I.
The truth about deduction is that people only notice what they want to notice. Sherlock never likes to ponder about what that means for himself.
The first time Sherlock suspects, is right after John Watson shoots the cab driver and they decide to get Chinese for dinner. He needs to get his new flatmate away from the crime scene, just in case DI Lestrade accidentally ends up using his braincells and starts to connect the dots. Sherlock gets rid of the orange blanket en-route.
It's dinner, after all.
They return to Angelo's, to the same corner table overlooking the busy street, where they'd waited for the murderer to show up as John probed into his non-existent dating life. This time there's a red candle glowing brightly, which makes John squirm.
Sherlock is amused.
They share a wonton soup, some noodles and a plate of General Tso's Chicken. The restaurant is reasonably crowded and Sherlock deduces that the old couple sitting opposite on the other side of the room, are having an affair, that out of the two giggling girls who just walked in, the taller one has a painfully obvious unrequited crush on her blissfully unaware best friend and in that group of high schoolers comfortably seated at the back, which one's been in rehab last summer, who has a drunken step-father, the name of one's missing twin sister (it's a palindrome) and the flavor of condoms one of them is carrying, which in all probability, would go unused that night.
All this, before John even finishes his soup. He nearly chokes on a mushroom.
"Cherry", Sherlock clarifies, "That glaring red was unmistakable, when he took out his wallet to leave a tip."
John coughs into a napkin. "Couldn't it have been strawberry?", he offers weakly.
Sherlock eye-rolls at his stupidity. "Surely, after tonight, I can trust you to tell apart the different shades of pink?"
"Right", John concedes, draining his bowl and putting it down. "At least we have a new suitcase, if either of us, should decide to move out."
Sherlock smiles. The night is going swimmingly.
II.
He hadn't planned on interrupting John's date.
But they'd gotten kidnapped by the Chinese mafia and after the fiasco is sorted and the jade pin located, the girl says she isn't up for dinner. To be fair, her face does look a bit green so John gets her a cab and then accompanies Sherlock to a quiet place downtown for fish and chips.
Sherlock notes John's polished boots and sighs. He never intended on being a damaging influence in John's love life.
But John doesn't seem to protest much.
"So we're even now?", he says, reasonably relaxed, although less than an hour ago, he'd been tied up, about to be murdered in a circus trick gone wrong.
"Hmm?", replies Sherlock distractedly, wondering why the waiter peddled drugs on the sly and then figures that he has a step-brother whose cancer treatment fees had shot up a notch.
Oh, the things people do for sentiment.
"I saved your life. You saved mine, tonight," explains John. "We're even."
John states it so matter-of-factly.
He is usually nonchalant after a close encounter. It never astonishes Sherlock, who pinned it down as a defense mechanism from John's early days as an army doctor, his involuntary reflexes to a battle cry. But Sherlock is also aware that defense mechanisms often hide more than they reveal, but he hardly ever reflects if there is another reason for John's calm indifference.
"Is that what ordinary people do? Keep score?", Sherlock asks, drumming his fingers on the table, impatient for their order that was already five minutes late.
(At least two cooks were absconding their shifts, by making out in the staff bathroom)
"Well, you make it sound like it's tit for tat, but they tend to happen more organically."
When Sherlock does not reply, John continues, "You do realize that's how relationships work. You reciprocate your partner's emotional needs. It's a two-way process."
"I've always considered emotions to be dangerous at worst, and petty distractions at best, which is why I've long divested any need for them", Sherlock answers, a little too quickly.
John scoffs. Their meal arrives and Sherlock makes a quick quip to the waiter about "getting the best" to which the other man is at first very surprised, before nodding and agreeing to meet someone the next day. John looks like he is about to ask "what was that about" but has decided against it.
Instead, he says, "I was talking about people…in a more general sense."
"I know", replies Sherlock, quietly.
That night, after they retire to their respective bedrooms, Sherlock stays awake till dawn, playing a haunting melody on the violin. He isn't entirely sure why, but a part of him wishes for John to hear the tune.
III.
He's underestimated Moriarty. It surprises him in an unpleasant way that he'd made a mistake that allowed John to be kidnapped a second time.
It surprises him even more that John is ready to sacrifice himself, if it means Sherlock can escape.
However, the aspect of sacrifice doesn't bother him as much as the fact that it is directed at him. Ordinary people give up their lives for those they care about, all the time. John is an ordinary human for sure, but Sherlock isn't and has never claimed to be one.
Which makes John's ridiculously sentimental gesture sit uneasily at the pit of his stomach.
Sherlock Holmes doesn't deserve John Watson.
It is sheer luck that they survive, that has nothing to do with Sherlock's ingenuity and everything to do with an untimely phone call that distracts Moriarty, leaving them alone with a pile of explosives at a darkened swimming pool.
"Well, looks like the coast is clear", Sherlock says, once the red laser light pointed at his forehead disappears and there are no signs of Moriarty returning. "Fancy dinner?"
"Starving", John agrees, not for the first time.
"I know a nice Italian spot."
It's what they do, after all. Solve crimes together and afterwards, share dinner. It is John who eats while Sherlock… mostly nibbles. Just routine business, almost domestic.
Except for the fact that John keeps saving Sherlock's life, and Sherlock will do the same, without hesitation, each time.
He helps John up. There is a hyper-awareness that comes from being so close to him, which wasn't there just minutes ago, when Sherlock had ripped that rigged jacket off him. He can smell John's breath, a mixture of old musty sweaters and chlorine spray.
Was this what it is like to be in a relationship?
As they walk down the street, John interrogates him about Moriarty. This is comfortable territory, so Sherlock impresses him with everything he's deduced so far. All that is left, is the identity of the stranger who'd changed Moriarty's mind. Sherlock is curious, but not too much, confident that the information will present itself to him, in due time.
"So we don't have to worry about Moriarty for a while?", John asks, as they enter the restaurant.
"Not right now, no."
"Good, I look forward to not getting kidnapped."
They take the seats by the window, as usual. Sherlock wonders if it is because it affords an excuse to not look at each other all the time, a pretext to look away.
"I can't promise it", Sherlock admits. "As rare and unusual as it may seem, I do sometimes make mistakes."
John looks up from the menu, eyebrows raised.
"Very occasionally", Sherlock adds, fiddling with the pepper shaker.
There seems to be a twinge of delight in John's eyes. "Ah, the great Sherlock Holmes, finally confesses to being human."
Sherlock scowls. "Never denied it." Then noting John's disdain, he adds curtly, "Well…every now and then."
John orders a bottle of white wine and a Chef's special dish. Sherlock sticks to a salad.
"Oh c'mon, you haven't eaten anything all day!"
"Not hungry." Sherlock stretches his arms comfortably, leaning back on the sofa. "Can't eat when I'm thinking."
"That's why you've rendered the fridge permanently useless." John leans forward. "No, tell me, what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong."
"It's been ten minutes since we arrived and you haven't deduced anything"
"The clientele is far too simple for my taste."
John presses his lips together, unconvinced.
Prodded, Sherlock relents. "The pair over there", he gestures with his eyes, "…are on their first date. The guy cannot afford it, but he wants to impress his girl, he's had a crush on her for over a year. Someone in the kitchens has been helping themselves to the champagne, a fact which was discovered precisely three seconds ago and will probably delay our order. That old man in the corner has just lost his wife, but he isn't weeping just because he misses her. He lied to her but before he could tell her the truth, she died in a car accident. Those are tears of regret, not just mourning. Mark my words, John."
Sherlock likes to pretend that he finishes with a flourish. John's look of bemused admiration and shock is all the applause he needs.
"What did he lie to her about?"
But Sherlock doesn't always like John's questions. So he turns away and looks out of the window. It is raining and the glass is foggy, and the streetlights shimmer like stars.
Sherlock adores puzzles, but there are a few conundrums that he puts off solving for as long as he can. John Watson, is one of them.
Himself, another.
Sherlock had formulated a hypothesis ages ago, although he'd been unwilling to test it. The fun in puzzles lay in the process of solving them, in the thrill of the chase, not in the final answer which even he has to admit, can sometimes be disappointing.
Or in the rarest of cases, even brilliant.
He looks at the man sitting opposite him and asks, trying not to betray a hint of trepidation in his voice, "Why did you risk your life for me?"
He doesn't care about John's answer. He probably doesn't even hear it.
Instead, he notices the slight dilation in John's pupils, the quickening of his breath, the subtle tremor in his arms, the way his lips part and close and that naked desperate expression upon Sherlock's own pale face that he sees reflected in John's eyes.
It is all the confirmation that he needs.
A/N: Can' believe it took a pandemic, the cancellation of my final semester exams and being fired from a job, to get me to post my fanfics online. In other news, I've lost my only source of income, haven't seen my best friends in over five months and wake up at 3 am to scribble down Johnlock plot bunnies. Lucky there's chocolate in the fridge and not someone's decapitated head.
How are y'all? Please let me know what you think and if you'd like to read more. I'm on tumblr as ladyofthelake666 so feel free to message me about Sherlock or anything geeky!