Work Text:
Joan laughs, hiking up the skirt of her dress as she steps out of the taxi. Sherlock grins cheekily in return and quickly gets out to open the door for her, a gesture that is rewarded with a smile and a raised eyebrow.
They enter the brownstone and Joan immediately checks on Clyde. She finds him wandering on the medical files of Mr. Riley and gently picks him up, placing him in the small habitat Sherlock hastily made.
Sherlock huffs, pulling off his suit jacket and hanging it next to his other coats with a disgusted look. Joan rolls her eyes, the smile still on her face, and says, "Not very fond of suits, huh?"
Sherlock turns towards her, preparing for a rant on the uselessness of a stifling outfit when on a case, when he stops. His gaze lands on Joan, still in her floor-length evening gown. Sherlock never realized how... amazing she looked; his mind had been preoccupied when they went to the opening of the Tiffany exhibit. He stares for quite a while, taking in the details like the way her hair flows down only her left side, or how her pink lipstick matches with every single color on her dress, from the gray bodice to the intricate patterns of dark green lacing the bottom of the dress. By the time Sherlock becomes aware of his surroundings again, Joan is smirking.
"You look quite amazing, too." Her smirk widens as she sees him redden and shift awkwardly. She laughs and pats his arm. "It's a compliment. Calm down."
Sherlock quickly composes himself as glances down at Joan's hand before retorting, "I would've been able to appreciate your beauty if there weren't a theft taking place then. I assume that feeling is mutual?"
Joan shakes her head lightly, smiling. "Yeah right; the event happened exactly how you wanted to. Though, a dance or two wouldn't have hurt." she teases.
Sherlock's hazel eyes lock onto her brown ones and she pauses. "Maybe next time, Watson." he says, completely serious.
That catches Joan off guard, so when she's about to reply, Sherlock is already halfway across the living room, calling out, "Goodnight, Watson."
She hesitates. "Goodnight, Sherlock."
- - -
Three days of random questions and elongated stares later and Joan is able to deduce only some of what Sherlock is planning.
All she knows for sure is that it involves dinner, her music tastes, and that it's occurring today. Her brain is screaming at her to notice the obvious, the fact that he's setting everything up like a date, but she crushes it immediately. Sherlock would never.
Right?
Joan shakes her head. Even if she were right, she wouldn't let it happen. Joan wouldn't let something as changeable as feelings ruin a relationship like theirs.
Hours pass and Joan becomes anxious. She sits in her room upstairs, trying unsuccessfully to read the book about blood splatters Sherlock gave her. She then hears something clang to the ground.
Joan immediately gets up, opening her door. The first thing she notices are the lights, or, more specifically, the lack of them.
She stumbles down the stairs, gripping the railing, moving towards the soft orange glow coming from the kitchen. Joan's eyes adjust in the dark and she recognizes Sherlock's figure standing near the sink.
"I apologize for the noise earlier; I was going to call you down in a more formal way, but this," he waves a steel pot, smaller than she expected, "had other plans."
"What..." Joan glances around, seeing the kitchen table set up; a cream tablecloth covers the faded wood, two plates and glasses are placed on top, and a bottle of expensive wine sits off to the side.
Sherlock grins, putting the pot in the sink, and reaches over to turn on a stereo she didn't even know they owned. Classical music plays at a low volume, and Joan forgets everything she told herself about the dangers of having romantic feelings for Sherlock.
Her eyes flicker to the candles placed strategically throughout the kitchen as she sits down. Joan wonders how long this took, slightly ashamed that she didn't notice this earlier. A beep from the oven breaks her reverie and she focuses on Sherlock's form.
He walks over, oven mitts on, and pulls out a glass dish with the top covered in aluminum foil. Joan looks at it curiously; she thinks back to the answers she gave him and comes to a conclusion. She names the food before Sherlock gets the chance to set down the dish onto the counter.
"I see your deductions skills are improving." The corner of his mouth curves upward.
"Is," Joan hesitates, "this a date?"
Sherlock shrugs. "You're a consulting detective now, Watson. Figure it out." He holds out his hand and Joan wordlessly passes him the plates. "I'm sure you can get to the answer without my help."
She rolls her eyes as he walks over with the food. "You already know what I'm guessing. And," she glances down, fork in hand, "you're supposed to have other side dishes with the lasagna."
"Well, this is my first time making dinner."
Joan pauses at that. It's true; Sherlock has never attempted to make dinner until now. She makes sure to remember that for later reference as she takes a sip of the wine.
The rest of the dinner is devoured in the next hour. There isn't much talking- every time Joan tries to say something, it gets ignored- but she can feel the nervous energy radiating off of Sherlock. She spots his hand on the table and places her hand over his.
"Relax." Joan gives Sherlock a reassuring smile, eyes roaming his face. His gaze fixes on their hands. They stay that way for several moments before Sherlock abruptly stands up. He gathers the plates and walks to the sink. Joan follows with the glasses; hers is empty while Sherlock's is half full with water. She blinks back her shock as she realizes the wine was bought just for her. Joan takes another mental note.
Sherlock grabs Joan's hand and leads her to the middle of the living room. All of the case files are stacked somewhat neatly on the side table, leaving a large, open space. The stereo sits on the couch, now playing something else. She recognizes it as "Ribbon in the Sky" by Stevie Wonder, one of her favorites.
Sherlock bows slightly, left hand behind his back, and asks, "Can I have this dance?" He grazes his lips against her knuckles.
Joan's heart beat stutters as she nods, not allowing herself to speak. Sherlock entwines their fingers and places his other hand on her waist. They stand several inches apart. She places her hand on his forearm before rolling her eyes. Joan moves her arms up to wrap around Sherlock's neck and smirks, pulling him closer. He hesitantly rests both hands on her waist.
They stay like that long after the song ends, swaying side to side, Joan's head burrowed in the crook of Sherlock's neck. She lifts her head several more minutes later, face mere centimeters from his. Sherlock takes the first step by leaning down and kisses her. Joan's arms around his neck tighten.
It's a simple press of lips, but it still leaves both of them flustered when they break apart.
"Knew it," Joan whispers, almost breathless. "This is a date."
Sherlock grins and pulls Joan even closer, kissing her again.