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

[punchmeitssubtext]

"I'm tall. My hands are proportionate to the rest of my body." His smile turned wicked for a moment before settling back into steady, warm contentment. "Besides, I'm not teasing."

Thank you John, he tapped out.

[fighting_northumerland]

"Yes you--" John started, before the ever-present soldier awareness kicked in. Code. But why-?

"For what?" John asked, softly. "You're the one taking me to dinner."

[punchmeitssubtext]

Sherlock might lord his genius over the entire world at times, but secretly he was pleased that he'd taken up with someone who was pretty astute.

Being here, he tapped, and followed it up with a casual "Which is on the house. Angelo insisted."

[fighting_northumerland]

"Good old Angelo," John said, for the benefit of the other patrons, before looking Sherlock directly in the eyes.

"I couldn't stand to be anywhere else."

[punchmeitssubtext]

"Not even at a triple homicide?" His tone was light, but his fingers spelled out, Me too.

[fighting_northumerland]

"You know I don't get to decide who the bodies are," John said, "and I...mean it. There's no other place for me in the world. I wouldn't even want another."

[punchmeitssubtext]

Sherlock's expression softened, taking on a very human light. His focus had narrowed to one person, and suddenly it didn't matter who saw or knew. He leaned across the table, eyes sliding shut--

--and then came the drums and the obnoxious guitar riff.

Angelo had apparently decided the room needed some romantic music. And what could be more romantic than Robert Palmer?

[fighting_northumerland]

John started, totally taken out of the moment. Funnily enough, people even a few years removed from active combat zones appreciate sudden loud noises much less that the average person.

"Bloody--" he started, then lowered himself back into the chair. "Really? Really?"

[punchmeitssubtext]

"Oh my God." Sherlock let go of John so he could cover his face with both hands, albeit briefly. "Angelo. I might have known. I'm so sorry."

Several of the other patrons had started to giggle. Most of them hadn't caught on to the intimate moment in progress by the window, but a few had, and were trying very hard not to stare and howl at the same time.

[fighting_northumerland]

John glared at the patrons, opening his mouth to ask them if they're mothers had raised them to be so hateful and jealous before it fell open, slack with horror.

There was a brown, heart-shaped mound of cake with sparklers set in it.

It was headed their way.

[punchmeitssubtext]

Oh no. No no no, not today, Sherlock was not having his one attempt at being a solicitous partner be destroyed by cake.

"Okay. No. Hang on, I'll fix this. And if Angelo insists on cake, be ready to flag a cab."

He practically sprang out of his chair, heading towards the dessert and its bearer with an impressive scowl already twisting his face.

[fighting_northumerland]

"Maybe it isn't for us," John prayed, totally in vain. "Maybe its for anyone else..."

[punchmeitssubtext]

"--that we don't appreciate it, Angelo, but this is really not the time--"

John's phone buzzed. His sister had decided to take this moment to text him--with, rather predictably, a message of concern over whether he was on a date right now.

"--just trying to have a quiet dinner--"

And another text.

From Mycroft.

Enjoy your cake.

[fighting_northumerland]

John slunk down in his chair, hoping that he could camouflage himself among the shadows and escape notice.

"Is it a murder?" he asked, hopefully.

[punchmeitssubtext]

"--yes,great, thanks. To the woman over there. She's in her first trimester, it'll be a lovely surprise."

Unfortunately he'd said it loudly enough for the couple in question to hear. So much for surprises.

"--or those two fellows, they'll be having a proposal--"

His heart might have been on display, however briefly, but now his brain was in charge and there was no stopping it.

"--or that woman, she needs a little encouragement if she's ever going to tell her best friend there how she feels--"

[fighting_northumerland]

Damage control. Damage control. Things were quickly spiraling towards disaster.

"Sherlock!" he hissed, making a sharp gesture. "Leave the cake! Cover is blown! Abort mission!"

[punchmeitssubtext]

Sherlock glanced towards him, one eyebrow arched.

"On a scale of one to Vatican cameos--?" he ventured.

[fighting_northumerland]

John looked around the room. The people that weren't smirking or staring at the slack-jawed were having heated conversations brought on by Sherlock's damned observing.

"We are beyond Vatican cameos."

[punchmeitssubtext]

"Right. Get your coat. Best regards, Angelo, maybe next time."

He strode back to the table, downed his entire glass of wine in about two gulps, then grabbed John by the hand. His social skills might leave a lot to be desired, but at least he had some sense of when to leave.

John's phone buzzed again. Mycroft. Of course.

Ah, romance.