John arrived at the door of 221B still pleasantly buzzed from the heroine he had picked up from Mike earlier that day. He was feeling confident. Nothing was going to go wrong tonight, he was just going to do this favor for Mycroft and then be done with it.
It isn't a date, he reassured himself.
There was a note tapped to the door of the apartment.
Hi John, I'm getting dressed. The doors open. Come inside and make yourself a drink. -SH
John took the invitation and walked into the cluttered apartment. The living room looked as if a small tropical storm had made its way through the middle of it, a random hodge podge of papers and items strewn about the area. Tea mugs and petri dishes were equally covered in mold and John tried not to shudder at the sight.
"John," a deep baritone echoed out in the room.
John turned around, confused. There was no one in the room except for himself.
"Jo-hn" the voice taunted, drawing his name out to two separate syllables. John held out his hands in the universal stance of frustration. "I'm on the intercom." John could hear the smirk in Sherlocks voice.
"And where is the intercom?" voice laced with thinly veiled exasperation.
"It's on the wall next to the skull, to your right."
John turned and walked towards the mantel, seeing the skull but not the intercom itself.
"Warm," Sherlock encouraged, obviously able to see John from where ever he was in the house. "Warmer," He continued as John stepped closer to the skull, spotting the grey box just to the right of the wood mantel above the fire. "Disco."
"Hello?" John tried, holding his face embarrassingly close to the wall.
"Push the button if you want to talk." Amusement oozed like molasses
"Hello," John tried again, pushing the button and trying not to be too flustered.
"Go make yourself a drink and I'll be down in two shakes of a Lambs tail." John raised an eyebrow at the expression but said nothing. "The bar is by the bookcase."
John shuffled his feet momentarily before reaching back over to the wall and pushing the button again.
"Okay."
John went over to the bar and poured himself a whiskey while upstairs Sherlock mixed himself an entirely different cocktail, his seven percent solution not holding up to its normal par Sherlock had decided that for tonight, and only tonight, he would risk the health of his nasal passages and prepare his cocaine the traditional way.
Fine lines of powder lined along a glass mirror a brief inhale and finally, mental peace.
Sherlock padded downstairs, walking up behind John in bare feet before stopping and crossing one behind the other, arch contracting and toes scrunching.
"Lets go."
"What the hell is this place?" John asked, pulling his car up to the curb.
"This is Jack-Rabbit-Slims," Sherlocks slim hand underlined the words written in neon above the building, smoke from his cigarette trailing behind the gesture. "An Elvis man should love it." He smirked and his grey eyes dared John to tell him that he was anything but and Elvis man.
John sighed, "Come on, man, lets just go get a stake or something."
"You can get a stake here, Daddio," Sherlocks eyes danced with the flames of what surely must have been hell at the nick name. "Don't be a," the long hands pointed out a square in front of him, John could almost see dotted lines hang in the air. Sherlock finished the gesture and slid out of the car, not waiting for Johns approval or reaction.
Rolled his eyes and followed suit, the idea that this was going to be a simple dinner vanishing before his eyes into a haze of neon polyester and plastic.
"After you, Kitty cat," John said, earning a quick arrogant smirk over Sherlocks slim shoulder.
"Welcome to Jack-Rabbit-Slims," The man behind the podium stood with greased back hair and a voice that could have slicked even Sherlocks curls, not that he had tried. It was actually rather striking, John realized, the fly away hair, the tight black sports jacket and even tighter white button up shirt... quite... striking. He shook his head and returned to the dinner.
"Reservation under Holmes," Sherlock took a drag of his somehow still existent cigarette. "We reserved a car."
"Oh, a car," the man nodded and turned to the midget next to him, this night just couldn't get any better. "Why don't you seat them over there."
John and Sherlock were lead through a labyrinth of toy cars and color. Hollywood look alikes milled about with trays held aloft. John had to be amazed by Sherlocks talent, he had managed to find the worst possible restaurant in the world.
"John!" Sherlock called, pulling Johns thoughts away from the ridiculousness of it all. And then he saw their booth, or rather, their car.
Keep calm and carry on, John steadied himself and sat down across from Sherlock who looked cool as a cucumber in the utterly insane environment. The midget closed the car door behind them and that was that.
"What do you think?" Sherlock asked, his eyes genuinely curious and just a bit apprehensive. John wondered for a moment if perhaps this place was something Sherlock had actually thought someone could like, if perhaps he himself liked this restaurant. John chose his words carefully.
"I think it's like a wax museum with a pulse."
Luckily their waiter swooped in before Sherlock could ask him any more questions, his piercing, suddenly bright blue eyes already quizzical.
"Hi, I'm Buddy." It was ridiculous, dressing up a middle aged italian man like Buddy Holly, but then again John was not at all surprised to see him, his slightly overweight frame straining against the confines of his tuxedo jacket. "What can I get for you?"
"You can cut the act Angelo," Sherlock arched an eyebrow at the man, "I do know who you are."
"Thank you Sherlock," Angelo/Buddy smiled and looked over at John, "this man here, got me off of a murder charge."
"It was nothing really," Sherlock smiled, "I was able to prove to the police that at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder Angelo here was on the other side of town house breaking."
"If not for Sherlock, I would have gone to jail." Angelo clapped an tanned hand on Sherlock shoulder.
"You did go to jail."
The awkward silence that proceeded was marvelous
John's brow crumpled, the brother of the biggest crime boss in London working with the police? It made less sense then a fat middle aged man dressed up like Buddy Holly.
"Anyway, I wish I could tell you that you and your date could have anything on the menu, free of charge but you know," Angelo/Buddy gestured at his waiting outfit. "But I tell you what, I'll get you a candle for the booth, its more romantic."
And with that, Angelo was gone, Johns plea of, "I'm not his date," trailing in the wind behind him.
"He didn't even take our orders."
Sherlock shrugged and fixed John with the most intense stare the man had ever encountered and John had been professionally killing people for the past 5 years.
"You have questions."
John cleared his throat.
"Well... yeah, yeah I do."
Sherlock didn't respond, and just raised his eyebrows letting the silence hang over them for an uncomfortably long time.
"Isn't that hateful?"
"What is?"
"Uncomfortable silences. Why do we think it's necessary to prattle on about meticulous bullshit just to fill the void?"
"I don't know. That a good question."
"That's when you know you've found someone really singular," Sherlock's eyes flashed at John, "When you can just shut up and share a comfortable silence."
"Well, I don't think we're quite there yet but don't feel too bad we've only just met each other."
"Tell you what," Sherlock smirked across the table, leaning over it on his elbows. "I'm going to go to the bathroom and power my nose" Johns eyebrows nearly touched his hairline "and you sit here and think of a question you're willing to ask when I get back."
"I'll do that."
…...
The lines of white power on the bathroom counter. A brief inhale and then...
"I am on FIRE!"
Sherlock straightened, the other men at the mirror paying no attention to the outburst. He straightened his jacket, wiped under his nose and walked back out to the booth.