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John prided himself in being able to keep a steady heartbeat, but god did Sherlock test his limit. Whenever he grabbed him by the shoulders, or leaned down to peer at his computer to the point where his chest was pressed against John’s back, he could feel his heart begging to race. John would never let it.
Sometimes he wondered if Sherlock knew, and toyed with him by touching him. He’d certainly been touching him more lately- casual touches, but touches all the same. His hand’s would linger on John’s shoulder for a little longer than before, and he no longer grabbed his wrist during a chase; He grabbed his hand.
Each time would make his head spin, and his heart beat, and that’s what scared him the most. After The Woman John made sure his heart rate was undercheck at all times.
~~~
Sherlock was a consulting detective that specialized in the Science of Deduction, but for the love of god he couldn’t figure out Watson.
He could observe everything just fine, but he couldn’t figure out why. He had noticed that Watson wore the (one and only) jumper he had complimented weeks before a lot more now. John made him more meals than ever, even a chicken cordon bleu once which was an obvious attempt to lighten the load on Mrs. Hudson. He hadn’t eaten it of course because it was during the middle of a case, but the defeated look bothered him (The chicken was gone from the fridge the next day, much to his disdain, there was never food when he was actually hungry). He noticed that since then John had stopped cooking, and taken up sewing. Honestly Sherlock was confused as to these new hobbies, exactly what was he trying to accomplish by knowing how to sew of all things?
In any case, he could observe, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why. He had considered… affection, but his heartbeat was normal whenever he initiated contact. Pupils dilated, sure, but half evidence leads to a half-assed answer. So love is no go (He’ll never admit he was oddly disappointed that wasn’t the case). He thought that maybe he was practicing for a date, which seemed plausible (if not annoying, it always got in the way of work). Cooking and sewing for some girl, it seemed likely. Until you realize he hadn’t had a date in months. Crush at the clinic then? Didn’t make sense either, John was relatively straightforward about women. Then it clicked.
It wasn’t a woman.
If it was a man, John would be coming to terms with his sexuality. After all the years of insisting he wasn’t gay which he so clearly now was, he was adjusting- maybe even nervous. John was the type of overly caring person to make little stuffed animals (Which, the stitches were good but honestly they couldn’t look less like animals.) for his special someone. John often spent hours on these little projects, but at least he still listened to Sherlock when he rambled. It bothered him; It bothered him more than it should. John was acting as if the crush as a serious one, possibly permanent, and that just can’t happen. John would move out and into some new nice house. One that was clean, free of experiments and loud violin playing at 3 AM. They would adopt a kid, and that kid would probably be energetic and cute and they would exchange gentle, quiet kisses while cooking. It would be…. Be… domestic, and that’s not what John needs. He needs the thrill of chasing a murderer, and the adrenaline rush that always happens when they find a time-sensitive lead; the quick adrenaline-crash once they’re finally home and everything is said and done.
Thus, there is only one answer. Foil the date.
~
John came home from a long day at the clinic and sighed. Though there was a smile as he basked in the familiarity of 221B. He hung his coat on the rack and sat down in his chair. Sherlock was on the couch, sulking. Probably a failed experiment or the absence of a new case.. John picked up the newspaper on the coffee table and began to read.
“Jawwwnnn” Sherlock whined pitifully.
“Yes Sherlock?”
“Who is it?”
“Hmm?”
“The person you’re going to take on a date.”
John’s head snapped up from the newspaper.
“Excuse me?”
“Person. Your date. Do keep up with your own schedule.”
“Th-there is no one.”
“Hm. You’re keeping it from me in fear that I’ll ruin it. Saddens me greatly John.”
“No, really, I haven’t met any women recently I’ve found interest in-”
“Ha!” Sherlock shot up from the couch into a sitting position. He leaned forward to John, who leaned back in response, “That’s the catch. There is no woman.”
“Er… yes that was what I was saying-” John was thoroughly confused, and terrified. Had Sherlock finally caught on to his feelings? God he thought his actions would be easily written off as for a date.
“Because it’s a man.”
“H-huh?”
“There is a man that you met and you have a crush on him. You’re not taking immediate action like you do so with women. Thus it’s a man and you’re nervous because you’re only just now coming to the conclusion that you’re bisexual. You’ve decided to take up meaningless, pointless tasks like cooking and- ugh - sewing in order to impress him. You’re going to fail by the way, neither of those things are anything impressive. Honestly John I think you could say you chase criminals and he’d be impressed.”
John flinched at the call out, but didn’t say anything. It was Sherlock being Sherlock, insensitive without even knowing. He chuckled.
“Eh.. I’m not sure it would…” After the words left his mouth, he immediately wanted to take them back. The less Sherlock knew about his crush on the mystery man (Sherlock), the better.
“What do you mean? Our adventures would impress any ordinary idiot.”
“He is not an ordinary idiot,” John pointed out, affection and amusement bubbling in his chest. He refused to let it show though.
“Oh John, don’t be insulted, practically everyone is.”
This time it took tremendous effort not to laugh uproariously. He genuinely doesn’t know. He opted for a pout as cover.
“Though I’m sure they’re basic, with your streak.” Sherlock waved his hand, almost as if he was disappointed.
“What is that supposed to mean?” John asked indignantly.
“I mean that most dates you’ve had are with horrendously plain women. I suggest you look for someone more exciting. Someone that would join you and I on cases.”
(It physically hurt for Sherlock to say those words, the insinuation that anyone would join them on something he treasured so dearly with John was painful)
John blinked in surprise. Sherlock was suggesting someone come with them on cases? He’d never ever considered taking someone with them. It felt sort of special and reserved to only them, in some twisted morbid way. Sherlock probably didn’t see it that way of course, he just hated it when people thought ‘too loud’ and were idiots (in his opinion).
“Erm… I’m sure he’s exciting enough for you.” John said blankly, not really knowing what to say.
This made Sherlock’s eyes narrow, eyebrows lifting in suspicion.
“What makes them interesting?”
“Uh- er, they way they could immediately tell… that I was a writer from a dent in my wrist?” John looked down and played with his hands, sure that he was going to be called out for his blatant lie.
“Oh. Oh! How interesting! Most people completely overlook those sorts of things. He must also know basic muscle knowledge if he knew that constant writing or drawing can push the muscle back in your wrist due to the constant pressure on it, but, how did he know you were a writer, not an artist?”
“I’m.. not sure, he didn’t explain that bit.” John rushed the excuse.
Sherlock sighed fondly before standing, patting John’s head and walking to the kitchen.
“Ah John, you know I can always tell when you’re lying. You do seem to believe their interesting though and I’ll take your word for it. When’s the date again? I want to know.”
“Whatever for?”
“So I know when to do my experiments on the milk”
“Oh you bastard! That’s when the milk disappears? When I’m out on a date? Is that why we haven’t lost it recently??”
“Quite so I’m afraid, still, when is it.”
“You’ll be delighted to hear that I haven’t asked yet.”
John was right, he was delighted to hear that, “Please do so soon, I don’t think I could take your pitiful pining any longer.”
“Sure, yeah, whatever.” John mumbled, picking up the newspaper he had put down. Thinking how appalled he would be if John really did ask.
"...Don't ask,"
"What?" John looked up from the newspaper at Sherlock, who seemed to be pouting. Most likely because he had been asked to repeat himself.
"Don't ask him out on a date!" Sherlock reiterated, and John blinked in surprise. He seemed... upset. More upset than he had ever been than when John was with his girlfriends.
"I think I'll do what I want."
"No, you can't,"
"Do you want to go out with me?"
They said at the same time.
Sherlock fumbled for words, "No, I mean, I didn't mean, THAT to This. Thing. That. What. I mean. YES!"
John smiled and went back to his newspaper.
"It's a date then."