Sherlock arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes late as a hopeful first strike for the evening he had been asked to endure. Watson had begged him to go out with a woman he knew; that was one of the few things he'd said- "she's a woman I know"- and Sherlock had obviously been resistant. He didn't care for women. He didn't care for people, actually.
But he had agreed to do this for Watson on a bet that he could get her to leave less than ten minutes into the date. This was a very generous time frame, as he expected it to take no more than the introduction to do so. He was absolutely sure he'd be able to do it; Watson was somehow unconvinced, and surprisingly agreed to this. Watson had also described this woman as "a puzzle he was sure Sherlock wouldn't be able to solve." Sherlock knew this meant whoever he was going to dinner with either didn't mean much to Watson (which probably wasn't true, as everyone meant something to Watson) or that whoever it was had a thicker skin than the average woman and would be able to handle Sherlock past ordering their food.
So Sherlock agreed to go to dinner. It wasn't a date. It was a bet, one that resulted in Sherlock's sense of triumph (like he needed it) should he win (as he always did). He doubted it would result in Watson's "I told you so" bragging rights, which seldom happened. Sherlock liked a challenge, anyway. They never seemed to come his way, and if they did, they weren't very challenging at all. And aside from describing
The restaurant was his favorite in the city. If he was going to do this, he was at least going to enjoy his own meal for the rest of the evening after his guest left. When he arrived, he was led to a table with a woman already sitting idly. Watson had said her name was Riley Parker. She was dressed in a sleek black dress that hugged her body but didn't expose too much of it.
She looked at him passively as he sat down and the continued to look at her menu.
That was when Sherlock realized this would be quite different, and his assumption that this woman was thick-skinned was correct. She didn't stand to shake his hand. She didn't say her name, or make any attempt to notice him. She just read her menu, sipped occasionally from her glass of water, and then closed the menu suddenly. She looked around the restaurant, but Sherlock could tell she was always observing him from the corner of her eye.
Two glasses of wine waited on the table. Both were untouched.
"I put your food order in, boss," the waiter said as he refilled Riley's water glass. She leaned away from him casually. Sherlock noted this and made a mental note to look for other nuanced examples of physically shyness. This evening could be quite interesting, and his exit strategy could be quite easy indeed, were his hunches correct.
"The lady wanted the same and said not to wait for you," the waiter added.
Sherlock nodded. Hmm. He took a sip of wine; hers was untouched.
She shifted a half inch in her seat when the waiter kept smiling at her enthusiastically. His eyes never wavered from her face- or her chest. The waiter didn't pick up on how uncomfortable she was- but, of course, Sherlock did. The waiter kept smiling at her enthusiastically, in spite of the fact that she was obviously with company. Her wine remained untouched and she continued to drink her water. Sherlock was growing curiouser and curiouser…
She looked around theroom again. Was she going to speak? He'd never thought that a woman could sit in silence for so long without feeling uncomfortable. But it was interesting. She would probably speak soon; silence was often too much for people. They felt awkward in it. Sherlock could go days with it and still feel unsatisfied.
They were only five minutes into the date- he was keeping track.
His phone buzzed; a text from Watson read "did she leave yet?"
Sherlock responded "no. she will soon. 5 minutes left. SH"
The waiter brought their identical meals out soon after. Neither spoke as they started to eat. This sort of silence never happened in the books he read, or at nearby tables when he'd go out to eat and eavesdrop… yet she was perfectly content. If she'd sat in silence for this long, she certainly wouldn't have a problem doing it for another five minutes, at which point he'd lose. It was his time to break her silence and give her few reasons to stay.
"How about we play a game," he suggested abruptly. He leaned forward.
She stopped methodically cutting her food and looked up at him strangely, leaning back slightly into her chair. Her green eyes were lively and excited, but she didn't smile. Sherlock assumed she wasn't as upfront about her curiosity as he was, if she even had any. Most people didn't.
"For everything I guess right about you," he said, "you take a sip of wine."
"No."
"No to the wine, I presume," he said. "And not no to the game."
"I'll play. But I don't drink."
He had her right where he wanted her- he was right about the wine, and he was going to press further into the matter, because as always… He was curious. But he'd already won a small victory even before the game had been agreed upon, and this pleased him.
"If you're so opposed to wine, why didn't you tell the waiter not to pour it?"
He didn't care about the answer. He knew she'd be lying anyway. But he still wanted to see her reaction- how she spoke about her demons, and how she chose to hide them. That was what made all the difference.
"I wanted you to pay for it anyway."
He stared at her curiously. Most people in her situation would utter some sort of brief comment about being sober for "X" amount of days, months or years, or they'd just dismiss it awkwardly as something that "wasn't their thing"… some excuse that would bore Sherlock and only fuel his desire to learn more about why they didn't want to drink. And most people in his situation would've been genuinely insulted or at the very least assumed that she was joking. Sherlock seemed to understand both ends of this- though he didn't know how he felt about what she said. He wasn't quite sure he felt anything at all.
"So, you still want to play?"
"I suppose," she said. She took a bite of her food. "And we take turns. I get a go at it, too."
"Oh?"
"You need two to play a game," she said. "You need two to have a winner and a loser. That's what you want, right? To win?"
She was right, though he dared not admit it to himself or otherwise. He actually hadn't expected her to agree, let alone want to play. That's what you want, right? No, that's what he'd get. Sherlock never failed. He doubted that she'd make it through the first round without leaving.
"You first," she suggested.
He'd had this analysis running through his mind since she first sat down; he was just waiting eagerly for a moment to bring it up, and finally, that moment was here… He'd crafted this conversation so carefully, yet quickly (as always), though she secretly saw right through it. He spoke with an arrogance that she expected from him, though she didn't expect him to be so detailed and thorough.
"You seem repulsed by the mere thought of alcohol, which suggests you're either a recovering alcoholic or were close with someone who was. Given how young you look I doubt it's the former. And your fear or alcohol combined with the ridiculous amount of effort you put into avoiding physical contact- whilst, obviously, trying to look natural in doing so- suggests to me that you were drugged and raped at one point in your life."
She stared at him angrily, which told him he was right. He praised himself within the framework of his brilliant mind- a place where this often happened- and studied her further. Her reaction told him something; her body language did too, and had been all night- and that told him something else… Which told him something else...
"Sip," he said confidently. She took a small drink, her hand a bit shaky as she reached for the glass. Her eyes were narrowed angrily- but he wasn't done.
"Add that to the overcompensation of your appearance…" His words trailed off and he looked at her attire. "Your dress, trying to look like you maybe, just might've been asking for it, without genuinely asking for it… No low-cut neckline, but just the right amount of leg showing. An ever so rebellious excuse for only you to believe that maybe you did ask for it- because the thought of it happening to you when you didn't deserve it is quite unbearable, I presume. And I'd say this is something you've struggled with for quite some time, as your reflexes are quite unnoticeable to the commonplace eye-"
"But not yours, of course," she interrupted. Was she complimenting him? Either way, he knew she was right.
"Oh, of course not. The way you moved has been practiced, rehearsed, over… a few years, I'd say? Exhibit 'A' being the subtle way in which you lean away from whoever is speaking to you. You also flinch if the movement is sudden both otherwise it's a soft and slow defense mechanism. Exhibit 'B,' the way in which your legs cross more tightly whenever your waiter leans near you. Exhibit 'C,' you shift uncomfortably in your seat- only an inch or so, it's the most subtle of all your gestures- when someone looks at you for too long, though you seldom break eye contact, afraid to miss any possible advancements towards you."
She didn't take a sip this time and he frowned.
"What?" he said. "It can't all be wrong. "
"Half. Half was wrong. I don't drink for half."
He pounded his fist on the table- so loudly and obnoxiously that the tables surrounding them in the restaurant glared over at Sherlock and Riley. She half-flinched, half caught herself, as though everything he critiqued was now some aspect of herself that she needed to combat and tame. The animal in Sherlock liked the idea of this.
"Which half?" he asked. He'd venture to say it was the latter half- wearing an attractive dress was a conscious choice, though her reactions and body movements were natural and she probably disagreed that their genesis sprung from the abuse… But he was curious to see if she was willing to answer, which would tell him something else quite interesting… which would, again, tell him another something interesting...
"My turn," she said sternly, "and for everything I guess right, you have to answer a personal question about yourself. Truthfully."
Sherlock laughed. Loudly- yet again, so loudly that nearby tables looked over as though insulted twice. But she didn't budge now- her expression remained just as serious and angry as before. She wasn't insulted… Someone who was insulted would've walked away. No. She wanted to play his game… She was curious. About him.
"Will you know the difference if I'm lying?" he asked.
"It won't be very hard to figure out," she said curtly.
"Fine," he said curiously. He opened his arms in a gesture for her to go ahead.
"You're clean-shaven but your hair is long," Riley started, "suggesting you bide your time until it's borderline unruly to get it cut. Probably because the thought of someone touching you is repulsive. Maybe you're not so different from me after all. And that definitely bothers you."
She smiled with a taunting sense of triumph. It immediately bothered him. He didn't want to respond to let her know she was maybe right. Was she? No, no. She couldn't be. He hated this. He hated her. She was the most frustrating, absurd-He contemplated all her words and leaned back in his chair, studying her again- looking for something else, something to outdo her-
"And your clothes are neatly pressed and not even slightly worn in," she said. Oh God. There was more. "Which suggests you are very neat and organized, perhaps borderline OCD. But there's a very small pen mark on your shirt, which tells me you don't look in the mirror often, because if you did, surely that minor flaw in your appearance would be corrected."
Sherlock stared at Riley. He didn't know what to say, so he just nodded. SHe was right. He would give her this small victory. Riley smiled again but this time it didn't make him angry. It made him… more interested.
"What do you do when you're frustrated? When the gears of your mind don't stop turning, and you're burnt out?"
"I don't want them to stop turning. I don't burn out."
"You're lying," she said accusingly, cutting into her food. She took a slow bite. "I told you I'd be able to tell."
How did she know? She smiled at him, waiting patiently for his answer. But he wasn't going to let her win. He'd have to wait for his turn again to outdo her. Then he'd feel better.
"I play the violin," he said. "It helps keep my mind straight. Or I drink. My turn."
"No. You got two goes. I get one more."
He didn't like her sass. Not one bit. He didn't like the way she tried to outdo him- let alone the fact that she'd just succeeded in outdoing him…
"Although you're just as aware as I that this is just a set up," she began, "you waited for me to speak only until we reached a point in the evening when it was painfully obvious that I wouldn't be the first to budge. Which I doubt springs from feeling uncomfortable in a shared silence, because I doubt silence is something that makes you uncomfortable. You probably live in it. The first explanation for why you chose to finally speak is that you've simply never felt comfortable sharing silence with someone else who enjoyed it, too. And that bothers you. The second option is that your sudden interest in talking springs from a desperate impatience to manipulate the conversation into a character analysis that would end- if you were to be so lucky- with me storming out of the restaurant, and you alone. In silence."
No. A single word occupied his thoughts for a moment: no. She wasn't- NO. But he'd lived too long with his mind on high frequency without an off switch, and he was back in the game a moment later.
"It's probably the latter," Sherlock affirmed. "And that's not a guess, that's two guesses."
"I believe the latter springs form the former," Riley said, taking a sip of the water.
"All you've succeeded in doing is using an unnecessary amount of words to describe me as a sociopath," he continued, "don't look so smug."
"I don't think you're a sociopath. Sociopaths don't go on dates. And I was still right."
He was intrigued. Not about who she was- but just in the fact that she wanted to know, and evidently did know, who he was. He felt challenged, and not in an authoritative, "stop what you're doing" sort of way. He was challenged in a sort of "I can do what you can do" way… A way he'd never been challenged before…
"This isn't a date," he said.
"You owe me an answer to another question. I was right."
"You were half-right. I don't answer questions for half."
She frowned in defeat. The frameworks of his mind allowed him another little moment of pride. He wanted to beat her again, but he wanted to hear her do what he could do… It was… inviting…
"I'm going to assume that you won't tell me which half was right," she asked.
"Of course not," he said, back in his rhythm. He was winning again. He took a sip of his wine. "My turn. You have an attention to detail that-"
He almost said "rivals my own," but he couldn't bring himself to say it.
"-Is above average," he said. "Which suggests that your intelligence is above average. Watson is the one who set this whole ordeal in motion, which means he's not attracted to you- or he'd date you himself because that's his sort of thing- but he cares about you enough to set you up, but he doesn't care enough to set you up with someone who is actually capable of maintaining a relationship. You may have asked if he knew anyone single. I sincerely doubt that given my previous analysis and your obvious distrust of men. So what I'm left with is this: you helped him in some way, he felt obliged to return the favor, and somehow- in his simplistic, tiny little mind- he thought this might be a good idea."
The waiter came over to remove their now empty plates, giving her a moment to contemplate what Sherlock had said. Again, she was obviously making a conscious effort to correct her reflex reactions to the waiter's close proximity. She sat very still, staring at Sherlock. He stared back. The waiter left.
Then, she took a small sip of wine.
"I'm a psychology professor," she offered. "My therapist colleague sent Watson my way for a study I was doing. We've been friends for a few months now." She paused. "And this wasn't set up as a date. It was a request. I wanted to meet the infamous Sherlock Holmes and get a taste for myself."
"Did you now?"
"Yes."
"Well, Watson never mentioned you," Sherlock said. As always, his rudeness was unintentional; it was just a byproduct of his social disfunction.
"Yes, well, he most certainly mentioned you," she said, "in my case study about traumatic relationships." She took another voluntary sip of wine before pushing the glass away from her. This made Sherlock curious.
"My turn for a guess," she added. "You said yes to this endeavor on a bet. Probably that you could make me leave before the waiter even took our orders. What does he win if you fail to do so, which you have?"
No. She did not figure him out. Not again. Just as before, he was torn between rage and some sort of misaligned, distorted intrigue- something he didn't quite understand, but it made him curious in the oddest of ways. It was a type of curiosity he'd never felt before.
He nodded. Most ordinary minds couldn't figure any of this out; they'd be too preoccupied by their emotions- usually the negative ones that Sherlock caused- to riddle things out the way she did. It was one of those funny situations when the "why" didn't matter to most people. But "why" mattered to Sherlock. And to her… Which meant she wasn't ordinary… Was she like him?
You failed. He took a big sip of wine.
"He wins nothing but the satisfaction of proving me wrong," Sherlock said, "which is more than enough and more than I thought he would get. "
"Alright. Do you think I'm attractive?" she asked softly.
He looked her over. "Your bone structure is perfectly symmetrical, which is a scientific mark of beauty, but you have a small scar on your cheek. People probably find this small scar attractive because it brings you down to their level and proves that you have flaws. Your eyes are a bright, almost frightening green. Men notice your large lips, because- well, I don't need to explain. You're not that simple. The color of your lipstick compliments the shade of your skin very well and looks like you're trying without trying too hard. The same can be said for your dress, which accentuates all the parts of your body that men find attractive."
"But they're not attractive to you."
"Is this your personal question?"
"Yes."
"You would probably look better with straight hair," he suggested, "but the style you have now show an obvious effort in looking good, and men appreciate that, like they most definitely appreciate your dress, though your hair would hardly capture any man's attention for quite as long as that dress would."
She stared at him. He was sure that this would drive her away, though his comments weren't an outright attempt to do so. He liked playing games with someone who played back- it seldom happened, anyway. That feeling that left him torn between outrage and intrigue still remained.
Her reaction was curious; she fended off a smile. A smile, for being told to fix her hair and that her dress made her seem attention-seeking. It was a smile of relief, and then- as if to say oh, thank God someone doesn't find me attractive.
The waiter brought over their check and she reached behind her for her coat.
"Please, before you pretend to take out your wallet as a gesture that you might be willing to split the bill should I not interrupt you by saying 'oh no, I'll pay,' stop. I'll-"
"No, I'm genuinely offering to pay. I was only joking about the wine earlier. I make more than twice as much as you do in a year, anyway."
Sherlock looked at her curiously. He had never… He couldn't… His mind was no longer a framework of brilliant thought- his scaffoldings were being pulled down, piece by piece, limb from limb. And he… enjoyed it. Everything felt congested and fogged. He tallied the score of their little game in his head. He'd been right twice, with one half-correct answer that resulted in no sip of wine. It was the worst score he'd ever earned. It was the only score that didn't result in a one-oh, in a quick, clean victory. And her score…
Was exactly the same as his.
She took the check and handed her credit card to the waiter. Sherlock sat in hidden awe and took another gulp of wine.
His mind… it was still fogged. He was just looking at her- and suddenly she wasn't a puzzle. She wasn't an array of fragments spread out before him- fragments that he ached to put together, to understand like no one else would be able to…She was no longer a plethora of scattered plot points on an indecipherable graph… She was a beautiful woman, and something in him ached for something he didn't understand… She was a beautiful woman with wavy brown hair; and startling green eyes; and big, red lips; and soft-looking skin; and a finely shaped body that something in him ached for, but still didn't understand; and a smile that… No…
No.
"You were wrong about the former and the latter being intertwined," he said, referencing one of her first analyses from before. "I've never met a person I felt uncomfortable sharing silence with before."
Before. Before you. It was his last play- his last attempt to cut her down and make her never want to see him again. A last chance to push her away… And it was a play he'd never used before: acting warmly to get a cold response. Inviting someone in so they'd push him away.
He'd never been… warm to someone before.
He'd never had to… try before, and yet…
She was cold and uninviting, but… he still wanted- No. Was this what other people felt like around him? People like Watson, who'd stay because they were intrigued, not because they cared…
Half of him wanted her to take the bait and believe him. This half of him actually enjoyed their shared silence. The other half- the Sherlock he'd always been- knew it was just a play. A play to win. Something in him didn't want this. It was the something that made him an animal. A predator, a natural born killer with a squeaky clean getaway record… until tonight. And then-
"Bullshit," she said.
No analysis. No explanation. No harsher words, though he was sure they were swimming in her mind like a vicious tornado, and he was sure that some of these words were dancing on her tongue, desperate to escape. He could tell by looking at her confused expression. He'd gotten what he wanted: a cold response. But it wasn't cold. Just as his remark wasn't fully genuine, and yet…
A happy grin crept up her face as it had before, when she'd felt triumphant. Grinning was not a shock for her. It was nothing new. This was obvious in the way she smiled- in how natural it was, just as her physical shyness had become equally as natural, as unnoticed. The idea that someone who had evidently suffered such a trauma could still smile like that… It intrigued him.
"I mean it," he said.
"You're an idiot," she said mildly.
He fought to suppress a smile- and failed. It twitched at the corners of his mouth for a brief second before it disappeared suddenly- but not before she could catch sight of it. It made her keep smiling, too. He found himself working very hard to suppress the brief twitch of happiness playing up on his lips again. Nobody had ever called him an idiot before…
