ladies and gentlemen, the most awkward february 14th ever

[punchmeitssubtext]

Sherlock Holmes did not, as a general rule, remember birthdays or favorite colors or even a handful of the major holidays. His concept of time was skewed and his understanding of interpersonal relationships relied almost entirely on biological markers and verbal cues. He hated parties. He hated people insisting on traditions. He hated the assumption people made that holidays meant you automatically violated your own privacy and spilled your innermost thoughts.

And yet.

And yet here he was at Angelo's, watching the thin icicles on the window-frame shimmer in the headlights of passing cars.

This is mad, John had said, that first morning after, and he couldn't disagree. It made him a little angry, almost, a little upset that his own comfortable view of the world had been so skewed by a single outside influence.

But it still felt better than the drugs or the cigarettes or even most of the case work.

So he waited.

Comments

[fighting_northumerland]

To the outside observer, John and Sherlock could not have been any more mismatched. John was wearing his rattiest, comfiest trainers after a day on his feet, and both his pants and his jumper were rumpled and sloppy. Surely he had no business with the sharp-faced and sharply-dressed man lounging impatiently by the window.

That outside observer was clearly terrible at deducing. John slid into his seat, smiling cheerily.

"Evening!"

[punchmeitssubtext]

"Evening," Sherlock replied, sitting up just a little as his companion settled in. "Surgery went well, I see."

Only the regular drumming of his fingertips against the table betrayed any kind of elevated emotion. Someone had already brought menus by, but there was no candle this time--unlike the majority of the tables in the restaurant. Anyone passing by the window would see just a casually mismatched pair of friends out for a bite to eat on a chilly February night.

[fighting_northumerland]

"As well as it usually goes, but yeah," John agreed, pushing the sleeves of his jumper up. "Hopefully they'll make a PSA about the dangers of chopping carrots and watching telly simultaneously."

[punchmeitssubtext]

"They could just show a title card that says 'Look Down'. Once every five minutes from five-thirty to nine." He half-smiled. "Not that most people would pay attention."

[fighting_northumerland]

"And even if they did," John replied, smiling, "I'd be out of job, and you'd have me loafing about the flat every day."

[punchmeitssubtext]

"Frying bacon at all hours, no doubt." Despite himself, Sherlock's expression was gradually softening into something more relaxed. His friend had a way of drawing the harshest edge off of all the energy rattling around inside his brain. "Or blogging the unsolved cases."

[fighting_northumerland]

"You love it," John laughed. "Next time it'll be plantains and then so on, until we've breakfasted our way across the world."

He sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful. The first breakfast had almost exhausted his supply of known morning food.

"The hit counter skyrockets when a case in in progress-- you've just got to use euphemisms."

[punchmeitssubtext]

"Oh yes, the great art of saying things in the least clear way possible. And then of course they all want to ask if I've learnt whether the earth goes round the sun yet, or whether aliens did it."

He realized, a second later, that he was smiling.

[fighting_northumerland]

John threw his head back and laughed aloud at that. "I'd forgotten about the aliens-- we should just throw them a bone, just once. Poor souls, waiting to be taken up into space by little green men."

[punchmeitssubtext]

Sherlock's brain was suddenly transmitting signals into his chest--and he'd always wondered why the emotional response should register there, in a part of the body that really had no business processing and interpreting stimuli.

"Surgery went very well, then," he remarked, lightly.

[fighting_northumerland]

"Well enough," John shrugged, "not so much fun that I'd rather be there than here."

[punchmeitssubtext]

Damn it--there it was again. It was little more than an irrational twinge, one of those momentary arrhythmia that happened every now and again, but for Sherlock it registered as sharply as a bruise.

He already knew this man was a steady part of his life, a constant in a career that demanded chaos. He already knew that they had tangled themselves into a complicated mess that wasn't likely to come undone. He already knew the word love applied.

So why did his nerves jitter and lurch now? John laughed frequently--why was it suddenly different?

"Feeding me up," Sherlock muttered, and cleared his throat. He'd get this under control.

[fighting_northumerland]

"You need it, and it keeps the dust off our frying pans. Win-win," John said, cheerily. He settled into a comfortable silence for a moment, just taking Sherlock in-- the man he wasn't sure he'd ever fully understand. For whatever reason, that didn't out him off a bit.

"You're quiet."

[punchmeitssubtext]

"And you're happy."

He could have sworn those weren't the words he'd meant to say, but there they were. It struck him, in an absurd rush, just how ordinary this situation was: he was having dinner at a regular hour, at a regular restaurant, on what could presumably be called a regular date. Ordinary people must do this sort of thing day in and day out, as naturally as breathing.

It was terrifying. And also fantastic.

[fighting_northumerland]

John smiled in reply, then thought for a moment.

"I am. I am...so happy," he said, tactfully.

"Are you?"

[punchmeitssubtext]

"Is that even something you do, happy?"

"You machine."

"I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking."

"Yes," he replied, almost too low to hear. "Yes."

[fighting_northumerland]

John frowned. It was the response he'd hoped for-- no, lets be honest, wanted, but...

"Are you sure? You seem so...preoccupied."

[punchmeitssubtext]

"It's..." He racked his brain for the right words--there was too much information to explain, too much to distill down into a clear message when he hardly understood it himself.

"New," he managed at last, and immediately felt like the word choice was painfully inadequate.

[fighting_northumerland]

John nodded in an understanding way-- not that he understood, not completely, but he empathized.

"Good thing about Angelo's," he said, lightly, "never gets old."

[punchmeitssubtext]

He began to slide his hand across the table, towards John, but stopped himself. No. Not in public--other people could assume whatever they liked or stare as much as they wanted, but whatever sentiment he shared was for one person and one person only.

"I had to tell him to leave off decorations for the table," Sherlock replied, glancing out the window. "He looked like he wanted to do more than candles. Nice fellow, but he can be... enthusiastic."

[fighting_northumerland]

Did everybody know before I did? John wondered.

"God," he murmured. "Enthusiasm, indeed. If he had his way there wouldn't be any room for silverware."

[punchmeitssubtext]

"It could be worse. You should have seen my inbox this morning."

Okay, so he'd mass-deleted most of it. But that was just the risk you ran when you emailed a consulting detective with things that were decidedly not cases.

"And before you ask," he added, his smile returning by inches. "I am going to eat tonight. Doctor."

[fighting_northumerland]

"So soon?" John asked, curiously, but we as clearly pleased. "Before you know it you'll be getting all your vitamins on a regular basis."

[punchmeitssubtext]

"Don't press your luck."

He paused for a moment, tipping his head slightly to one side, his eyes still fixed on his partner's face.

"...John," he said, a genuine note of curiosity in his voice. "When you look round this place. What do you see? Just--what are the things you notice?"

[fighting_northumerland]

John looked hard, wondering just when they were about to be jumped and by whom.

"Well, its erm..." he started. "It's a bit dim in here. Have our meals cut into the electric bill? And all the tables-" he stopped short.

"All the tables are for two. Damn it."