A/N: Yes! Finally! That Johnlock kiss is about to go down, guys. I believe I have kept you waiting long enough.
*important note at the bottom*
Enjoy, darling readers!
It is seven-thirty—a mere half hour before they are scheduled to depart—and Sherlock hasn't the slightest idea what to wear. He's never had difficulty with fashion in the past—mostly because he has never cared enough to fret over something as trivial as clothing—but now that he is about to walk into possibly the most important night of his life, suddenly every last detail is of dire importance. He paces in front of his gutted closet and bites his knuckles, deeply regretting every time he scoffed at his brother for worrying over things like 'color coordination' and 'seasonal materials'.
As a teenager, Sherlock made a habit of shrugging into whatever apparel Mummy put in his closet—because he'd discovered long ago that fighting against her fashion whims was about as useful as arguing with a boulder—and after he moved out, he continued dressing sharply simply out of habit. As he stares at the respective piles of suit jackets, button-down shirts, and trousers, he wonders, in a blinding moment of introspection, what his style is, sans childhood habits and Mummy's chiding. Everything in his closet, from the silk shirts to the designer shoes, has been influenced by either Mummy or Mycroft; there is not a single article of clothing that reflects who Sherlock is. He snags an olive-green long-sleeve down from the top of the pile and absently plucks at its buttons, and thinks to himself that perhaps the reason he has yet to find a suitable outfit is because nothing in his wardrobe accurately represents his personality.
Then Sherlock remembers that his life is not a dramatic soap opera, and the shirt in his hand is not a physical manifestation of his supposed lack of identity, it's a bloody shirt.
"Why the hell am I worrying over this," he asks out loud, because he feels like it needs to be said and there is currently no one else in the vicinity to say it for him.
He just feels so bloody weird. All squirmy and uncomfortable within his own skin, his stomach twisting in knots and his hands sweating as if he were in the Sahara. He tries to tell himself that this isn't a big deal because he's gone to dinner with John on numerous occasions, but Sherlock has never been very good at lying to himself and right now is no different. The truth is, this is a very big deal and it is vastly different from the other casual instances they've dined together.
Sherlock stands in front of the mirror and contemplates his reflection, taking in the typical sight of sharp features and pale skin, and feels unsure of himself.
He restlessly tugs his hands through his hair and wonders briefly if he ought to style it, but thankfully whatever sanity he has left tells him 'hell no', and he banishes the idea almost as soon as it occurs. Besides, what would he even do, anyway? The only hair styles he can successfully execute are 'wet hair from the shower', 'tangled bird's nest', and 'natural chaotic curls'
He physically shakes himself as if to rid his body of its ridiculous worries, and pulls on the nearest shirt. Coincidentally, it happens to be the plum-colored button down that always seems to make John's eyes linger a moment longer than usual. It's an old shirt, one he wore back when he was in his early twenties, and because he'd been far skinnier at the time—courtesy of cocaine—it is now a bit tight around the chest area.
He forces down the little voice that suggests John might like the black one instead, and carefully undoes the first two buttons of his shirt, revealing his customary triangle of pale skin. He's ready to leave, in fact he's in the motion of pulling himself away from the mirror and departing, when a seed out doubt gives him pause.
Slowly, Sherlock moves back in front of the mirror and scrutinizes himself, namely the completely hairless skin right below his throat. Damn it.
Sherlock stares at his naked chest and silently curses whatever being decided that he ought to be unable to grow a single hair on his chest, giving him the permanent appearance of being freshly-waxed. His inherent follicle deficiency has never bothered him before—so what if he didn't have the ability to grow a beard or a tuft of curls on his chest?—but now he's worried that perhaps it's a turn off. Of course, John has already seen him shirtless a few times—thanks to some particularly nasty gashes along his side and John's insistence to heal him right there on the spot instead of just waiting until they got to hospital—and he's never showed any sign of disgust, but Sherlock can't help but cringe with doubt nonetheless.
But he's not going to deal with that right now, because this is a rather inopportune time for a body-image crisis. Without another lingering glance at the mirror, he sweeps out of his room.
He finds John in the sitting room, all dolled-up in a sports jacket and styled hair, calmly reading the paper and looking like he's been ready for hours. Which, he actually might have been.
John glances up at him and chuckles. "Christ, were you sewing the clothes yourself? You've been in there for hours."
Sherlock straightens his shoulders and tries to look as dignified as possible, despite the embarrassed flush spreading across his face. "I, er, was distracted by an ongoing experiment I've been keeping in my room. It is a very important bit of research that demands quite a lot of attention."
John smiles, blatantly unconvinced, but seems content to move on. "Alright then, let's head out, shall we?"
. . .
So far, Sherlock thinks, things are going well.
The restaurant is just as grandiose and uppity as he remembers, but rather than seeming annoyed by the atmosphere, John is enamored by it. Sherlock amuses both John and himself by covertly deducing every toffee-nosed elitist in the building, from the mayor's intense podophobia to a waitress's secret love-child with one of the restaurant's regular patrons.
A few minutes after being seated, their waiter arrives: he's young and eager, and was probably informed that Sherlock is an important customer, if his 'desperate to please' smile is anything to go by.
"Hello, Mr. Holmes, we're so glad you've chosen to dine here tonight," he says in a rush, confirming Sherlock's suspicions.
Sherlock offers him a thin smile and nods, "It's a pleasure to be back—" he skims over the boy's name tag, "Joshua. It's been some time since I've come here."
"Well, we're always delighted to have a Holmes in our restaurant," Joshua beams. Then, he schools his features in the same polite detachment the other waiters have maintained, and pulls out a small jotter and pen.
"What can I get for you, sir?" he asks, turning to John with his pen poised over the notepad.
John's menu is closed, which isn't a surprise since Sherlock knows John made up his mind within two minutes of reading it. John is not one to dawdle on choices: he decides he wants something, and then that's that. Quite an admirable trait, actually. "The six ounce fillet mignon, medium well. Thanks."
Sherlock's menu is untouched as well, but it isn't due to any outstanding faith in his decision-making. His menu is closed because he has been here many times with Mycroft and has long since memorized the entire thing, cover to cover. Before the Joshua can ask, he drawls, "And I will have the Côte De Veau Flambées À La Crème, as well as a bottle of red Château Lascombes for the table, chilled. That will be all, thank you."
The boy nods, "Yes, thank you, Mr. Holmes. Food will be out shortly," and scoops their menus into his arms, making his departure.
As soon as he leaves, John turns to face Sherlock with his eyebrows high on his forehead. "So, apparently you're fluent in French, a regular patron, and you know your way around the menu. I'm—well, 'surprised' would be a lie, so I'll go with 'impressed'." John smiles, that same quirk of mouth he wears whenever Sherlock has done something either brilliant, charming, or both. "What did you order, anyhow?"
"Seared veal with a wine reduction and cream sauce. The bottle is vintage red, by the way. A bit dry for my tastes, but by far the richest flavor I've encountered."
John raises an eyebrow. "Really. And since when are you an expert on drinks? I was under the impression that your little shindig with Molly was one your first encounters with alcohol."
The memory of Mycroft's stern face and careful advice immediately surfaces:
"Now, Sherlock, if you're going to truly impress John you must act like a proper, well-informed gentleman. I'm aware you could not care less about the varying types of wines—as evident by your evening with Ms. Hooper—but it will behoove you to know your way around a drinks menu. Listen carefully, brother: the best brand is…"
Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and tries to appear nonchalant. "Yes, well, I've, er, broadened my knowledge since then." Then, in a moment of self-doubt, he hesitantly asks, "But you do like wine, correct?"
In general, John stays away from alcohol—no doubt put off by his sister's addiction—but from time to time Sherlock has seen him indulge in beer at the pubs, or in lagers from the fridge. Never has John shown any particular aversion or passion for fancy French wine—which he attempted to point out to Mycroft, by the way—but his brother insisted that everyone enjoys a nice glass every now and then. Dates especially.
"I'm not as well-versed as you, but I do enjoy a bit of red from time to time. Besides, I trust your judgment," John smiles, "I'm sure it'll be delicious."
. . .
"How is the steak?" Sherlock asks, as he absently pushes a stray olive around his plate with his fork. John's been silent ever since he took his first bite, and Sherlock is worried that perhaps he doesn't like it.
John, in the midst of chewing, holds up a hand for a moment while he swallows. "Sherlock," he says after a beat, his voice sounding almost reverent, "Sherlock it's so—it's just—it's," he pauses, collects himself. In a completely sober tone, he continues with, "Let me put it to you this way: if I could legally marry a piece of meat, my future spouse would be sitting on this plate right now."
Sherlock isn't expecting the bubble of laughter that rises in his throat, but John's comment is just so ridiculously endearing that he finds himself chuckling heartily. "That good, hm?"
Looking down at his plate with an expression of complete bliss, John replies, "Yes. Christ, I've never been so pleased by food before. I mean, I feel like I should write poetry about it or something. A blog entry at the very least."
"Are you sure your fans would appreciate an ode to steak? I'm sure they're under the impression that your blog is dedicated to our cases, not our dining experiences."
"Oh, they'll make an exception. A post about this masterpiece would be greatly appreciated by all," assures John, raising his fork to his mouth for another bite. "And what about the veal? How is it?"
Sherlock gives a small shrug and takes a bite. "Well-prepared, aptly seasoned, and cooked to a respectable extent. Not bad. Certainly nothing I wish to revere through written word, but decent nonetheless."
John looks at him, amused. "You make it sound so business-like. Hasn't there ever been a food that has just made you feel, I don't know, good? Comfortable, happy, content, etcetera?"
If someone asked Sherlock that question two years ago, he would've scowled and muttered something snippy about asking stupid questions, because no, of course food didn't bring him joy. It was a necessary part of living, no more.
But—like most things which occurred prior to meeting John—that has since changed. The truth is, he does have a favorite food, but his love for it has nothing to do with flavor, and everything to do with the memory he associates it with.
. . .
It happened on a Thursday during the seventh week he and John had begun living together, right after a successful conclusion to a particularly tricky case. Flying high on the glorious satisfaction of a mystery well-solved, Sherlock allowed John to drag him into a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant which specialized in foods ranging from greasy to heart attack-inducing.
"You have to try the chips here," John insisted, eyes bright with eagerness. They were standing in queue, closer than usual, with their shoulders bumping together and their hands occasionally brushing, and the air smelled like grease, salt, a weak spritz of air-freshener—probably to mask the grease—and then, because of their proximity, John. It was the first time Sherlock had been close enough to his flat mate to properly assess the important minutia of him, and he wasted no time in stowing every detail he found into the secret, dark corners of his mind palace: John's eye lashes were honey-colored and short, but they framed his eyes nicely when he smiled, his lips were two shades pinker than the rest of his skin, his hair was a delightful mix of silvers, golds, and blondes, and he smelled unaccountably like cinnamon. He could feel the warmth of John's body heat from where their arms were touching, and despite his lifelong aversion to physical contact, found that he didn't mind. One could even go as far as saying he liked it.
Later, at their table, John happily dug into the basket of chips, talking excitedly about the case around mouthfuls, looking for all the world like an overly-excited pup. It was then that Sherlock experienced affection for the first time in his life, as he sat there across from John and watched him vibrantly recount their adventure with a range of gesticulations and exclamations.
"Sherlock, try one. Just one. Please!" John persisted, pushing the basket towards him.
Sherlock had no intention of sullying his insides with that deep-fried rubbish, but John just looked so happy and eager to share something he thought might make Sherlock equally pleased, that Sherlock found he had a hard time saying no. With a put-upon sigh that was mostly for show, he plucked one up and took a bite. He chewed. He considered.
"So, what do you think?" asked John, hopeful as anything. Obviously, this place had sentimental value—John had come here in his youth, judging by the continuous looks of nostalgia—so it was probably very important to him that Sherlock liked the food.
Honestly, it tasted like a greasy, overly salted, deep-fried sock, and Sherlock had every intention of telling John exactly that, until John muttered, "Oh wait, you have something just—there," and leaned across the small table to swipe his thumb across the corner of Sherlock's lips, clearing away the spot of grease. That small touch—in addition to the barrage of smiles, kindness, and laughter he'd been privy to those past seven weeks—made a jolt of white-hot pleasure shoot up his spine. In the seconds it took John to pull his hand back, Sherlock realized with a sort of hopeless acceptance that everything in his life had just changed irrevocably, because he was maybe-kind of-sort of teetering on the brink of something dangerously close to love.
And because that sort of thing made people behave senselessly, Sherlock said, "Surprisingly good. Thank you, John," and would forever associate greasy, salty chips with the delicious, terrifying feeling of falling head over bloody heels.
. . .
Sherlock smiles across the table at John, his heart warming at the memory. "I suppose it would be those chips from that little shop on Brantley. It was called Mortimer's Shack, I believe? You took me there once."
John looks surprised, but pleased. "You mean Morty's? Yeah, I remember we went there after that double-homicide case. I absolutely love that place, but honestly I'm a little surprised you do too. You're not usually one for greasy snacks, and clearly," John says, gesturing to Sherlock's plate, "you have a much more refined palate."
"True," Sherlock admits. "However, the only reason I enjoy them so much is because they remind me of the early stages of our acquaintance, back when I was just beginning to know you. I associate those chips with the exciting prospect of having not only a new flat mate, but a—friend as well."
The look John gives him is so fond and affectionate that Sherlock finds himself helplessly smiling back. "That's a good reason for having a favorite food, if you ask me," says John with a grin.
. . .
A half hour into the meal, Sherlock gleefully admits that things are going swimmingly. Their conversation has the same easy-going flow it has always had, John has smiled a total of twenty-four times so far, and more than once, vague flirtations have seeped into their banter. All in all, things are decidedly good.
Sherlock carefully portions off a bit of veal and raises it to his lips, not because he has any sort of appetite, but because he's aware that John associates how much he eats with how happy he is, and he'd like John to be abundantly aware of how delighted he's feeling right now. Hell, he'd eat an entire buffet service if it would make John realize just how wonderful tonight has been.
"You know," John says, after a sip of wine, "Lestrade phoned me about a case he wants you to look into, it's quite the stumper: double homicide, no fingerprints, no signs of forced entry, and no connection between the victims. I was thinking tomorrow morning we could pop by the station and check out the files. Interested?"
Yes, immensely—is what he would have said if this were any other dinner. However, this is a special night that is supposed to be all about John, meaning no cases, no murders, and no Work; just John. Sherlock thinks he's done fairly well so far on this whole 'date' thing, and he is determined not to ruin it.
After mentally reviewing the various 'date scene moves' that are drifting through his mind palace like loose leaves, Sherlock clears his throat and leans forward a bit—this gesture shows interest, remember—and smoothly says, "Perhaps. But what I'd really like to discuss is you, John Watson,"—using the subject's full name shows personal interest and attraction—"so tell me about yourself."
John gives him an odd look, equal parts amused and mystified. "Well, whatever I haven't already told you, you could just deduce, right?"
Yes, obviously—is what he would have said if he weren't attempting to woo John. However, he is, so he bites his tongue and lifts one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. "Maybe so, but I'd find it much more enjoyable if I heard the words from your mouth." He purposefully drops his voice as he speaks the latter bit, since deep voices and vague innuendo are apparently "big turn-ons".
To his surprise, John does not swoon. Instead he appears mildly concerned. "Are you coming down with something? Your voice got a bit odd there."
Flustered and feeling more than slightly ridiculous, Sherlock clears his throat and temporarily hides himself behind his glass of wine. Once he's had a fortifying sip of liquid-courage, he says, "Er, no, I suppose it's the drink that has made my voice rough." To prove his point, he clears his throat longer than necessary and takes a sip of water. "Yes, all better."
John gives him a look that clearly says he's aware that Sherlock is lying, but seems content enough to let it slide. "Okay, what were you saying?"
"Tell me about yourself," Sherlock repeats, this time at a normal octave.
John gives him a lopsided grin. "Well, detective, what do you want to know?"
Sherlock thinks about this question carefully, because there are so many things he wants to ask. What he'd like to know is, do you think about me half as much as I think about you, and even if you don't, do you think maybe one day you will?
He wants to know, why are you my best friend, John, when a man like yourself could have anyone else on the planet? Why do you put up with me?
He wants to know, do you want to kiss me? And If I kiss you, John, will you let me?
He wants to know, do you love me?
But Sherlock knows better than to ask any of that, for now anyway, and instead goes with one of the many 'conversation starters' he has floating around in his head. "What is your best childhood memory?"
John's smile grows smaller, but warmer, and his blue eyes take on a look of nostalgia. "Great question. My best memory from when I was a kid is the day that I turned thirteen. I remember I was pulling Harry home in her old red wagon—even though she was ten at the time and way too big for the little thing—and I was whistling Happy Birthday to myself while Harry complained that I wasn't going fast enough. The sun was shining so brightly, the sky a perfect cloudless blue just like my mum's eyes, and I remember turning my face up and soaking in the warmth, reveling in the simplicity of the moment and the fact that I was a newly turned thirteen year old with an entire lifetime ahead. Then I got home and saw my folks out in the front yard, Mum in her apron with a homemade cake—she was an awful cook, but the fact that she made the effort meant a lot—and my old man, looking solemn and proud as usual, holding a hand-wrapped present that I knew had a new set of army men inside. My folks gave me big hugs and said the usual 'I love you's and 'happy birthday, Johnny's, and Harry even surprised me by pecking me on the cheek and calling me the 'best brother in the world'."
John smiles faintly to himself, seemingly lost in the memory. "That's my favorite memory because it was the last time things in my life were so simple and straightforward. Later that year, Mum and Dad were killed in a car crash, and almost the next day Harry and I were shipped off to my aunt's. From there things went downhill, Harry turning to alcohol somewhere in her late teens and me, squirming to leave the house so badly that I practically leapt at the opportunity to serve. Of course, that wasn't the only reason I signed up, but it definitely impacted my decision."
John's parents' deaths were probably the fourth or fifth thing Sherlock deduced about him during their meeting at the lab, but even Sherlock had possessed enough tact to know better than to mention it. Until now, he didn't known the specifics because John rarely talked about his family, but judging by John's natural independency and intrinsic caretaker complex, he had concluded that they must have met an early demise, forcing responsibility solely on John's shoulders.
Sherlock knows that sharing this was not easy, and he appreciates that John has allowed him into his past. "Thank you, John," he says sincerely.
John nods and looks at him thoughtfully, as if he is trying to figure something out and believes the answers are somewhere on Sherlock's face. After a moment, the contemplative look melts into one of intrigue. "So what about you, Sherlock? Do I get a question now?"
Yes, in the movies the questions did bounce back and forth like a tennis match, and he supposes that means things are progressing perfectly. "Ask away."
"What is a secret passion of yours?"
Um, you, his inner voice replies drily. His outer and more socially aware voice, however, replies with, "Dance. I love dancing."
The number of people who know this include his mother—she paid for the lessons—Mycroft—'it was hardly a difficult deduction, Sherlock'—and now, John, who is presently staring at Sherlock as if he just admitted that his hair is actually a wig.
"Dancing? Like…ballet?"
"Precisely."
Of all the things he expects John to say, he is not prepared for the earnest reply of: "I knew it!"
Sherlock stares at him because, no, John did not 'know it'. He is abundantly aware of the man's ability to deduce, and figuring out something like this is far above John's caliber. "How, pray tell?"
John grins, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Well, for one, you've just got this sort of grace about you. Everything you do is elegant, practiced, and in control: you move like a dancer."
Okay, yes, John just said he is graceful, but Sherlock is absolutely not blushing right now, it's simply the heat of this room.
"And two, I may or may not have walked into the flat a few weeks ago and found you doing pirouettes in the sitting room," John's grin widens and his eyes are practically twinkling with mirth, "also, there might've been Swan Lake playing in the background."
And at that, the thing that is definitely not blush engulfs his entire face. "Yes," he says, because there really is not much else to retort with.
John smiles and reaches across the table to squeeze his hand in reassurance. "Hey, no need to be embarrassed. I think it's great that you dance, in fact I'm a bit jealous," he chuckles self-deprecatingly, "Always had two left feet, myself."
"I suppose I'll have to teach you sometime, then," Sherlock replies evenly, taking a draught of water.
To his surprise, John's playful expression melts into a look of sincerity. "I'd like that."
Sherlock places the glass down with a solid tink, and stares back. "Good."
And there it is, that sizzling tension burning in the air between them like tangible plumes of smoke, making the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck stand and his palms grow clammy. He continues looking at John, right into those fathomless blue eyes, and he can't help but feel as if his heart is both breaking and mending at once. It's as if the love he feels—this suffocating, all-encompassing, devotion—is filling up the cracks and crevices of his lonely, untouched heart and making him whole, while simultaneously breaking down all of his walls and barriers, and making him as vulnerable and shattered as a child. But he isn't afraid, because under John's steady gaze, the knot of fear in his chest eases and dissipates, every ounce of worry and tension melting away like snow in summer. There is just something so safe about John, something which makes Sherlock feel protected and appreciated, as if he were a precious item or a rare gem.
The moment is broken when Joshua returns to check the status of the meal, and although Sherlock wishes to berate the overly-eager boy for the interruption, Sherlock knows his intentions were good. Besides, chewing out their server probably wouldn't leave a great impression on John.
"And how is the meal, sir?" he asks Sherlock, almost nervously.
"Excellent. Tell Antoine the veal was perfect as usual, and the addition of chives and dill was truly inspired. Thank you very much, that will be all for now."
"Yes sir," he says earnestly, jerking his head in a quick nod before making his departure.
"Antoine?" John asks.
"Yes, he's a family friend of sorts. Mycroft, my mother, and I frequented this restaurant in my youth, and it was my mother—through her many connections—who got Antoine an audience with its owner, and subsequently, the position of sous chef. Over the years, he has worked his way to becoming head chef, and now that he has, either Mycroft or I make a habit of stopping in and giving him well-earned compliments on his dishes." Sherlock leans in and drops his voice, "Between you and I, I actually don't care for this restaurant all that much. It's pretentious and haughty, and I don't have many fond memories of coming here as a child. Antoine is the only decent thing about this entire pompous establishment."
"You came here as a kid? Christ, I don't imagine that was fun," John sympathizes. "As a boy I could barely stand sitting through an hour-long church service, let alone an entire meal in some posh French bistro."
Sherlock shrugs, idly twirling his fork between his fingers. "Yes, well, my childhood was more or less a whirlwind of 'dignified events' and 'proper manners', which really just means 'stuffy parties' and 'stodgy etiquette'."
"Well," John says, "to your credit, you turned out alright despite all that."
Sherlock's eyes turn playful and he tilts his head. "Just 'alright'?"
John smirks. "Are there any adjectives you'd prefer instead?"
"Splendid, perhaps. Wonderful, amazing, fantastic," he muses, features schooled into a look of mock-thought. "I might even settle for brilliant."
"Brilliant it is," John decides, hiding his smile around a sip of wine.
. . .
When their dessert arrives, Sherlock finds himself enjoying the sight of John eating cake more than the cake itself.
While he watches John's lips slide off the tines of the fork, Sherlock decides he'd very much like to kiss John. And not just on the cheek or forehead or hair—because even though he loves those areas, what he'd really like to do, what he's craving, yearning for, dying to do, is kiss John's lips. He wants to explore the delicious caverns of his mouth, feel John's smile against his lips, grip the sides of John's face and tangle one hand in the back of John's hair and have the two of them just melt together at the mouth.
It's an urge he's never felt prior to John. Kissing always seemed pointless since there had never been anyone in his life that he found attractive or worthy of pursuit. Of course, now that he has someone in his life who is both handsome and worthy, as well as a myriad of other wonderful things, he can't seem to stop thinking about bloody snogging. He has read articles on the chemical, hormonal science of kissing, has scoured textbooks and ripped apart the action down to its very roots, and he has even attempted to dissect it in romantic films. His conclusion is always the same: what's the big deal?
And really, it shouldn't be a big deal, being that it's just a glorified, primitive exchange of saliva. The mere thought of it shouldn't make sparks run down Sherlock's spine or cause his heart to pound faster. It shouldn't reside in the top five section of his 'Things I Desperately Want' list.
Yet, here he is, watching John eat cake and wishing he could kiss the chocolate right off his lips.
He's contemplating his next line of flirtations, when he notices that John's eyes are focused intently on something behind him. Sherlock decides to ignore it for the moment, and starts a conversation about something light-hearted and trivial. However, when John responds, his answers are absentminded and his eyes remain fixated over Sherlock's shoulder.
It is when he says something and John is completely unresponsive, that Sherlock finally prods, "John. John what is it?" John snaps out of it, but doesn't answer him—just goes on eating his cake with a quick smile and a, "it's nothing, what were you saying?"
Sherlock might have been content to just drop it, if John eyes didn't continue to wander over his shoulder throughout the conversation, despite his insistence that it was 'nothing'. Feeling concerned and a more than a little confused, Sherlock turns around and finally lays eyes on what has been the object of John's attention for the past twenty minutes.
It's a woman.
Her curvy figure is tucked snugly inside a skin-tight purple dress, her hair is piled atop her head in some complicated approximation of a bun, her lips are a blinding shade of scarlet, and her eyes are locked onto their table with blatant interest.
A heavy feeling of dread and understanding sinks down in Sherlock's chest like an anchor: John is interested in her. Her, some trampy woman with fake breasts and a thousand pounds worth of eye shadow, instead Sherlock, the man who he is currently on a date with. Is it completely unlike John to blatantly disrespect someone like this, to make eyes at stranger while he's dining with someone else—unless…
Unless John doesn't think this is a date. Sherlock realizes, with a sharp stab of distress, that he never outright told John what this day was—not yet, anyway, but now it just seems pointless to say anything since John is obviously only interested in women. And somehow, it hurts even worse that John isn't aware this is a date, because that means the notion of being with Sherlock is so farfetched that it never even occurred to him to entertain the thought of it; he just automatically drew the conclusion that this was meant to be friendly and nothing more.
It's amazing how quickly things can go south, considering the fact that a half hour ago Sherlock was nearly drowning in bliss and happiness. Now, however, he feels rather like someone plunged their hand into his chest and ripped his heart out.
Because the fact is this: John likes women, as evident by his staring, and if Sherlock attempts to reveal his feelings as he planned to, he'll only serve to make a fool of himself and embarrass John. He wants neither, which means that the only option here is to clam up, let John think that Sherlock never intended this to be more than a friendly encounter, and silently swallow his despair.
"Sorry, what were you saying?" John asks, flickering his gaze back at Sherlock momentarily.
"Er—nothing. It was…it wasn't important," he says, hating the slight tremor to his otherwise composed tone.
"Excuse me, you're John Watson, yes?" the woman's voice asks from behind him, sounding chipper and starry-eyed. Sherlock grits his teeth and stabs at his cake with more force than necessary when John nods and replies, "Yes, I am. Can I help you?"
She moves from behind Sherlock, putting herself in full view of the both of them, and grins, twisting a hair idly round her finger like some love-struck schoolgirl. "Yes, actually! My name's Sheryl. Me and my friends over there—" she points in the direction of a table full of women, "are such big fans of your blog! You and Sherlock are just amazing! Would you mind popping over for a mo'? It would mean the absolute world."
John looks torn between his inclination to say yes and his reluctance to abandon Sherlock. He seems like he's waiting for approval, so Sherlock offers him a colorless smile and nods stiffly. "It's fine." He's already lost John—apparently before he even had him—so he might as well get used to this.
However, as he watches Sheryl lead John over to her table, the sadness in his heart abruptly twists into anger. White-hot, painful, 'clench fistfuls of tablecloth because you're so pissed'-kind of anger. This is not fair. It isn't fair that he has pined after John for nearly a year, and the first time he attempts to do something about it he is completely shot down and replaced by some bint with artificial body parts. It isn't fair that Sherlock's first—and only—opportunity for love is being destroyed by something as bloody stupid as gender. It isn't fair that all of this preparation, all the sleepless nights and cleaned fridges and carefully selected outfits, have been for absolutely nothing. All he has to show for his efforts is a broken heart.
How had he read the signs so incorrectly? He thought every signal pointed to the conclusion that John was just as interested in him as he was in John.
But, considering this development, apparently not.
Something hot and wet pricks behind his eyes, and logically he understands that they are tears, but since he is stubborn as hell, he refuses to believe he's actually about to cry over this. With a clenched jaw, he wills the moisture away and watches in agony as the scene plays out before him.
He can't hear anything from this distance, but it seems that Sheryl is introducing John to her friends, and John is smiling and shaking hands. Then Sheryl points indiscreetly over at Sherlock, her expression oddly hopeful, and says something to John. John gives her a strange look and laughs in disbelief, fervently shaking his head and saying something that looks like 'no way'
Numbly, Sherlock decides she probably asked if they were together. John points at his chest, uttering something with a confidant expression, and after Sheryl says something presumably negative, John gives her a tight smile and turns on his heel to leave.
From what Sherlock can figure, he probably asked her out or something, and she said no, if John's disgruntled mood when he returns is anything to go by.
"Well that was annoying," John mutters.
Sherlock clenches his jaw and flags down Joshua. "Check please."
. . .
After a tense cab ride home in which Sherlock presses himself against the door and stares bitterly out the window the entire time, John finally breaks the silence as they enter the flat building. "I had a good time, Sherlock."
Sherlock mutters, "Could've fooled me," then brushes gruffly past John, and begins stomping his way up the staircase, feet thudding noisily against the steps.
John catches his mumbled comment and doesn't climb the stairs after him. Instead, he remains at the bottom step with a frown. "And what does that mean?"
"It means, John," Sherlock snaps, "that if I didn't know better, I'd say your date was with Sheryl, not me. You were certainly flirting enough to give one that impression."
"What? Wait. Wait, hold on a minute," John stares at him, looking completely befuddled, "you mean to say…you mean, that was a date?"
Perhaps it's the genuine surprise on John's face, or the throbbing, sore memory of John chatting up that woman, or perhaps it is Fate deciding that the time for drama is now; either way, Sherlock knows that right here, at this juncture, he has had enough.
Enough of the frustration, the anxiety, the jealousy, the self-consciousness, the caution—he's done dancing around this. So what if this is a lost cause and Sherlock will only be wasting his breath? So-bloody-what. He very calmly makes his way back down the stairs, one step at a time, gaze fixed straight ahead. When he reaches the second step, he stops and faces John, who is still innocuously placed on the first step.
His heart is pounding against his ribs like a drum—ba-bum-ba-bum-ba-bum—and the sound is so loud that he can't quite hear what he says next, only that the words are delivered in a low voice quivering with white-hot anger. If he had any presence of mind, he might've related himself to a plucked violin string, shaking violently with fine tremors, vibrating with sound.
In this case, that sound is a shout, and it goes off like a baking soda-vinegar volcano.
"What do you mean, 'was that a date?' Come now, John, you're not an idiot! Of course this was a bloody date! For Christ's sake, John, I'm trying to woo you here!" The word woo doesn't sound quite as powerful as he intended it to, so he compensates by making a loud, irritated growling noise in the back of his throat. "I'm so frustrated, John!" he cries, half-hysterical. "I tried so hard with this, tried to make everything right—hell, I even watched five hours of stupid movies with my brother just to make sure this would go perfectly—and you were too busy gawking at some stupid woman with fake breasts to even bloody realize any of it!"
John's jaw snaps shut and his eyes darken. "First of all, Sherlock, I wasn't 'gawking at her' and I definitely was not flirting with her! You know why I was staring at her so intensely? Because she was checking you out! Yeah—her eyes were glued to your bloody bum and face the entire damn night, and when I spoke to her she was asking me for your number! I gladly told her where she could put that request, and then I stomped away, alright? So, no, I wasn't flirting with her."
If Sherlock was in a reasonable state, that bit of information might have given him pause. However, at the moment he still has entire lungfuls of ranting to get out, and he suspects John does as well, so for the time being he shoves aside cool logic and makes way for a torrent of reckless emotions.
"Brilliant, John, and how was I supposed to know that this was the one time you weren't looking for some woman to shag? Because I was only being logical when I made that assumption, since literally every other occasion has involved you attempting to hop into the bed of the nearest female. Pardon me for expecting that pattern to continue! And just so you know, that doesn't change the fact that you didn't even bloody notice what I was trying to do! I don't know how you were oblivious to tonight being a date, but then again I suppose I have a tendency to overestimate your intelligence!"
John's jaw twitches and his expression darkens like a storm cloud swollen with oncoming lightning. He drops his hand down on the support beam with a loud thwack and grips it, his knuckles turning white from the force. "Don't insult my intelligence, Sherlock, not over this. Because you know what? You're the one who rejected me, remember? The night we met, you made it crystal-bloody-clear that you were 'married to your work' and were 'flattered by my interest, but no thanks'. So how the hell was I supposed to know this was a date? How was I supposed to know you suddenly changed your damn mind?"
"Changed my mind?" Sherlock laughs in amazement and glances up at the ceiling, as if looking to the heavens and asking 'can you believe this guy?' "John, I've always had feelings for you. You were just too busy shagging every female within reach to notice! The reason I 'rejected you' is because before you, John, I'd never felt attraction, romantic interest, or affection for anyone—ever—and it bloody scared me because it meant that a near stranger—you—had control over me. And the problem with giving people control, John, is that they abuse it! People have always left me. Always. If not immediately, then slowly, agonizingly, until I was once again alone, which is what I always strived for because alone was what protected me. I turned you down because I was afraid that if I gave a piece of myself to you, even a small, miniscule piece, you'd stomp on it and desert me, just like everyone else." By the last few words, he finds the anger in his tone fading away.
John follows his lead and lowers his voice as well, and he sounds almost desperate to make Sherlock understand as he earnestly replies, "But I didn't leave, Sherlock. And I don't plan to. Because guess what? I've had feelings for you too, nearly since the beginning. Only, I was afraid of scaring you off because I thought you had no interest in relationships. I didn't want to risk losing my best friend, so I tried to move on and find a nice girlfriend. And I tried, I really did, but you always came first, Sherlock. It didn't matter if I was in the middle of a bloody date: if you called, I would have come at the drop of a hat. You've always been the most important thing in my life, and I'm sorry if I've ever made you believe otherwise."
There is a beat of silence as some of the tension leaves the room, their collective anger disappearing.
Right here, this is the moment that Sherlock needs to say what's on his mind—what's been on his mind for months and months. The atmosphere feels fragile, but Sherlock risks a small, tentative step forward. "John I need to say something. It's important."
So, so important. It's absolutely vital that John understands. Sherlock hasn't rehearsed this, hasn't thought about what he'll say or outlined it in an organized script, but these thoughts have been running through his mind for months upon months now, and they come pouring forth as easily as an exhalation of air.
"John, before I met you, no one cared about me and I didn't care about anyone. I was lonely, but I managed to bury it beneath drugs and cases and bitterness. I thought I was content to live a life as some companionless hermit—in fact, if I hadn't met you I probably still would—but, the thing is, I did meet you, and it changed everything. Suddenly I wasn't just a freak or a monster or some friendless loser, I was brilliant and fantastic, and the way you looked at me, John, well, it made me feel like I mattered," Sherlock takes a shaky breath and tightens his grip on the bannister, his eyes resolutely fixed on the area over John's head, because Sherlock is well aware that if he looks at John right now he might lose the resolve to continue.
"You are loyal, kind, good-humored, patient, clever, and—most surprisingly—you like me. I don't need to count out how many people in my life have genuinely liked me, John, but I can tell you that the number is hardly impressive. You listen to me, care about what I have to say, put up with strange experiments and violin concerts at three in the morning, and you make the best tea I've ever tasted," he smiles crookedly at that last bit, and risks a glance at John, who beams back in response, his blue eyes shining like beacons. "But the most important thing, the best thing, you've done, is stay. I know I irritate you and say the wrong things sometimes, but you've never left me. And I love that, John, I love that so much, and I have so much I'd like to say, so much I love about you, from your eyes to your bloody jumpers, and it's okay if you don't feel as strongly about me, just the mere fact that you have feelings for me at all is more than I could have ever hoped for—"
"Sherlock," John cuts in gently.
"No, no, I need to say this. I'll take whatever you're willing to give me, John, you're beautiful, you're incredible, you're—"
"Sherlock," John tries again, a little more insistently.
"I don't know what my sorry life would be like if it didn't have you in it—"
"Listen, you daft man," John says fondly, cutting short Sherlock's frenzied babbling, "I don't just have feelings for you, I love you. As in, I love you as a friend, I love who you are, and, without a single doubt, I am in love with you."
And at that, everything in Sherlock's mind palace simultaneously implodes. Bookshelves topple over, locked safes disintegrate, careful stacks of files and documents catch fire, and all of his organized indices scatter to far corners in irreparable bedlam. Everything he knows, everything he thought he knew, ceases to exist in the face of this one impossible, enigmatic paradox of a statement: John loves him.
On one shoulder, a manifestation of Sherlock's emotional side calmly says, 'See? John is in love with you. This is everything you've ever wanted, so feel free to remove that panicked look any day now.'
He turns to the voice of reason perched on his other shoulder, but it puts its imaginary hands in the air and mutters, 'Hey, don't look at me. There's no reasonable explanation here. Emotions and love and all that rot don't involve reason.
"You…love me too?" He feels nauseous voicing the question, because if for some reason he misheard John, he's not sure how—or if—he'll be able to recover.
But John, wonderful, bright-eyed, big-hearted, perfect John, says, almost surprised, "Yeah, Sherlock, of course I do. Of course I love you."
Sherlock blinks and clenches his jaw, not out of anxiety or frustration, but to keep the wetness in his eyes at bay. God damn it, he is not going to cry, that's absolutely not okay. However, these tears—although annoying—are not ones of sorrow. Relief, maybe. Happiness, definitely. The tight ache in his chest loosens and then unfurls entirely as he mentally runs over John's words. Feeling depleted of energy, numb, and a bit shell-shocked, he leans heavily against the bannister and weakly voices his last, withering shred of doubt.
"Are you…are you sure?"
John gives him a small, lopsided, wonderfully genuine smile. "Yeah. I am, Sherlock. I'm sure."
Sherlock nods numbly, because that's what he was expecting (hoping) to hear, and sits down on the fourth step, his legs spilling haphazardly across the second and third. He's not quite sure what to do now, but then, what does one do when everything they've wanted is placed before them on a silver platter? John, apparently in a state of similar uncertainty, sits down beside him and idly nudges Sherlock's leather-clad foot with his own. Sherlock nudges back.
The silence might've lasted for days and they might have stayed there like shy teenagers on a first date for the rest of their lives, if it weren't for Mrs. Hudson knocking her frying pan against the wall and calling from within her flat, "For goodness sake, boys, just kiss already!"
Sherlock turns to look at John, eyes wide, and John stares back at him for a long moment, looking mildly scandalized. Then, John does something surprising. He giggles. It's that same breathless, gleeful laugh from their first night together, after they'd chased a cab all throughout London like maniacs. It's the kind of laugh that says "dear god, we're mad, aren't we?", and it's the kind of laugh that is entirely appropriate for two fools who have apparently been in love with each other for ages and were unaware of it until minutes ago. It doesn't take long for Sherlock to join in, and when he laughs, he laughs with his entire being, happiness bubbling in his veins like champagne, fireworks and nuclear explosions of relief bursting along the seam of his ribs. He laughs until the roaring fire in his chest dies down to a soft glow, until John's grinning mouth settles into a content, crooked smile, until John's hand finds itself intertwined with his, warm palms pressed together like perfect puzzle pieces.
In the quiet, happy lull afterwards, Sherlock leans his shoulder into John's and says, "John?"
"Yeah, Sherlock?"
"Would you mind terribly if I kissed you?" Because he can do that now, ask and receive, and it feels absolutely bloody brilliant.
John looks so unbearably endeared by his request that Sherlock finds his face growing warm—but he's not blushing, because Holmeses do not blush. John grins, saying, "Oh god yes," and Sherlock doesn't have time to notice the parallels between the first time that quote was uttered and right now—both being the words that catalyzed whole new existences—because as soon as the words are out of John's mouth, he's placing a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him down, and slotting their mouths together so easily, so naturally, that one might think they've been doing this for a lifetime.
Sherlock isn't sure what to expect, but the moment his mouth melts into John's he finds himself extremely relieved that this is a how a proper kiss feels, rather than the horribly overdone ones from films. At first, the kisses are chaste and sweet, just a gentle press of mouth to mouth. Pleasant. Then, after the first few pecks, John deepens the kiss by latching onto Sherlock's bottom lip and sucking lightly, eliciting a low moan Sherlock wasn't even aware he was capable of making. John kisses him slowly and leisurely, drawing out each slide and press of lips as if sipping a fine wine, savoring each and every motion. His senses are nearly overwhelmed by the myriad of smells and tastes and textures that accompany kissing John: the soft, gray-blonde hairs he is currently carding his hands through, the cloying taste of dessert on John's lips along with the delicious flavor that appears to be entirely John's own, and the intoxicating scent of sweet, musky cinnamon that hangs in the air like perfume.
Sherlock grabs John's shoulders to have some sort of anchor, because if he doesn't hold on to something, he's going to either melt into a puddle or pass out right here on the staircase, and that would mean they'd have to stop snogging, which is something Sherlock plans to avoid at all costs.
The kisses in films—although in sync, choreographed, and perfectly executed—are absolutely nothing compared to this kiss right now. Sherlock's blood is pumping through his veins as if he just sprinted a marathon and his heart has become a loud, wild thing thumping madly within his chest. God—this just feels so damn good. Forget cocaine and cases and all that rot, kissing John is entirely on its own plane of pleasure.
"You're—making—me—feel—like," John gasps between kisses, because breaking contact for more than one word at a time is just not going to happen, "a—bloody—randy—teenager."
Sherlock hazily decides that's a compliment, and shows his gratitude by licking along the seam of John's lips in one languorous stroke. John jolts like he's been electrocuted and practically devours his mouth in return, muttering "Bloody hell, Sherlock" against his swollen, red lips.
John's fingers crawl up the back of Sherlock's neck and tangle in his dark curls, slowly massaging small circles into the back of his skull. The sensation sends sparks of pleasure straight down his spine like lighting and Sherlock finds himself involuntarily tipping his head back into the touch with a sigh. John immediately takes advantage of Sherlock's exposed throat and begins working on a love bite on the side of his neck, alternating between sucking gently and lavishing the flushed area with wet, open-mouthed kisses. Sherlock, unable to do much but babble encouragement and moan, grabs John's waist to pull him closer, which quickly results in Sherlock lying on his back across steps one through six, and John straddling him with his legs folded on step three, and his arms bracing himself up on step five.
John pulls his mouth away from Sherlock's throat long enough to huff a laugh and mutter, "These stairs aren't all that big, are they."
An answer is about to emerge from the lust-hazy pile of matter he once called a brain, but then just as quickly as he stopped, John is back to kissing Sherlock's neck, and any trace of coherent thought is wiped clean.
"Mmm," Sherlock mutters, threading his fingers through John's hair. He arches his neck to give John easier access. "That feels quite…" the words drift away once John's tongue flicks against his pulse point, and he doesn't bother trying to remember them. Who needs complete sentences anyway? Grammar is useless and silly compared to whatever it is John's doing with his mouth…
Sherlock then promptly shuts down all thought and surrenders himself to sensation.
A vaguely concerned voice reminds him that they are currently out on the staircase where virtually anyone can see them, but then John does that delightful thing with his tongue again and the little voice is happily silenced.
"Let me—can I try that?" Sherlock pants, moving his face down to nuzzle John's neck, his breath coming out in hot puffs against John's skin.
"Yeah—yes," John replies breathlessly. Sherlock maneuvers John out of his lap and backs them up until John is sitting on the sixth step of the staircase and Sherlock is crouched over him, his large hands cradling the back of John's head and sides of his face. "You—are—so—beautiful," Sherlock declares, punctuating each word with a sound kiss. John smiles against his lips and appears to be on the brink of responding, before Sherlock does as promised and moves his mouth down to John's neck. He starts slowly, a bit unsure of himself as he sucks lightly at John's pulse point, nipping intermittently between kisses. It feels immeasurably pleasing to know he is leaving his mark on John, something the entire world will be able to see, and his soaring heart flies even higher when John moans in encouragement.
"Do you know—how long—I've wanted to do this," Sherlock pants, kissing a lazy trail up the side of John's neck. "I used to think—this kind of stuff—was stupid, but now…" he trails off as he worries John's earlobe between his teeth, distracted, and John makes a noise that is half breathless laughter and half another moan. "But now what, Sherlock?" John prompts, sliding his hands up the back of Sherlock's head and entwining his fingers in curls.
"But now—I believe this is quite—good."
"Mm—I suppose that's a pretty decent word for it. Though I'd probably say something more along the lines of—ah—amazing."
Once there is a sufficiently visible wine-colored mark on John's neck—mine, he thinks to himself—Sherlock pulls away and refocuses back on his mouth, pressing soft, sweet kisses to his now swollen lips.
"John," Sherlock murmurs, against his lips, "You—are—brilliant," each word punctuated by a lingering kiss. He pauses and pulls away, his hands securely holding the sides of John's flushed face, attempting to commit every detail to memory. John's mouth is pulled into a rosy grin, his eyes are so bright that it nearly hurts to look at them, and bits of blonde-gray hair are sticking up from where Sherlock tousled it with his hands. In short, John looks utterly wonderful.
"Wasn't bloody expecting that," John breathes, the giddiness clear in his voice.
Sherlock, still quite dazed, nods in agreement, a dumbstruck smile hanging loosely on his lips. "I love you," he says, just because he can and it feels absolutely delicious to finally be able to say it after all this time. "I love you, John, so much."
John's eyes get all soft and melty when he says that, affection practically seeping from his pores. "I know," he says quietly. "I love you too."
"Good," Sherlock decides, standing up and pulling John with him. "Now, I may or may not have rented those James Bond movies to watch. Interested?"
John grins and climbs to the step above them, so that he and Sherlock are eye-level, and plants a firm kiss on Sherlock's temple. "I'd love that. I'll make the tea, come on."
And Sherlock allows himself to be guided up the stairs to the flat, John's hand securely wrapped in his like an anchor, like a promise, as he basks in the scent of cinnamon in the air and the taste of John on his lips.
Okay, so there's a lot that I want to say to you guys, but I'll try to make it brief by breaking it down into three concise parts:
*Reader's Note
*Personal Note
*Story info
Readers: first of all, I just want to thank you guys so much for reading this story, helping me along the way with your wonderful comments, and just being an overall inspiring audience. Every review, every favorite, and every follow means so much, guys, especially because this was the first multi-chaptered story/Sherlock fanfic I've ever attempted to write, and the encouragement has helped me so much. You guys are so awesome and I'm immensely lucky to have you as my readers :) *hugs and kisses you all* *gives you each a muffin basket*
Personal: As strange as it sounds, I actually feel like this story helped my writing improve. I don't know if you guys noticed, but there is a world of difference between chapter one and the more recent updates, which I find really neat because I've never been able to properly gauge my own improvement before and this story has helped me do exactly that. This was not only an insanely fun summer project, but a great exercise for my writing skills as well and I'm so glad I did it. :)
Story: Don't worry guys, despite this 'goodbye'-sounding author's note, I'm definitely not done with this story. While I settle myself back into my school/sports routine this story will be on hiatus (not sure how long). After that, I have four solid chapters planned out, but who knows, I may write more than that. (Believe it or not, I originally intended for "Definitions" to be two-parts, which just goes to show that my plans often change). As a little sneak preview, I'll tell you that the chapter following hiatus will include Harry Watson, and then a later chapter will include a double date with Lestrolly. Yay! In the meantime, I plan to go back on later chapters and edit a bit, since I know I made some grammatical errors and typos, and delete the old author's notes, just to clean things up a bit. (So, if you see mistakes let me know! I beta my own work and more often than not, I miss errors, so it'd help if you pointed them out!)
Wow, okay despite my best efforts that really wasn't concise, but oh well.
Anyway, I love you guys, don't forget to comment, and I'll see you after hiatus!
X0X0