Many, many thanks to my cheerleader (and nominal beta) Mitsu. Any mistakes are mine, not hers, as I tended to shove pieces of this at her through aim like cake through a mailslot. 3
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It wasn't that any particular part of the evening had been shocking. Nothing unexpected, nothing innovative. Dinner was the most typically dull of date settings. John never had been the sort to go out of his way to prove himself different from the rest.
Sherlock wasn't sure how he managed to be different. He just was. Infuratingly, maddeningly different.
John had barely touched his food. For once, Sherlock had made a better stab at it. It was good enough, Sherlock supposed (proper balance of nutrients, good for at least two days, three if he didn't do anything too strenuous in the interim).
Two days until Friday. Two days should be ample time to find a killer and plan his rebuttal to John's argument, as persuasive as it had been.
Rebuttal? Argument? He was quite sure John wouldn't appreciate him thinking in those terms.
It was simply that for the first time in – ever, if memory served him – (and to be honest some memories were fuzzier than others. Mycroft would call it his misspent youth. Sherlock would call it a perfectly rational response to boredom) that he had truly enjoyed himself while not on a case.
But of course that didn't mean that dating, love, all that extraneous emotional-biological crap was anything other than a trite pastime used to distract oneself from truly thinking. His lip curled, annoyed. People couldn't be trusted to be alone with themselves. They were children.
(Not John), His mind whispered to him, traitor that it was, (He's different). He huffed under his breath, hit 'send' on a text to Lestrade – and thought about the text he'd sent only an hour ago to John.
He'd half-expected his flatmate to come charging down the stairs, with something to say about all this. Of course he hadn't. Why would he. An experiment, all an experiment. John had said as much – men weren't his area, after all, and who on earth who actually knew him would find Sherlock Holmes attractive. He was off-putting as they came, deliberately so. There wasn't enough time in the day to be otherwise. (But sometimes when John had looked at him there had been a spark curiously like hunger, like need and he wanted to cup his hands around it and blow and see what happened to it.)
His legs were dangling off the couch, head lolling to one side, looking at the fire he'd half-heartedly resuscitated from embers. Would John's newly-sparked (New? Or just carefully banked and unexamined?) emotions be like that? Would they smolder, red under dull grey ash until he pressed? Or would they blink out entirely, dragged out into cold relief?
Sherlock groaned under his breath and ran both hands into his hair, throwing the untidy curls into even more disarray.
Likely he was already asleep up there, not spending a single ounce of energy on all this. Mentally lazy, John was. Not as much as everyone else, but still, compared to Sherlock.
Focus. He drew in a deep breath and then let it out slowly, sitting up and rummaging through the piles until he found his stash of nicotine patches, applying two of them. One for John and one for the murderer.
Murder first, he corrected himself immediately, irritated at his own thoughts. And he would not apply a third patch, even if John warranted at least two patches, if not three, by himself.
He laid there for some time, not moving a hair, except for his breathing. And then he was jumping up, dragging out his violin case, throwing it open with more force than strictly necessary… and staring down at it. Fingers plucking at the edges of the case, fitfully.
He'd wake John up if he started up now. He was sure of it, the sky wasn't lightening at all, yet. Did it matter? No, but still. He let out a disgusted breath and let it fall shut again. Pulled out his phone and checked.
Nothing. Was it too much to hope for some more evidence? So what if it was already two in the morning? A woman was dead! A vicious killer on the loose!
Sherlock slid the phone back away with a disgusted sigh and took up pacing. Where was he? Oh yes, rebuttal.
Of course, Sherlock would never be satisfied with taking John out for a drink (no, not John, John barely drinks. He doesn't approve) or a movie (dull, dull, and John would never enjoy it when Sherlock gave away the ending within the first five minutes) or a walk in the park (too perilously close to proving John right after all, and Sherlock wouldn't do that (last night was too close to it, with that little detour and what had he been thinking when he'd turned left instead of right… or was that right instead of left..))
Focus. Breathe. What sort of date would Sherlock Holmes plan, if were to plan a date?
It couldn't be boring, of course. He refused to be bored (had he been bored with John? No, of course not, but still, the venue left something to be desired). Anything truly them had to involve danger and excitement and the thrill of a chase.
Suddenly, Sherlock smiled. What was it called… playing hard to get?
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The first clue would come in the form of a text, during John's lunch break on Friday. Sherlock was watching of course, through the window (there if only John looked, which of course he didn't. People never did). HHHe watched John absently fish his cellphone out, reading the text he'd just sent.
:Come right home. Left clothes and directions for you. Don't dawdle, I'd rather you not be late. SH:
:Clothes? Directions? Sherlock, what's wrong with the clothes I have?: Sherlock could almost hear John's voice (bewildered, exasperated, dear) through the phone and he smiled, slipping the phone away, and headed away from the hospital.
He did hope that John kept to the schedule. It would be rather rigorous. He had decided to keep to fast pace instead of a puzzle that required extraordinary amounts of deduction. John was intelligent enough, as they came, but he didn't want to take any undue chances.
Besides, there would be other, more interesting deductions later for Sherlock to draw out of John. Why should John get all the fun?
It had taken the better part of yesterday (after the murder of course, murder always first but the killer was terribly easy to find once he'd interviewed the relevant parties) to plant all the clues for John.
The first would be with Mrs. Hudson. Good to start on home turf, as it were.
His phone buzzed in his pocket again, and he pulled it out as he hailed a cab. Mycroft, being annoying as usual. Why couldn't he commandeer a small city park without his brother getting involved? Honestly.
:None of your business. Sod off:
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Fortunately, Sarah had let John skive off a bit early to do – whatever it is that Sherlock had got into his head, this time. John snorted under his breath as he surveyed the three envelopes Mrs. Hudson had been left in the possession of. They were all meticulously labeled, with shortly-written instructions in each. John forwent the shower and changing bit, figuring that he'd do so after he ran all around town on Sherlock's crazy wild goose chase.. sighing deeply and getting the first one open.
Go to Angelo's. Ask him to tell you about the night of the carjacking. SH
John let out a sigh that he knew was the definition of long-suffering, even as Mrs. Hudson tutted and clucked and peeked at the letter over his shoulder. He quickly stuffed it into his pocket.
"I'll be back. To change. Later."
"You'd best, my dear." Mrs. Hudson smiled at him in that way women did, that vague and confusing way that made him shift awkwardly.
"Right then." And he nodded to her, awkwardly, slipping out the door and heading for the restaurant.
Angelo was… long-winded and hard to follow. He bounced around in the chronology of his story so much, John felt the headache Sherlock must have when he first interviewed the man.
"So there I was," Angelo continued, completely oblivious to John's pained smile, "driving a BMW with an oil leak and sweet and sour pork spilled all over the front seat and egg drop soup soaking my shoes and that's when I thought to myself… I thought 'Angelo, this is a hell of a line of work you're in.'" He slapped his knee, letting out a bellowy laugh that made John start, focus.
"Wait. Egg drop soup?" He rewound the last several moments of the conversation, and then grinned. "Sounds messy." He hurriedly continued, before Angelo could. "By the way. I'm… thinking of doing something nice for Sherlock. You know." He could feel his ears reddening at the sharp, amused grin from the restaurant owner. "Does he have any favorite wine?"
And that was how John found himself loaded down with two bottles of rather expensive wine, with an order into Sherlock's favorite Chinese restaurant.
One down, two to go. The contents of the second envelope were more mystifying than the first. First was a note: "DI Lestrade. Ask for case solved on Dec 25, 2008. SH" (SH, as if it were from anyone else.)
There was another envelope inside of it, tightly sealed, with "Step 2.2. Give to person of interest. Do not peek. SH" scrawled on the outside.
He'd dutifully gone to the station and found Lestrade, who laughed as soon as John explained (in the briefest terms) his mission. "Oh right. The night he proved himself a right klepto."
"A what?" John asked, tilting his head.
"Made off with a tray of olives my Aunt had brought specially, from the Cyclades. Right after he crashed our Christmas dinner and solved the case."
"Ah.. that's Sherlock for you, I suppose." John said weakly
"No regard for anyone. I'll phone to Sally. She'll help you out." Lestrade said with a curious little smile that John had thought little of.
Not ten minutes later, he was in the records room with Sally (was it supposed to be this easy? Shouldn't police policy require a few more background checks or something?) while she dug a manila folder out of a worn cardboard box. "What's all this about, then?" Sally handed him the case file. Her brow was wrinkled, and she looked tired. John sympathized. He was sure they'd had a few late nights recently.
"Uh.." John took the file, opening it, absently. "Just a bit of a game, of sorts."
"A game? With the freak, you mean?"
"Hn." John bit back the reply, scanning the file. The lead suspect (cleared, thanks to Sherlock) was a violinist. That must be it, right? He pulled out his phone, awkwardly typing in the name to search. Bloody hell he hated phone keyboards. A grin spread across his face as he realized that the violinist was in town – oh. Well that was obvious enough.
"So wait." Sally frowned. "What other steps have there been in this game? Why is he interested in this case?"
"Oh, he's got me running all over, getting things for him. Chinese takeaway. Wine. And olives. And now, a violinist.."
"Olives?"
"Apparently he has a particular fondness…" He looked up, trailing off as he realized Sally was laughing at him. "What?"
"I never thought I'd see the day. The freak trying for romance."
"Romance?" He blinked at her.
"Don't you see? It's a couple's scavenger hunt."
His stare must have been sufficiently blank for her to continue, with an ever-widening grin. "You know… Anniversaries and the like? Gettin the spark back?"
The file slipped from his fingers, to the floor, and John knew he was staring at her like she'd grown a second head, even as he scrambled to pick it up. ".. I.. wh.. there wasn't a spark to start with."
"Please." She said. "Didn't I tell you before? He doesn't have friends. Not that I ever expected him to have a boyfriend, but I guess stranger things have happened. Don't know what though."
And that, it seemed, was that. Nothing John could say would convince Sally that they weren't a couple. Not that John's arguments held much water. This was Sherlock's crazy, ridiculous idea of a date after all (Wait, was this the date? Or would that be later? Oh god, if this was the date and Sherlock was planning on just… taking the wine and the takeaway and the olives and absconding to his room, John wasn't sure what he'd do.)
One envelope left.
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Perhaps the park was a bit ham-handed. Sherlock fretted, pacing around the table, wearing a line in the grass, likely. He checked his cell every few moments, lips pressed together.
Was the park too much? It wasn't like John appreciated subtlety, not the way Sherlock did, but.
It was then that John rounded the corner of the path, clearing the treeline.
"Excellent, well done, John!" Sherlock couldn't help but exclaim when his flatmate trudged up to the table in the garden, hands laden down with bags. He looked right annoyed – but really, he was five minutes ahead of schedule.
"You? Are a spoiled brat." John said as he set the bags down, and he cut a dashing figure, in a precisely tailored shirt and trousers. A new jacket, too, so much better than that horrid patchy black thing, though Sherlock was sure that he'd never convince John to part with it. More's the pity.
Sherlock just reached into the bags, greedily pulling out a bottle of the wine, pleased as he read the label. And oh good, John grabbed a corkscrew and glasses and plates too. Ever the planner. He immediately popped the cork.
"Sherlock?" John growled. "Are you even listening to me?"
"Wine?" Sherlock poured, holding the glass out to him. "Come now, John, this is a date. Haven't you enjoyed it so far?"
"So far?" John took the glass and sat down, heavily. "Haring all over the blasted city—"
"Oh, look, the entertainment's here." Sherlock cut him off blithely, briefly enjoying briefly, the look of frustration as John looked behind himself. And true, right on schedule, the violinist was walking up, with a portable music stand and violin case.
"He owed me a favor." Sherlock said, gently. Erik had rather specific instructions, himself – an entire set list of songs, both classical and popular that Sherlock had noticed John took interest in. In fact, Sherlock had suggested via email, weeks ago. Not that he was planning anything like this, but at the moment, he'd been bored and thought, sometime, it might be… interesting to see how John reacted.
John's eyes met him, startled, but not quite understanding. Not yet anyway. Sherlock smiled a bit, to himself. He hoped the gesture would be understood and appreciated for the brilliant stroke of forethought and planning that it was. "So. Let's talk about the first part of the date. The wine." He leaned forward, taking the bottle to pour himself a glass. "How did you deduce that?"
"Hunch.Why on earth would you send me to Angelo's, just to send me to get Chinese takeaway" John shrugged, holding out his glass for some more, having taken a large gulp out of frustration. "I just… asked."
"Hunch." Sherlock shuddered at the word. A hunch was not a proper deduction, not a proper one at all. "And the Cycladic olives? Don't you dare use the word hunch. In fact, from this moment on consider it stricken from your vocabulary. For eternity, John." Perhaps one couldn't be entirely threatening brandishing a glass of wine at someone
John chuckled, his eyes dancing with mirth and Sherlock found himself momentarily mesmerized. John laughed so full-heartedly. "Sherlock, did you really make off with an entire tray of them at Lestrade's Christmas party?"
Sherlock gathered himself up a bit, but opened the container, setting it down on the table between them. "I don't believe in unnecessarily incriminating myself."
John half-laughed into the wineglass as he took a cautious sip. "I'm sure." He set the glass down. "I guess now I know that Mrs. Hudson hasn't been the one sneaking my biscuits."
"I never eat during cases." Sherlock protested, plastering his best innocent face on. It had only happened once or twice… really.
"Mmhm." It was obvious John didn't believe him, though he was cocking his head to the side, frowning. "This is one of my favorite songs." He murmured, under his breath.
"I know."
Sherlock watched his fingers, so square and strong and comforting, drummed on the stem of the plastic wineglass, then lifted his eyes to take in the redness at John's ears and easy, pleased tilt to his mouth. "And of course the last clue – one word, really Sherlock? Meeting?"
Sherlock knew he was smirking, at that. "Took you a bit, mn?"
"A bit. You very nearly didn't get dessert at all." John sounded downright irritable, though his lips were twitching, reassuring Sherlock that he wasn't too annoyed. "Really, how you meant me to think to speak to Mike about your first meeting with him. Though I did have a good chance to give him a serious talking-to about his issue with fruit tarts."
Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his face, smiling. "Well, you've done quite well… but what about the dessert wine?"
".. Dessert wine?" John looked up, obviously aghast. "What dessert wine?"
"Perhaps you should revisit the third clue. All of them came in twos, I should have thought you'd notice that. Molly would have been able to tell you." Sherlock smiled at John's obvious discomfiture. "There's always something, John." Sherlock couldn't help but smirk as he popped an olive into his mouth. "I'm sure you'll try harder next time."
"Next time?" John's mouth quirked a little in that sweet way.
"Next time." Sherlock said, liking the way the promise felt in his mouth, in his stomach, as he raised his glass to John in a toast.