Sherlock blinked at John before the knowledge of the past seven hours passed through his mind.
Right. Love song.
"I…"
Think, stupid! You're a bloody genius, think! Don't leave him waiting on your incompetence.
"I…you know what, I'm actually exhausted. Long day of touch ups, practice, and work. I can talk to the producer tomorrow about getting an extension on that song…"
Not that! Don't make excuses! Ask him for dinner. Say it. Just, say it. Let. It. Go.
"Would you, uh, would you like to have dinner? I know a fantastic restaurant just a few streets over. We can walk there, or I could call a cab, if you'd prefer for your leg."
Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, willing himself not to blabber on any longer and waited for his counterpart to reply. John set down the mostly blank piece of sheet music and scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I don't know. I'd have to see if Mary was…you know what? Yeah. I'd love to have dinner. It's lovely outside tonight let's walk. Shouldn't be too hard on my leg." He concluded, heaving himself up from the couch and pulling his mobile from his pocket. "I'll text her so she doesn't worry about my whereabouts."
John tapped away at the screen, eyes determined on whatever message he'd decided on telling his girlfriend.
Probably just a simple "I'll be home late" or whatever it is the dull say to qualm the other's worrying.
Sherlock let John be for a few seconds as he entered the kitchen to grab his keys and wallet. When he returned, John was standing with his phone shoved in his pocket and shirt wrinkled from the arduous sitting period. He smiled at him as he entered, placing both hands behind his back when Sherlock returned the gesture. "Got everything?" John asked. He nodded at the shorter man and motioned towards the front door, locking it when after both of them had stepped out of the foyer. They walked a few minutes in a comfortable silence, exiting Sherlock's neighborhood and into the regular streets.
Now's your chance. Get to know the man John Watson is.
"Where are we going?"
The honey like voice rippled in Sherlock's mind, warming him as the air blew cold around them. "A fairly popular place called Angelo's. They specialize in Italian cuisine." He responded, pausing to press the button on the traffic light next to the crosswalk.
John's eyes practically popped out of his skull. Sherlock had to instill ever ounce of willpower he possessed to refrain from laughing. "Angelo's? Like, the Angelo's? Just off West Riverside Drive?" He asked, awe emanating from every inch of him.
Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, that one. They have some more reasonably priced meals. I'm surprised you knew where it's at, considering how little time you've spent here."
Fuck. You will never learn to shut up, will you? How are you casually going to explain that you effectively deduced his military service was for Britain?
The awe in the other man's eyes deepened, taken aback by Sherlock's passing comment.
"How did you-"
"Your accent hasn't been as affected by America as your girlfriend's and, as it is similar to mine, leads me to believe that you are from Britain. Since Mary's accent has been slightly more affected than yours, it's not a far leap to make to say she moved her while you were overseas, waited for you to return, you became invalided, and now here you two are after your coming home from Afghanistan. The only thing I can't work out is how you two got into acting. America has a cutthroat industry, especially in voice acting." Sherlock remarked, words pouring out like liquid.
John crossed the street in silence alongside Sherlock, remaining quite until the restaurant was in sight.
"London."
"I'm sorry?"
John kept his gaze straight ahead of him. "London. It's where I'm from. I wanted to become a doctor and my family didn't have enough money to support my tuition, so I signed up for training with the army. I met Mary while I was studying and we hit it off. She and I moved in together two years before I was deployed, and in one of the letters I got in Afghanistan, she wrote about how her acting career had taken off and she needed to move to America. Well, Los Angeles really. I was shot and got invalided back to London. I only had two days to gather my things before I was flown out..."
Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but couldn't form any words.
Respond to him, dick. He obviously wants to talk to you. This is what you wanted, right? To open John Watson up and dissect what makes him tick? Say something to him.
"You don't like it here. America isn't the same as England." Sherlock murmured, internally berating himself for saying such a thing.
Really? You couldn't take two seconds to think about the repercussions of your words? Way to rub salt on the open wound.
"Yeah. I like it out here, god help me, I do, but…it's not the same."
"I know what it's like."
What?
John finally looked at him, face eerily blank after the evening's dishing of awe. "Really?"
"I understand what you're going through. It was how I felt when Mum uprooted our whole family when I was younger and brought us here."
Where did that come from? You haven't admitted to anyone that you've felt that way. What are you doing? Stop, now.
Sherlock's mind was spinning in thoughts of fleeing the situation, chest coiling in tight knots of anxiety, but the man adjacent inspired a long forgotten courage somewhere inside him. He pulled open the glass doors, feeling the rush of cooled air and cigarette smoke blow through his curls before responding. "When I was ten, my mother and father decided to move here to America so I could flourish in the numerous symphonies out here. They'd wanted me to be the next Bach. For a while, it's what I'd wanted too, but dreams die, and there was nothing I could do to quench the need to return to London."
The blonde man nodded in understanding, and Sherlock continued on.
"When I was in my late teens, around nineteen or so, I transferred from Berkley University over to Cambridge on abroad study. I trained for field work in criminology, but settled down in sound engineering after tampering with an old mixer that Victor had left when he…"
He couldn't bring himself to finish the statement. A hand sat on his shoulder, moving in soothing circles and massaging the tensing muscle.
"You don't have to say it."
Sherlock smiled at him. Somehow, the Earth seemed to stop spinning on its axis. Everything was still and it was as if all the heat of the Earth seemed to surround John Watson and reemerge as the sincerity and fondness burning in the shorter man's eyes. All it took was this one elongated glance for his stomach to slosh and go weak in the knees.
Oh, god I love his smile. Oh, god I sound like a regular fucking Disney movie. I am Sherlock Holmes. I can't fall for someone in one day. Is that what this even is? Love? No, it's infatuation. Difference. He's looking at me with those amazing blue eyes though. Either way, truth be damned, I'm royally fucked.
John cleared his throat, pulling Sherlock back into the bleak of reality. He brushed a hand through his curls in a thinly veiled effort to hide his awkwardness.
"Dinner?"
"Starving."
Sherlock pulled the door open for John and ushered him in. The restaurant was a bit on the small side, but what it lacked in space it made up in décor. Most of the walls were painted a pure black, with only one wall covered in red with intricate white designs swirling about. The other walls had circles cut into them with shelves in the middle, each adorning one small, white candle in the middle of the rich wood. A mirror was set inside each of the cut outs, giving the room an upscale, Hollywood feeling without much more than a simple paint job.
John stood with his mouth slightly parted, eyes darting around the room and never settling on one place to look. Sherlock found an odd sort of fondness settle over him. The other man was just so…cute. John stared at Angelo's as if he had never stepped foot in a restaurant this posh since he'd gotten to L.A. It was endearing, to say the least.
Stop right there. You cannot find someone's boyfriend endearing. Do you know how fucked up that is? Why can't you just be normal and find someone else? Why do you always fall for the unattainable ones?
"How many?"
Sherlock shook his head, pulling his thoughts together and lacing his sloppy emotions in a tight bow of logic. "Just the two of us." He answered; motioning to the still star struck John. The waiter gave the two men a curt nod and lead them to a table, located towards the back but near the window that adorned a very of the traffic and anyone sitting in the outdoor seating area. John sat opposite Sherlock, taking the offered menus and handing one of them to him.
"Sherlock, it's good to see you again." The waiter introduced. "My name is Alonzo, and I will be your server this evening. Now, what can I get you two to drink?"
John casted a quick glance in Sherlock's direction before speaking.
"I'll just have a glass of water, thanks."
The waiter looked at Sherlock expectantly. Reluctantly, he fought of his usual Pinot Grigio request and settled on ordering a bottle of Pellegrino for the both of them.
"Anything you want is on the house, for you, Sherlock, and for your date."
John's head shot up at the waiter's statement. Sherlock, for the most part, brushed it off.
"I'm not his date." John growled out to the waiter. Pink dusted his cheeks and he stubbornly refused to look back at Sherlock.
Alonzo seemed to ignore John's vehement denial, offering the pair candles for the tables and leaving without waiting for their reply. John's face was a deep scarlet by the time he returned his gaze to Sherlock. It made his heart lurch somewhat to see him so flustered, smiling softly, but mostly downplayed it for his…friend's?...sake.
"Is he always like that?" John asked, picking the menu off the table and covering half his face with faint interest in the meals offered.
"Generally speaking, yes." He responded, pointedly avoiding the man across from him as his silent way of apologizing. Or so he hoped.
For a few minutes, the pair sat in silence. John stared intently at something on the menu while Sherlock fidgeted around in his seat trying to think of something to get the conversation started again.
Say something, damn it! Why can't you use that awfully large brain of yours to think of something clever to say?
"So, uh, John-" Sherlock began hoarsely, barely able to be heard over the clatter of the restaurant. "How did…you get into acting?" He winced at how painfully stunted his question was. So blatantly over trying like he was a bloody teenager on a first date.
John, thankfully, didn't seem to notice his slip up in conversation choice and set his menu down before looking at him in thought. It was truly something watching this man think. His thoughts were practically written on his face, gears turning and whistles blowing as he recalls the chain of events that have come together to synthesize his life.
It was kind of poetic.
"When I was young, maybe six or seven or so, my sister and I would always race down the stairs on Saturdays for the early morning cartoons that only lasted that day. It was during those days of watching Godzilla destroy Tokyo or Mickey Mouse sail a ship that I wanted to be on the screen. During the six days in between waiting for the cartoons again, I'd imitate most of the characters I saw on screen. I got so good that I won first place in a talent show for my Donald Duck impression." John responded with a soft smile that seemed to have a glow from the inside out. It made his heart stop.
Stop imagining a young John, Sherlock. You're never going to get through being 'just friends' if you keep digging this hole for yourself.
"Do it for me." Sherlock blurted, mouth responding before his brain could process what was being said.
"Do what?" John asked, head tilting slightly to the right in curiosity. Damn his annoyingly innocent charm.
He felt a flush creep over the back of his neck. Not. Good. "The Donald Duck impression. I want to hear."
Impossibly, the other man's smile widened. "Well, prepare to be amazed." He said, waving his fingers as if he were a magician performing his opening act. John cleared his throat, taking in a deep breath when Alonzo showed up and effectively startled John into clamming up.
Damn Alonzo and his efficiency. Damn this night. Damn both of these men.
"I got the candle for you," Alonzo said cheerfully, placing it in the centre of the table, "and your fettuccini alfredo. Let me know if you need anything else." He left the pair with a pat on Sherlock's back and disappeared into the kitchen.
John licked his lips at the steaming pasta in front of him.
Oh god does he know how tantalizing that is? The saliva is shiny on his bottom lip and his pupils have dilated. Stop focusing on it, Sherlock. You're going to be in quite the awkward position if you have to walk out of here with a boner.
Sherlock averted his eyes, staring at the flicker of the small flame of the candle as he willed the arousal to dissipate from his veins. They sat in a comfortable silence, the sounds of the bustling restaurant wrapping both of them. John finished his mouthful of pasta and flicked his tongue along his bottom lip to lap up the sauce left there.
"What about you, Sherlock? How did you get into the music business? I mean, working for Disney isn't easy and quite a big honor." He said, glancing at the taller man while pouring himself another glass of Pelligrino.
Sherlock stared down at the blonde man, willing himself to not spill his life story to what was essentially a stranger in the span of two hours.
Fuck it.
"A friend of mine from Berkeley told me that he found me an amazing agency for my violin playing a few days after I'd returned. Sam was a great companion during my years before the transfer and I was grateful he still looked out for me. He gave me the address and number to call them to schedule an audition over lunch before leaving with an emergency call from his older brother. I gave them a call and arrived at my scheduled time. They accepted me and I climbed through the ranks, easily becoming top violin player for the company, but it always felt so…forced to me. I was recording in a studio for a company album when a man had approached me about a movie he was making and asked if I could play the violin piece required for him. I obliged. The movie made my name as a composer in the film industry, but being a sound engineer took a long shot from a desperate director and an amazing friend of mine named Irene. Disney offered me this movie after the big hit of my last on the long shot I'd do great work." Sherlock murmured his reply, pointedly avoiding the gaze of the man opposite him.
"The long shot you'd do good? Sherlock, I've heard you play. There's no way in hell you wouldn't do good." John remarked, taking a swig of his water before setting the glass back on the table with more force than was truly necessary.
"I appreciate the words, John, but I have to be the best that I can for this movie. Disney would have my head if it didn't turn out well."
He watched the smaller man shift in his seat until he was leaning forward slightly on his elbows, deciding instead to relax back against his chair. "This was…nice. Thank you for inviting me to dinner, Sherlock, but I really should be getting home to Mary."
Sherlock scowled as he watched John fish his mobile out from his pocket and punch in the words for a text.
Of course. He has to get home to Mary. Why would he spend a night in the guest room of a man that was essentially a stranger to him.
He left a few bills on the table for tip and stood, using his mobile to request a cabbie for John to take home. No sense in forcing him to strain his leg.
Sherlock stood in the brisk air, enjoying the sight of his breath on the frozen sky while he awaited the limited company of the former army man.
Just once, can't you have any relationship with someone that you don't fuck up?
John joined him shortly, hobbling on his cane and leaning slightly into Sherlock for balance. It was warm. And grounding. And everything Sherlock had missed these past years.
The cab pulled up within ten minutes. A new record for LA.
Leave it to me to call a cab on the day they send a can out efficiently. Not nearly enough time to spend.
John pilled into the cab, waving Sherlock off with a slight smile and a brisk 'thank you'. He watched as the car sped down the street until it disappeared, taking the former army doctor with it. Sherlock sighed. Letting him go back to Mary was for the best.
You don't believe that for a second.
