It is another one of those damp London mornings, where the grey sky bleeds into the grey buildings and the grey streets bleed into the grey faces of commuters. John Watson only glances out the window as he stifles a yawn and prepares his morning coffee. He is already washed and dressed in slacks and his favorite striped blue shirt, but shuffles about the kitchen in a daze of half-sleep. He really is not himself before coffee and a glance at the paper. When the coffee is made and the paper in hand, he shoves a few test tubes aside and settles down at the kitchen table. He keeps one hand—still calloused despite months of being off active duty—wrapped around the warmth of the mug while the other flips the black and white pages.
"Steam your suit."
Comes a voice from across the room, that familiar quasi-apathetic voice. John's lips twist in a wry smile as he glances briefly towards Sherlock, sprawling on the sofa in a dressing gown and pajama pants and texting as if his life depends on the quickness of his response. Knowing Sherlock, it probably does. The same grey light that bleaches the rest of the room makes his cheekbones and halo of dark hair look ethereal, perhaps angelic. John laughs inwardly at that thought. He has never met a less angelic person in his life.
"Good morning to you too, Sherlock." Sherlock makes a sound that could be either the word "dull" or just a noncommittal grunt, and then continues as if John has not spoken. "Steam your suit." His fingers are still flying across the tiny keys and his eyes are glued on the screen. His voice is brusque as ever.
"We're going to dinner. I don't want you looking shabby." John glances at the other man, eyebrows raised, then back at the paper before answering in an equally brusque tone. "Um. No." The typing abruptly stops, and John turns to see Sherlock jerk upright with his brow furrowed as if he has not understood. John chuckles to himself at the reaction towards his rejection. After leaving the other to ponder the reasons for his answer for a few seconds, he finally decides to take pity on Sherlock and give him a reason.
"Believe it or not, Sherlock, I have plans this evening."
Sherlock is about to say something, probably something rude and along the lines of "your plans can't possibly be more important than what I want", when John cuts him off.
"Plans that don't involve you."
This look of utter befuddlement is one that John has never seen the young detective wear. Sherlock is always two steps ahead of everyone else, always waiting with a condescending smile for John to catch up. So, it gives John no little amount of pleasure knowing that, for once, Sherlock is the one in the dark. He decides to milk the moment for all it is worth. He crosses his legs nonchalantly, returns to the paper, takes a sip of tea, and lets the tension mount. He can almost hear the gears in Sherlock's vast mind shuddering and stalling as he tries in vain to come up with a reason why John is not giving in this time. John hides his smile behind a headline. This must be what Sherlock feels like every day. It's a nice feeling, knowing everything.
However, at heart, John is not as sadistic as his flat mate, so he decides to throw him a bone.
"Do you know what day it is?"
"February fourteenth." Sherlock shoots back, frowning as if there may be some sort of hidden cipher in the words.
John waits for him to figure it out. Normally it would not take so long, but Sherlock's understanding of "sentiment" is as shaky as his understanding of the solar system.
John is shaking with concealed laughter now, for Sherlock's face is screwed up like a frustrated toddler. He lets the moment stretch on until he feels his ribs will crack from holding in his mirth.
"It's Valentine's Day, Sherlock."
For an instant, confusion passes over the ordinarily stoic features, then they settle into contempt.
"That over-commercialized excuse to sell chocolates loosely based on the story of a priest who fell in love with a jailor's daughter? A story which, I might add, was adopted by the Church as a part of the effort to Christianize much older pagan rituals that were so ingrained in the culture of England they could not be eradicated by fear of hellfire and damnation?"
John rolls his eyes and folds up the paper –he isn't really reading it anyway.
"Yes, though I've no idea why you know so much about the holiday's history. Are you hoping for a Valentine's killer to pop up?"
Sherlock does not rise to the bait, merely continuing his sarcastic musings.
"That day that uses overpriced gifts to guilt people in unremarkable relationships into believing in the completely untenable notion of true love?"
John feels a bit of a pang at this. In spite of his sister's failed marriage and his own string of "unremarkable" lovers, he still holds onto some romantic notions, and does not appreciate Sherlock's constant jabs. He gives his flatmate a look and stands, leaving the paper in the chair.
"That's certainly one way to think about it."
"Sentiment." Sherlock scoffs, "Dinner with Joan."
He scrunches his nose in disgust, as if John's date is the name of some unpleasant disease.
"Victoria, actually." John corrects, without expecting Sherlock to be listening.
The detective waves his hand dismissively,
"Whatever. She'll understand."
John looks at Sherlock, who is still intent on the phone. This is the thing that rubs John the wrong way. The other man is so damn certain that he will drop everything according to his whim. Of course, Sherlock has a reason to be confident that John will cave to his will: John almost always does. He considers calling Victoria, telling her that something has come up for work and they'll have to postpone. He runs through the familiar disappointment, her tone of reproach as he hangs up and runs off to chase the detective into the night. He knows whatever Sherlock has planned will be exciting and exasperating and dangerous, and on any other day that thrill would be enough. But, there are other kinds of thrills in the world. The quiet excitement of a glance, the heart-pumping danger of a kiss—thrills he can never have with Sherlock. The long pale fingers fly across the keyboard, oblivious to John's existence, and he looks away.
"You always say that. And I always believe you, but tonight I'm going to do something for myself for once."
Sherlock has finally discarded his phone, and is looking directly at John as if he wants to say something. His eyes are curiously bright, but before he can utter another word, John cuts him off.
"You'll just have to go it alone, Sherlock." He strides to the door and grabs his coat off the hook before pausing.
"Or you could, you know, do something nice for someone else."
"What do you mean?"
"Molly." John levels a meaningful look in Sherlock's direction, but the smartest man in London looks confused again.
"Call her. I'm sure she'd be thrilled to have dinner with you."
Sherlock flops back onto the couch in frustration.
"Thrilled." He mutters, staring up at the ceiling and wondering where John has hidden the gun.