"Sherlock, please look at me," John instructed, watching as the consulting detective continued to stare at the blank wall for a moment longer before leisurely turning to face his husband. He tried to ignore the unfocused look in Sherlock's eyes, reminding himself that he was probably listening, just pretending as if he wasn't. Probably…
"Yes, John?" His voice was cool and relaxed. Almost too relaxed, in John's opinion.
"Tonight is a big night for Amelia," he reminded him, though he was sure Sherlock was well aware. "This is her first real date, and she's very excited. She likes this boy a lot, Sherlock."
"I know this already, John," he sighed, rolling his eyes childishly. "Why are you telling me this?" When his eyes landed on him again, John fought the urge to groan out loud. Of course Sherlock knew why he was speaking to him right now. He had known the reason for this conversation before it even began, most likely. He just wanted John to suffer through trying to word it properly.
"Because…" He pursed his lips, searching for the right words. When Sherlock's head tilted in mock interest, he gave up trying to be nice. Bluntness would be better. "Because I don't want you to be your usual self and scare the boy off. Amelia wants this to go well, and she could do without your… deductions. Just for tonight, Sherlock. For your daughter, please don't be an ass."
Sherlock sighed dramatically and stared at the wall again, as if deep in thought. After a moment, he nodded slightly. "Very well," he resigned.
John visibly relaxed, the pressure of keeping Amelia happy lifted a bit from his shoulders. At least for tonight, he wouldn't have to worry.
When Amelia answered the door to let her date in, John and Sherlock were standing a respectful distance away, watching with feigned nonchalance. John had to remind himself to take deep breaths and trust his daughter's choice of boys, hoping she wouldn't be going anywhere with a bum, or a jerk, or a serial murderer that would trap her in an ally and oh my God his daughter was going off with a killer, wasn't she?
Beside him, Sherlock leaned over, as if sensing his unease. The taller man's reassuring smile grounded him for the moment, long enough for John to shake hands with his daughter's date.
"Grant," the boy introduced himself.
"John Watson," he answered. The boy had a firm handshake, but it wasn't stifling. He was tall and slim, with light hair and eyes. He looked nice enough. "This is my husband, Sher—"
"Grant, I appreciate the fact that you are being safe, but I can guarantee you the condoms in your pocket will not be necessary, considering this date will no longer be happening. If you are one to expect to shag my daughter on the first date, I don't believe I'd like to see you anywhere near her again. Is that understood?" Sherlock took a looming step toward the boy, and in response he basically catapulted out of the flat, his face bright red.
"Oh my God," Amelia whispered, covering her face. John felt like doing to same, but just rubbed his temples instead.
"Amelia, you will thank me later. That Grant boy only wanted to—"
"Oh my God, Dad," she shouted, her fingers curling up to look like claws. She grated her teeth for a minute before storming off down the hall.
"He wasn't a proper date for you, Amelia," Sherlock insisted, beginning to follow her down the hallway.
"Shut up!" Amelia screamed, her door slamming in exclamation.
John sighed and walked off to his bedroom. And he had thought nothing would go wrong… How naïve.
"Dad, you'll be nice this time, right?" Amelia nearly begged, her face already turning a tad pink. She paused at the door, her fingers hovering over the handle as she waited for an answer.
Unwillingly, Sherlock smiled his most polite smile. "I suppose," he answered, not sounding so convincing. Even less willingly, Amelia opened the door to reveal a well-dressed, well-groomed boy. He grinned at everyone in the room while entering, immediately reaching to hold Amelia's hand.
"I'm Walter," he greeted, his voice unusually bright and rhythmic, like a song. Sherlock stiffened, his jaw working underneath his fake smile.
John nudged his husband, feeling the air tense up. "Don't you dare," he warned, well aware of what each of them were thinking. He'd be damned if he was the one to say it. And if Sherlock was the one to say it, he'd probably be damned as well.
"Nice to meet you, Dr. Watson," Walter greeted, stepping forth to shake his hand happily. "And you, too, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock almost went in for the handshake, but at the last second pulled back and muttered something under his breath, his smile faltering.
"Sorry, sir?" Walter asked, and John really wished he hadn't.
"Are you sexually attracted to my daughter?"
"I, uh… What?"
John sighed and turned to the nearest wall to rest his forehead on, a headache creeping up.
"I just feel rather uncomfortable with you dating my daughter when you don't feel the slightest bit of attraction to her is all," Sherlock explained, and Amelia was already slamming the door to her bedroom shut. "When you exhibit more physical attraction toward my husband than my daughter, I tend to realize you may be using her as a decoy for your blatant homosexuality. As a man with a husband, I assure you coming out of the closet will end just find for you." He began to usher the boy out the door. "It gets better, you are still loved, you were born this way, blah, blah blah." He shut the door promptly and turned away, huffing as if it had tired him out.
John glared at his husband, then silently pointed toward their daughter's bedroom. Without a word, Sherlock slumped his shoulders forward and walked to Amelia's room, already muttering apologies.
"Please, Dad," Amelia pleaded.
"I'll be good, I promise," Sherlock said, his face stoic. He had compromised that if he didn't have to smile, he wouldn't deduce anything about her date.
The door opened, revealing a young man holding a rose and donning a cheeky smile. He looked Amelia up and down, nodding as if in approval.
"No." Sherlock stepped forward and slammed the door in his face, ending the date before it even began.
Well, he hadn't deduced anything out loud. It was an improvement, John had to admit.
John waited in the kitchen for Amelia to bring her date inside. When he came into sight, John immediately walked forward for a handshake. It was limp and a little too warm, but he figured it was only a handshake, nothing vital.
"I'm Amelia's father, John Watson," he greeted.
"Hi, John," he replied, sounding a little too friendly. Maybe that wasn't a bad thing, though. "I'm Trevor."
Trevor was a little taller than Amelia, and slightly thicker around the abdominal area. He looked kind, though, with soft eyes and a crooked smile. He wasn't an ugly boy, but he was certainly chosen by his daughter based on personality more than anything, he assumed.
"Nice to meet you, Trevor," John said, smiling politely. Standing behind her date, Amelia looked relieved. She pulled on his elbow, starting to say goodbye so they could leave for the date.
"Do not let them leave, John!" Sherlock's voice echoed throughout the flat, seeming to come from nowhere. Trevor startled and looked around in confusion.
"Daddy, you promised he wouldn't say anything," Amelia whined, her face flushing.
"He's in our bedroom," John insisted, furrowing his brow. How the Hell had he deduced anything from there?
"I can smell the marijuana on him from here," Sherlock continued, sounding muffled but sure of his deduction. John imagined his husband pressed up against the bedroom door, sniffing and listening intently. "He's got more in his car, which our daughter will not be going into."
"Oh my God," Amelia huffed, grabbing Trevor's arm. She pulled him toward the door, her face bright red. "We're leaving. Now."
"No you're not, young lady," Sherlock shouted. "Don't make me come in there." The threat was followed by the sound of a rattling doorknob, which only made Amelia walk away faster.
John stepped up beside his daughter and ripped her hand from her date, promptly shoving him out of their home and shutting the door in his face. He tried not to be too offended when Amelia tore herself away from him and ran to her room, practically frothing at the mouth.
"I hate Dad," she screamed, slamming her door so hard the picture frames in the living room shuttered.
"He means well," John attempted to defend his husband. Sighing, he plopped onto the couch, throwing his head back. Quietly, to himself, he added, "Most of the time…"