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Sherlock brought the tea tray into the sitting room and placed it on the small table in between the two chairs in 221b. He folded himself elegantly into his chair and slid forward so that he could serve his guest tea.
“Milk?” he offered.
“And two sugars please.”
After serving his guest and himself, he sat back with his own cup, absently wrapping himself in his blue silk dressing gown.
“You’re looking well,” Sherlock said.
Irene Adler frowned mockingly at him. “Really Sherlock?” she drawled, “Are we going to have a polite conversation?”
Sherlock sighed. Good lord, did the woman never give up? “I have no interest in having an ‘impolite’ conversation with you Irene, you know that.”
Irene grinned mischievously and sipped her tea. “I’m teasing you Sherlock, I know that women aren’t really your area.”
“So what brings you back to London?” he asked.
Irene smiled and made herself more comfortable in John’s chair.
“Kate and I are just tying up a few loose ends and then we’ll be heading back to South America. We’ve gotten into the business of helping people disappear; it’s proven to be rather lucrative. We have a lovely safe house in Punto Del Diablo, if you should ever have need of it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, but I have no intention of faking my own death again,” Sherlock grumbled into his tea cup.
“Oh yes, you wouldn’t want to upset him, would you,” Irene said smugly.
“No, I wouldn’t,” Sherlock snapped. More mildly, he added, “It was … Not good. It’s taken quite a while for things to get sorted after that.” His gaze drifted away from Irene. The curtains fluttered in his peripheral vision; Mrs Hudson had opened the front door downstairs causing a draft.
“Does that man have any idea how much you love him?”
Sherlock sighed. “He doesn’t feel that way.”
“Are you so sure?” Irene said looking at him evenly. “Have you even spoken to him?”
“Oh yes of course!” Sherlock barked. His voice steadily rose as he spoke and his words came faster. “That will just go over swimmingly! Yes Irene, how do you think that my friend, my straight male best friend, will deal me blurting out, ‘Oh by the way John I am in love with you, always have been actually’. Everything I’ve suffered for the past five years had been for you. Jumped off a building? Got tortured in Serbia? Killed a man in cold blood? Got on a plane to head to my certain death? Yes! All of it for you! I’m gay, by the way, I don’t think that ever came up in conversation! How exactly do you think that would go over, Irene?”
At that precise moment both Sherlock and Irene heard that distinct creak of the eleventh riser on the staircase.
Sherlock’s head snapped up and he stared at the open door to the flat. He bolted to the staircase, and raced down to the landing just in time to see the front door close. He gripped the handrail to steady his shaking.
Not Mrs. Hudson.
Stupid Stupid Stupid.
Of course John would pick that moment to arrive.
With a sinking heart he turned to head back up to the sitting room. At the top up the stairs, Irene stood smiling smugly at him.
“What the hell are you grinning at?!” he snarled.
“You’re going to thank me for this, Sherlock.”
“I’m going to thank you?” he cried incredulously.
“Sherlock!” Irene did not have the same military bearing as John, but she was adept at giving orders and she knew how to use her voice to bring just about anyone to heel. Sherlock snapped his mouth shut and stared at Irene balefully. “Don’t panic,” she said more gently.
Sherlock stomped up the stairs, muttering darkly to himself as he pushed past Irene. “Of course not. Why panic? Why would I possibly panic? It’s not like the only friend I have ever had has just heard my utterly pathetic love confession and is, as we speak, running for the hills. No, why on earth would I bloody well panic?” He walked across the sitting room and threw himself dramatically into his chair.
Irene followed him sedately. She still had a small smile on her lips and her arms folded across her chest. She stood in front of Sherlock and raised a shapely eyebrow.
“Are you quite done with your strop?” she asked.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. “You haven’t seen anything yet,” he huffed.
“Sherlock Holmes. I know what people like, and your army doctor likes consulting detectives.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Irene. She did know what people liked, but she couldn’t possibly be right about this.
“You need to get ready.”
“For what? Another night of pining? A night of staring at an empty chair? Oh god …” Sherlock covered his face with his hands and took a deep shuddering breath. Had he ruined everything? Could he hope that John might just pretend he had never heard Sherlock’s confession?
“Your Army doctor is out having his mild sexual identity crisis, but it is a mild crisis, Sherlock. He’s been thinking about the two of you as a couple since our conversation at Battersea.”
He looked at her skeptically, but he remembered that day with startling clarity.
“We’re not a couple.”
“Yes you are.”
“I’m not gay.”
“Well I am. Look at us both.”
“Sherlock.” He opened his eyes to see Irene squatting in front of his chair. “Go have a shower, you’ll feel more yourself.”
Sherlock scowled at her darkly. A bloody shower was not going to fix this. However, it was gone past five and he hadn’t showered yet. Irene stood and made her way back to John’s chair.
"Take your time Sherlock, and be thorough,” she purred.
Sherlock heaved himself out his chair and made his way to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and stared at himself in the mirror. He had lost weight while on his massive drugs binge around the wretched mess of the Culverton Smith fiasco; he looked hollowed out and gaunt but at least his skin didn’t look pasty and grey anymore. He ran his fingertips over his jaw and chin. Scratchy and rough, definitely needed a shave.
He stripped down efficiently while the shower warmed and stepped under the stream of blessedly hot water. “Be thorough.” What the hell had Irene meant by that? He let the hot water pound down on him, loosening up the tight muscles in his shoulders and back. He felt marginally calmer after his usual ablutions. If he took a little longer than normal and scrubbed a little more than usual, it had nothing to do with Irene’s suggestion. He had just wrapped a towel around his waist when Irene let herself into the bathroom.
“Don’t you knock?” Sherlock muttered.
“That would be boring. Besides I’m here to help you get ready.”
“You still haven’t told me what it is that I’m getting ready for.” Sherlock retrieved his shaving kit from the bathroom cabinet and began to lather up his face. At that moment his phone pinged.
“I believe that is what you are getting ready for,” Irene said, smiling. Sherlock sighed and picked up the phone.
Do you have plans for dinner? JW.
Sherlock blinked at his phone for a moment.
“Are you going to answer that?”
He said nothing as he rapidly texted:
No plans. SH
Sherlock dropped the phone like it had personally offended him. He realized to his horror that his hands were shaking.
Angelo’s? 8pm? JW
He stared at the phone.
Irene snatched the phone up and typed quickly.
I’ll see you at eight. SH
“Well isn’t that lovely Sherlock, you have a date!”
“It’s not… he doesn’t… we’re not...”
“Hush now,” Irene crooned. “You’re getting ready, sit before you fall down.”
Irene gently grasped him by the shoulders and guided him to sit down on the closed toilet. She took up his razor and tilted his head back and drew the razor across his jaw. She moved gently across his face. The familiar pull of the blade was almost hypnotic and Sherlock found himself relaxing into her efficient touch. He came back to himself as Irene wiped the last bits of shaving cream off of his face.
“Now let’s pick out an outfit,” she said breezily and walked into his bedroom. When Sherlock had caught up to her, she had his wardrobe flung open and was rifling through his clothing. She pulled out his newest silk shirt. It was a deep blood red undershot with black and he hadn’t had a chance to wear it yet. He knew that it contrasted well with his pale skin. He pulled out his current favourite black suit and turned to see that Irene was rummaging through his pants drawer.
“Really, Irene?”
“It’s amazing how the right undergarment can give you confidence. Besides, with any luck your date might have chance to admire your undergarments.” She triumphantly pulled out a black silky pair of snug fitting briefs and waved them at Sherlock.
“Oh for God's sake, Irene!”
She laughed and flung the pants at him. “I’ll let you get dressed.” And she left him to his own devices.
Sherlock let the towel drop and slid on the black briefs, he looked at himself in the mirror. The shower and shave had made him feel better and Irene had done a proficient job. It was a good thing that she was there to help him shave because his hands had been shaking so badly that he surely would have cut himself.
He dressed carefully and opened the door. Irene was waiting for him in the hallway. He gave up trying to discourage her and let her lead him back to the bathroom where she applied just the right amount of product to his still damp hair and teased it into luscious curls. When she was done, he stood in front of his wardrobe mirror and admired her handiwork. The deep red of the shirt made his skin look luminescent and brought out the contrast of his dark hair. All of his suits were expertly tailored and this one was no exception.
“Very nice,” Irene purred from where she sat perched on the edge of his bed. He looked at his watch: it was 7:15, time for him to start heading to Angelo’s.
This wasn’t a date.
John didn’t feel that way about him and he would hardly notice the extra care that he had gone through to get ready, he would never notice that Sherlock had chosen his favourite aftershave, and he certainly would never see the damn silk pants.
Irene helped him into the Belstaff and walked with him down the stairs to the pavement. She adjusted his scarf and he grumbled and half-heartedly brushed her off of him.
“Go get him tiger,” Irene grinned at him.
Sherlock paused and looked at her uncertainly. “Do you really think…”
“Yes, Sherlock Holmes. I think the love of your life has just asked you out to a romantic dinner and I think it’s about bloody time. If you play your cards right, by the end of tonight none of your arch enemies can ever refer to you as ‘The Virgin’ again.”
Sherlock flushed scarlet and couldn’t quite bring himself to say anything. Irene gave him a lingering hug and released him. He took a deep breath and started walking towards Angelo’s.
The night was cool and clear and the perfect weather for a brisk walk. It would give him time to settle his nerves.
Could she be right? Could it be that John had heard him and felt the same way? Was it possible that after all these years of longing, he could have what he wanted? And was it possible that the night might end with John Watson in his bed? That thought made Sherlock’s lips twitch up into a smile. Before he knew it he was just a block away from Angelo’s.
Oddly, a curtain was drawn across the large window. There were dim lights within, but there was something too quiet about the popular restaurant that should have been packed with diners at this time of night.
With a sinking heart, Sherlock approached the door and saw the small hand written sign taped to it.
CLOSED FOR PRIVATE FUNCTION
It was eight o’clock. Compulsively punctual, John would have arrived at least ten minutes ago, and Sherlock had not received a text or call telling him that Angelo’s was closed.
So he had been stood up.
That realization hit like a knife in his heart. How utterly foolish. Of course John didn’t feel the same way. He felt the hot sting of tears behind his eyes. He would not cry. He squared his shoulders, lifted his head haughtily, and was about to turn to leave when the door suddenly burst open.
Angelo stood in front of him with a knowing smile on his lips.
“Are you coming in or not, Sherlock?”
Sherlock blinked at Angelo for a moment.
“He’s waiting for you,” Angelo said conspiratorially. He held the door open and Sherlock took a deep breath and stepped into the restaurant.
The sight that greeted him took his breath away. John, dressed in an impeccable dark grey suit and a royal blue shirt, was just standing from a table for two in the center of the room. The shirt brought out the deep indigo blue of John’s eyes and Sherlock was so mesmerized by the sight of him that it took him a moment to notice the rest of his surroundings.
Aside from him and John, there were no other customers in the restaurant and every other table had at least half a dozen flickering candles of various sizes scattered across their surfaces.
Angelo helped Sherlock out of his coat and whispered, “It’s more romantic this way.”
With wobbling knees Sherlock made his way to the table and John pulled out his chair for him.
“Anything you want, for you and your colleague on the house!” Angelo beamed.
“He’s not my colleague,” John said. “He’s my date.”