Sherlock

Sherlock heard hushed voices from upstairs in 221B as he stepped through the door, and many years of training made his first instinct to be as quiet as possible. Cat-like, he crept up the stairs, noting and analysing everything in his sight – from the slight scuffmarks John's watch had made as he dragged his hand carelessly up the banister, to the gentle but fresh trace of perfume in the air, a scent that he recognised as one that a woman would wear for a man she loved. This woman had been walking slightly in front of John and to his left, where she would have ended up had he held the door open for her, so she was a date.

Sherlock racked his brains for memory of any girls that John had been recently dating… there had been a new one a year or two ago, and he remembered finding it strange that he hadn't heard of them breaking up, so possibly they hadn't broken up, and this was the same girl. He had a vague feeling that her name was Anne, another doctor.

He sniffed the air cautiously again – no traces of alcohol, and barely any of the outside air, but still that strong scent of flowery perfume. They had come straight here upon meeting. If they'd been to a restaurant beforehand or even spent a few hours at her place, the perfume wouldn't be as strong – even so, John had still picked up Anne at her apartment. Sherlock paused just as his foot was about to hit the top step. It also wouldn't be as strong if they hadn't just entered.

But what a time to start a date! Though dark outside, it was barely four thirty, and despite perhaps not having much experience in this particular field, he was quite sure that this was far too early for a date, despite all evidence pointing to it.

He crept to the door, resolving not to enter the apartment but to listen, and decide whether to come back later. The door was closed, but he wasn't going to open it; he'd installed the light himself that made it impossible for the door to be opened without a large and noticeable shadow being cast inside. And the switch that would turn off the light was inside the apartment. Sherlock smiled briefly at the fact that he now had to outsmart himself.

He tapped lightly on the wall that surrounded the door, listening for a hollow noise. There it was, just near the door handle. He'd shot through that part of the wall a month or two ago – completely by accident, of course – and now it was a perfectly convenient listening spot. Pressing his ear against the wall, Sherlock strained to hear what John and Anne were saying inside. But the first thing that he heard was the sound of people coming to 221B's door from inside the apartment.

Not wasting a second, Sherlock spun and pressed himself into the nearest, and thankfully darkest, corner of the hallway. He watched, sufficiently concealed, as the door was opened and a woman, definitely Anne, walked out, with John following a moment later. When John turned to lock the door, his eyes met Sherlock's briefly, possibly drawn to the hall light reflecting in them. Sherlock quietly damned his bright, inquisitive eyes for being so luminous, and arranged his expression into a pleading one; John, though with a thoroughly exasperated look, locked the door and turned back to Anne without mentioning his strange friend's presence. Anne, not noticing anything out of the ordinary, led John with her downstairs. Sherlock heard the downstairs door close after them moments later.

He pondered whether or not to follow them, but his growing respect for John made him decide not to. However, when he left the shadows to enter the apartment, he realised that he didn't have a key. Sherlock cursed softly, remembering the experiment he'd started a few days ago. The key's tip was currently slowly dissolving in a beaker of acid – he'd wanted to know if a key could be converted into a sharp weapon while retaining its original functions. John had the only remaining key, and Sherlock had been relying on the door always being open, or John being around, to get in.

Now there were two options. One was that he could climb into the apartment through the window… but that would be time-wasting, and frankly, much less fun than option two: follow John. His friend might resent him if he found out, but the chances of that were slim, and John always forgave him eventually anyway.

Grinning, Sherlock readjusted his scarf as he set off down the stairs and after John. He wasn't hard to track; he hadn't taken a cab, and after a second of scanning the street with his eagle gaze Sherlock located John's form walking down the street, hand in hand with Anne. Taking up a firm pace a good distance behind them, he analysed the route that they were taking – there were no good restaurants in this direction, and unless they were for some reason returning to Anne's place within fifteen minutes of departing it for John's, they were going to walk down to the park.

How… Sherlock searched his brain for a moment before coming up with the only word that seemed fit to describe it: cute. It was cute that he was going for a romantic evening stroll with his girlfriend, and just the sort of thing that John Watson, doctor and master poet, would be expected to do. He fondly reminisced about the hours he had spent laughing at John's loving e-mails to his girlfriends, while John himself, shamefaced, had pretended to watch television, turning as red as his confiscated laptop.

His feet traced the familiar path to the park, following John and his partner. Despite being at least a hundred feet away from them at all times, he never lost sight of them – mostly due to the fact that he towered over the majority of passers-by. In a matter of minutes he was peering around a tree at the park, watching as John sat down with Anne three metres away.

He couldn't hear most of what John was saying, only snippets like, 'All my life…' and 'I didn't think…' Sherlock rolled his eyes, a slight smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. Even more poetry. Maybe it hadn't been worth it to follow them – he should return to the flat, or at least go gather some more information on a case he'd been working on.

He was just getting up when he saw something that almost made his heart stop. He hadn't had that sort of feeling since the time that he'd almost been shot.

John was down on one knee in front of Anne.

People nearby were watching, hugging each other and pointing, smiles all over their faces even though they didn't know John. Sherlock did know John. And he definitely wasn't smiling.

His mind seemed to be working very fast. It was like being back in Baskerville, seeing that dog – only this seemed a lot more frightening than a hundred hellhounds. He could see it happening in front of him, yet he couldn't, he wouldn't believe it was there. Not only did he not understand why John was proposing to Anne ('Sentiment,' John would say with a sigh if he were there, only he wasn't there, he was proposing), there was also a large part of him that was hurt because John hadn't told him. Sherlock had been feeling that John and he were becoming good friends, and good friends told each other things, didn't they? He hadn't had as close a friend as John before, so he didn't know for sure, but surely the fact that John was getting engaged would be something John could have thought to bring up, to any type of friend.

John was still talking in front of him, and now Sherlock didn't need to hear the words; he could easily imagine exactly what was being said.

'Anne, will you marry me?'

He couldn't stay there. He had to leave, to get out of here before he did something unreasonable. His sudden movement from behind the tree attracted John's attention. Could he do nothing without John seeing? John's face registered shock, then hurt, as he watched Sherlock's panicked eyes widen before Sherlock himself turned and ran away, back to the apartment.

But first, one stop.