Disclaimer: I am still not owning anything. A.N. This is for the prompt 'smell' from the Sherlock Challenge of this month.
Date Night
Smell is the most powerful way to jog one's remembrances. Someone as intimately knowledgeable of the arts of memory as Sherlock is all too aware of this trivia. The sleuth has spent years alone and fighting, chasing evanescent clues to make sure any last threat to the people he loves is erased. Then, what had been a convenient mnemonic aide has turned into a haunting, distracting, overwhelming hurdle – and, so very rarely, and often at the same time, the deepest of guilty pleasures.
The oddest things can trigger him. He might be walking in front of an Italian restaurant, and suddenly have to shake his head, to clear it of the vision of John, at Angelo's, licking his lips. Tap water somewhere will smell like chlorine and even if the local branch of Moriarty's web is miles away, he'll look around wildly in search of snipers. Since he's had to leave behind his coat, and the most radical attire change possible is the best option, he buys second-hand jumpers. Before they absorb his own scent, sometimes the mere tang of wool – and more so wet wool, which is more intense, if he gets caught by the rain – will make him feel as if he's huddled next to John.
Once back home, he expects to be able to breathe again. If he plans to tempt his blogger with Bond night, covertly cuddle next to him on the sofa and just – softly – inhale him in, that's nobody's business. Is it?
The utter lack of John in 221B (and the correspondent quantity of dust, clogging his lungs) is a low blow, and feels like a personal offence. But he can't do anything about it. It's his fault, after all. He has clearly both been too slow (Mycroft would agree – he keeps repeating that since Sherlock is born) and underestimated how severely he would hurt his only friend with his disappearance.
The good doctor has replaced him. No, not replaced – they were never involved, but…the word (the sentiment) won't leave his brain. He might have forever lost his place at John's side, and he has only himself to blame. (But then, why did his brother – very aware of the situation – bring him back at all? Does Mycroft truly believe he can go on and be content with the tiny games he throws the consulting detective's way?)
The subsequent period – the too-recent past – is, to be honest, best forgotten. If he had to summarize it (not that he'd let anyone pry about his feelings), the motto would certainly be, "Not enough." Not enough John, even when his 'best friend' is back in his life – or he has allowed the detective back in his, the thing is confusing.
Not enough drugs to drown out the absence of him. Not even an overdose would work. Because, if Mary's disaster has proved anything, it has proved that not even dying can erase thoughts of his (unrequited) beloved from Sherlock's brain. If anything, it seems to sharpen it.
Not enough lucidity – he's pitiful as crime solver since his return. How many clues has he missed? How many has he willingly blinded himself to, afraid that blurting them out would pop John's happy bubble. And still, John ends up hurting all the same.
But Sherlock couldn't agree to Mary's request and let his friend ignore that he'd married a most-wanted assassin, could he? His blogger would be in too much danger – and unaware of it, which renders people vulnerable. John likes danger, though, and the sleuth honestly expected him to shrug off his wife's actions. Maybe find them rather hot.
Instead, his blogger reacts by shutting the woman he's just wed – the pregnant mother of his child – out of his life with a swiftness and a sternness (not wanting to even discuss the situation) that puzzles his 'best friend' to no end. It can't last. Of course it won't. John doesn't like being lied to, true; but he's not capable of holding grudges (the sleuth knows that only too well, and exploits it mercilessly).
Things eventually snowball in the worst possible way. But the months long and still way too short (it feels like seconds) respite he gets, with John. Back. Home. (No, not his home anymore, at the time, but – 221B, Baker Street). If the consulting detective revels in his presence, in the waft of 'that thing with the peas' (it's an Afghan recipe whose name he's never bothered to learn) once again coming from the kitchen, or in proper tea, surely nobody can blame him, can they? It's odd. Somehow, even if delightful in its own right, Mrs. Hudson's tea is still different from John's, and his flatmate's is the tea Sherlock has literally dreamt of for years.
The sleuth was ready to accept his end, after these blissful days. As long as John was happy, and safe – anything. But somehow he's been spared – even if for long days, he's wondered if the drug cocktail had actually had its intended effect, and he'd just been too arrogant and reckless in declaring God inexistent. Because what follows is more than painful, or terrifying. Sherlock has been tortured, and he still thinks – in long hours, when he believes John is dead, and it's all his fault, of course it is - this is hell. He prays this might be, because it would mean this could be a torment tailored for him, and his blogger might still be alive and well.
Thank God (he still doesn't entirely believe, but just in case, a quick thanksgiving sounds in order) it is not hell. Because John is not really dead, and the consulting detective's elation is too strong to be allowed, certainly. You don't get the lift from hell to heaven without warning, from what little he knows of religion.
So no, it was a devious plan masquerading as a cruel prank, not actual damnation. And John was his own self, heroic and caring and so many things Sherlock, despite his knowledge, has no words to explain, not if he doesn't have an infinite amount of time to sing his friend's praises. John lost so much – everything that made him happy, the brunet would have sworn – his wife, and family, and the sleuth tried to save them, to no avail. He's useless.
They do get rid of Moriarty though (definitely, one'd hope!) and Mary somehow picked the spider's side, despite how hard she tried to keep her husband (orders? they'll never know), and it ends – once again – with John established in his room in Baker Street.
His blogger should be broken, under the weight of all the secrets that were aired, suddenly dumped on him. The prospect terrifies the detective. But John's resilience is a thing of wonder, as always, and both men seem to leave their recent experiences behind with surprising ease.
Why, the doctor even accompanies Molly – once again in-between boyfriends – to the movies, because there's that actor with the silly name she likes, and comes back home chatting about silly plot and amazing visual effects. One thing sticks with Sherlock, though. An artefact that can rewind time. For a moment, he wonders if someone has used it, because nowadays, it feels like 2010. Fresh and happy and so full of possibilities. Not that these will go anywhere.
But John is home, and once again, the sleuth can breathe. They go on cases, little cases – as his blogger had suggested before the whole Moriarty debacle blew them apart – that allow them to have fun without losing life and limb. Then bigger ones, when they can finally believe that they're not hounded down anymore.
And in the meantime, John's skin cells start mixing again with Sherlock's in 221B's dust and it's a bit not good that the detective notices that, probably, but he won't say it out loud. And that one time he accidentally-on-purpose showers with his flatmate's soap, looking to cover himself in the smell of him, John doesn't even mention it. He just retaliates the same way, and it's odd but it's good and Sherlock might need some alone time now.
If he's been entirely, humiliatingly irrational once and wished on a falling star that John would just – stay, forever – well, that is his secret shame, and if he admits as much it won't come true, anyway. So he holds the wish in his heart (yes, he does have a heart, it's been proven beyond any reasonable doubt)… And then, his rational side – the one who sounds like Mycroft – warns him to enjoy this while it lasts, because after all he's…himself, as far from lovable as human beings can be. He's forced to mentally concur, no matter how much he'd like to shut it up.
Still, they're happy – so happy. And Sherlock slowly grows used to it. Used to the simple pleasure of John Hamish Watson in his life, prodding him to eat and smiling at him over coffee in the morning. Complacent. Which is why that Saturday evening hits him like a rusted metal pipe in the gut (and he knows what he's talking about).
John spending a good time in the bath is not unusual. Not at all – it's one of the man's guilty pleasures. Sherlock is in the sitting room, using his flatmate's computer to look up documentaries on the social structure of bees (if John can indulge his preferences, he certainly can, too), and he doesn't even look up when he hears the bathroom's door open. (True, sometimes he might get a delightful vision out of such a scene, but he's trying not to make things harder for himself. Material to fantasise only makes it harder for him not to blurt out how much he loves his blogger.)
Then, he smells it. The fucking cologne. He's hated that smell for years, because no matter how good it's supposed to be, it always meant his love was leaving. His date-night "Come on, you know you want to fuck me, I'm practically oozing pheromones just for you," cologne. His gut clenches. Of course. He shouldn't have hoped – dreamed – stupid.
Just because Mary was her own particular brand of awful (she's up there in the top three of the worst people ever met, for the sleuth), it doesn't mean that she would put John off women forever. John, friendly, comforting John, but with an undercurrent of sensuality people have to be blind not to notice. John likes sex. He likes 'pulling', too.
That Sherlock has not noticed that his friend – best friend – has met someone new, has won her over… This is more than grit in the lens. This is closing his eyes and pulling the wool over them himself. How did he miss that? His flatmate is a continuous source of amazement, yes, but he's also – used to be, at least – fairly easy to read, about the little things. The day-to-day events. But apparently now the consulting detective's powers of observation are gone. Maybe he should retire. He's clearly not fit for deductive work anymore.
The detective finally decides to look at John. He needs data. More data. Maybe he's mistaken. Hell, maybe John has made a mistake. Put on cologne without meaning to, taking it for something different, so relaxed by the bath he's sleepy, and acts with eyes closed. It happened twice in the past.
The tiny, obstinate hope is squashed immediately. John is definitely going on a date today. From the shiny tip of his good shoes to the careful wave of his hair, every detail declares he aims to impress. Honestly, if the female involved needs any extra effort on his part to be impressed by John, she's not worth it.
In the past, Sherlock would have commented about his flatmate's plans. Found something – anything – to criticise, if only to let out a bit of the bitter jealousy eating at his heart. John would have huffed in annoyance, gone anyway – and come back, as soon as the consulting detective could concoct a decent excuse, which he almost always did. (Not always, because then the doctor would have cottoned on why it happened so regularly.)
Now, he reverts his eyes firmly to the screen, without so much as breathing too loud. If there's anything that he's learned in his life, it's that he wants – no, he needs John happy – even when it rips him apart. If his blogger has decided that he's ready for more than friendship once again, if he's brave enough not to let the quite spectacular failing of his marriage hold him back for loving (truly, there's simply too much love in John to be suppressed for long), his best friend – such a bittersweet title – must learn to be happy for him, surely?
Knowing this still doesn't make it easy to fake it, when the doctor comes to his side and announces, "I was thinking of eating out."
"Clearly," Sherlock snorts, looking at him for only a second before affixing his eyes to the computer once again. He immediately scolds himself in his mind for the annoyed reaction. But he's always hated stating the obvious. Hopefully John will attribute his mood to that.
"Well, are you coming in your dressing gown?" the blond retorts, an amused twinkle in his eyes, indicating his flatmate's attire with a sweeping gesture. (The sleuth still doesn't get why people would dress unless there was something to get dressed for, and today was a slow, relaxed, happy – until now – day.)
"You want me to come?!" the consulting detective blurts out, finally ignoring the screen to openly gape. It makes no sense. When he tagged along, with an excuse of any sort, on John's previous dates, the reaction had always been anger and frustration. What is different this time?
"I asked you, didn't I?" his blogger points out, a winning smile on his face.
"Yes, well, but…" the detective points at his friend's attire, with an all-encompassing, sweeping gesture. "You don't usually dress up like that – not when it's just us," he remarks. He wants to bite his tongue immediately. Why is he even drawing attention to that?
"True. But I thought it was time for a change. So, unless you object to my colour scheme, or something, I'm in the mood to go out like this. With you, if you agree to come," John admits. He's still smiling, but there is a bit of tension in him. Why? Should his flatmate worry?
"Ah, no…no objection. No objection at all. It's…fine," Sherlock replies. Oh my God, is he stammering? John looks gorgeous like this, and he knows it – has known it for years – so why would he ask his opinion? "I'll…be along shortly." He doesn't run away from the confusing situation to get ready for going out. He does not – he has more poise than that. He might have…walked quickly, though.
When he does emerge again – in his aubergine shirt and his best-tailored suit, if John is making an effort to look nice, the least he can do is to offer him the same courtesy – his flatmate stares at him, his gaze lingering, up and down, before he licks his lips and nods approvingly. "Is Angelo's fine? Or are you in the mood for something else?"
The sleuth already knows he'll be able to eat only a mouthful or two, what with the way his stomach is tied in knots of anxiousness and confusion, so he shrugs. Whatever he'll be not eating doesn't matter.
They walk there, both silent. It's not uncharacteristic – the detective hates inane chatter for the sake of filling the silence, and his ability to let a happy quiet linger is actually one of John's most appreciated traits. This time, though, he aches for more clues. Something is different, but – is it for the better or the worst?
Finally, they arrive at the restaurant, and are ushered to 'their' table by a beaming Angelo. As every time, the man comes back in an instant with a tiny candle. Sherlock braces himself for his companion's automatic reaction. It comes in a few different flavours, but the doctor's urge to point out they're not – and will never be – involved never stops inflicting a wound.
Only this time, John does not go by rote. This time, he softly says, "Thank you," and the consulting detective, who'd busied himself rereading a menu he knows by heart, to have anything to focus on while the usual act played out, raises his eyes in time to see his friend smiling at the local's owner.
The sleuth barely stops himself from gaping like a fish, and instead bites back the words clogging his throat. He doesn't have the right to demand an explanation. To ask his friend to justify himself. Maybe his blogger finally got exhausted of correcting Angelo to no avail. This…doesn't mean anything. It can't. And he needs his brain to work the minimum necessary to pick a meal, instead of nitpicking details to death, because Angelo is looking expectantly at him. Has John ordered? When? God, his brain is fried! He mumbles the first dish on which his eye fall, Salmon Farfalle – his eye might or might not have been attracted by the farfalle (butterfly shaped pasta), given the amount of these already fluttering in his stomach.
His friend might have picked on his nervousness, because while they wait for their orders, the previously quiet John starts some light conversation. About Sherlock's plans for experiments and what body parts are to be expected in the flat in the near future. Hopefully no one else in the room is close enough to hear!
But it does distract Sherlock, and helps settle his nerves. He starts chattering away, but soon he's animatedly explaining his projects for scientific research, and the doctor actually offers one stimulating suggestion rather than protesting.
When their food arrives, John looks at it, then at his friend (who's poking at it but shows no intention of actually bringing fork to mouth), and finally he sighs deeply. "I almost talked myself out of doing this, you know," he admits. Doing what? Having dinner? His blogger is usually much too fond of food to contemplate needless jejune.
"I thought I could just let things go unsaid. After all, you're the most observant person in the world, probably, so if you didn't like the…implications of what I was doing, you would have spoken up. God knows you're not too polite for that, and for a moment I thought you were going to, but you didn't, so… But, well, you can be rather oblivious to some customs, and I don't want any more misunderstandings between us. God knows there have been enough," the doctor continues, with a little self-deprecating grin.
The sleuth wants to scream at him to get to the point, because the tension is killing him. Literally. His heart is going to explode any minute now, if his… best friend…doesn't explain what 'implications' he has apparently missed. (Stupid, Sherlock, mind palace Mycroft informs him gleefully.) Instead, he only nods, because he doesn't think he can open his mouth without whimpering – and that would be unsightly.
"So, well, I'm going to be brave – Christ, I've been to war, and I think this is the bravest thing I've ever done – and say it out loud: if I am wrong, if I misread everything, just say it, and we'll still best friend and just… delete it all. But I have – I always had, to be honest – feelings for you. I mean, you know I love you, I told you, but they go… rather deeper than you'd probably assumed. What I am trying to say, and I am blabbering, I know – thank you for not sneering at me yet, by the way – is that I'm…aiming for a do over. As in, yes, I am wearing my date attire and brought you here because… because I'd like to give us a chance. To date you, if you want. If the Work can stand you getting a paramour," John reveals, with many hesitations and throat clearings, where his friend could cut in and hiss spitefully at him something like, "Human error, John," or, "I don't do sentiment, John."
Instead, the consulting detective barely breathes, instinctively leaning towards him. "Are you serious?" he chokes out afterwards. "If it is…octopus day, or whatever, just say it now, John, because I can't stand it."
His friend's chuckle makes him want to throw up. So it is that – a prank. Obviously it would be. Nobody would want to date him – well, maybe if the date ended within Irene's field of expertise, so they had a reasonable excuse to keep him gagged…
John has tears in his eyes from sheer hilarity. Finally, he comments, "Octopus day? You're being too educated, love. Thank God Lestrade's grandma is French, so he told me once that they call April Fools day 'April's fish,' or I would never have guessed what you were trying to say. But mind you, all these definition insist on April – April first, actually. And if you've forgotten, my adorably oblivious love, April is still months away. So no, Sherlock, this is not a practical joke. I have never liked these particular kind of larks, anyway. Playing with people's emotions is entirely tasteless, if you ask me. I am utterly serious here. I would like if you gave me a chance. If we could officially date. Starting right now."
"Why?" the sleuth can't help but ask, baffled.
"Why what? What I just asked is a simple yes-or-no question, Sherlock, and I know that you are perfectly able to say no, because you already did – at our first stake-out. I love you – I'm in love with you – and I want to date you. What more reason do I need?" John retorts, frowning in puzzlement.
"Why would you ever be in love with me? I mean, you should know me by now…" Sherlock queries, and there's an honest confusion and puzzlement in his wan voice. Being promoted to best friend already made no sense, clearly more than he deserves. But John falling in love with him? If it is not a joke, then he must have fallen asleep, or have been inadvertently drugged, or something along these lines. Because, as ecstatic as it would make him, it's clearly impossible.
There's a smile on John's lips, and it's not one of his many angry, threatening, mocking smiles, but one soft, that crinkles his eyes and melts the detective inside. "That's why," his blogger declares. "I'm in love with you because I know you. Honestly, I don't think there's anyone who could know you, truly, beyond the façade you like to show people, and not love you. There must be some law of physics against that, I'm almost certain."
It makes even less sense, it's outrageous and ridiculous, but they end giggling together like kids, eyes locked above their dishes, which by now have gotten cold. "So? Is it our official first date?" John asks again, when they've got their breath back.
The consulting detective can only nod, because his throat is clogged with too much emotion to talk without having a public meltdown. If he is asleep or drugged (there's still at least a seventy percent of probability that is true) he never wants to wake up and face the real world. Because being handed what he's always desired and then having it yanked away is too cruel to contemplate.
"I suppose we should try to eat something, then. Angelo will be outraged if we leave it all untouched, without even a case to justify us," his blogger – no, they're dating, his…boyfriend? Partner? What does John prefer? – prompts, still smiling.
Once again, Sherlock nods, wondering how anything can fit in his stomach when so many feelings seem to have decided to take residence there (wasn't it supposed to be the heart?), but anything to please John. Still, he looks down wondering at his dish. The wait has not made it unpalatable, not at all. But eating sounds like such a chore, when there are so many other things he'd rather do with his mouth – and now he's allowed to, isn't he?
His date (God, John is finally his date!) seems to read his quandary. Helpful, sneaky and heart-stopping all at once, his John – without even a hint on his face to give himself away – suddenly touches foot to foot and caresses Sherlock's ankle. Shocked, aroused and a bit incredulous all at once – it will take him a long time to get used to his beloved wanting him – the sleuth opens his mouth to gasp helplessly. John takes advantage of that to feed him a farfalla. "Exercising boyfriend rights," he declares.
Oh. Boyfriends. So boyfriends is acceptable. Good to know. Sherlock somehow manages not to choke on his mouthful, and files the knowledge away. "Do I get boyfriends right too?" he asks after swallowing, eager and a bit unsure at the same time.
"Of course you do," John assures, smiling. "Whatever you feel like, love." They spend all the rest of the meal feeding each other morsels, and touching in a thousand small ways. How long have they ached to be free to do this? Since they met, honestly.
When, as delightful as the evening has been, they agree to get back home, Sherlock purloins the long since melted candle. He knows he will wonder many times, in the following days – as soon as John is out of sight, probably – if this has really happened. The physical evidence will help him not turn into a clingy monster (one even worse than he has been until today), and Angelo is sure not to miss it.
They kiss in an alley at the corner of the restaurant, eager and breathless like teenagers, tasting of the cannoli they had for dessert. As soon as they come up for breath, John mumbles, "I had plans for our first kiss. Romantic plans. But I couldn't wait. You won't be disappointed, will you?"
"Do I look disappointed, John?" Sherlock retorts, flushed and smiling dopily. Not even the best heroin could make him float like that. "Besides, you can go forward with your plans. We're going to kiss again, aren't we?" There's still a sliver of uncertainty in him.
"True," John agrees, nodding solemnly. "Starting now." It doesn't matter if the all-out romance is for their first, second, or hundredth kiss, does it? He's here and, from the look in his eyes, as far from objecting as he can be. If you ask him (and he has a certain experience in the matter), best date ever.