Chapter 4

Even though Sherlock was probably right that dinner in a public place couldn't hold that much of a risk, John kept feeling uncomfortable about the idea of the date. He couldn't quite say why, but he had been dreading Friday evening all week, even when he was at work and supposed to be focused. As he hadn't been successful at asking someone out, he ended up booking a table just for himself. When the night in question was finally there, he left half an hour early to Angelo's, which made Sherlock ridicule him, but at least he wouldn't miss anything. If someone wanted to set up a trap for Sherlock, he would be in time to notice. But he knew that that was just what he told himself in his paranoia after everything Moran had done. There wasn't much they could do there, and even then, Angelo would always keep an eye out for Sherlock.

After about 20 minutes, a short, dark-haired man entered the restaurant. The way he smiled at Angelo showed genuine mirth, though there was also a hint of shyness in it. Not exactly the kind of man John expected to have worked for Moran, and yet he was shown to the table Sherlock had reserved. The one where John and Sherlock had sat together the week before.

But the man shook his head and said something, and then Angelo nodded and brought him to an even smaller table right at the back. Behind John. He rolled his eyes and looked over his right shoulder. If he moved to the chair on the other side of his table, he could still see them, and Murphy was checking his phone, so probably he wouldn't notice, if John was quick about it. He smiled at Angelo, who passed him just as he had gotten up, then quickly moved his glass a little and sat down again. It wasn't ideal, because he had to look past a few other tables, but it was still safe enough. Good.

Next to him, the door opened again, and this time it was Sherlock. John glanced at him for a moment, but Sherlock didn't even look at him, instead walking straight to the table at the back, as if that was exactly where he was expecting to find Murphy. As soon as Murphy saw Sherlock, he beamed at him and stood up. He took Sherlock's offered hand, but used it to pull him in for a quick kiss. It was clear that it wasn't the first time that had happened. Still, Sherlock seemed a bit taken aback, but smiled as he sat down.

They talked and laughed as they ordered, and Angelo was being pleasant and exuberant, actually shaking Murphy's hand before he went off to get their wine. Murphy was talking a lot, but it did not seem to bother Sherlock. He was smiling and nodding. At one point, it even looked like he was blushing. It made John raise his eyebrows over his own plate of pasta. If the man ever got bored of being a consulting detective, he could always become an actor.

When the wine arrived, Murphy poured them both a large glass and offered a toast that made Sherlock snort.

A group of people entered the restaurant and it took a while before they had all sat down at the largest table between John's and the two men, so John's view was blocked. When they were finally seated, he saw that somehow, Murphy had gotten hold of Sherlock's hand. In fact, he was not just holding it, right there in the middle of the table. He seemed to be playing with the long fingers, running his own thumb over the tips. He was smiling at Sherlock in a rather unsettling way, as if Sherlock was the only interesting thing in the whole world, making the caresses even more intimate. Almost erotic. Sherlock was looking down at their hands, smiling a little.

Then the food was brought in and they let go of each other. While they ate, conversation seemed to be more toned down and casual. John wondered if Sherlock was finally getting to the business of questioning Murphy about Moran. He wished he could hear anything of what they said, but the group between them was making too much noise, and Sherlock and Murphy seemed to talk rather quietly. At one point, Murphy seemed to go tense and he looked away, which made Sherlock frown and then speak quickly. As if he was apologising. Sherlock. But then of course, he might need more information and it fit the role he was playing.

Sherlock only ate half of his portion and then sat for a while, pushing a piece of meat about with his fork. Murphy, on the other hand, seemed to have quite an appetite and cleaned his plate completely. Then, when Angelo had taken the plates and asked them about dessert - something John could hear even over the group's talking, because the man always spoke so loudly - Murphy suddenly stood up. But instead of going to the loo or going out to smoke, he moved his chair to the side of the table, so that he was sitting much closer to Sherlock. Too close.

Sherlock seemed surprised by this, but did not protest, and soon Murphy was holding his hand again, while pouring them both more wine. It seemed to be a new bottle, unless they had drunk surprisingly little with their meal. John hadn't really paid attention to it until now.

Angelo laughed when he returned with the desserts and saw them sitting like that. And then he ruffled Murphy's hair. Like he was accepting his favourite nephew's date. After he had left, they tasted their desserts and then Murphy offered Sherlock some of his. He actually fed him a spoon of it and Sherlock let it all happen. Apparently, the detective got some chocolate on his lip, or at least Murphy pretended that he did and wiped it off with his thumb. But did he really have to do that so slowly while looking straight into Sherlock's eyes? John shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Sherlock put down his small fork and after a moment's hesitation leaned over and kissed Murphy. Not just a quick peck like at the start of the date, but a soft, lingering kiss. John averted his eyes. Had Sherlock forgotten that John was watching? Had he not wanted to admit that it was indeed an actual date? Or was he just that good an actor?

Murphy reached up to cup Sherlock's cheek and slowly took charge of the kiss, deepening it. It lasted an entire minute. A minute and a half. Then some loud laughter from some inebriated men at another table distracted them and they broke apart, smiling and slightly flushed.

John was relieved that Angelo arrived at his table just then, to ask if he needed something else, and he could order another glass of water.

Once again, his view was blocked as the large group of people was leaving. It was getting rather late and there were only a few tables left. John hoped it wouldn't become too obvious that he was watching the two men, as he had been here for longer, and all on his own. Not that he was doing much watching right now. He really didn't need to see them snog some more. Even then, Murphy was probably distracted enough not to notice John.

John really, really wanted to leave. He had no desire at all to keep watching Sherlock Holmes on a frankly ordinary date. It was none of his business and it was incredibly awkward. But he couldn't leave. If this was just Murphy playing it well, of course he would make it all seem normal until everyone had long given up on paying attention. And then he would strike. Granted, John was seriously starting to doubt that Murphy was a threat. But he wouldn't risk it and leave his friend. So he had to sit this out.

The next time they broke apart, they spoke for a brief moment and then Sherlock signalled Angelo for the check. The large man smiled and shook his head, indicating with a wink and a wave at the door that they should just get going.

They got to the door before John could even catch Angelo's attention to ask for his bill. Quickly, he threw some money on the table, and then waited a moment until the two men were out, so he could follow them.

John was glad they just walked along the street. It would have been awkward if they had taken a cab, even if he could immediately have gotten one himself to follow them. But now they were just walking at a calm pace, holding hands and now and then leaning into each other. John just strolled after them, once again pondering if he shouldn't just go home. Not that he had to make an effort to be subtle. He doubted that they would notice anyone but each other anyway.

They stopped at an old cinema, and for a moment John wondered if there were even any films starting at this hour of the night, but the screen inside told him that indeed there were a few. He waited awkwardly at the entrance, acting interested in one of the posters, until Murphy had bought them their tickets and he and Sherlock went further in.

"Er, good evening," John greeted the girl in the ticket box, only now realising that he had no idea which film they would have chosen. "Erm, I'm just looking for something nice and relaxing to watch. How about what those two men chose? They look like they have good taste."

The girl frowned a little. "Are you sure, sir? If you really want relaxing…"

"Yes, yes, it's fine," John said, quickly handing her the money for a ticket.

It wasn't hard to find Sherlock and his date in the half-dark theatre. For a start, there was only one other couple sitting somewhere in front, and they were actually watching the trailers. Unlike Sherlock and Murphy.

By the time John sat down in the back, the lights were already dimming and Murphy was almost sitting in Sherlock's lap. They didn't even look up as the title appeared in large letters on the screen, as they were far too busy. John tried not to feel disgusted and frowned as he read the words; he had no idea what they meant and didn't even recognise the language of the film.

The two men managed to keep their lips locked together for almost twenty minutes. Then, giggling a lot, they seemed to focus on the film, Murphy resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

John couldn't keep himself interested in the film for long. He didn't understand a word of it and something seemed off with the subtitles. He wondered how Sherlock could stand it. He was always so easily bored, but now he seemed absolutely fine just resting against Murphy. Actually cuddling. He must be seething under the surface. John simply couldn't believe he was really enjoying it, however excellent his performance was.

The film's soundtrack, combined with the boredom, brought him even more on edge. In fact he felt angry. Inexplicably so. Part of him just wanted to push Murphy away and drag Sherlock home so they could stop this ridiculous show.

Eventually, the fatigue of the week's work and the late hour caught up with him, and despite his uncomfortable thoughts, he must have drifted off. Next he knew, the end credits were rolling. And Sherlock and Murphy were gone.

…

"You could have texted me! When you left! I almost called the police, but here you fucking are as if nothing happened!" John shouted as he entered the flat and found Sherlock lying on the sofa, his eyes closed and a small smile playing around his lips.

Sherlock opened his eyes calmly, though his smile faded a bit. He glanced over at John. "Call the police? Why?"

"Because you just disappeared!"

"I didn't disappear. I went home." Sherlock sat up and stretched.

"Yes, but…" Had Sherlock seen he had fallen asleep? It had been his own fault, really, but the frustration of the whole evening was clouding John's judgement. "You should have noticed I wasn't following."

"But you were sleeping," Sherlock said. "What would you have me do? Return to the theatre after I'd put James in a cab? I was closer to home by then. And it's not like you didn't know where to look for me."

"I wasn't supposed to have fallen asleep," John muttered. "And what was all that about with James? I thought it wasn't a real date?"

Sherlock chuckled. "It wasn't. But… Something happened."

"Yeah, that was clear." John huffed and sat down in his chair. "So what exactly happened? You discovered the wonderful world of emotions?"

"No. Not really. It's just…." He laughed again. "Well, James is a really skilled kisser and if I let him carry on for just a bit he'll trigger endorphins and they are really good for clear thinking." He looked John straight in the eyes as he continued. "It's like being high. Without all the bad stuff."

John raised an eyebrow. "I guess that was the most reassuring comparison you could think of."

"It's the most accurate," Sherlock shrugged. "So, once I had determined that James really did not have any new information, I figured I might as well take advantage of his other qualities."

"Yeah, I saw. And I wish I hadn't," John said, frowning.

"You were the one who insisted on following us," Sherlock said with another shrug, before heading for the kitchen.

John sighed. "That really doesn't mean I enjoyed it."

"Then why did you persist?" Sherlock asked, glancing at him over his shoulder. "Once it had become clear that the terms had changed, you could just have gone home. And you certainly didn't need to follow us to the cinema."

John suppressed a grunt, not allowing himself to get embarrassed. "You can say all that now it went fine. But it could have been a trap. Making you comfortable and then attacking. I wouldn't have forgiven myself if I had run off then."

"I think I could have handled him. Don't you?" Sherlock asked and winked.

"Really, Sherlock," John said, looking away.

"Really," Sherlock said as he walked past John and disappeared down the hallway leading to his bedroom.

…

The next morning, John still felt slightly uncomfortable around Sherlock. They didn't talk much, until about an hour before John was expected at Scotland Yard for his appointment with Sir Bellinger. Then John took out the list of questions Sherlock had made and frowned.

"Does it even matter what his favourite cocktail is?"

Sherlock gave him a scathing look. "Everything on there matters," he said.

"Yes, but what can you possibly deduce from that?" John asked.

"What he likes to drink, obviously," Sherlock answered with a smirk.

John snorted.

Sherlock chuckled. "Anything else you need to know, or do you think you can handle it?"

"I guess I can handle it," John sighed, straightening his tie. "Maybe I should go. Better not be late."

"No," Sherlock said, just as his phone buzzed. He read the text, smiled and did a sort of wave in John's direction. "Off you go."

…

Sir Bellinger was nothing like John had expected. Where everything about the house he and Lestrade arrived at screamed "rich diplomat", the tall man who opened the door looked more like a handsome farmer from some period piece, with his deep tan, sun-bleached hair and strong posture. And yet, he was wearing a suit with an air of comfort as if he were born in it.

He offered them tea and waved for them to take a seat on the huge leather sofa, and for a moment John couldn't quite remember what the first question on Sherlock's list had been.

"Er, right," he said as Bellinger's green eyes were resting on him expectantly. "Well, I guess the question is simple. Why exactly did you insist that the Forrestals' deaths were investigated? How could you know something was off?"

"Because I met them," he said, frowning a little. "Back in Da Nang. Our plane was delayed and we ended up having lunch at the same airport café. They were such a lovely couple. Level-headed, pleasant and very much in love. For them to die like that... It just didn't make sense."

John nodded. "And you changed places with them in the plane, right?"

He looked startled for a moment. "Yes... How did you know?"

"We found their tickets. But... Well, Sherlock deduced that Mrs Forrestal must have sat by the window," John explained.

He laughed. "Oh yes, of course... The great detective." He looked around. "The very reason why I could not let him into my home. Too many secrets he might guess."

John smiled.

"Did they propose the switch, or you?" Lestrade asked.

"Oh, I did," Bellinger said, smiling at the memory. "She was so disappointed that she didn't get a window seat. And I didn't really care, since I'd be working throughout the flight."

"That's nice," John said. "Can you say anything about what you're working on right now? Sherlock asked, but of course we understand if you can't say anything about it. But it might help us."

Bellinger sighed. "I can't. Sorry. Or rather... I could, but then you'd have to be locked up. For ever."

John smiled a little. "Better not, then. Well, he gave me some weird questions too, so I guess we'd better get those over with."

Fortunately Bellinger took the questions with good humour, and after they had joked about what Sherlock could possibly make of it, they said goodbye. John was in a better mood than he had been in a while when he returned home.

"Oh, experiment?" he asked when he saw Sherlock sitting in the kitchen.

Sherlock looked up from his phone. "What...? Oh... no... I was just thinking." He said and then glanced one more time at his phone before putting it in his pocket.

"Okay. I guess you want to hear everything Bellinger said?"

Sherlock shrugged. "That won't be necessary," he said. "I've already gotten in touch with the airline to find out who served drinks to the Forrestals when they were over France."

John frowned. "Then why did I even have to do the interview?"

"So I could get the information I needed, obviously," Sherlock said. "Thank you. You did very well." He grinned at John. "You really liked him, didn't you?"

John stared at him. "What? How...?"

Sherlock got up and walked over to him, reaching behind his neck and sticking two fingers down the collar of his jumper. A moment later he pulled them out and showed John the small device that had been attached there since that morning, when John had left the jumper in his chair while he went to brush his teeth.

"I must say it was quite interesting to witness the Watson charm, even if I could only hear you. A less... worldly man than Bellinger might have thought he was being hit on."

"You bugged me without telling me?" John sputtered.

"Of course," Sherlock said, carrying the device over to his desk and putting it in a drawer. "If I had told you, you'd have given it away. You're not exactly good at pretending."

"I wouldn't have!" John had to take a deep breath to avoid punching Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. "I know," he said.

"So what did it all tell you? Or did you really just make me ask those things to hear me being ridiculous?"

"Well, he confirmed my theory, obviously. Weren't you paying attention?" Sherlock asked, looking slightly confused.

"Sherlock, I swear to you, don't give me this shit now because I'm close enough to punching you as it is."

"What? What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, confused, as he took a step backwards.

"Well, let me explain it to you. You're being an insufferably annoying prick. Now tell me about the case." John glared up at him.

"Oh... " Sherlock relaxed visibly. "We know Charles Forrestal was poisoned. And that no one had any reason to want to harm him or his wife. But they exchanged seats with Bellinger. So someone, who did not know what he looked like, must have mistaken Forrestal for Bellinger and given him the poison. We'll probably never know why someone would want to kill Bellinger, but I intend to find out who."

"It's probably something to do with his job," John shrugged. "So find the one who served the poison and ask them who paid them to do it. I see."

"Yes." Sherlock smiled. "See? It wasn't that hard."

John rolled his eyes and went to make tea. "Any word on the Levington case?" he asked from the kitchen.

Sherlock shook his head. "I have some ideas, but no way of confirming them yet."

John poured them both a cup of tea and sat down. "So are you going to see James again?" he asked after a while.

Sherlock nodded. "I think so. Being with him is quite pleasant. And he helps me think."

"So it's not about information anymore." John smiled a little.

"No, didn't I tell you?" Sherlock said, smiling too, as his eyes grew distant. "Kissing him helps me concentrate. Think clearly."

"Yeah, okay, I don't need... details," John said quickly, holding up a hand.

"What details?" Sherlock asked, smirking. "You've seen it all."

…

On Monday, John spent his lunch break with a nice nurse he hadn't met yet the week before, and they agreed to go have a drink after their shift. It was nice, just friendly with a hint of possibility. He was still smiling at a joke she had made when he got home - where it looked like a small bomb had exploded.

Sherlock was standing in the kitchen, clutching a piece of rubber hose that he seemed to have torn from the elaborate setup of his latest experiment, that had been sitting forgotten on the counter since Levington's body had been found. He held the hose with both hands, pulling on it as if trying to break it in half. "I am going to kill him," he hissed through clenched teeth.

John frowned. "O-kay... Who now? Mycroft?" he guessed.

"Of course," Sherlock said, tossing the hose across the room, hitting the wall, much too close to John's head. "This time I think he actually did it specifically to piss me off."

"Wow, calm down," John said, stepping closer. "What happened?"

"What usually happens?" Sherlock barked. "I had the thing practically solved and then he comes in and parks his giant arse on everything, claiming: 'national security'."

"Oh. You found out why they wanted to kill Bellinger?" John asked.

"I would have. If he'd given me five minutes with the steward." Sherlock stamped his foot and then stormed off to his bedroom.

John blinked and sighed.