Chapter 11: Date Night
Three reviews, oh my goodness! It felt like Christmas morning when I logged on to . Thanks, guys!
Guest: I can't tell you if they'll work it out; that would give everything away!
Luke: Guess you'll just have to wait and see ;)
sdale05: Oh good, I'm so glad.
The first thing John noticed about their table was the single flickering candle. The second thing he noticed was the vase with one long-stemmed red rose.
Oh god, he thought, and cast a furtive glance around the restaurant. Sure enough, couples occupied every table in the place, down to the pair of teenagers making out in the corner booth. With a name like Chez Amour, John should have known that the atmosphere would be inclined towards the romantic. Struggling to swallow his nervousness, he turned to his date.
Drew Sanselle was resplendent in a long red gown and corresponding lipstick. She folded herself neatly into a chair seemingly without effort. John nearly tripped trying to settle into the chair across from her.
The waiter came and delivered their menus, only to retreat immediately afterwards. John almost called after him with a question about the special, about the chef, about anything just to postpone the necessity of making small talk with his date. But the waiter sailed smoothly into the back of the restaurant and John was left alone like the proverbial fish out of water.
Drew rested her elbows on the table and interlaced her fingers, regarding John through sharp green eyes. "Usually people get to know each other a little bit before cohabitating," she said, and John found himself turning red without quite understanding why.
"I thought you were a man," John blurted.
"Would that have made a difference?"
"Well, usually I'd choose as a flatmate someone of the gender opposite my sexual preference," said John, immediately regretting the comment. Sexual preference? Where did that come from? Though heaven knows it's been on my mind recently…
"Oh, so you are heterosexual, then."
"Yes of course I am!" John said, stumbling over the words in his effort to get them out quickly enough. His ears grew hot.
Drew smiled and traced a finger over the gilt edge of the menu. "Hmm. Personally, I consider myself… heteroflexible."
"Well, I should let Irene know," said John half to himself.
"Are you trying to set me up with a friend of yours, John Watson? My goodness, don't you realize this is a date?" Drew wiggled an eyebrow and laughed, exaggerating the word beyond all seriousness. Relieved, John found himself laughing. He hadn't wanted this to be a date; with that realization out of the way, the rest of the dinner should be easy. Besides, Drew seemed to find his un-smoothness amusing and his lack of interest obvious.
Because he really wasn't interested in her.
Relaxed at last, John smiled and asked his flatmate what she was going to order.
Outside the restaurant Chez Amour, a cold and brutal rain pelted down. London's streets were dark, and all those with warm houses to return to had long since headed home.
Except for a lone man with a black umbrella.
Had Sherlock realized his resemblance to Mycroft, he would doubtless have left the umbrella at home. As it was, it kept him dry, save for the occasional gouts of rain that a restless wind sent splashing against his ankles. He hardly noticed. His attention was fixed on the couple in the lighted window of Chez Amour.
John looked nice, dressed in a natty blazer—a departure from his usual jumper. He was laughing and talking with the woman across from him and, from the look of it, he didn't seem to be bothered by the candle on their table.
Sherlock wasn't quite sure why he'd come. It had been a fairly passable day; there was no real reason to rub salt in his wounds. Something, though, had sent him out into the night to watch John and mourn. Perhaps it was just that 221B was so lonely, with Irene and Mrs Hudson out on some sort of girls' night or something.
But Sherlock knew that the real reason was something deeper, something he feared to acknowledge even to himself. It was the ache inside him, the ache that had lingered ever since John left. Sherlock didn't have much experience with human companionship, but it struck him that this ache was deeper than one would really expect from the departure of a friend. Mrs Hudson had taken trips in the past, and once nearly evicted him, and he had never felt this way before. And Lestrade had gone through the occasional hissy fit. None had bit this deeply.
No, Sherlock could no longer deny that what he felt for John was something more than friendship. There was no harm in admitting it to himself, after all. It was too late to do anything now.