6. A Date

He had a date tonight, with Sarah. Beautiful, intelligent, Sarah. His boss, Sarah. How was that going to work then?

The last time that he had got off with anyone was when he was on leave before his injury. A beautiful red head, part Turkish. Knew a few techniques that the girls here had never seen. That had been a night. Since he had returned, the closest thing he'd had to a relationship with a woman had been with his therapist.

Other than that, the only other person he'd spent any significant time with was his flatmate, Sherlock, the consulting detective, who had let him tag along on cases ever since the first one went so well. They were on a case now.

Sherlock didn't seem to need sleep when he was on a case. He kept going day and night. John had thought that he'd give anything for a good night sleep, then he had fallen asleep at work. Not good. But instead of firing him, Sarah had accepted his offer of a date, which meant that she really did like him, and if SHE didn't think that it was a problem being with him even though he worked with her, then he was certainly not going to put any ideas into her head.

John looked through his things but no shirt was as nice as the one that he was wearing. He hadn't bought many clothes since he had returned. Had very few smart clothes in fact, and only one suit. A brown one that he had worn to Harry's graduation, God knows how many years ago. No, he wasn't wearing that.

Sarah was nice. She had a nice smile, and her legs weren't bad if she'd stop wearing those dowdy dresses. But Sarah wasn't the type for one night stands. Sarah was a girl for the long haul. Was he ready for that? Was he ready for a serious girlfriend again. He'd better figure it out before it went too far. If this went badly, he could lose his job and he'd have to start looking again. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.

John took off his shirt putting it on a hanger, and then changed his undershirt. He stopped at the door and picked up his robe wrapping it around him to spare his flatmate's sensibilities.

John had never seen his flatmate in an undershirt or in a real state of undress. He wore his bathrobe over his shirt as if being seen without a jacket was somehow indecent. On the base, they had gone to the showers and back stark naked and no one had thought twice about it, but then again, one never knew when Mrs Hudson would be around.

John walked down the stairs. Sherlock was pacing in the living room. His eyes followed John as he went to the bathroom. John hung his shirt on the open door and pulled out his shaving kit.

He looked at his reflection, the hint of stubble around his mouth and chin. His hair just a bit longer than he liked it, then he splashed cold water on his face.

A relationship. He hadn't had one of those since he had joined the army. Cathy Hicks. He was going to marry Cathy Hicks. She had the most erotic thighs that he had ever seen, and she was the best kisser. She had taught him a thing or two, or three. He smiled pulling out the shaving cream and lathering some on his chin.

But things had changed after he had gone to boot camp. She was taking psychology classes. He wrote to her of how he missed her, and of how tired he was, and she wrote back about how they were using brainwashing techniques on him and that he should resist their authority. He had brushed it off at first, but it only got worse.

Their few visits together, he preferred to keep short. A brief visit. A shag, and then goodbye. It was best if they didn't talk. She would go on about how he was being conditioned to kill, and said that she was afraid that he would be turned into a monster.

It had come to the point where he would store her letters unread in his bag. He'd rather think of the way that she had been, than the activist that she had become. It had ended just before he had been assigned to Afghanistan. He came home and she had taken him to attend an anti-war rally.

"The government is using you, John," she had said, "they will make you kill innocent women and children for their war of aggression. You've got to resist. You've got to resign."

"I can't possibly do that Cathy, I've already signed the papers. Like it or not, I go where they send me."

"But we can fight it."

"I don't want to fight it."

"You are only thinking that way because they've brainwashed you to believe it."

"If you think that I joined the army just because someone brainwashed me, then maybe you don't really know me."

"You're right, John," she had said, "I don't know you. You aren't the man that I got engaged to. Are you going to leave the army? If I ask you to, for me?"

He had thought about it, about how much she meant to him. The life that they had planned with each other, but he also thought of the men that he had trained with. Men who expected him to watch their back. To keep them alive in a dangerous situation. There is a bond among men in a combat situation. A bond that is sacred. It's hardly ever spoken of, but it is very real. He had promised his mates that he would live and die by their side. He had promised, and if she couldn't understand how important that was to him, then she was not the girl for him.

She had given back the ring, and he had reported for duty early, spending his last night of leave in an empty barracks wondering if he would die before he ever found love again. It had been a miserable night.

"John, are you alright?"

John turned to see Sherlock in the hallway watching him. He didn't know how long he had been standing there. "What?" he asked.

"What are you thinking of?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh nothing," John said pulling the razor across his chin.

"It didn't look like 'nothing'," Sherlock said.

John frowned flinging the shaving cream down into the sink. "If you must know, I was thinking of an old girlfriend."

"Didn't go well?" he asked walking to the door to look closer at John's face.

John glanced at him and finished shaving, rinsing out the razor in the sink before bending down to wash his face and hands. He dried them on a towel and then turned to Sherlock. "No, it didn't go well."

"Does that mean that you don't want to go on this date?" Sherlock asked and John looked up at him wondering if he had a hidden agenda, and suspecting that he did.

"No, it just means that I have to play this one carefully. That's why I don't want any interference from you."

"Is that what you do on a date...play?"

"Well..." John didn't know how to answer this. Surely Sherlock had been on a date before? Why was he bothering John?

Sherlock hung on the door frame watching as John put on his shirt and he said, "Really John. Dinner and a movie is very pedestrian. You want to take Sarah somewhere that she will remember. Reconsider the circus. It's for one night only. I'll make a reservation for you if you'd like."

John looked up at Sherlock as he buttoned his shirt. It was, in a way, a sort of peace offering. An acknowledgement that Sherlock would give him the night off even in the middle of the case. Who was he to refuse an olive branch. "Well, yes Sherlock, that would be nice if you could make a reservation for us. Thank You."

Sherlock grinned and pulled out his phone dialing the number. Had he memorized it? John chuckled before turning back to the mirror to tackle his hair.