Notes: Okay, so when I sat down and figured out everything Sherlock had planned for this date, it became rapidly apparent that it all wouldn't fit into one chapter. (Unless said chapter was 15,000-20,000 words long, I'm guessing) So this is the first of I don't know how many chapters of the final date. I guess none of us wanted this to end.
As always, thank you to all of my readers and reviewers. Without you, I'd probably have drifted away from this story in my usual writer ADD. But knowing that so many of you are excited about this story and wanting to read more has kept me plugging along at this, even at points where it seems like things aren't going to move at all. You are ridiculously awesome! Much love!
Disclaimer: Still don't own the BBC Sherlock series. Still not making any money at this. Just having fun.
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Matchmaker, Matchmaker
Date 4: Part 1/Prelude
When John stumbled into the kitchen the morning after he agreed to his date with Sherlock, the room was clean. Not rush tidied, with experiments shoved into the refrigerator or into random cabinets as often happened when Mrs. Hudson visited, no, it had been everything short of remodeled. The floor gleamed. The kitchen table even had a cloth, off white with flowered embroidery and yellowing slightly at the edges. In the center stood a teal vase with two daisies providing a bizarre accent of cheerful color. The window had curtains for godsakes (they looked about as old as the tablecloth), and the reflection of the sunlight off of the counter was blinding. John ran his tongue over his teeth, his mouth sweet with remnant toothpaste.
"Sherlock?" he ventured.
No response.
John stepped tentatively over the threshold, his slippers (you only had to step into a pile of fallen pig guts once before you learned value of slippers in 221B) squeaking on the freshly mopped floor. Even the bloodstains under the counter had been scrubbed clean. There was no helping the circular depression to the right of the stove where hydrochloric acid had gone astray when Sherlock had a revelation about a cold case while pouring it, but even that had been covered over by a plastic placemat in tasteful beige.
John set the kettle to boil before attempting the refrigerator. The shelves had also been scoured, and while on the second shelf there were two dated Tupperware containers marked 'fingers' and 'liver' (look up technical term), the mug with the floating eyes had been removed, along with the yogurt covered stomach. The last had been on the counter until it had begun to smell, at which point John had insisted it go either in the refrigerator or out with the rubbish.
Three unopened cartons of milk sat in the door: whole, two percent, a caramel flavored cream. John took the two percent and made himself a bowl of cereal. On top of the refrigerator sat a bowl of fruit. John took a knife from the drawer and a banana, slicing it over his breakfast. When the kettle whistled, he poured himself a cup of tea with a liberal pouring of milk. The kitchen table was too surreal, and he couldn't remember eating a meal on it anyway, so he took his breakfast to the living room instead. It had also been tidied, the usual whirlwind of papers and books neatly stacked under the coffee table, atop it a book of Ansel Adams photographs.
John turned on the telly and ate on the sofa. It smelled faintly of pine. Had Sherlock stayed up all night cleaning? John's face warmed at the thought. He didn't expect it to last (and wasn't sure if he wanted it to) but the gesture was sweet, ridiculously so. John ate slowly, assuming his flatmate would burst in at any moment, having deduced when John would be awake and open to giving some bit of praise. Like two months ago when Sherlock had hoovered after spilling a tray of fingernails all over the carpet. Sherlock had strategically leaned the vacuum between the living room and the kitchen, and when John, hair still damp from his morning shower, didn't immediately remark on his cleaning efforts, Sherlock had walked to the machine and began wrapping the cord around the hooks on the side as though he'd just remembered at that moment to pack it away.
"You even got the corners," John had remarked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Looks nice."
"It was mind numbingly dull," Sherlock had said, turning his face towards the vacuum not quite rapidly enough for John to miss the smile that lighted his lips. "I'm amazed at the simplicity of people that they would manage this on a monthly or even weekly basis."
A week later, John had still been pulling fingernail bits from the carpet fibers.
John finished his cereal, and drank the last of the milk from the bowl. No sign of Sherlock. Did the washing up. Still no Sherlock..
John checked his phone for texts. Nothing new. He scrolled back through the run of texts from the previous evening, mostly to convince himself that he had not dreamed up the previous night.
Lestrade thinks I'm in love with you...
What had happened? This was too strange. John wanted Sherlock to be there, sulking on the couch, cursing the mundanity of the world.
At 7:45 John dressed for work. Before leaving, he sent Sherlock a text.
Did you clean the kitchen? -JW
Sherlock responded as John was entering the tube. Was it acceptable? -SH
It was very impressive. -JW
Good. Can't talk. Case. -SH
John closed his phone. Sherlock hadn't even tried to ask John along? Of course, Sherlock knew his flatmate had work today, but John's work schedule had never prevented Sherlock from asking, no badgering, before. Sandwiched on the Underground between a man in a sharp black suit who chattered incessantly on his mobile and a pair of whispering secondary school girls, John gripped the bar and tried not to feel hurt. If Sherlock had decided that asking his flatmate out on a date warranted giving John some ordinary human consideration, what was not to like?
For the next three days, John barely saw his flatmate. When John was going out Sherlock was dashing in, and John returned to the flat just in time to catch Sherlock rushing out. He wasn't hostile or even cold; if anything he was manic, his features flushed, his hair mussed, and when he looked at John his smile was somewhere between mischievous and wondering, as though John presented some delightful puzzle worth studying, but only from a distance. They didn't touch. On the one occasion John managed to get close enough, Sherlock had sidestepped in a movement that would have made John's rugby coach proud, said, "Must run!" and practically sprinted down the stairs and out of the flat.
They did text.
Are you still imposing that stipulation about food? -SH
Not unless you're intending to poison me like your crazy ex. -JW
Victor is not my ex. -SH
You slept with him for three months and then he took you home to meet his father. He's your ex. -JW
He meant nothing. Less than nothing. -SH
It's okay if you felt something for him. I'd be surprised if you didn't. -JW
Why? -SH
Because you're a human being. -JW
In the technical sense. -SH
In every sense. -JW
Three hours later.
What are your thoughts on quail? -SH
Quail is fine. -JW
Escargot? -SH
Won't kill me. -JW
Italian? -SH
I love Italian. -JW
Midnight.
You prefer sunrises to sunsets. -SH
Generally. Why are you asking? -JW
I was verifying a theory. -SH
The next morning, there was a red rose on the kitchen table. Beneath it was an envelope. John opened it. Inside was a gift certificate for a massage parlor and an appointment card for Tuesday evening at seven.
Thank you for the gift card. -JW
Side effect of a case. Thought your might enjoy it. -SH
Will you be joining me? -JW
Busy. Why is embezzlement always so deadly dull?-SH
I could join you. They say pain shared is halved. -JW
That is physiologically impossible. Besides, you have work. -SH
Not until ten. -JW
There's no body. -SH
I don't mind. -JW
Can't talk. -SH
And that afternoon.
Why haven't you unpacked your high school yearbook? -SH
Didn't we have a talk about you going through my things? -JW
You never mentioned you played clarinet. â SH
So there's something about me you haven't deduced. -JW
I clearly haven't put enough attention to the problem. -SH
Clarinet was my third choice, after drums and electric guitar. -JW
You look as though you enjoyed it. -SH
I like classical. How do you think I've put up with you for this long? -JW
Most people don't. -JH
Guess I'm not most people. -JW
Obviously. -SH
That evening, while John was boiling water for pasta.
Wouldn't you notice if your child stole over two hundred thousand pounds from you? -SH
Still working on the embezzlement? -JW
Among other things. I don't have time for these hysterics. -SH
Have you eaten today? -JW
Unimportant. -SH
I'm putting my leftover pasta in the fridge. Eat it. I don't want you passing out in the street. -JW
I won't pass out. -SH
Please. -JW
Fine. -SH
An hour later.
These people are idiots. I mean, more idiotic than the usual brand of idiot. I think they are lowering Britain's average IQ by a whole point. At least. -SH
Why don't you take a break? Come back to the flat for dinner. -JW
Not yet. -SH
I really appreciate the effort, but Wednesday doesn't have to be perfect. We could just go to Angelo's. -JW
How is that a departure from our norm? -SH
I don't want a departure from our norm. Though I do appreciate you getting rid of the stomach. -JW
You've changed your mind then, about the date. -SH
NO! -JW
It's perfectly understandable. You don't have to concern yourself with hurting my feelings. I will still value you as a flatmate and investigative partner. â SH
Have you changed your mind? -JW
No. -SH
Then what's the problem? -JW
Nothing. -SH
Good. -JW
Tuesday morning.
Are you finished with the embezzlement? -JW
Of course. -SH
Will I see you today? -JW
I have some loose ends to tie up. -SH
I miss my best friend. -JW
Then you should call him. Or perhaps her? -SH
That's you, you blockhead! -JW
Oh. -SH
I can't believe you didn't know that. -JW
I thought we were colleagues. That's what you told Sebastian. -SH
That was right after you added a hunk of decomposing flesh with maggots to the milk and didn't tell me. I was this close to putting the spoon in my mouth before I saw the damn things wiggling in my cornflakes. And when I dumped the whole thing on your head you threw a tantrum because I'd 'ruined your data.' Then you hid my laptop. If it wasn't for Mrs. Hudson threatening to evict you, I'd never have found it. -JW
I pointed the skull right at it. -SH
My point is, I wasn't feeling very friendlike at that time. -JW
And I apologized. -SH
You defragged my hard drive, upgraded my RAM and updated my virus protection software. I don't remember any actual words like "I'm sorry." -JW
I should think the improvements would have meant more to you than some pithy statement of remorse. -SH
Sometimes words matter. -JW
Yes of course, for example: Watch out! or Fire! or He has a gun! -SH
Or I love you. -JW
Sherlock? -JW
So now you're avoiding me on text too. -JW
Please don't. -SH
Don't what? -JW
If I am incapable of reciprocation, it will make things difficult. You will be hurt and likely need more space. I'm not certain for how long, but without regular infusions of adrenaline your limp will return, and you may become suicidal again. That is unacceptable. -SH
No offense Sherlock, but I'm not going to kill myself if you decide you're not in love with me. -JW
You need the work as much as I do. -SH
That doesn't make me suicidal. -JW
Then why did you keep the gun? -SH
Sentimental value. -JW
You keep it in perfect repair and always loaded, yet never in reach when you're sleeping. -SH
And? -JW
And when you pick it up, in the flat, you angle the barrel towards yourself first. It's a slight thing, but telling. You had a ritual, and though you strive to avoid it, the habit remains. -SH
John? -SH
I have no secrets from you at all, do I? -JW
Wrong. -SH
Oh yes, you didn't know that fifteen years ago I played the clarinet. -JW
You confuse me constantly. -SH
I find that hard to believe. -JW
I don't know how you can be so good, yet not. You care, even for people you don't like. It's irrational, sentimental and greatly reduces your ability to think, and that should make you tired and dull, but it doesn't. -SH
That thing you did, on our first case, without hesitation, and yet after, you were still good, and I don't understand why. I want to kill a man for you, but I know the action would add a darkness to me that you are somehow able to avoid, and you would think it was more than a bit not good. And I don't know why the thought of disappointing you causes me physiological distress: agitation, heart palpitations, sweating, and I don't understand why when touching you, I exhibit the same symptoms but instead of finding them distasteful, I want them. -SH
I don't understand how you make everyone like you. I have made extensive study of human behavior, and put my best efforts to mimicking it when it serves my ends, but it's not something I can maintain. Somehow, you manage it without effort. -SH
You are hopeless at all but the most banal of reasoning, and yet you ask the right questions. Always. You help me think. I don't understand why I need you. I don't understand why you laugh at my jokes when others avert their gazes and look afraid. I don't understand why you smile when you see me, knowing me for everything I am. I don't understand why seeing you in the morning, with your hair still damp from the shower, is sweeter than cocaine and more exciting than a disemboweled corpse. -SH
I don't understand how, in spite of my deficiencies, you make me want to love you. -SH
John stared at the phone. A large part of him had still believed that Lestrade was exaggerating or projecting onto Sherlock a level of attachment that his flatmate simply didn't feel. 'People see but they don't observe', that was Sherlock's constant complaint. He was right. How had John lived with this man, fought and bled with him and yet somehow missed this? For all Sherlock's childlike sulks and tantrums, his seeming inability to manage the most mundane tasks, the manic focus of the man made it difficult to imagine him anything but confident. Arrogant. But this fragility? Honesty? Date be damned. John wanted to hold Sherlock, press kisses to his temples, to learn him and be learned until they had erased the uncertainty, the imagined secrets, the awkwardness, the hesitation, until there was nothing between them but themselves, and whether they called it friendship, love, or nothing at all, it didn't matter.
Come back to the flat. -JW
You have work in an hour. -SH
Bollocks for work. -JW
I am not yet finished the preparations for tomorrow. -SH
Bollocks for tomorrow. -JW
I know you admire me for my intellect. Is my confusion that off-putting? -SH
Off-putting? That was the single most brilliant series of things any person has ever said about me. -JW
So it was good? -SH
Incredible. Amazing. Unbelievably hot. I want you here. Now. -JW
Will that lead to sexual activity? -SH
God I hope so. -JW
Then I will see you tomorrow. -SH
Are you...not interested in sex? -JW
I find the act to be enjoyable as well as a good exercise in deduction as one must only work with physical cues. -SH
Then what's the problem? -JW
It is best to wait until after our first date, otherwise our haste might cause difficulties should we chose to pursue a deeper relationship. -SH
Sherlock, neither of us is inexperienced. And we live together. I've seen you naked, or at least close enough for it not to make any difference. We've been blown up together for godsakes. I think we can handle this. -JW
Please, allow me to court you properly. -SH
When did his flatmate decide to start living in some Regency Romance novel? John sighed. Only because you're my best friend âJW
And don't take too long about it. -JW
I've never been one for impulse control. -SH
Thank God. -JW
That evening at the massage parlor barely relaxed John at all, and by the time he laid down on his bed and turned out the light, John realized he had not been so thoroughly nervous and excited before a date since Secondary school when with a dog eared love letter in hand, he'd asked Sandy King to the school dance. That had petered out amiably, though the same could not be said for the high school affair with Andrew under the bleachers, who had grown cold and cruel at the slightest hint that they might be discovered. In the end, Andrew had even taken a slug at John, a favor for which John had returned a split lip, a broken pair of glasses and a shiner that took a week to fade.
John's attraction to men had always run stronger than with women, and the corresponding relationships had spiraled equally out of control. John chalked it up to a sort of one-sided poor taste. The definition of insanity, as he'd been told multiple times at a self improvement seminar Harry had dragged him to after her first attempt at sobriety, was to repeat the same action with the expectation of a different result. Better to focus his attention on women. A sensible, sane decision that had, like so many of the other sensible, sane things of his life, been wholly washed away in the wake of Sherlock Holmes.
In comparison to Sherlock, the others, women and men alike, were transparent threads of some long forgotten dream. Life with Sherlock was fast, bright, terrible, wonderful, dangerous, consuming and a bit unreal. With Sherlock, John laughed down to his guts and life was too interesting to contain his doubts. Sherlock risked his life with the surety of a man who was almost always right. He never accepted the almost, but John did. It kept him sharp. The risks they took were astonishing; surviving them rebirth. Loving Sherlock would be a form of a form of voluntary immolation. Even so, John wanted it.
'I've truly gone mad' was John's last thought as he drifted to sleep.
Four and a half hours later, John's room was filled with music. It was violin, which meant Sherlock had finally returned to the flat. John rubbed his eyes. Unlike the usual mix of music and noise that Sherlock usually played in the wee hours, this was steady, beautiful and close. Very close. John sat bolt upright, his gaze glancing first at the alarm clock, 4:23a.m. and then at the shadowy figure beside his bed.
The music cut mid-note, "Excellent, you're awake," Sherlock said, "Do you mind if I turn on a light?"
John said. "Whose dead?"
"A fair number of people I assume. In London alone there are approximately 250 deaths daily," Sherlock said, "Five percent of those are murders, though interesting murders are far-"
"Case! Is there a case?"
"Oh no. At least, I've received no text. But time is short. Our coach will be here in an hour and I assume you will wish to bathe and partake of some of the fruit and pastries in the kitchen. The bakery had some lovely apple turnovers. You like apple turnovers and banana products. I bought bananas. And would you prefer Darjeeling or Earl Grey? I've also laid laid out some day wear for the initial activities of our date."
"This is our date?"
"Of course."
"Starting 4:30 in the morning?"
"Technically 5:45, and while I am aware it isn't wholly appropriate for me to be in your room at this time, I assure you I have no ill intentions and my respect for you is unparalleled."
"Thank you."
"Now it seemed to me that you were satisfied with your outwear from last week, namely the coat and scarf, though if you'd prefer something different, I can unpack the other coat from the evening wear."
"Evening wear?" John ran his hand through his hair, massaging his temples with his fingers. "What all are we doing today?"
"I can't tell you that! It will ruin the surprise."
"Well..." John ran his tongue over his lips. "I'm really...uhh...touched..."
There was a rustle of fabric and Sherlock knelt at John's bedside. Sherlock's features were shadowy in the glow of the digital alarm. In his right hand appeared to be a flower. Sherlock brushed the petals over John's lips. "In thy face I see honor, truth and loyalty."
"Umm...okay." Sherlock smelled fresh scrubbed and expensive and John was torn between a desire to turn on the light and look at his flatmate and an equal shyness at how his newly wakened appearance would be in comparison.
Sherlock placed the flower in John's hand. "Well, I'll leave you to your morning ablutions." He jumped to his feet and moved in long strides to the door.
"Wait!"
Sherlock paused. "Yes?"
"You're not going back into hiding for breakfast, right?"
"Hiding? Don't be daft."
Whatever script Sherlock was following for the day, John wished he'd been given a copy. Still it was...entirely unexpected. And thrilling, in its oddness. "You're really quite amazing," John said.
Another rustle of cloth, and John didn't have to imagine the mix of puffed yet somehow childlike delight that Sherlock generally displayed upon receiving a genuine compliment. Sherlock asked, "Was it Earl Grey or Darjeeling?"
"Either is fine."
"Darjeeling," Sherlock said. The door shut with a light click.
When John turned on the light, he was holding a red carnation.
John showered in record time, changing into yet another perfectly tailored outfit with barely a flinch. The trousers were black this time, and the long sleeved t-shirt a soft cotton that smelled new but felt well broken in. Perfect. John ran the comb through his hair and checked himself in the mirror. The combination was simple but not at all plain. John grabbed the carnation, wishing he kept the laptop in his room so he could look up the meaning. He suspected it had one, and that Sherlock knew it, having likely learned it from a case.
In the center of the kitchen table, two candles flickered behind a tray heaped high with pastries. Sherlock stood awkwardly next to it a perfectly pressed suit with shirt and slacks, not greatly different from his usual street wear, except the shirt was clearly silk and the suit itself appeared brand new. In the right front pocket was a sky blue handkerchief that exactly matched the color of John's shirt.
"Your tea," Sherlock said, handing John an off white china saucer with a steaming cup of tea. "I used the proper kettle and added three sugars and a tablespoon of milk as is your general preference."
"Thank you," John blew on top of the tea to cool it, "So, how have you been?"
"Fine."
"That's good. This is really very nice."
Sherlock grinned. "Only the beginning." He pulled a chair out from the table. "Sit down. We have approximately twenty minutes to relax."
John walked to the table and put his tea down before sitting, suspecting that Sherlock might want to push his chair in, which the other man did. John took a plate, another of the china dishes that John hadn't even been aware existed in the flat (and like the tablecloth, John suspected they came from one of Sherlock's relatives, likely deceased) and snagged one of the apple turnovers.
Sherlock walked to the other side of the table, looked at the free chair, then walked back to the kitchen, returning with a china teapot and another cup and saucer set and placing them both on the table.
"Sit down," John said. "And eat something. I can't possibly work through all of these pastries."
"We can give the remainder to Mycroft," Sherlock said, seating himself on the other side of the table. He took a plate and pastry and crossing his long legs at the ankles, raised the tea to his lips. Over the glass, he studied John.
"So you had the embezzlement case," John ventured. "What else?"
"Nothing of interest." Sherlock's gaze remained steady. "Even Anderson could have worked through to the solutions to most of them, albeit it over a far longer stretch of time and with diagrams."
"Did they pay you at least?"
"I got what I needed."
"That's good," John said and took a bite of the turnover. The pastry seemed to melt on his tongue, and John closed his eyes for a moment in appreciation.
When he opened them, Sherlock was smiling. "You have a special fondness for vanilla extract in bakery products, so I made certain that they added a fair amount. I am glad you find it acceptable."
"Acceptable? You are a master of understatement." John ripped a piece of the pastry off, walked to Sherlock's side of the table, and held the pastry to Sherlock's lips. "Try it."
Sherlock's eyes widened. "What are you doing?"
"Fairly obvious, isn't it?"
"But-"
"Eat."
Sherlock took the pastry delicately between his teeth. John pushed it with his finger until the tip of it was between Sherlock's lips. Sherlock lifted his chin and opened his teeth, letting the pastry fall in. His tongue caressed John's finger, briefly sucking, and then releasing it. "Perfect," Sherlock said.
"Yes." John lifted the dark curls on Sherlock's forehead, running his thumb along Sherlock's hairline.
Sherlock's breath caught, a tiny sound that made John lean closer, wanting to taste his flatmate's tongue. Sherlock's cheeks were flushed. His lower lip quivered. Hip balanced on the edge of the table, John kissed Sherlock. It was almost chaste at first, lips closed, the heat of their connection making John shiver with want. John parted his lips, letting his tongue tease at Sherlock's until the kiss deepened, and Sherlock's hand was at the back of John's head, pulling him closer. The table lurched. John put his palms on Sherlock's shoulders, steadying himself. Their tongues met, caressing. John was half hard, straining in his trousers; the tablecloth slid as he shifted his weight to straddle his flatmate.
"John," Sherlock breathed. He pushed the chair back to allow John more space, his feet knocking into the table leg.
"Fucking brilliant," John said.
Sherlock stiffened. "Stop."
"Now? Jesus bloody-"
"Something's burning."
"The candles!" John turned in the chair. Behind him, the pastries were a merry blaze, sending licks of flame across the tablecloth. John jumped to his feet, glancing first at counter beside the stove and then below it for the fire extinguisher. Gone. "Sherlock, where's the fire extinguisher?"
"In the bedroom with the Bunsen Burner."
"Go get it!" John ran to the sofa, grabbed the afghan, ran back and began beating at the flames. The tablecloth was fully on fire now, the thin fabric curling and raining ash. The fire alarm went off, filling the air with shrill beeping.
John had managed to quell the bulk of the flames when Sherlock returned with the extinguisher.
"Get back," Sherlock said.
John jumped away, dropping the afghan as Sherlock unleashed a stream of white foam. When the fire was out, Sherlock sat the fire extinguisher on the floor.
There was a heavy pounding at the door. "Boys! One of you open this door right now!" Mrs. Hudson said. "Sherlock, is this another one of your experiments?"
"Fine, it's all fine!" John said. "We put out the fire."
"Sherlock, didn't we have this talk about flammable experiments before sunrise?"
"It was just a tipped candle. No experiments," John said. "Why don't you go back to sleep, Mrs. Hudson."
"Damages are coming out of your rent," Mrs. Hudson said. "I hope the married ones knew better than to call the fire department this time." The sound of receding footsteps and a muttered, "Need an herbal soother."
Sherlock grabbed John's hands, looking first at the tops and then flipping them. "You shouldn't have done that. Are you in pain?"
John's hands stung a little, and the fingertips were a bit red. "Barely first degree," he estimated. "It's fine."
Sherlock's blackberry beeped. "That's our coach," he said. "I'll cancel it. You should wash your hands. And burn ointment, you need burn ointment."
"Doctor, remember," John said. "I can handle this. Go see to our transportation."
"But-"
"Someone promised me a perfect date."
"I've hardly succeeded in that regard."
"Are you kidding?" John grinned. "We've barely started and this is already the most exciting date I've ever had in my life."
"Is that good?"
"Brilliant." John pushed Sherlock towards the door. "Now let me wash the soot off of my face and I'll meet you downstairs."
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TO BE CONTINUED.
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Final Note: About 70% of what happened in this chapter came as a complete surprise to me. That is one of the major joys of writing.
