Sherlock was bored.
Very bored.
Deathly bored.
No case on, none in the queue, no gun.
The tea had gone cold that John had left for him just one hour previous; or thereabouts due to temperature of the offending liquid. Sherlock was only mildly irritated at the coolness, more so at the tannic quality it had took on, and voraciously at the light filming on the edges of the milk in his mug.
Brilling at his edges, Sherlock could take the silence no longer.
"John!"
A whole minute passed before Sherlock called again.
The sound of his voice was the only sound reverberating the walls of their flat.
Fine, he would entertain himself.
Slowly rising from his sulk on the couch, Sherlock headed towards John's personal rooms to re-organise the man's socks.
Well, he had to start somewhere...then possibly move to his shirts in the wardrobe...John was so very much in need of better...
Sherlock's thoughts stopped as his hand skimmed what had to be some form of cheap satin buried deep within the bureau. His curiosity peaking when the little swathe of fabric made its appearance on the finger he had used to hook it with. The almost offensive thing was preciously tiny bits of elastic and thin satin with some sort of patterning to it.
This could not be John's.
It was in his sock drawer, so possibly sentimental. John had a habit of squirreling away things of meaning to keep them out of the scope of Sherlock's curiosity, so this was a true find. Placing it in his pocket, he rearranged the drawer back to it's previous state, before heading back down the stairs.
Setting himself up at John's laptop, it whirred to life.
I really should get him a decent external drive and maybe a new laptop all together...accidentally break his after he backs everything up onto the new external...well and I have a primary copy ready just in case...
"Let's see exactly what it is you are, shall we?" Sherlock was muttering to the offensive piece of fabric as he pulled up Google. "I would love to know why you are so important to him."
Search? Thin material three strings satin...
Not entirely helpful...flip flops? Images...
"This is not plastic." He states out loud to the emptiness of the parlor.
Ah, but here are some that are looped and beaded...
"Interesting." He shrugs, looking again at the material. "Not quite right though."
No. Not correct. Redefine search. Red Satin three string material...
Images...
"Oh...my..."
Does he wear...
Search. Men's satin red string.
Navigate. Open new tab.
"John..."
Sherlock blushes furiously his gaze now riveted to the small undergarment. After doing some rapid research he discovers that what he is currently holding is the female version of the particular style of pant, if one could even call it that.
There were so many variations as to cut as well as fabric, then there were the elaborate ones with holes, bows, beads. It was a plethora of 'panties' that now had Sherlock ravenously curious. Closing his eyes, he envisioned John putting them on, how the little swatch would not even begin to completely cover his genitalia.
Sherlock knew this from 'interrupting' John's showers or morning routines for the past two months. He had become insatiably curious about him, first to visually verify and complete Sherlock's mental image of John, but recently he had wanted to catalogue 'feel' and 'taste'. He was no child, but had very little in this avenue of personal experience.
Time to educate himself it seemed.
First to purchase a gift though...that is what one did when wooing...
Hours later, John comes home.
Ascending the stairs, the cheery warmth coming from their flat and some piece that Sherlock is ruminating on welcomes him into their parlor. He smiles, says a word of welcome then moves toward the kitchen before stopping in his tracks.
"Sherlock? Been doing a bit of cleaning, have we?"
What John was alluding to was the fact that the kitchen was not only devoid of the usual dregs of their normal routine, it had been well and truely sanitised. Even Sherlock's laboratory equipment had been removed from their table. In it's stead, the table was set for dinner, all the way down to a borrowed tablecloth to hide the scarred and stained wood beneath it. A very nice cast cast iron roaster sat pleasantly waiting on it's trivet, basket of hearty bread, a nice red wine had been corked, and there looked to be a dessert under a glass covered stand for later on the counter.
"You've covered all the bases for a date, I see you've been keeping notes." John spoke, mirth filling his words. "Want to tell me what this is all about then?"
"Momentarily. The meal still needs eight minutes to cool. Think you could clean up in that time?" Sherlock threw the words over his shoulder, returning the query with the light challenge, never ceasing his playing. "I'd get a move on, wouldn't want to spoil dinner. Seven minutes now..."
John gave a short laugh and left the room, Sherlock assumed to play along with whatever it was that he had planned for the evening. He was mildly nervous, if one could call it that, at the prospect of seducing John, but he felt not entirely out of his comfort zone at this point. Especially after the crash course he had received at the shop that early afternoon while the kitchen had been cleaned.
Placing his violin in it's case he then entered their kitchen and lit the little candle in the center of the table. He had promised Angelo that he would after the chef had asked him to do so in repayment of the specially prepared meal.
"Sentiment, Sherlock?" John asked as he leaned against the doorway.
"No, a promise kept is all. Come eat, please?" Sherlock tried to seem calmly docile, but felt John could see right through him. "I'll pour?"
Without waiting for an answer he poured both their glasses and then sat expectantly. John followed suit a breath later, smiling bemusedly as he sat.
"Alright, care to tell me yet?" He asked as Sherlock plated for him.
Dinner really did look and smell marvelous. It was a wonderfully hearty stew full of all sorts of veg and thick cuts of meat, it would go wonderfully with the wine Sherlock had paired it with.
"Isn't it obvious? You alluded to it earlier John." Sherlock answered primly back with an upturn to the corner of his mouth. "You tell me."
"So this is a date then? Between you and I?" John looked pleasantly confused, but his voice sounded of business. "So we are having a private dinner, is it. Away from security cameras? I noticed you had drawn the inner curtains, but had thought that because of the chill."
"So far, remarkably well done John," Sherlock replied. "What else can you tell me?"
"Well the kitchen was professionally cleaned, possibly. I do not think Mrs. Hudson capable of the feat in the few hours I was away at work, let alone with no one helping her." At this, John pointedly stared at Sherlock. "Other than that, I'd say the floors are spotless, which again lends itself to professional. Someone you trust obviously, given the 'sensitivities' of most persons and body parts."
"Go on..."
"You also greeted me with a warm hearth, and were playing, which is normally in apology, but I don't see anything burned to a crisp or exploded, or bleeding anywhere. Then there is the meal, table all set with a nice dinner, you lighting a candle. Primary deduction: This is a date. Between us."
Sherlock brightened, enjoying the game. "So tell me then John, what happens after dinner?"
John surveyed the meal, as if he were deciding if it would keep through a re-heat. He must have decided so because he looked gleefully intent before shifting back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest before speaking again.
"Why don't you tell me 'Oh masterful note-taker'?" His tone light and teasing. "What happens next...on a date...with me?"
"Just one moment...I'll be right back." With that being said, Sherlock stood from the table and went to his room, grabbing the bouquet he had procured. He strode back in to find John waiting in their parlor in his chair, dinner forgotten. Handing the arrangement over gracefully with a slight tinge of hope in his eyes as John received them. "I believe a gift of a bouquet is sometimes helpful in these matters..."
"Sh-sherlock...These are..."
"Lace. Fine quality. So much better than the one I found upstairs...and why only one John, if you enjoy this sort of thing?"
"Sherlock Holmes!" John stood up, the artfully arranged panty bouquet still in his left hand. "Why in the hell were you in my bureau?!"
"Indexing your socks."
"Holy mother- Sherlock you cannot go into peoples private things like that-"
"But John, I accept and embrace your fetishes. I hand picked these for you...for us."
John stood in stunned silence as the realisation hit him.
"Sherlock, those weren't mine...they were-"
"John, really, you don't have to hide from me. The shop mistress said that it is perfectly normal for most men to hide this type of fetish, which is why men of my stature most often have them bespoke at her shop..."
"You...had these..."
"Yes, made exactly for you."
"No!" John flailed helplessly, rubbing his head with his free hand before dropping his shoulders and chucking. "Only you, Sherlock holmes, would deduce a kink, weather I have it or not, and go have knickers made only for my body, which we will discuss later, on a first date."
"Does this mean it isn't as successful as I had planned?" Worry slightly tingeing Sherlock's words.
"No you blessed idiot," John took the step that closed the gap between them, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck before kissing him deeply before pulling his mouth ever so slowly away. "It's perfectly you."