"John I need you to send a text. I wrote the number on a paper next to my phone." Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the ceiling, his brow furrowed with concentration. John looked up from his paper ever so slightly to frown at his roommate.
"Send it yourself." His newspaper flicked up into a position that blocked his view of Sherlock. It had never worked before, but maybe someday Sherlock would get his own damn phone, if Watson just hid behind the newspaper a little longer.
There was a pause.
"My phone is on the table." Eyes still fixed on the ceiling. John sighed and went to the table to get the phone. He opened a new message and stared expectantly at Sherlock.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"What do you want me to say?"
Sherlock's hands rose in an almost silent prayer to his lips.
"See you tonight. The reservations are for La Bonne Coeur. 20:00. Send."
John froze. Sherlock had a date? His heart tightened ever so slightly. But who on earth with? He hadn't heard anything about this. How had he not heard? Who was this woman? Man, maybe? He has no idea and the mere thought of Sherlock with someone else caused his cheeks to flush.
So what? Sherlock was allowed to go out on a dates. Of course he was. It was just that, well, John had never considered the possibility.
And why, now that the possibility had become a reality, was he so upset about it?
His thumb hovered above the send button.
"John? Have you sent it?" Sherlock, oblivious and unfazed by John's internal turmoil, had not moved an inch.
John's thumb pressed down. The soft click nearly made him flinch.
"Yeah, it's sent."
"Good."
"So who is it then? Your, uh, date?"
"No one you know."
"Right." John slid back into his armchair with a puzzled frown.
20:30
John wandered aimlessly through Piccadilly Circus. Sherlock was getting ready for his – his date. John had desperately needed some air and ended up walking through the streets of London.
Why did he even care? It didn't matter. It's not as if he was jealous. Jealous of what? Sherlock's date? That would imply he wanted a date with Sherlock. Which he didn't. He wasn't gay. Not gay.
Not gay.
Not gay.
Not gay.
Not –
A buzz from his phone interrupted his inner mantra. It was from Harry, wanting him to visit. He exited out without responding. But before he put his phone away, he noticed an unread message form Sherlock. Probably about his date. He frowned and was about to put it away when he decided against it and opened the text.
See you tonight. The reservations are for La Bonne Coeur. 20:00.
20:40
He was running.
20:50
Straightening his clothes outside of the restaurant. His sprint thought London had left him horribly ruffled, and on top of that, he was severely underdressed. He couldn't tell if he was shaking from nerves or exhaustion after the run. He wanted to smack himself for not recognizing his own number. He teased Sherlock about not knowing that the sun went around the moon, but he didn't even recognize his own damn number. He stepped towards the door, nervously pushed it open, and stepped inside.
The maitre d' asked him what the reservation was under, eyeing his disheveled clothes suspiciously. He quickly said Holmes, his voice nervously cracked a little, and he blushed deeply. He felt like a schoolchild. The maitre d' gestured towards another waiter to take him to his table. The grumpy waiter led him to the back corner of the restaurant. And there was Sherlock.
He stopped short, took a deep breath and sat down across from Sherlock, who was intently studying a menu.
"Hello John. You really must check your phone more often. I was half afraid you wouldn't come." His eyes playfully peeked over the top of the menu. John nodded nervously.
"Not really dressed for the occasion, are you?" Sherlock himself was wearing a purple shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the top of his pale chest.
"Well I didn't get the text till half an hour ago."
"Not my fault."
"Well you could've just asked me."
Sherlock set the menu down and stared into John's eyes. John flicked his eyes away uneasily. Sherlock smiled as if a point had been proven and then took a casual sip from a glass of water the waiter had just left.
"You said I didn't know the person you were texting."
"Well you don't know yourself very well."
"Excuse me?"
"You thought you weren't gay." John looked up, surprised. "And yet here you are."
"So this is a date?"
"Yes."
"Right then." John took a sip from his own glass, a small grin of satisfaction spreading across his face.