If one had asked John how he was feeling at 6 p.m. of that mid-March Tuesday, he would have probably replied that he felt nervous. The problem was, actually, that 'nervous' wasn't even remotely near to what he had within. There was a full ocean of feelings rumbling, roaring, crying inside his chest and his heart seemed to him a ship doomed to wreck, to be swallowed by the abyss below. And he, he was standing on the verge of that ship amid joy, fear and hope, undecided whether to let himself go down or desperately cling to it.
For John, despite the joy, felt helpless one more time. Sending messages to an un-answering voicemail was one thing, but speaking directly to Sherlock was another. Doubts had gathered in his mind as the time of the meeting approached and he wasn't anymore that certain that Sherlock had asked him out for dinner because he held a positive answer to his plea. Nevertheless John tried to keep himself as positive as he could be.
At six-thirty he had a shower. A long, warm, reinvigorating shower. He spent a long time under the stream of water without doing much except for enjoying the warm water beating on his skin. It was a very well welcomed noise, that seemed to wash some of his doubts away. He slowly soaped himself with his favourite scented shower gel: eucalyptus, lemon and bergamot. There were different reasons why it was his favourite, but the first was that it remembered him of a holiday he had done with his family when he was a child. He massaged every muscle to relieve them from the stress they were undergoing right now. Every fibre of his body, matter-of-factly, was in tension and he had to work a bit to soften them. It took him thirty minutes to come out from the shower, one of the longest he had ever had. But he felt slightly better and more prone to be positive about the encounter with the young man.
He sat on his bed, wrapped in his bathrobe, looking at the wardrobe in front of him. He had to choose something to put on. Which, considerably enough, was a hard task for John H. Watson. He didn't want to be much elegant (not that he had incredibly elegant clothes, to be honest) because that would have meant that he was surely expecting a positive answer. And he didn't want to put pressure on Sherlock with that. On the other side he didn't want to look like the usual John. He always wore knit jumpers, loose shirts and jeans. The apex of his fashion style had been when he had gone out with…Laura. In the end he decided for a comfortable, but smart V-necked blue jumper, a blue-white tartan patterned shirt and blue trousers. Rather fashionable, but not posh. He returned to the bathroom, combed his hair at his best and found himself smiling at the mirror. He looked like a teenager at his first date, all happy and excited. Yes, he definitely felt like a teenager.
Part of his fears had soothed because, he had somehow realised while putting on the shirt, Sherlock didn't usually invite people out for dinner. And if that weren't a positive signal, he swore that all his life was probably a lie.
At seven-thirty he hailed a taxi, gave the address to the cabby and tried to not show how overwrought he was.
The second day of spring, as that Tuesday happened to be, wasn't much springy. The sky was mostly clear, but there were dark clouds gathering on the horizon. Moreover there was a freezing strong wind blowing, which had made him shiver when he had exited his flat. It looked like more of a winter day than a spring one.
At ten to eight, the taxi dropped him off exactly in front of Angelo's. He gave a look at the restaurant. It was a small and rather informal place with a big window, giving John the opportunity to see its interior quite clearly. There were small dark wooden tables surrounded by musk green divans just behind the window. One was occupied by a family, the second one, the nearest to the door, was empty. Three lamps hanged from the ceiling above and slightly lit the place up.
John looked around to see if Sherlock was there, but he didn't see anyone. At eight, there was still no sign of Sherlock and John's fears started to grow again. But at two past eight a familiar tall figure appeared just behind the opposite corner walking towards him. He exhaled in relief. Sherlock was wearing his usual long blue coat, from which a sleeve swung loose, showing no left arm in it. His hair danced in the wind and John couldn't help but stare at the vision. Long, lean legs appeared from the coat as the young man placed one step before the other and he was sure that he could have watched such a delightful walking forever and never get tired of it. The blood pumped in his veins faster as the young man's figure became bigger and bigger at the approach. When Sherlock was just one metre away from him, John was more than sure that he was of a scarlet colour from the base of his neck to the tip of his ears. But, to his extreme surprise, Sherlock's cheek were also quite red and that, if possible, made him redder.
"Evening.", he managed to mutter, while he was desperately struggling to not surrender to his shaking knees.
"Evening.", answered Sherlock, whose voice seemed a bit unstable too "And sorry for the slight delay."
John shook his head.
"You aren't that late. I've just arrived."
"Liar. You've been here waiting for…at least ten minutes."
Trust Sherlock to be the usual smartass, thought John, but smiled.
"As I said: just arrived."
Sherlock replied with a smile too.
"Let's go in?", he asked.
"Sure."
Luckily the restaurant was warm and dim, because first John was starting to feel frozen to the bones, second the dim light quite hid his red face. He took off his jacket and Sherlock did the same with his coat using his right hand, being his left arm still held up with a bandage that went around his neck.
Yet John coughed to hide a gulp of pleasure. Sherlock was wearing a black suit with a white shirt that fitted him perfectly. One could have easily mistaken him for a model or an actor with that outfit. Plus, the white shirt Sherlock was wearing was a bit tight on the chest and the two uppermost buttons were open, leaving the pale skin underneath exposed. No, John was wrong. He didn't look like a model or an actor. He looked like perfection itself. Suddenly John felt extremely embarrassed for his homey outfit and his ordinary looking face. But Sherlock didn't seem to mind.
"It fits you.", the young man said, indicating John's jumper "It matches your eyes."
John muttered something intelligible that sounded like a 'thanks', but he wasn't even sure the word came out of his mouth.
They sat down on the empty table near the window, where a note, that John hadn't noticed from the outside, with the name 'Holmes' was placed.
"Ahem.", John cleared his throat "How's your shoulder?"
Sherlock smiled wryly.
"Let's say I can't play the violin for a while yet. But I think that being still alive is quite more important, isn't it?"
John nodded, but lowered his eyes, embarrassed about how carelessly Sherlock was taking his own possible death.
"I was joking.", said the young man calmly "I don't have the slightest intention to die for a very long time."
"Neither do I.", smiled John this time.
The conversation was interrupted by a plangent deep voice with a strong Italian accent.
"Sherlock!"
A bulky middle-aged man with a chubby face walked to their table and shook Sherlock's hand with such lively passion that John thought he was going to disarticulate the young man's shoulder.
"John,", the young man said "this is Angelo, the owner. Angelo, this is John, a…friend of mine."
John stretched out his hand to shake the man's.
"How are you, Sherlock?", Angelo asked "Your brother told me about the accident. And threatened to kill me if I let escape a single word. What kind of person did he think I am?"
"A burglar and a fraudster. Which, actually, is the truth."
John gawked.
"But when it comes to you, I'm an honest man, Sherlock! You break my heart by telling me that!", he replied, theatrically gripping his chest with his hand "I will never betray your trust. You saved me from a murder inquiry!"
"Just because you were house-breaking in the opposite side of the city.", Sherlock smirked.
"And I'll never thank you enough for that! Choose whatever you like on the menu, it's on the house!", and he shouted to a young boy who was serving another table "Tommy, bring a bottle of Soave to Sherlock and his date!"
At the word 'date', John's red face became redder and he tried to bury himself behind the menu. Sherlock softly smiled.
"Has he said something wrong?", he asked John.
John emerged from the menu.
"No. Ahem. No.", he muttered "I think…no."
"Good."
Then the young man changed the topic completely and John regained some of his composure.
"I think I'll take 'Linguine allo scoglio" as main course and… 'Sogliola alla griglia', as second course. You?"
"Ahem. I guess I'll take the same.", he smiled to Sherlock.
The wine arrived and Angelo came to take the order.
"Two 'Linguine allo Scoglio' and two 'Sogliole alla griglia'."
"Perfect, Sherlock.", the owner said, walking away.
Sherlock turned to the window and John didn't know what to say, so he picked up the first thing he had in mind.
"Good Italian accent.", he said "Not that I'm an expert, but there was no English inflection when you spoke those words."
Sherlock turned back to John and John, amused, noticed a little more redness on the young man's cheeks.
"Thank you. Or should I say 'grazie'?"
John replied with a smirk.
"Have you studied it? The Italian language, I mean."
"Needed it for a case two years ago. I was impersonating an Italian gentleman on a business trip in London. There was the suspect that some guys from a notorious Italian mafia family had an accomplice inside one of the most important bank in England. So I had to study it."
"Do you ever do something that is not related to your supposed work?", John teased.
"Well, dating a professor has nothing to do with my work. Then, I suppose I do.", Sherlock slyly answered.
John's heartbeat became so loud that it echoed in his ears.
"W-what?", was all he was able to utter.
"You're once again making me repeat the obvious.", replied the young man "But I think you understood it clearly, so there's no need to say it again."
Angelo arrived with their dishes in that exact moment, but John almost didn't notice.
"So you…", John continued.
Sherlock took a deep breath.
"Yes. I have…thought about it.", he said, himself also completely unaware of the pasta on the table "John, in the hospital with you I felt…good. It was nice and familiar and I can't recall another time in my recent life when I felt that good with someone. Maybe I've never felt that good with anyone."
John swallowed.
"But I still thought that I was right about not pursuing a relationship with you. I still thought that I didn't deserve you. Then I went back home and I discovered that…I missed you. I missed your constant presence beside me, because you made me feel better and I felt lost without your smile, your jokes, your friendship even after I had said those horrible things…You stayed. You didn't go away. And I was risking to lose something like that."
The young man's voice was becoming a little shaky and John found his hands travelling across the table to meet Sherlock's one.
"I had to think. I had to understand it. And when I've listened to all your messages I felt the warmth, the strength you put into them, John. So, John, I have got a request for you…"
John held his breath, sensing his heart on the verge of a heart failure.
"Please, please teach me how to dream, for I long to be more than a machine…"
John looked at the young man a bit confused.
"Why are you saying that? You aren't a machine! You're a human being! The best…"
"You said that.", Sherlock interrupted.
It took John some seconds to remember it. Yes, he had said that. Oh, god. But he hadn't meant it.
"Yes, Sherlock. I told you that, but I was…angry that time. And confused about your feelings for me and my feelings for you. I really didn't…"
"But you were right.", interrupted Sherlock once more "And I know that. But you, you, John. You made me understand that I don't want to be like that anymore. I want to feel my feelings. But I need your help. Because it's only with you that I feel this way. It's only with you that this can work. Teach me, John. Teach me how to dream. With you."
And one more time in his life John was extremely grateful that he was sitting, for he was sure that his whole body was failing to work properly.
"Sherlock.", said John in a serious tone, but unable to contain his smile "If you ever say that you are an emotionless machine after what I've just heard coming out from your mouth, I swear I will punch you. That was…", he exhaled "the best love declaration I've ever heard in my whole life. And if I ever say something similar again, you'll have the right to punch me harder. And the answer to your request is that yes, I will help. But it's quite useless since you're making already me feel like I'm in a dream."
Sherlock gave John a rare, sweet smile. John slightly stroked Sherlock's back of the hand.
"You know I'll be moody, lunatic, arrogant, egocentric. You know that there will be days where I'll be insufferable. You know that?", Sherlock asked "I'm not the perfect man you think I am."
"I have to change my statement: I swear I will punch you right now unless you stop with that nonsense.", replied John "I thought I have stated rather clearly that you are what I want. Yes, with your moody, lunatic, arrogant and whatever other adjective you like character. And I am in love with you. With you. And you're making me repeat the obvious."
Sherlock smiled brighter. Much brighter than John had ever seen.
"I…am so grateful to you, John. I have no words to express it."
"Believe me, Sherlock, you've already expressed it well enough."
"So…", tentatively asked the young man "this means we're together?"
"I want to remind you that you are the one who said you're dating me. And I'm certainly not going to deny that!"
John smiled, happy, the happiest he had ever been in his life. It was the second day of spring, outside the window had started to rain, but his heart was blooming with the flowers of love. And Sherlock looked much like John. His aquamarine eyes were glittering in the dim light of the restaurant and he seemed the happiest John had ever seen.
"Well.", the young man said "We'd better eat. Cold Linguine allo scoglio is not something worth eating. And I don't really want to spoil such an evening…"
John nodded and started to harpoon the pasta, aware all of a sudden that he was starving.
"It's…delicious.", he said, biting some pasta with a mussel.
Sherlock hummed in response.
"Best Italian restaurant in London.", he said "And almost no one knows about it."
"I'm lucky you do.", replied John "How did you discover it?"
"Well, you've heard me. I arrested Angelo."
John started to giggle, immediately followed by Sherlock.
They kept on eating and, now and then, holding hands in the dim, cosy atmosphere of the place. They talked about other cases that Sherlock had solved, they chatted about John's university years, they mostly demonstrated how much they were in love with each other.
After the dessert and a coffee, John helped Sherlock to put on the coat and they went out. Sherlock and John would have wanted to pay, but Angelo had been unmovable.
"It's on the house, Sherlock. Always for you.", he had repeated in his strong Italian accent.
Now they were walking in the street side by side, aimlessly. Neither John nor Sherlock wanted to go home, because that would have meant to break the magic dream they were in. It was slightly drizzling, but neither of them seemed to mind. They just walked under the grey sky of London with the sun within their hearts. John hesitantly stretched out his left hand to hold Sherlock's. In the restaurant it had been a private gesture and John hadn't felt that much embarrassed, but doing it in public was a complete new matter. His cheeks reddened at the contact. But Sherlock answered the touch grabbing it fiercely with his. John glanced at the young man and saw that his cheeks were also pink. He smiled more. He couldn't help but keeping on smiling.
An indefinite amount of walking later, just enjoying the proximity with each other, John broke the silence.
"I think we should go home now.", he said taking a quick look at the watch "It's almost eleven p.m. and you need to sleep or your arm will never heal properly."
Sherlock looked at John, but said nothing. He seemed lost in distant thoughts John couldn't quite catch. Then he spoke.
"Can I sleep with you tonight?", he asked in a whisper.
John gulped and his mouth fell open at the same time.
"I…don't mean sexually!", Sherlock quickly explained "Just…sleeping. I slept better in the hospital those afternoons when I was tired and you were there…"
John looked at him, still.
"…but if you don't want…", continued Sherlock, glancing down "I'm sorry I've asked."
"No, Sherlock. Sorry. I'd love it. Just…I was a bit shocked. I didn't think that you would…"
"It's just sleeping.", a vulnerable glimpse in his aquamarine eyes.
"Of course you can.", eventually replied John, firm.
Sherlock smiled.
"Grazie.", he whispered softly, squeezing John's hand in his.
John smiled. Trust Sherlock to be the only one person in the world able to ask something like that during a first date. And John loved him for that too. But John also knew, deep in his heart, it wasn't their first date at all. They had been somehow dating since day one. They had just made it official.
They hailed a taxi and returned to John's flat.
Short note:
There is absolutely NO disapproval, nor racism towards Angelo's way of speaking. I am Italian, so, if you find "racist" my remarks about his accent, know that they are NOT.