowered and furrowed together, irritation clear in the lines they made across John's forehead. "Right, sorry. I'll be sure to keep my noises to a minimum."
Satisfied for the time being, Sherlock's lids lowered once more, thoughts attempting to drift back into their previous state of inquiry. He had not retreated long, however, before a straightforward burst of laughter hauled them upwards once more, causing him to openly gape at his hysterical flatmate. John's laptop had slid slightly down his lap, his elbow rested upwards beside him and his head in his hand as he chuckled helplessly into it, gasping as he attempted to take in necessary lungfuls of oxygen. Eventually he chanced a glance at Sherlock, falling back into a high-pitched fit of giggles at the flabbergasted expression on the man's face. His statement, once it came, did nothing to alleviate his confusion.
"Agoraphobic lobster."
John melted back into a rush of laughter, incoherent as he gestured wildly at his laptop's screen. Sherlock reluctantly stood and came to stand at his side, glancing down at the brightly illuminated display with an obvious expression of distaste. Displaced across the pixels was some sort of Internet page, Facetwit or YouTumble or some other such nonsense. Various photographs, apparently of the same central group of people, were sporadically thrown about the page, occasionally bearing graphics or text across the images. Turning to once more fix his gaze on John, Sherlock raised an elegant wrist to gesture at the screen. "Dare I ask what panic-ridden crustaceans have to do with your sudden fit of insanity?"
Attempting to compose himself enough to give a semblance of an answer, John pointed enthusiastically at the webpage. "'He's got the social skills of an agoraphobic lobster,'" he quoted off, scrolling downwards to reveal more images and comments from the page itself and outside participants. "That's you, Sherlock. You're Socially Awkward Darcy."
All thoughts of Lestrade's case suddenly lay deserted upon his mind palace's marble floors as he followed John into tucking in to the modernized adaptation of Jane Austen's classic. Despite his initial misgivings and rather vocal objections to the matter in general, Sherlock soon found himself as drawn into the story as he was to the crap telly John so often watched. After growing tired of Sherlock's constant complaining of the strain on his back as he rested on John's armchair, the pair gravitated toward the couch, curling together on the cushions as they allowed the playlist to continue uninhibited. Overall, the two remained silent save for occasional bantering commentary and soft chuckles, until the broad shouldered form of the show's mystery man appeared from over Lizzie's shoulder. John and Sherlock silently watched on as William Darcy, expression akin to a deer in the headlights, argued with a furious Lizzie and, eventually, revealed his true feelings. As the episode stuttered to its uncomfortable conclusion, Sherlock reached out a long finger to pause the playlist's progress, expression marred by a thoughtful frown.
"What?" John muttered, realizing for the first time how close their heads rested to one another's. Sherlock's face remained fixed to the screen, thumb tapping restlessly against the keys.
"That was quite possibly the worst declaration of affection I have ever had the misfortune to witness."
John let out a nervous laugh, shifting his wounded shoulder upward slightly to return feeling to the tingling area. "Just how many declarations of affection have you seen, anyway? Besides, you think you could do any better, Mister 'I dislike smiling, it contorts the face'?"
Sherlock twisted his body about, turning to face John directly. His eyes, particularly blue from the luminescent glowing of the computer screen, ferreted their way into John's focus, ensuring that his attention was completely on the detective before the man spoke. "'I've been hiding something from you that I shouldn't have and that I can't anymore,'" he parroted at the doctor, his voice low and each word carefully and slowly emphasized. "'I need to admit something to you. I didn't come back to Baker Street to continue our adventures about the criminal underbelly of London; I came to see you. Two points of me have been at war…my lack of social graces, my inability to illustrate my humanity properly…I am in a different world from you. People expect me to remain stoic and aloof, and though typically this is the case, it is not today. I have been fighting against this for months now, but John Watson, I am in love with you.'" At the last lines, adjusted slightly for their specific situation, Sherlock's voice cracked slightly, eyelids quivering to half mast as he nearly breathed out the sentence. He dipped his chin slowly, continuing to keep his gaze locked on John's in his now more vulnerable position. John sucked in a breath, biting the inside of his cheek, before the edges of Sherlock's lips crept up into a tiny smirk. He leaned forward, his breath darting across John's ear as he whispered, "That, my dear Watson, is how one declares one's affections."