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]

"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..."

[fighting_northumerland]

"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.

[punchmeitssubtext]

"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."

[fighting_northumerland]

"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?"

[punchmeitssubtext]

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.

[fighting_northumerland]

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

"Do you even like sweets?"

[punchmeitssubtext]

"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.

[fighting_northumerland]

"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."

[punchmeitssubtext]

"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.

[fighting_northumerland]

"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?"

[punchmeitssubtext]

"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.

[fighting_northumerland]

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!"

[punchmeitssubtext]

"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!"

[fighting_northumerland]

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

[punchmeitssubtext]

"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.

[fighting_northumerland]

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.

[punchmeitssubtext]

That bizarre nerve response in Sherlock's chest suddenly felt like an expansion of some kind--something growing bigger and warmer. And no part of his brain wanted to insist that it was just muscle and lungs and random electrical firings: he had a heart, and it was responding to another human being.

To the human being sitting across from him. His flatmate. Colleague. Best friend.

His fingers stirred on John's shoulder, this time in a rhythm that was irregular but familiar. Morse code. Words.

Thank you.

[fighting_northumerland]

Sherlock's touches are light, repetitive, insistent-- John is too involved, too invested in absorbing the sight of his friend to notice the touch, the steady taps.

"You would," he breathed, exhaling slowly, "you would tease me with those great long fingers of yours. While we're out in public."

[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?