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John's tempted to pinch himself. By some stroke of luck, he's currently seated across from the most beautiful woman he's seen in a long time. According to Alliah Torres' dating profile, she enjoys mystery novels, skydives in her free time, and works in Pediatrics.
He’s under no delusions—she’s miles out of his league, and yet, from the long periods of maintained eye-contact and her frequent tendency to smooth back her hair, he’s fairly confident his interest is returned.
“An army doctor?” she echoes, going a little slack-jawed as he regales her with his exploits in Afghanistan. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
“Well, for starters, I can’t tell you how I managed to score a date with the most beautiful woman in London.” He’s laying it on a little thick, he’ll admit, but she doesn’t seem to mind in the least. She ducks her head, flushing at the compliment. In the back of his head, he can hear Sherlock’s derisive snort and belittling voice.
John hastily shoves all thoughts of his flatmate aside and focuses on the gorgeous, intelligent woman sitting across from him. Her lips twitch, fighting a smile.
“Tell me about your blog,” she says shyly.
Ah. This could be potentially dangerous territory. Nearly every single one of John’s blog posts centers around a certain consulting detective, and his accounts of their cases together are quite... detailed, to say the least. He remembers getting a call from a drunken Harry at three in the morning where she informed him that instead of writing countless posts on Sherlock, he “may as well get a tattoo on his forehead announcing he's both thirsty and bisexual.”
“It’s nothing too exciting, really,” he assures Alliah while wracking his brain for other interesting topics to steer the conversation towards.
She mistakes his hesitation for modesty. “No, really, I want to hear it.”
John adjusts the collar of his shirt. Sherlock was right when he deduced John's shirt would be tight on him.
"It's those seven pounds you put on," he'd helpfully informed John as he was getting ready for his date.
"It's only three pounds, you berk."
"Mm, I don't think so."
John chuckles nervously. “Well, I have a friend who’s something of a detective. He assists Scotland Yard and occasionally brings me along.”
Alliah sits up straighter. “That sounds incredible.”
“It’s not too bad, as far as hobbies go.” Secretly, John agrees with her. It is quite extraordinary, but he knows that once he starts gushing about Sherlock, he won’t be likely to stop anytime soon.
"And who is your partner?"
He tries not to grimace at the word 'partner.' It's not the first label he'd use to describe their friendship, not with its potential romantic connotation. "His name is Sherlock Holmes." John works hard to keep his voice devoid of feeling. It's probably not a good idea to start waxing poetic about someone while on a date with a different person. "You may have heard of him?"
Alliah tilts her head. "Now that you mention it, I think I might've read something about him in the papers. Wasn't there a body found in a wall?"
"Yes, there definitely was." John remembers that case in unfortunate detail.
“What other kinds of cases do you assist with?”
John refrains from correcting her on the fact that he doesn’t do much in the way of assisting. It’s Sherlock who observes and analyzes and solves even the most stupefying cases. John’s really just along for the ride. “All sorts, really. There was the case of the hollow client, the one with the deadly tealights, and of course the elephant in the room. By which I mean, an actual elephant.”
Alliah stares with rapt attention. “That all sounds amazing. I can’t even imagine.”
“There are loads more, but I don’t want to bore you with them.”
“No, not at all. I’d love to hear them." She reaches for her purse. "I’m just going to freshen up and then I want to hear all about the… hollow client, was it?”
“That’s right,” John bobs his head in confirmation. Alliah shoots him another smile as she slips out of the booth and heads for the loo. John watches her retreating figure. Or, he attempts to, anyway. She's almost immediately blocked by another woman who chooses that exact moment to get up. John squints. There's something almost familiar about the woman’s curled brown hair and pristine pantsuit.
John shifts impatiently as he waits. His stomach begins to growl its impatience. A waiter comes by inquiring if he's ready to order. He politely dismisses him, explaining his date's still in the loo. About fifteen minutes later, the waiter comes back to refill his wine, before bustling away once more.
He watches other couples devour their meals and order dessert. He watches them pay their bills and have their spots replaced by new customers.
It's been much longer than the regular amount of time needed to relieve one's self. It's possible something may have happened. Maybe the appetizer didn't agree with Alliah and she's sick. She also has a rather thin build. There's a chance she may have bulimia, or some other form of eating disorder.
He knows he's just grappling for possibilities, but it wouldn't do to rule them out before he's made sure.
Pushing his chair out, John clambers to his feet and heads for the woman's restroom. Once in front of it, he hesitates. He could try knocking, or calling out, but he's not sure she'd be able to hear him. Surely it wouldn't hurt to step inside for a second?
"Is there a problem, sir?"
He gives a perfunctory glance at his watch before meeting the waitress' gaze. “It’s just, my date’s been in there for almost an hour. I wanted to make sure she’s okay.”
The waitress gives him a pitying look. They both know exactly what this looks like. “I can check for you if you’d like,” she offers.
John winces. “Sure. That would be great.”
He taps his foot anxiously as he waits for her to emerge from the restroom. “I’m sorry sir, but there’s no one in there.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, and inwardly cringes at himself. “Right, well, thanks anyway.”
Damn. At least she left before ordering her entree. Thoughtful not to make him pay for everything. John exits the restaurant with as much dignity as he can muster. Getting stood up is an unavoidable part of life, he supposes, but lately it's been happening a disproportionate amount. What was he doing wrong? He was no expert at social cues, not like Sherlock was, but he'd never had much difficulty in the way of dating in the past. He was a decent looking bloke, in his opinion, paired with an easygoing nature and a wealth of interesting stories to share. He couldn't pinpoint what it was that he was doing wrong. The date had been going well. Really well. Just once he'd like to make it through a dinner without having his date run out on him.
Maybe the error was bringing up his side-job of detective work. He knows he tends to get a little starry-eyed when speaking about Sherlock, but really, who wouldn't? Anderson and Donovan not withstanding, of course.
Sherlock Holmes is an arrogant sod, but he's also brilliant and fascinating, and he makes John feel alive in a way no one else can. Their relationship is strictly platonic, of course, but John can understand why not everyone sees it that way.
After a grueling day at the clinic, John trudges towards the train. He's so focused in his thoughts, he almost doesn't process what's in front of him.
“Emma!” he calls, spotting a familiar red leather jacket with 'are you nasty' stitched on the back. He's not one to question others' clothing tastes, and the jacket is admittedly distinctive. She's not the sort to get lost easily in a crowd. “It’s me, John.”
“I think you’re confused.” Emma quickens her stride. Despite John’s limp, psychosomatic or not, he still manages to catch up to her.
“Could you please wait, just a second.” She doesn’t break pace or look over her shoulder. Under normal circumstances, John would accept that his attention is unwanted and leave it at that, but there's something more going on. There has to be. "Look, I just wanted to ask you a question."
Her steps falter for only a moment.
"What did I do wrong? Did I do something to offend you?"
She curses under her breath. "No, you didn't." Without looking over her shoulder, she continues, "there's a coffee shop three blocks down. Take a different route and meet me there in fifteen minutes."
That sounds like a ploy to get rid of him if there ever was one, but John figures he doesn't have much of a choice. If she doesn't show, there's nothing more he can do. "Right. See you then."
He waits the allocated time, before heading for the coffee shop. It's a small, unassuming building nestled in between a vape shop and a tattoo parlour. Interesting location. The bell chimes as he pushes open the door. He scours the shop. Emma's not among the customers in line, and he doesn't see her at any of the front tables. John's about to accept that he's been had, when he spies her sitting at the furthermost table with her head down and a to-go cup in front of her.
He slides into the booth across from her.
"So," John says by way of greeting. "If you don't mind me asking, where did I go wrong on our date?"
"He told me I couldn't see you," she murmurs into her cup.
"What? 'He' who?"
“I don't know him, but he knows about me—my employment history, my family, everything.”
“So he has a working computer and access to google.”
She huffs impatiently. “Don’t be thick. He knows my credit history, and things about my family." Her eyes drop back to her drink. "Things that aren’t exactly legal.” She licks her lips nervously. “And he has pictures.”
“What kind of pictures?”
“We met off a dating website, John. Shouldn’t the answer be obvious?”
Ah. “He’s blackmailing you, then?”
“It was all heavily implied. And look, you’re sweet John, and I really like you, but I can’t throw my entire life away for some guy I went on one date with.”
John nods. Understandable. “Who is he? The blackmailer.”
“I don’t know," she admits, finally meeting his eyes. "He's some posh bloke with an umbrella. I never got a name, but he claims to work for the government.”
John’s teeth grind together. “An umbrella. Really.”
“You don’t believe me,” she sighs.
“Oh, trust me. I absolutely do.”
John slams the door behind him, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's invitation for tea. Every muscle in his body is tightly coiled. His flatmate is lying supine on the couch in a crisp suit tailored to perfection. John examines the angular planes of Sherlock's face, the riotous fringe of his black curls, and the supple curve of his lips. His pale blue-grey-green eyes stare blank and unseeing at the ceiling, before finally deigning to flicker in John's direction.
Sherlock takes in his rumpled expression with a barely concealed sigh. “Is there a problem?” he intones flatly.
“Yes, actually. I just spoke with your brother.”
“That was clearly your first mistake,” Sherlock dismisses in a tone that suggests John's the one at fault.
John ignores him. He rises to his full height, before employing his trademark Captain Watson voice. His stern, authoritative tenor never fails to garner his flatmate's complete attention. “It turns out he’s been sabotaging my dates because he feels he owes it to you as some sort of favour. Care to comment?”
“What?” Sherlock crows with such alacrity that John knows his surprise isn’t feigned. Sherlock jerks upright. “I’ve told him time and time again to keep his fat nose out of my business!”
All of John's anger revolved around the assumption that Sherlock had put his brother up to it. Now that it's clear Sherlock hadn’t been privy to Mycroft’s actions, John’s anger dwindles, and curiosity burgeons in its stead.
“You really knew nothing about it?” he clarifies, narrowing his eyes. Sherlock scoffs at his apparent idiocy. “Right, just checking.”
“Phone.”
“Pardon?”
“Can you,” Sherlock enunciates, “pass me my phone. It seems I need to make a call.”
“To Mycroft?”
“Obviously.”
“And tell him what?” John makes no move to retrieve Sherlock’s phone. The device is practically already in Sherlock’s lap, and if he really wants it, he can get it himself.
“For starters, to stop meddling in affairs that don’t concern his oversized arse.”
“But you know why he’s been sabotaging my dates?”
After a beat of silence, Sherlock lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug that means he most definitely knows.
“Sherlock.”
“No. I don’t.”
John folds his arms across his chest. “Really.”
“Yep,” Sherlock says, popping the ‘p’.
“I may not be an expert at analyzing people’s tells, but I know you, Sherlock Holmes. Your nose does that cute little scrunch when you lie.”
His eyes widen comically. “You think it’s cute?”
“Oh, er,” John dithers. Why the hell had he said that? “That’s not what we’re talking about. Why would your brother feel that ruining my dates would be a favour to you?”
“I don’t presume to understand how Mycroft’s brain works.” Not an outright lie, but he’s still clearly evading the question.
“You understand him a lot better than I do.” John sighs, before sinking onto the cushion beside his flatmate. “Shove over a bit.”
Sherlock hastily obliges, which is a rare thing. No one can make him do something he doesn't want to. Not without a great deal of difficulty and blackmail, anyway.
“Is this an insecurity thing, or something? Just because I become romantically involved with someone else doesn’t mean I’m immediately going to move out. And if and when I eventually do, we’re still going to be friends. Best friends,” he amends.
He half-expects Sherlock to mock him for what he surely views to be a disgusting display of sentimentality, but the expression that passes over his face is strangely vulnerable. “You mean that?”
“Sherlock, you’re my best friend. I’m not just going to forget you at the drop of a hat.”
He squirms slightly. The conversation clearly isn’t comfortable for him. “I know that.”
“Alright. Then what’s the whole matter about my dates? Is it just that it’s inconvenient for you? You already monopolize the majority of my time. I would think you’re able to manage on your own for at least a couple hours. Pour your own tea, send your own texts, that sort of thing.”
“You’re making it sound like I had anything to do with this!” Sherlock’s nostrils flare, and he matches the irritation in John’s tone by raising the pitch of his voice. “I haven’t interrupted any of your recent dates!”
That much is true. The last girlfriend Sherlock came between had been Jeanette, and even that was more John’s fault for being so inattentive. John feels suitably chastised. “You’re right. You haven’t, and I’m sorry. I’m just trying to understand why Mycroft felt he was helping you.”
“What do you want me to say, John?” Sherlock asks, shoulders slumping in defeat.
“The truth would be a good start.”
“The truth is rarely good. The truth is messy. Why do you think people lie all the time? No one actually wants others’ opinions; they just want compliments and affirmation. No one tells the truth if they can get away with it.”
“Sherlock, if you respect me—at all—you’ll tell me the truth now. Why did Mycroft sabotage my dates?”
Sherlock opens and closes his mouth multiple times. After several false starts, he blurts out an answer. “I feel things for you."
His mouth feels impossibly dry. "What kind of things?"
Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "Dull things.”
“Dull as in sentimental?" John decides to take Sherlock's silence for affirmation. "So, like, friendship? Loyalty? Because I thought all that was already clear.”
Sherlock closes his eyes. “Love, John,” he says in the tone he reserves for when he thinks John is reaching Anderson levels of stupidity.
Wait. What? That was not at all what John was anticipating. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
“You heard me perfectly well.” Sherlock wraps his arms around himself defensively. His posture is downright abysmal, and on any other day, John wouldn't hesitate to inform him that he's going to develop a hunch-back. “Mycroft knows how I feel about you. If you were to ask him, he’d say I’ve been glaringly obvious in my regards for you.”
“He…”
“Thought he was helping, though, as usual, his efforts were unappreciated.”
John licks his lips in a nervous, habitual gesture. “I… um, I don’t know what to say.”
“Oh, be anymore boring! I already know you’re straight and uninterested.”
His eyebrows raise of their own accord. “Really? Because that’s news to me.”
Sherlock whips his head up. “What did you say?”
Maybe John should've followed through with Harry's suggestion of getting a tattoo. “I’m bisexual, Sherlock. I mean, yeah, I’ve been with way more women, but I’ve had my eye on a few blokes over the years, too.”
“Bisexual,” Sherlock repeats with a scowl. He slumps further into the couch. “There’s always something.”
“Are you happy about this or not? Because it sort of sounds like you’re not.”
“Of course I’m not happy! I completely overlooked the evidence. How did I not realize? It was all there, right in front of me. In hindsight, it was obvious!”
“Right, well, while you figure that out, I guess I’ll just find some other attractive bloke to have dinner with me.”
"John." The characteristic smugness is absent from Sherlock's tone. He picks at a cuticle, not able to meet John's gaze. "I feel partially responsible for what's happened to your dates. As such, could I buy you dinner?"
"Are you asking me out?"
His scowl deepens. John leans forward to smooth his thumb over the frown line marring Sherlock's forehead.
"I'll only accept if you eat as well."
Sherlock's hopeful expression sours. "I ate this morning. I couldn't possibly."
"Sherlock."
"Oh, fine! But just this once."
Sherlock fetches his sweeping black coat, and, after a bit of deliberation, twines his fingers with John's.
The two ultimately decide on Angelo's for dinner. It seems fitting, given it was the first restaurant they went to together. The full discount is a nice bonus, too.
John grins at Sherlock over the top of his menu. The detective's pale skin looks positively ethereal against the flickering candlelight. John's heart squeezes painfully. “You know," he starts, "I, for one, am glad to finally make it through a dinner without having my date run out on me.”
Of course, halfway through their first official dinner date as a couple, Sherlock receives a text from Lestrade.
His pasta immediately forgotten, Sherlock vaults to his feet. “A locked-room mystery! John hurry up!”
John sighs. Just once he'd like to make it through dinner and dessert without having his date run out on him. He's starting to suspect he's cursed to have all his dates end prematurely, but at least this time it's not Mycroft’s doing.