Necessities
John sat at the dinner table, rapidly tapping his finger on the leg of his chair, impatient. He quickly glanced at his watch again, "Ten past Eight…" He let out a reluctant sigh and pushed his seat away from the table. The wooden chair's legs slid across the smooth marble floor of the restaurant. He pushed his chair back in and turned, only to be confronted by the waiter.
"Sir?" The waiter asked inquisitively.
John looked up, eyes full of pain and anger. Though he knew he had to hold himself together. No emotion was to be shown. He was a soldier after all. He swallowed, a lump in his throat making it difficult for the saliva to go down, and responded.
"I'll be making my leave. Plans were cancelled." He managed hoarsely.
The waiter nodded his understanding and cleared the table for the next customers. John made his way towards the front of the restaurant and hailed a cab. Of course, it was just like Sherlock to forget something that a normal person would find so meaningful. On this day exactly 5 years prior, John and Sherlock first made each other's acquaintance. Although for three of those years, Sherlock had been, in a sense, dead. A cabbie pulled up to the side of the road and John climbed in reluctantly, remembering the string of Cabbie murders. It was the first case that John and Sherlock took on. "221B Baker Street, please." The cabbie nodded and John shut the door behind him.
The cabbie pulled up and John paid him. He opened the door, shut it behind him, and made his way towards the steps of the flat he shared with the notorious Sherlock Holmes. John had settled down, the rage had faded and was replaced with only disappointment. A vibration in his pocket distracted him. He reached in his trousers and plucked out his mobile. The caller ID read, Mary Morstan. He sighed and sent the call straight to voicemail. John was having relationship problems with Mary recently, he was hoping that this dinner with Sherlock would help clear his mind; perhaps give him a decent distraction, though obviously that pompous arse had other plans. John bounded up the steps toward the front door. He stuck his key into the key hole, it stuck in fast. He gave it a slight tug to the right and it clicked open. John pulled his key out, returned it to his pocket, and reached towards the doorknob. He twisted it and pushed the door ajar. He ascended up the flight of stairs that lead to his shared flat and stopped in front of the door. He placed his ear upon the closed door. He could hear the serine sound of a violin being played.
John let out a halfhearted sign, "At least he's doing something he loves…" He paused for a moment, Sherlock only played the violin when there was something on his mind. Perhaps there is a reason for abandoning him at the restaurant all alone. He diligently opened the door to the flat and stared at Sherlock. His back was to the rest of the room, his face hidden, as he peered out of the window. John slumped his shoulders and made his way towards the kitchen; he took off his jacket and placed it upon the sofa. He walked into the kitchen, and was taken aback by what he saw. A beautiful meal was spread out across the table, on top of a red velvet table cloth. John stood at the doorway, flabbergasted. He blinked and turned to look back at Sherlock.
"Sherlock…" John finally managed. "Did… Did you do this?" He stood there, mouth agape. Sherlock's only response was the continuous melody of his violin. John twiddled his fingers through his oatmeal yellow jumper. It was his favourite one and he wore it to commemorate today as a special occasion. John looked downcast, turning his gaze to the ground, still no response from Sherlock. The music suddenly stopped and John whipped his head back up in response. A silence hung in the air; you could feel the electricity flowing between the two. Sherlock took a deep breath and broke the silence.
"Of course I did. Who else would? Mrs. Hudson? That would be a serendipitous outcome, would it not? Or did you forget that she's not our housekeeper?" Sherlock picked up his violin bow, stroked the grip with his forefinger and thumb, and continued. "You undoubtedly assumed that I just 'forgot' what today was. What it meant. However, I don't just simply forget things John. As you know, I only delete things I deem unnecessary. It may come as a shock to you, but today does retain some importance to me, whether you believe me or not." He placed the bow back into the case, along with the cherry wood violin. He was wearing his favourite button up shirt, John noticed for the first time. The purple one that seemed as though the buttons would burst at any moment, he almost felt sorry for the shirt.
"I didn't know that you could cook Sherlock." John stammered out.
"There are still a lot of things you don't know about me, though I will say, you know the most out of everyone; including my sweet older brother." Sherlock replied, with heavily implied sarcasm surrounding the statement of sweet older brother. John could feel an uncontrollable grin begin to grow upon his face. He closed his eyes for a moment, and contemplated on what he would do next. He opened them and stared at Sherlock, and took a step forward. He suddenly rushed up to Sherlock, embracing him and taking Sherlock aback.
"Wha-!" Sherlock exclaimed. He shook his head, a slight laugh rising up from his chest. "Well this is a surprise, but have it your way." Sherlock lifted his arms, and returned the embrace. They separated, John's face was flushed red, and he turned his face in the other direction.
Sherlock started at his flat mate for a moment, eyeing him up and down.
"SHERLOCK. STOP MAKING DEDUCTIONS." John snapped. It didn't take an idiot to piece together what he was doing.
Sherlock grinned. "You're embarrassed, even though you're the one who initiated the embrace. Your face is flushed with blood, your arms are around your chest in a protective manner and you refuse to make eye contact. Why's that?" Sherlock asked, a hint of curiosity gleaming in his eyes.
"No reason. Let's just have dinner already, okay? And could you please stop eyeing me? I feel like you're trying to hit it off with me." John finally responded a tad bit aggravated and embarrassed. He turned away from Sherlock and retreated into the kitchen.
The dinner was laid out beautifully across the table. A kettle over the fire began to whistle, signifying that it was time to make the tea. John pulled the chair out closest to him and sat himself into it. Out in front of him, his plate was filled with roast meat, steamed carrots and peas and a side of Yorkshire pudding. The centerpiece of the table was a beautiful ebony candlestick with a red candle ablaze on top of it. John looked up again; Sherlock had just walked into the kitchen and was beginning to serve the tea.
"We're going to have tea with this?" John inquired.
"No. The tea is for Mrs. Hudson. We," Sherlock poured the tea in a cup and placed it onto a tray, "Are going to have champagne. I mean, it is a special occasion."
John felt another uncontrollable grin plaster itself upon his face. His eyes squinted with joy, "Haha, guess you have a point." Sherlock quickly exited the room to deliver the tea. John looked around the kitchen. The traces of this being a home cooked meal were all over the kitchen.
Sherlock returned, paced towards a cupboard, pulled out a bottle of champagne from it and two wine glasses. He sat himself on the opposite side of John, and popped the bottle open with dexterity. No spill at all. John raised his eyebrows in surprise, letting a quick smirk snake its way onto his face for a moment.
"Sherlock," John began whilst Sherlock poured the wine into their glasses. "You could have at least told me you wanted to do a home cooked meal instead of going out to a restaurant. I mean, I did wait there for over an hour and you never showed up. To be honest, I was bloody braised off. Though I'm glad I didn't storm in as I had wanted to."
Sherlock looked up with a crooked smile as he handed John his glass. "No doubt I was anticipating that John. I cannot say that I'm glad it did not turn out that way though. And to answer your question, I didn't tell you for the obvious purpose that this was intended to be a surprise." John sipped the champagne. He was struck with an idea.
"A toast, Sherlock. To our five long years of friendship and that it lasts a lifetime." John raised his glass towards Sherlock. Sherlock blinked, his eyes crystal pools of ever changing colours. A flash of horror streaked through John's mind. Why is he not raising his glass in response…? Fear began to sprout its seeds of corruption in the pit of his stomach. In that moment, it occurred to John just how much he truly needed him. He was in essence, a necessity. Then Sherlock raised his glass, "A toast." He nodded in response. The fear was gone.
End of Chapter One
