Author's Note: Wow! Thank you all so much for the Story Favorites and Alerts, they mean so much! Apologies for the few days wait, but I was away with family and as much as I wanted to thought it would be a bit rude to sit in a room and type fan fiction all day! Anyway, hope you enjoy!
But I can't read you
I wish I knew what's going through your mind
Can't touch you, your heart defending I get left behind
I can't reach you
I wish I knew what's going through your mind
Can't touch you, your heart protecting I get left behind
No no no no no
No no no no no
Daniel Bedingfield - I Can't Read You
Without the excuse of having an insane flatmate's life to save, John Watson found himself on yet another date in which he wasn't all that interested in.
To be completely clear, it was nothing to do with Sarah. While the whole 'It's not you, it's me' was usually a cover for simple disinterest, this was not the case between John and Sarah. John liked Sarah, Sarah liked John. He would walk to her flat, even though his flat was closer to the restaurant, he would smile and laugh at her stories, even if he found them dull, he would always insist on picking up the check, even though she made more money than him, and at the end of the night he would walk her back to her flat, kiss her lightly on the check and/or lips, then wish her a goodnight. And this was fine, it was good. But no matter how many times he tried to convince himself that he cared about the relationship, the utter truth was that he simply didn't.
So John Watson found himself sitting in his favourite Chinese restaurant ('You can always tell a good Chinese place by the lower third of the door handle') getting very distracted (Why was he quoting Sherlock in his head?) until John was suddenly pulled back into the conversation by the mention of a certain consulting detective.
'Sorry, did you say something about Sherlock?'
'Honestly John, sometimes it's like you're not even listening! I said isn't that Sherlock over there, sitting in the corner?'
John quickly turned around to be greeted with the sight of Sherlock Holmes, indeed sitting in the corner of the very same restaurant, and seemingly actually eating something. John felt a flush of anger swell over him. (The bloody prick, pretending he had plans just so he could bloody stalk me!)
'Right, well, I'd best go say hi.'
'You're not going to invite him over, are you? Just, I know he's on his own and everything, but this is our time…'
John felt his cheeks flush. Surely it wasn't that obvious that he'd have rather spent the evening with Sherlock, was it?
'No, no, of course not. I have a feeling he'll be leaving soon anyway.'
With that the doctor got up and marched straight over to the man in the corner, planning in his head exactly what he was going to say to Sherlock and in exactly what tone ('You really are unbelievable, Sherlock, you know that! Why couldn't you have just asked to come along with us, if you were so bloody interested!')
'Hello, Sherlock.'
John made every effort to put as much annoyance into the two words as possible, just to make it absolutely clear that it was not okay to follow your flat mate on a date, even if they didn't really mind (Why didn't he mind?).
'Oh, John! I assumed you were going to the Indian restaurant tonight, due to the fact…'
'Sherlock don't play innocent, I know exactly why you're here so don't even try to…'
'Excuse me?'
John turned around to be greeted with the sight of the women who had spoken. Definitely not a waitress, no uniform, John noted. He wasn't wearing a uniform, so there was no way she could be mistaking him for staff. He was certain he hadn't met her previously, and she seemed to be a little too old and too sane to be one of the obsessive fans of the blog that would ask for autographs.
'Could you just step aside a little, I need to get into my seat?'
Dazed, John stepped aside only to watch as the woman sat down in the seat opposite Sherlock. His brain told him to ask who she actually was, but somehow it seemed his mouth had forgotten how to speak, forcing him to stand gaping at the pair for a full thirty seconds before either of them acknowledged him again.
'John this is Irene, my date. And could you please close your mouth? I'm not an expert on social situations but I am certain that staring at people with your mouth wide open in not entirely polite.'
John was certain this was what having a stroke felt like. The inability to breath, the numbness, the loss of all logical brain power. All he needed was the smell of burnt toast and he was there. After what felt like eternity, but what must have only been a few seconds, John's brain started functioning again.
'Your date?'
'Yes.'
'You are on a date?'
'Yes.'
'You, Sherlock Holmes, are on an actual date?'
'Yes, I am Sherlock Holmes, and again yes, I am on a date. Please stop repeating the question.'
'I'm sorry to be rude, but who exactly are you?'
Suddenly John remembered the presence of the third party in this bizarre situation. (Irene, was it? What kind of a name is Irene?)
'Oh, I'm sorry, I'm John.'
Irene gave John a look that for a moment he did not understand, until the somewhat devastating realisation hit him (Why was this so devastating?). Irene did not have a clue who he was.
'My apologies Irene, this is John Watson, my flatmate.'
Again surprised by his own emotions, John found Sherlock description of 'flatmate' similar to being stabbed in the stomach. Twice.
'Yeah, yeah… flatmate. We were introduced by… Eh, so how did you two meet?'
'Well, if I told you that, Doctor, I'd have to kill you.'
Sherlock laughed from across the table while in the same instance John realised how Irene had actually addressed him.
'Doctor? Oh, so Sherlock did mention me…'
John let a slight smile appear on his face in the realisation that perhaps there was some sort of hope after all (Hope of what exactly?), when Irene shook her head without so much as looking up from her plate.
'Oh, no, he mentioned nothing. But assuming you're between 35 and 38, the wrinkles on your face aren't just a part of the natural aging process, telling me that your job is or was extremely stressful. However it is unlikely that you work in business, as your stress levels would match only those at the very top of corporations, and judging by the fact that you need a flatmate to be able to live in London you make no more than £20,000 per year, if that. So the next highest area of stress levels is the medical sector, and judging by your stance I'm guessing military, so assuming that all my previous guesses were in fact correct, we get previous army doctor who now works as a GP. And I'd also say that you two are much more than flatmates, as Sherly put it, as judging by your flushed cheeks, raised heart rate and overall obvious anger at finding us on a date there is a much stronger emotional attachment than the one which would be formed by simply sharing accommodation. However I seriously doubt you are currently romantically involved due to the fact that you seem to be attempting, very badly I must say, at hiding your anger, and the fact you seem to also be on a date, with the woman sitting in the middle of the room alone, who is most likely your co-worker. So add it all together and we get an ex-military man developing romantic feelings for his male flatmate so in an attempt to ignore these feelings has settled on staying in a relationship that he isn't actually emotionally invested in.'
After what must have been at least five minutes of shock, then another minute of horror (Dear god there's two of them), John began to feel offended.
'Wait, what? Emotional attachment, romantic feelings… No, no, look you did somehow manage to get my profession correct but I definitely DO NOT fancy Sherlock Holmes! I'm straight!'
After a shared smirk between the two geniuses, Irene turned to back to the stunned Doctor.
'Oh, I'm sorry John! I do get a bit carried away. Of course you're straight. Why wouldn't you be?'
Feeling flustered, embarrassed and very, very confused John Watson made his excuses, turned around, walked back to his table and three quarters of an hour later found himself sitting on Sarah's couch repeating a certain phrase over and over again in his head.
'Of course you're straight. Why wouldn't you be?'
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm really enjoying writing this, so hopefully you guys will want more! Apologies for my attempt at a deduction, I am obviously not as brilliant as Sherlock or indeed Irene! I will try and get the next chapter up as soon as I can, and feedback/comments are always extremely helpful and appreciated!
