DISCLAIMER: I have no affiliation whatsoever with Moffat, Gattis, or Arthur Conan Doyle, to whom all the credit for this universe belongs. Aside from the fun I had writing it, I have not and will not profit from this story in any way.
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John doesn't object to vodka martinis. There's something about him that implies he might, that he'd hold out for tradition – some note of fixed and staid and old guard that gives people ideas. It's obvious where this assumption comes from – Sherlock could categorise it in a thousand different ways – but they all fall away under scrutiny. It's all surface; none of it is John.
John doesn't object to many things (and Sherlock would know; he's run through the whole list of them). When John orders, he makes that same silly joke, again – and the waitress brings it out shaken, though Sherlock suspects John would really prefer stirred. But John is endlessly tolerant, even if he is given to rather vocal complaints and grudging (all the while, of course, giving into Sherlock, giving him what he wants). John is accommodating and easy, and he doesn't bother with ranking and ratings, not with things already deemed "good." Black and white works for John – no need to protest, to go looking for greyscale in-betweens and uncertainties.
John doesn't object later, either, when Sherlock pushes him back against the leather of the booth, slipping a knee between his thighs and he tastes brine on John's lips. Olives, his mind supplies, but John rises against him like the sea and digs his fingers into Sherlock's scalp like a drowning man and, oh, this is something Sherlock didn't think to account for, and –
John nips at his lower lip and bites his tongue, and Sherlock's fingers fist, helpless, in the corduroy of his jacket, choking on his own breath, and he couldn't have predicted this all, he hadn't – the corner of his jaw, his pulse point, the soft skin behind his ear – John.
John is a locked room, John is identical twins with their fingertips acid-burnt away, John is a river reversing direction and Sherlock's fingertips are scrabbling like he'd never allow them to on the neck of his violin and he tries to take in a deep, controlling breath but his lungs are sunk shallow and grey as he presses himself into the thin line of John's mouth, into its lovely quirk and wicked tongue, and John's fingers shiver across his ribs, sparking a hiss of cool breath.
And then John is pulling back and Sherlock trailing after him – blinking even in the low light, pupils shot through and spiralling like spider web – and Sherlock gasps air through his nose, pushes John's name across the table like a question. The low, Underground rumble of his voice is shameful – he can imagine Irene Adler smiling behind her hand.
"The food," says John, and his finger twitches self-consciously where his sideburns meet his scalp. "Any second, and – Sherlock." There must be something in his eyes, and Sherlock fights to turn it off. "Sherlock, just –" and John's hand is on his thigh, and Sherlock is certain he's not shaking, not lilting into the touch.
"Home," he murmurs, and John laughs low into his glass.
"You're going to eat," he says, and has another sip and his tongue smacks with the strength of his drink. "Mmh. Sherlock. It'll just –"
Sherlock grabs John's eyes the way only he knows how and he'd have him there, he'd have had him just like that, but then the waitress chooses that moment to bring out the food, a platter of greasy chips and fried bits of fish and John's eyes are on her, thanking, grinning, flirting unconsciously, and Sherlock fights the urge to pout, feels his features gathering around the corner of his mouth that John had bruised not so long ago, grief and anger rolling up and spitting through his lips that always would rather have parted and pressed Sherlock to the floor.
"You're going to eat," John repeats, and the waitress is gone, and John's smile is quiet and low and wicked, and his voice drops an octave. "You're going to eat every bite, because you're going to need your strength," and Sherlock's blood flashes cold for a second, but he doesn't object – he just reaches for the malt vinegar, and John smiles at him and nips the second olive off his toothpick.
"Good," John says, and Sherlock snatches, dips, chews – watches John's eyes on the grease on his lips. "Good." John's fingers slide up his inseam and Sherlock's thighs twitch beneath the table. He's going to need his strength.
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Notes:
All my life, nobody ever told me I might like olives. It's a crime.
Apparently getting tipsy and posting tumblr fic is something I do now. This has been cleaned up a bit in the light of day but I apologize for any errors or weirdness. Thank you for reading!