A/N: How did this one come about? How odd am I? -csf


.

'John?'

I blink through sleep blurred eyes as I look up to my friend, calling me awake with insistence.

He's lucky I'm not punching him right now.

I won't mention the instinctive jerk, or the fact that the genius foresaw it – the bursting fire of a former soldier against the world awake – and he pinned my wrists down against the polyester upholstery. The cautious measure kept me from punching him and then having to apologise profusely, but still left me to feel a bit cheated. Too much adrenaline running in my veins with nowhere to go.

Why are you waking me up, Sherlock?

He answers my unspoken thoughts with uncanny proficiency:

'Obvious, John. You fell asleep in the back of Lestrade's car. Completely ignoring fantastic defenestration crime scene – oh, how I envy your ability to tune out the most exciting stimuli; the smells, the gradient of reds and browns, the blood splatter from a height and the—'

He stops short, as he sees something in my eyes. 'But enough of that. I can give you an abridged version of the facts later. Lestrade is arresting the culprit as we speak, and I am taking you home. In fact, I'm buying you dinner first.'

'What a lame date proposal', I mock in self-righteous derision. He actually blushes as a result.

'John, I—'

'Just joking, mate.' I rub my painfully twitching shoulder, responding to the cold night.

He sketches a brave, but confused, smile.

'John, I've never taken anyone like you on a date, as you call it', he admits.

'What would you call it?' I scrunch my face, feeling a bit sleep-muddled in my thoughts.

'A meaningless social interaction interlude set between traditional role-playing standards for illusionary future prospects of courtship and mating.'

I blink. There will be no mating.

'That doesn't sound quite as nice as the thing is.'

'Thing?'

'A date.'

'I wouldn't know.'

I glare at the obviously handsome man in front of me. 'You're Sherlock Holmes. You can just about date anyone you want, anyone would be extremely lucky to have you on a date! Gosh, in any day of the week your fan club would stand outside Baker Street in the pouring rain for a chance to glimpse you, never mind a date with you! Anyone in the whole of London would open up a free space in their calendars for you, mate!'

'Anyone', he repeats, coldly. 'Any one person. How promiscuous do you reckon I'd be, John?'

'What?' I don't get it. 'You'd be, you say? You don't contemplate dating anyone? Ever?'

He huffs, short-tempered. 'There's that word again. Anyone. I don't want anyone, how about that?'

'So, no dates, huh?'

'Married to my work, John, recall that? And faithful, I may add.'

I nod, slightly bewildered at his sudden gravitas.

'But, John, I'll take you on a date, after your expressed request.'

'What? Wait, no!' I didn't!

'It will be a learning experience. I'm sure I can learn.'

'People already talk, mate, no way!'

He seems impervious to my words. There's a kind of steely resolution in his features.

It's oddly stoic.

Hey, I'll have you know I'm a great catch!

'Tomorrow night, John, I'm taking you out.'

'You always do. In the middle of the night sometimes too.'

'It will be my pleasure', he adds politely, with a distinctive distance between his words and his thoughts.

'You better be paying for this idiocy', I grump, crossing my arms in front of me. I'm not passing up a free meal and the chance to watch Sherlock squirm at something the genius is not perfect at, like everything else.

'But you mustn't get your hopes up, John, this is not the kind of man I am.'

'Same here.'

'No, you are the Three Continents Watson the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers have turned into the stuff legends are made of', he huffs, sounding oddly resentful.

'Wait, how do you know about my silly nickname?' Has he been interviewing my old army mates again?

'We must all bear our crosses, John!' he declares before disappearing back into the gory crime scene, calling out for Lestrade's attention, promising him the accomplice's profession, height and shoe size.

'Wait, Sherlock! My nickname was coined to mock me, not to define me!'

'That's the spirit, John!' he defends, absent-minded, walking away.

.

Granted, it might be a shamble, but who wouldn't want to date Sherlock? The socially isolated genius really seems oblivious to his great marketability in the dating world. Let's see. He's got a great figure, from all the running around, chasing criminals, I suppose. Never seen him hit a gym, and yet he's fit as a fiddle. He's got an alien but pleasant face, with piercing deep eyes that seem to read your innermost thoughts. All that mind reading voodoo could pass as romantic without a stretch of the imagination. Luxurious dark hair, perfect suits, and he knows how to sweet talk you in twelve languages, eight regional dialects, one dead language and a few fictional languages (Klingon and Elvish, at least, he used them on a case a few years ago), all with that ice melting deep voice of his. Who wouldn't be attracted?

You're that shallow, John Watson?

It's not just how he bloody looks: perfect. Sherlock's brain is intoxicating, it's whirlwind brilliance and neck breaking speed have the power to eclipse all else in the room. His heart, hidden beneath layers of acidic remarks and scientific reasoning, is pure and generous beyond reproach. His humour is dark but simultaneously innocent, as his laughter is mischievous but pure.

One could fall in love with Sherlock through the internet or a television screen. Hell, even the radio would do.

And that is exactly what I must do. Set Sherlock up with someone who fancies him – easy – who can put up with him – trickier, but it can be arranged – and who treats the lonesome genius as he deserves to be loved.

John Watson, matchmaker.

Sherlock is trying to prove to me he can date. I'll use that and prove to him he can try a relationship.

Easy peasy. Anyone should be so lucky as to have Sherlock's attention. My mate's been wasting his attention on rotting corpses, so how hard can this be? Give him a live one and ain't that an improvement?

I hum a tune under my breath as I comb my hair in front of the wardrobe mirror.

Someone knocks at the bathroom door. 'Yoo-hoo!' Mrs Hudson.

I glance at the dividing door and she's already announcing:

'Brought you some clean underwear, John. I've just done a wash load. You never know how the night might turn out, what with you and Sherlock...'

'Mrs Hudson, it's not a real date!' I huff, exasperated. Where does the dear old lady get these ideas?

'If you won't open the bathroom door I'll just leave the clothes out here, but John if you think I haven't seen what men have between the legs, think again! I haven't come straight out of a Victorian novel, you know?'

I see myself frowning in the bathroom mirror. I'm clothed anyway.

'And stay away from that cheap cologne, John, Sherlock won't stand the scent of artificial juniper!'

I sigh and lower my head. Great, now I'm going to have to shower and start all over again.

.

'John, ah, there you are. Predictably on time.'

'We didn't set a time.'

'It's not my fault you couldn't make an informed guess, John. Anyway, may I direct your attention to the coffee table, by the shrivelled monkey hand? I believe it's customary to offer floral arrangements to one's date.'

I blink. He's really gone out of his way, trying to make a point. What is his point, again? That he could date if he chose to?

'Who's your source?' I retort, as I'm taken back by the sight of a dozen premium red roses, lying on the marred wood surface.

'The world wide web. They also insisted on the choice of red roses over other more deadly flower, like digitalis. You like purple, you associate the colour with my favourite shirt (therefore with me) and other positive stimuli, and I thought I could multitask. An analysis on the poison toxin in the digitalis flower would be just the ticket, but the internet insists it's not romantic.'

'The internet?'

'A forum called "loveless babes" to be precise. They were most keen to help me set up tonight's scheduled activities.'

I start getting a bit concerned. Sherlock is taking this whole silly thing too seriously.

'Sherlock, you don't need internet advice from the loveless babes bunch. The clue is in the name? Just be yourself and I'll walk you through what a date would be like.'

'This is a date.'

'Yes, technically, a date, but—'

I see a tiny spark of panic in Sherlock's young features and rethink my words. It'd figure the genius could be a bit insecure beyond his area of expertise. A date is about the heart, his big brain won't afford him his usual advantage this time.

'You are my date, John.'

I let some tension off my shoulders and nod gracefully. 'I am. I'm your date, Sherlock.' I head over to where I've put two glasses of red warming up to room temperature, on the mantle. Handing him one, I volunteer: 'To the beginning of your dating life, Sherlock. May you find someone deserving soon.'

He hesitates to take the glass, and when his hand finally reaches out, it trembles minutely.

'Yes', he says bravely at last. 'I believe I'll find a perfect dating partner sooner than you expect.'

I smile sunnily. 'That's the spirit!'

We toast our glasses and as I sip the red, I realise fleetingly that I still have no idea what sort of... woman... man... human... is Sherlock even attracted to. How can I know him so well and yet so little?

Belatedly I notice Sherlock is eyeing me attentively too.

.

'It was a lovely meal, Sherlock.'

'Should think so, as you seemingly attempted to consume your weight in Angelo's delicatessen foods.'

We're still at the Italian restaurant, the weird looks have died down and this time I haven't even complained of the romantic table candle.

'Now if this was a real date—' I start.

'This is a real date', Sherlock interrupts, overly serious. 'I asked you on a date and you said yes.'

'I did, of course I did. I meant, when you come on your next date—'

'Up for a repeat already? Could you possibly be that hungry again? Or is it customary to arrange the next dates in advance? I can free up my agenda till mid March with a good degree of certainty, John. How about you?'

I open my mouth and only a croaky sound emerges. I'm losing grip here.

'Your next date, mate. Why would you want to date me?'

'You are witty, kind, and lethal with a 3.5 calibre, John. We are already accustomed to one another's quirks, are proficient at reading each other's minds and enjoy shared hobbies and interests. Conveniently we share quarters and you sleep nearby – somewhere – I believe in a part of 221B as well...?' he finishes, a bit uncertain.

'You utter nutter, you know damn well where my bedroom is, you go there far too often to rummage around, when you think I won't find out!'

He purses and releases his lips. 'Oh, upstairs? Oh, I suppose that's why your things keep littering my storage area.'

'Is that why I keep finding your summer suits in my closet?'

'Must be. Also you had free space, whereas I don't. Lastly, there's no way you'd be confusing my suits with your own.'

'You are so trying to put me on! You want to prove to me you are undateable, Sherlock, and you're doing it because you are scared of being loved by someone!'

'I see. Anyone is now someone. A bit more specific, but still—'

'No, you don't get to do this! You are incredibly attractive, a demi-god with a great set of brains and a warm heart!'

'And someone is now everyone', the detective derides, rolling his eyes.

'You are ruddy perfect and you keep pushing everyone away as if the rest of the world has the plague!'

Sherlock's expression turns guarded, cold. 'For all I know they may do.'

Aggravated, I protest: 'Fine, I'm a doctor, just refer them to me!'

He raises his arms in temper. 'Why would I date someone else?'

I deflate quickly. 'What do you mean someone else? You've already got someone in your life? Is this the woman, then?'

Sherlock huffs and remarks sideways: 'Great. Jealousy. Can you be any more banal, John?'

'No, Sherlock. That's', I swallow tightly, 'great.'

Wow, it stings; that he'd keep this news from me. Won't trust me.

'What do you mean, great?'

'Told you, you've got so much to offer.'

Sherlock snatches his napkin and throws it on the table, getting up.

I smirk. 'Do I get to know who's the lucky—' Girl? Guy? Hmm... '—human?'

'You would know the answer by now, if you had only been paying attention', Sherlock declares coldly as we starts storming off. I get up and rush after him. Angelo isn't particularly bothered, he's used to us.

The cold night air separates us in an unreachable distance as Sherlock walks ahead of me in brisk steps, that I follow faithfully.

'Will I get to know them?'

He huffs, without turning or slowing. 'Don't be silly, John!'

'Won't they be jealous you took me out to dinner?'

'Hardly, John!'

'Really, you won't tell me?'

He stops short, turns on me and hisses through gritted teeth: 'Make a deduction, and then just drop it, John.'

I blink, more confused than ever.

'You're just bluffing, aren't you?'

He wails in exasperation as he turns and snaps open the front door – did we really stop in front of 221 Baker Street? – before getting inside and letting me in too, slamming the heavy door after us.

We hear a small sad gasp from the landing and see our landlady looking heartbroken. 'Oh dear. Tough night, boys?'

Sherlock's face is veiled by sudden aloofness as he declares: 'I'll be upstairs, John, when you are ready to apologise.'

What? Me? Apologise for what?

'I'm sorry.'

The words come out as a small hiccup. Honest but small, tired. I was only trying to help, I've made things worse.

Sherlock stops, turns around mid flight of stairs, and gazes upon his flatmate, his best friend, his— I don't know what weird label to use. They're just words.

'No more "dates", John', he declares as a request.

I shake my head. No, it's his business anyway.

'No more stupid dates', I agree.

'There's a nice red wine upstairs that has had plenty of time to breathe, John.'

'Great. Can we watch some crap telly?' I ask hopefully.

'If you aren't adverse to a few micro-explosions of homemade TNT', he answers with a smirk. 'I've got an experiment to finish.'

I smirk too. Mrs Hudson sighs as if she's been watching some cheap romantic comedy and recedes back to her flat with a smile plastered on her face.

.