A/N - Short first chapter, just getting things set up ;) More to come, feedback always welcome.
Chapter 1: Here Comes a Candle
"Oh I'm so glad you're taking him out, it's been a while."
Late one October evening Sherlock Holmes and I were just getting ready to go find some much needed dinner when Mrs. Hudson, our always kindly, always concerned, and, usually, presumptuous landlady appeared in the doorway. I frowned, pulling my jacket on and wondering if she was referring to either of us in particular. "No one's taking anyone out, we're going to have dinner. Out. That's it."
I really shouldn't be so snippy, but it had been a long, rather pointless day and I was hungry. I looked to Sherlock for support, but he had become preoccupied with his scarf.
Mrs. Hudson smiled blithely. "Of course dear. I just wanted to make sure you two were getting out of the house, it isn't good to sit around all day!" She waved her fingers in a rather motherly gesture of sternness before slipping back downstairs to her own apartment.
I didn't even have a chance to point out that we'd spent the entire week out, chasing down some man who had faked his own death so his family could have the life insurance money.
Looking back, I found Sherlock staring at me expectantly. We started down the stairs and out into the chilly night air. Sherlock stepped to the curb to wave down a cab.
"Doesn't it bother you at all?" I asked, rubbing my hands together.
Sherlock looked at me. "What?"
"People assuming things all the time."
"Of course it does. Assumptions are rarely based on enough facts to be anywhere near valid."
I rolled my eyes at him as a black cab pulled up beside us and Sherlock opened the door. "I meant about us, specifically."
Sherlock was busy telling the driver where we were headed. He waited for me to climb in, then slid in beside me and slammed the door. We pulled out into the last onrush of Friday night traffic.
"Sherlock?" I prompted.
My companion turned an utterly blank look in my direction. "Sorry, what?"
He was probably working out whether or not our cabby was a psychopathic killer by the fabric of his hat. I sank lower in my seat and looked out the window. "Nothing, never mind. It obviously doesn't bother you."
"Obviously not as I have no idea what you're talking about." And there the conversation ended.
We ended up at a favorite Indian place off a main street in Soho. It hadn't yet gone on the radar of trendy, so lacked in the usual clusters of fashionably dressed London youth or, worse, tourists. Sherlock and I sat at a table near the window, and even he seemed ready to kick back and relax, as much as Sherlock Holmes ever kicked back and relaxed.
And afterwards, feeling full of food and a couple (okay, maybe closer to a few) beers, the world was spinning pleasantly around me. The street outside was dimly lit by the orange glow of streetlamps, and there stood Sherlock, an icy statue amongst it all. He looked at me with a light smirk. "Feeling better?"
"Oh yes," I said, taking a deep breath of the chilled night air and fumbling to zip up my jacket. "Yes, just what the doctor ordered."
Sherlock chuckled, and we wandered down the street and down a little alley off to the side that I could only assume was a short cut back to somewhere that we could catch a cab.
"Oranges and lemons, sir."
We both stopped and glanced to our left. A scruffy bearded man stood leaning against the wall, watching us with bright eyes. He smiled when we looked at him. "You owe me five farthings."
Maybe if my mind hadn't been so muddled by the alcohol and my overly full stomach I would have been able to make sense of what was going on, but I doubted it. I stepped closer to Sherlock, watching as the man stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered back down the way we had come, whistling to himself.
"Here comes a candle to light you to bed, Mr. Holmes!" He called back, cackling softly before he vanished into the shadows.
"Come on, John," Sherlock murmured, taking me by the arm and tugging me towards the entrance of the alley, frowning.
I looked up at him, stumbling a bit. "Was he one of your people?"
"No." The consulting detective shook his head. He looked worried, and that only made me more worried. "I think perhaps we should be getting home."
I would be the first to admit it. I was buzzed. Tipsy, even, but hell, I hadn't actually relaxed since I met Sherlock, so I think I had the right when we passed one of my old watering holes on the way home to stop in and have another pint or two. I even bought Sherlock a drink, but he ordered wine of all things. Weirdo. Maybe Sally Donovan had a point.
"I'm not drunk, I'll be alright!" I tried to insist when I felt Sherlock's hands on my back, keeping me steady as we attempted to get up to our flat without waking Mrs. Hudson. I had no sooner said those words when my foot didn't quite lift high enough and I tripped, landing with a thud on the staircase.
Sherlock sat down beside me, patting my back and asking patiently if I would be alright.
"I said I'm fine," I said, sitting up. We were side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder on the darkened staircase. I glanced at Sherlock, and could tell he was pondering something. "Did you have fun?"
"Hmm?" He blinked. "I suppose, yes."
"We'll have to do something actually fun sometime."
"We do fun things a lot."
I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, your cases, that's different."
"John, if you haven't noticed I enjoy my cases. My mind needs to be stimulated, it rebels at this…this stagnation that so many people seem to find enjoyable."
"So…" I tuned to face him. We really were a bit too close for that to be anything less than awkward. "You didn't enjoy tonight because there wasn't anything for you to solve?"
Sherlock shot me a strange look out of the corner of his eye. "I didn't say that."
You were thinking it though, I thought glumly. "Fine," I said after a moment. "You're not entertained enough, I'm sorry for that, but…" I hesitated. He was giving me one of those intense, soul-piercing stares of his, and even in the gloom his pale eyes seemed to glow eerily. The light shining in through the transom of the front door threw his features into stark relief, sharp shadows against alabaster skin.
I blinked several times. What on earth had gotten into me?
I was still wondering that a second later when I found my lips pressed against Sherlock's, my hand resting on his arm. And, even more surprising, for the briefest moment it was utterly perfect; he might have a tint of frost about his personality, but his lips felt soft and warm against mine. Sherlock brought one hand up to rest in a fleeting touch against the side of my neck.
Then, abruptly, he drew back and got to his feet. Realizing what was happening, I stared determinedly at his shoes, still trying to get my head around it. I could hear him taking several long, unsteady breaths, and I did the same in an attempt to banish the heat rushing through me.
"I..hmmm…" he mumbled, as though he were pondering just another set of clues. Of course, to him, that's all this probably was.
I refused to say anything at the moment, and Sherlock turned to walk the rest of the way up into our flat. A minute later I heard the television turn on, and a soft light filled the stairs from the open door to our sitting room. I remained where I was, leaning back against the wall and feeling downright foolish.
"John!" Sherlock called. "John, get up here!"
Grumbling to myself, I stood and climbed the rest of the way into the flat. Sherlock stood before the telly, remote still in his hand, blinking in shock at the screen. I looked too. A news reporter stood in front of a blazing building with groups of firemen rushing around behind her. She said the blaze started earlier that night, and that there were no deaths reported yet but there were still people missing.
"Bloody hell," I said suddenly. "That's the restaurant! We were just there!"
Sherlock nodded.
"Reports coming in so far regarding the severity and speed with which the blaze started seem to suggest the possibility of arson…"
"Here comes a candle to light you to bed," Sherlock murmured, shutting off the television. "I'll give Lestrade a call in the morning. You should get to bed, John, you look awful."
I scratched the back of my head, still waiting for my brain to catch up with everything. "Thanks. Look, Sherlock, I - "
"We can talk in the morning. I have something I need to look up and you need to sleep." Sherlock gave me a lingering glance before he turned and strode off in the direction of his bedroom.
Running my fingers through my hair, I cast a pleading look upwards for a moment before hanging up my jacket and making my way upstairs to my room, and to my bed where I finally sank into a blissfully uneventful sleep.
