punchmeitssubtext | ladies and gentlemen, the most awkward february 14th ever

ladies and gentlemen, the most awkward february 14th ever

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.

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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."

"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."

"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."

"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?"

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."

He had to laugh at that.

"Well, yes," he said. "Should I tell you what I see?"

"Of course," John said, leaning in slightly despite himself. That was one of the most fun parts of being with Sherlock- getting a tiny glimpse of the world through a man genius' eyes.

Those long fingers started drumming on the table again, a swift and regular pattern.

"The woman two tables over is about to tell her partner she's pregnant. You got a haircut three days ago but you didn't go to your usual place, probably because you were in a rush or you were in a different neighborhood anyway. Five tables behind us, to the left, the fellow in the green shirt is considering proposing to his boyfriend but he's probably not going to do it here. You called Harry this morning but didn't talk to her--she's probably out, or busy with a girlfriend, which you were counting on. Our waiter, Billy, has taken up practicing guitar again, likely to impress the barista at the coffee shop on the opposite corner. Your shoulder hasn't bothered you in at least five days."

We aren't about to be attacked, John thought, and for the first time he wasn't totally relieved by that idea.

"Is this...a date-date, then?" John asked, slowly. He was clearly in unknown territory, and if he was lost then Sherlock-- well, actually, who knew where this was going?

"Because I should just say up front that I'd completely forgot what day it is."

"No. Well--a bit. If you like."

Half of what I see in this room is you, you oblivious dick, because somehow I've gone backwards from serious adult feelings to--to goddamn butterflies. God. You are such an idiot. I hate that I want to kiss you in public. My pupils are probably huge right now. This was the worst idea I ever had. Fuck. I am such a wanker

"I just--thought. Since you're always on me to have dinner at a normal hour, and..."

"No, no, it's lovely!" John said, reassuringly. "You know I enjoy spending time with you when the rest of the world is awake as well! It's just- usually I'm supposed to take care of this kind of thing," he shrugged, awkwardly.

How heteronormative.

"Sorry. I just--it was a thought." It was one of those rare moments where Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, was visibly embarrassed--a bit like that moment, when they'd first moved in, that he'd begun compulsively cleaning after John had remarked on how big a mess it was.

"Billy," he called, over his shoulder. "Can I--glass of white wine please. Thanks."

"Sherlock," John grabbed the man's hand across the table and held two in his own.

"It's lovely," he repeated again, firmly. "If I had known you were watching the dates, I would have-- well, that's not true, I think you'd throw me out of the flat for picking up anything that's in the shops right now. Everything is vibrant, pink, and revolting. But you understand?"

For a moment Sherlock was totally silent, his eyes just a little wider than usual--he might be a genius, but he couldn't seem to figure out when John would take him by surprise. Maybe he never would.

Then he turned his hand a little, so he could squeeze John's fingers.

"Thought you'd find the pink a bit much too," he murmured.

"Washes me out," he quipped, before falling back into a kind of awkward silence.

"Do you even like sweets?"

"Sometimes." His mouth quirked, and he shot John an amused glance. "Mrs Hudson's quite good at cakes when she has the time to make them properly. I think she must have ninety percent of the cookbooks Julia Child put out. Did you know Julia Child worked for the Americans' precursor to the CIA, during the Second World War?"

It approached babbling, this outburst of data, but then it might take Sherlock a little while to get used to holding hands in public. Not that he let go or even looked up when Billy brought his glass of wine.

"I did not know that," John says, totally straight-faced. "Explains a lot about those American intelligence types we run into every know and again, I suppose."

"Oh, and how many of them do you think have a secret yearning to reinvent beef bourgignon?"

The sarcastic come-back was, at this point in their relationship, basically a reflex--but this time, the complete absurdity of it struck Sherlock a heartbeat after he'd said it. He started to laugh, shoulders shaking with the effort of keeping it at a volume that wouldn't alarm half the restaurant.

"Are you laughing at your own joke?" John managed to choke out, unable to restrain his own giggles. "Picturing the CIA chap in a floral apron with a fish-shaped pan?"

"Oh god--" The laughter was pretty well out of control now. "Making those little puff pastries for meetings with the Joint Chiefs of Staff--"

At least one person turned around to stare. Sherlock neither noticed nor cared.

John put his head on the table, unable to deal. His shoulders still shook up and down uncontrollably.

"You're going to scare off our waiter doing this!"

"You're going to scare him off!" he choked, and fell into another helpless burst of laughter. "A--haha--a seasoned medical man in hysterics, with a totally inconsolable patient!"

"Is that what you think I do? Cure the giggles?" John snickered. "I want a basket of bread! You are keeping us from bread!"

"Seriously, stop it--he's never going to bring us bread at this rate--"

There was nothing for it. The entirety of London could have been watching, and he wouldn't have known it.

He reached over, laying his free hand on John's shoulder to steady himself. It was a gesture of easy intimacy, and a very damning one--one that even the casual observer would have picked up on in a flash--but, at least for that moment, Sherlock was comfortable. Visibly, openly happy.

John glanced around mischievously before covertly turning his head and brushing his lips across Sherlock's fingers.

Everyone who has an issue can form an orderly queue to go fuck themselves.

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