Author's Note: Hello everyone! Sorry for the longer hiatus than expected. This chapter is a result of major writer's block that lasted a week or two. Enjoy.
He felt he should say something. But what? Samantha had been jittery for the past few days and he was concerned. Her nervous habits had heightened. The chewing of the lips, the picking at things with her hands, rubbing her fingers together. All signs of anxiety, he noted. Something has changed in the past forty eight hours to heighten her anxiety.
Sam walked in and threw his clothes at him, interrupting his thoughts, and just as quickly scurried back to her room.
Sherlock got up from the table and walked down the hallway to her room. He peered through the keyhole, from his angle he saw; the corner of Sam's desk, a bit of carpet, and the rest of the carpet was covered in piles of clothing. Another bunch of clothes fell to the floor and he heard an exasperated sigh. Then footsteps, he began to back away when a floorboard beneath him creaked. The footsteps inside the room stopped. Heightened auditory senses to compensate for lack of verbal activity.
He rushed back to the chair where he was sitting when he heard the footsteps begin again and grow louder.
When Samantha finally entered the sitting room he looked up and saw her, barefoot in a tank top and a skirt. The most skin she had ever shown in his presence. He blinked and refocused, just in time to notice her squinted eyes and thumb pointed back at the hallway.
"I... thought I heard something. False alarm. No need to worry."
She crossed her arms, stared a minute, then padded back to her room.
Sherlock settled back into his chair with a sigh.
Back in her room Sam stood in the middle of her clothing covered floor, hands on her hips. It was Thursday, Kyle said Friday was the day she had to make her decision.
She hadn't actually decided yet but, it couldn't hurt to know what she would wear, or would've worn. Formal dressing was not her strong suit. When she and Sarah were teenagers Sarah had always been the fashion forward one. Where Sam would be function over fashion. She'd always managed to look clean and nice, but comfortable.
As she stood observing the clothes below she tried to figure out what one was supposed to wear to a date like this. The address Kyle had given her was to a formal restaurant about forty five minutes from Baker Street. Why so far? She'd researched the place and it seemed nice. Fancy and a bit pricey, which didn't help her nerves much.
Sam dropped to her knees and started digging through the piles. Mentally cursing with each article she pulled from the masses. Too casual, too frumpy, too miserable looking. She sighed loudly, Don't I have one formal thing?
From the corner of her eye she spotted a bit of red. She lunged towards it with blind hope and yanked it from the pile. What came forth was a billowing, flowy, red dress. It wasn't tight at all and only cinched at the waist. The red wasn't bright red it was a softer, deeper, rose color. The kind you see on queens in paintings. Sam tried to remember why she had this dress, flashing back to a dim memory of a graduation. She held it front of her and studied it. This will have to do.
John stared at Sam across the booth. Trying to study her the way his best friend did. Coming up with nothing. All that he knew was that she wasn't as genuinely happy as she had been at their last meet up. She seemed more nervous and jumpy. She figeted in her seat. Pulling her sleeves down over her hands, chewing the skin off her lower lip. John felt her leg jiggling under the table. He cleared his throat.
"So ah...everything good with you two?"
A nod but she didn't look at him.
"Any developments I should know about?"
The chewing stopped, but the leg didn't. She scribbled on her notepad with a shaky hand.
What's the system in terms of dates?
John's eyebrows went up at the last word.
"Dates? Meaning dates with who?"
When you went on dates what did you do to make sure Sherlock didn't destroy the place?
A chuckle from John.
"Personally, I usually didn't have to worry about the flat when I was on dates. Although that was because Sherlock usually tagged along."
A small smile from Sam. She relaxed a bit.
"If you want I can tell you about a few, but I don't want to scare you off."
Sam tensed a little but, nodded.
"Once he sent me and a girl to a traveling Chinese circus, which was only a cover for a black market scheme. He almost got my date killed, and me with her. By a bow and arrow contraption."
A pained look.
"He saved us too though. Obviously not dead here," he said gesturing to himself, "and my date is alive and well too. Little worse for wear, but okay."
Another smile emerged.
"Does he know you're going on a date?"
No, I usually don't tell him where I'm going and he calls me when he needs me.
John nodded slowly.
"I think you won't have anything to worry about as long as he doesn't follow you."
Sam stared at the tabletop for a minute before nodding.
"Are you nervous or...?"
She gave him the "kind of" signal with her hand and weak smile. John gave a low laugh.
"You don't have anything to worry about, except maybe Sherlock."
She grinned, eyes a bit brighter than before.
The two of them left Speedy's at the same time today. Sam headed next door to 221B and with a wave opened and closed the door. John waved back and continued down the sidewalk. He caught a cab and was taken back to his flat.
"Mary?" he called.
"In here!" came a voice from the kitchen.
He walked into the kitchen and dropped his keys into the bowl on the table. Mary was at the stove over a pot of something.
"How was today's...what do you call them?"
John sighed and walked over to give his wife a kiss on the cheek.
"They're just check-ins."
"Okay then, how was today's 'check-in'?"
John sat at the table and rubbed his eyes.
"I think Samantha's found someone. She's got a date."
Mary turned to face him with a surprised smile.
"Good on her. How's Sherlock dealing with this?"
"I don't think he knows. She told me that she never tells him where she's going. Didn't tell me about who she was going on a date with."
Mary put a lid on the pot and walked over to sit across from her husband.
"I didn't think she'd pick someone else."
John looked up, "What do you mean 'someone else?'"
"I just mean the two of them are sort of..."
"Sort of what?"
Mary smiled and shrugged.
"I just mean they sort of...fit."
"Fit?"
"Yes, I think they compliment each other. She's got a bite to her. Her silence makes it hard to see, and Sherlock's well-Sherlock. Who's all talk and show and she sits back and is just amused by it all."
"Amused by it all?"
"You told me she practically agreed to all of his quirks the day they met. She likes them."
"Likes them?"
"She thinks they're funny, and dare I say it, possibly attractive."
John leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms with a smirk.
"And how do you figure that?"
"I'm part of the female species too. I know how our minds work. I'm not saying I'm right but from what you've told me from your 'check ups' makes me Sam may have a bit of a girlish crush on your best friend."
John scoffed.
"I've seen people who've had crushes on Sherlock Holmes and they've been incredibly obvious about it. He's brushed them all off. He's a sociopath, he isn't capable of love. He said so himself."
Mary stood and as the pot on the stove began to make a hissing noise.
"Maybe he's been misdiagnosed."
Sherlock was interrupted from his reading by a piece of paper placed next to his arm. He half closed his laptop, picked up the paper and read the handwriting.
On Friday you'll have to fend for yourself for dinner. I'm going out.
He looked up and saw Samantha rinsing a mug in the sink, he studied her as he usually did. She wore a t-shirt, jeans, her hair was in a messy bun today. Not down like other days. The jittery energy had gone down since that morning. When she'd gone out to pick up some groceries that afternoon he'd peeked into her bedroom in passing. The clothes had been cleaned up and the rest of the room seemed immaculately cleaned. A place to focus her nervous energy no doubt, he thought.
"Where are you going?"
She turned and walked over the desk where he was sitting and pointed at the word "out." Then walked back to the sink to finish what she was doing. Sherlock didn't budge.
"Out where?"
Sam didn't turn around, she just shrugged.
"Did John tell you do this?"
She stopped scrubbing but kept facing the wall.
"If you're going on a...date or something why should I care?"
Sam still didn't do anything.
"If you are it shouldn't matter to me."
She turned away from the sink, leaned against the counter and sighed. After moment she walked over to the desk and scribbled on some scrap paper.
If you need me you can always text me. I doubt you will so let's just consider this conversation open and closed.
He read the paper carefully and watched as Samantha walked back to her room. When he heard the door close behind her Sherlock buried his face in his hands.