Disclaimer: Don't own the characters; they're Sir ACD's. These belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I just get to play.
A/N: Hey lovelies. I know it's been forever, and I'm really sorry. I've just been super busy with life, and school is starting too. Sigh. Anyway, here's the first happy chapter ever. Hope it's okay. Feedback is always welcome! And on that note, enjoy the story!
Love Like This
It had been a week since Sherlock and John had declared their love for each other. Every day since Sherlock had been discharged from the hospital was soft and sweet, and Sherlock had no intentions of attempting to kill himself again. Both men were happy with the breakfast making, telly watching, cuddling relationship that they had, but secretly both wanted more. Neither were ready for sex. No, that was a commitment to be made later, but they both wanted to make their relationship public.
So it was decided, John was officially gay and ready to express it openly. It had been a drastic change for him, loving a bloke, but he couldn't deny the fact that he loved Sherlock. Sherlock was sweet and gentle but hot and heavy all at the same time. Sometimes it could be quite disorienting, but John loved it all the same. The little that he had been able to explore Sherlock's body didn't tell him much, but he knew that Sherlock was beautiful in every way possible. And he made fantastic eggs benedict.
One week, I'm as straight as an arrow, and the next, I'm head over heels in love with a man. How much weirder can my life get? thought John. John cringed at the next couple thoughts that entered his head. Never mind. A lot.
John didn't know how to ask a guy out, let alone Sherlock Holmes, so the only person he could think to contact was his lover? boyfriend? Well, his whatever's older brother. As intimidating as Mycroft Holmes could be, he was probably the best man to go to for gay relationship advice, seeing that he was married to DI Lestrade. John picked up his mobile and dialed Mycroft's number.
"Hello," came the elder Holmes's pompous voice.
"Hi Mycroft. It's John." John fiddled with his fraying jumper hem nervously.
"Oh. Dr. Watson. How are you?"
"I'm fine Mycroft. Please, call me John. I have a question for you."
"Well, ask away." John could hear his smug smile through the phone.
"Your brother and I are in love and we haven't made our relationship public, but we want to, but we don't know how. I'd like to ask him on an official date, but I'm not sure what I should do to impress him. I need your help." John inhaled deeply; he had been speaking very quickly.
"I see. John, why did you come to me, of all people?"
John stuttered, "W-well, I figured, you've been married to a man for a little over two years. And you're his brother. You know him best."
Mycroft gave a clipped laugh. "John, I may be Sherlock's brother, but that doesn't mean that I know him best. You are the only person he has ever opened up to. You know him better than I do." Mycroft hung up the phone.
John panicked for a few seconds, not sure of what to do. He took a couple deep breaths and got his breathing under control. He decided that he would just ask as soon as Sherlock got home.
o0o
John had busied himself with tidying up the flat, since no one ever did it, and nearly jumped out of his skin when Sherlock slammed the door shut.
"Those idiots! That case was so simple, and then Anderson had to go and tamper with the evidence. Now Lestrade doesn't believe my claim. And I KNOW I am right."
"Christ Sherlock. You scared the hell out of me. Please announce your arrival BEFORE you slam the door." John shook his head impatiently.
"Who put that bastard in charge of forensics anyway? Stupid Anderson," Sherlock muttered.
"Sherlock, I understand, Anderson is an idiot. But the case is now closed. Can we please forget about it and move on with our lives together?" John tried to sound as empathetic as he could.
"Hmmph," Sherlock pouted and plopped down on the couch, crossing his arms. John sat next to him.
"Cheer up, Sherlock. Hey, I have something fun we can do!" No response. "I reserved us a table at a restaurant named 'L'ardois.' Sounds like it'll be good."
Again, no response.
"Come on, it'll be fun. Please Sherlock?" Silence.
John pulled out the last trick he could think of. "Don't you want to be seen as my boyfriend Sherlock? Don't you want to proclaim our love to the world? Or are you too ashamed of me to do that." John turned away dramatically and made a loud sniffing sound.
That made Sherlock talk.
"Oh, John, please don't cry. Of course I'm not ashamed of you. I love you for goodness sakes. I'll go to dinner with you. John, please turn around. I'm sorry." Sherlock softly embraced John, genuinely feeling guilty for hurting him.
John turned around with a wide grin spread across his face. "Knew that would work," he said proudly.
Sherlock faux hit him. "You git. Go get dressed." John continued to beam.
o0o
Twenty minutes later, both men exited their taxi in front of the restaurant. John threw a generous amount of bills at the cabbie, and they walked in together. Neither quite knew what to do, so they clasped hands as John verified their reservation. They were sat at a quaint little table looking out over the shop covered boulevard on which numerous cabs passed in opposite directions.
"Will this table work for you?" asked a smiling brunette, clearly happy for the cute couple.
"It's perfect, thanks," John replied, flashing a quick smile of his own.
"Fantastic. I'll have Genevieve come over to take your order in just a minute. In the meantime, have a look at your menus, and I hope you have a lovely evening." With that, she traipsed away, getting ready to help another group of customers that had just walked through the door. They chatted about what they were going to order before a petite red head walked up to them in a waitressing outfit.
She snorted at the sight of them, and both John and Sherlock exchanged the same look of uneasiness.
"What'll it be," she asked sassily.
"Umm, I think we'll both have the Taupenot-Merme Gevery-Chambertin." John had trouble pronouncing the words, and Sherlock sunk a little further into his seat every time the waitress rolled her eyes had his poor French skills. She was clearly not only mocking John, but being outwardly rude about their homosexuality.
"That all," she droned.
"And we'll share desert crepes, whatever their called."
"No dinner?" she asked sharply.
"Nope, just wine and desert."
"Kay. It'll be out in a bit." She stalked away poutily, but what she had to pout about, neither Sherlock or John knew.
"Well that was a bit rude," John said, annoyed.
"I'd say a bit more than just a bit," Sherlock replied quietly.
John noticed Sherlock's position: he had closed in on himself physically and mentally. It took John a minute to realize what was happening. Sherlock was embarrassed. Quite frankly, John was too, and a bit angry, but clearly, the waitress had made Sherlock very uncomfortable.
"Hey, don't pay attention to her. She clearly has no respect for anyone that isn't exactly like her. I wonder where she went to waitressing school, let alone finishing school," John joked, but Sherlock bowed his head even further. John was unsure of what to do.
"Sherlock-" John placed his hand atop Sherlock's, but his flatmate pulled his hands away and held them in his lap. John was infuriated by the waitress, but he didn't want to cause a scene. He was utterly and completely torn between leaving the restaurant or screaming at the waitress and then finishing his date. Instead, he just sat there lamely.
Clearly, their date had made the news in the kitchen, because when a waiter came by to pour their forty-four dollar bottle of wine for them, he slopped liquid everywhere and left with a contemptuous expression.
John mumbled an apology to Sherlock and reached for his wine glass, gulping it all down in one motion. John's lungs and heart had been replaced with white hot inferno, his chest cavity burning with rage. He fought so hard to contain it.
When the next waiter that came by nearly dropped their food because he was so disgusted by them, John had had enough. Sherlock was completely silent, swishing his wine around slowly in it's glass, looking into his lap. Sherlock was very hurt, and John could only think of one thing to do.
John stood up, despite Sherlock's tugs on his coat-sleeve and his "No, John, forget about it"s. He opened his mouth to speak, but the brunette that had showed him to their table beat him to it.
"Wait staff, can I see you at the front right this second please?" she said stiffly, clearly not happy. The waiters and waitresses scurried up to podium unbelievably quickly.
John continued to stand, watching the event with much curiosity. Once she was done with the little conference she had just held, she strode to their table briskly, the waitress and two other waiters walking behind her like baby ducklings.
"Look, I don't need you to-" he began, but she silenced him with a look.
"I came over here with my wait staff to have them apologize to you for their uncalled for behavior tonight, and to tell you that your wine and your desert are free tonight, because of them." She smiled at the couple apologetically.
John, dumbstruck, sat back in his seat with a quiet, "Oh."
"We will be talking later, you three. Hope for the best, because tonight may be your last night with behavior like that," she scolded them menacingly, then flashed one last smile at the two men and walked away.
The three waiters apologized and cleaned up all of the mess that they had made before pouring the two fresh wine and bringing out warm crepes to try and fix what they had messed up. John thanked them curtly and they scampered away.
John felt a bit better about the whole thing, but Sherlock continued to stare down at his plate.
"Sherlock?" John questioned.
"You have strawberry jam on the corner of your mouth," Sherlock replied quietly.
"Oh." John blushed, his hand flying to his face.
Sherlock's hand shot out to push John's away, and John looked at him confusedly. "Let me get it," he said.
Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John, removing all traces of strawberry jam from his lips.
John beamed brightly. "Thank you, Sherlock."
Color flooded Sherlock's cheeks. "Always, John."