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"Sherlock."
He was standing with his back to John, bow in one hand, violin in other, not turning around. "Yes, John?"
"I am going out. There was to be an Amazon delivery, Christmas present for Harry. Could you please accept it for me?" He was already opening the door and zipping his jacket when he heard Sherlock’s deep voice. Just one word.
"No."
"Excuse me?" John made a step into the living-room. "Are you going out as well?"
"No."
John felt an irrational anger surging up although he was not sure where it came from. Was it the sheer rudeness of refusing this tiny favour or the sheer arrogance of not even turning around when speaking to one’s best friend? "And why the fucking hell are you not willing to open the door, sign on a fucking monitor and master the death-defying climb of seventeen fucking steps?"
Sherlock turned around, put the violin and the bow back in the case, closed it, and shoved it under his chair. Next he removed some invisible specks of dust from his suit jacket, sat down, crossed his legs and finally looked at John. His face was unreadable.
"I want you to move out. You can stay here until you have found something else but I politely request you to start your search asap."
It was as if someone had emptied a bucket of ice water over John’s head. He had to lean against the door, his breath going heavily. What in hell had happened over the last few minutes? He had asked Sherlock a small favour, something a stranger or any neighbour would do for him and now he was out of a flat? Had lost his home? He looked at his watch.
"I do not wish to detain you from your date with the blonde receptionist from Barts but I would have recommended a different restaurant. The Trattoria Alfredo is terribly overpriced, and the cook has changed only last week."
John sat down in his chair, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his thighs. "What is this all about?"
Sherlock just waved his hand. "Of course I will accept your parcel. Off you go."
John got up, hesitating instantly. "Ahem, thank you."
The moment his hand touched the door knob, Sherlock spoke again.
"However, I still wish you to find another flat, just so we are clear."
By now John was exasperated. "Could you please explain what this is all about? This is not because of a fucking parcel, right? What have I done to offend His Highness? Have I been more idiotic than even a saint like you can bear? Or was it the fact that I went to the Yard’s Christmas party instead of watching a documentary on fungus growth on organic matter with you? Or did I insult your brother once too often?"
"Quite the contrary. Insult away where Mycroft is concerned, the more, the better."
"But what is it then?"
At that something happened to Sherlock’s face, something John could not describe. It became darker and closed off but at the same time strangely vulnerable. He pressed his lips together. Then he seemed to pull himself together. "You are going on a date with a woman."
"Yes."
"Again."
"Yes?"
"Two days before Christmas."
"Yes …“
A deep, a very deep breath. "I cannot stand it any longer. I cannot stand sitting here and watch you chasing all these women, chasing something you will never find. Something I …"
John felt a tingling sensation somewhere in the direction of his stomach. Or was it his heart? "Something you what?"
"Something I could give you."
Sherlock bent forward and retrieved his violin case, took out the bow and started to meticulously apply the rosin.
John was no consulting detective but he knew when someone was stalling. And suddenly he could read something in Sherlock’s face that appeared there very rarely – fear. The man was afraid of what John would say, afraid that he would get up and leave. He got his phone out of his pocket, wrote a WhatsApp message and sent it before tucking away his phone.
"So what is it that you could give me?"
Sherlock did not look at him but turned his face towards the mirror over the mantlepiece. "Fun. Good food. Music."
"This is not what I get from my girlfriends, Sherlock.“
"Nightly walks in parts of the city you have never seen before. Adrenaline highs no girl friend could provide. Danger. Drama. Science."
John stood up.
"Where are you going?"
"Honestly, Sherlock, I have all this already." He dug in his pocket to retrieve his phone when he heard laughter.
"You are not really going to double back on ditching her? This is pathetic."
"And you are the meanest arsehole I have ever met!"
John held his phone out. The message read:
Angelo, table for 2 in 20 min?
Sherlock gulped. Then he stood up, very erect, and looked John in the eye. "You can stay and live with me, as my boyfriend or partner or lover of whatever it is you wish to call me. Or you can meet Miss This-is-Barts-Hospital-can-I-help-you and move out. Your choice."
John smiled.
"I think this is the most romantic offer I ever got."
Fifteen minutes later Angelo’s phone pinged with another message:
Would you do a delivery, just this once? Got an offer I cannot refuse. And no, this is not a tasteless anti-Italian joke. P.S. Could you pack a candle as well?