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“Date night!” That’s what John had stated this morning after he kissed the top of Sherlock's head on his way past Sherlock hunched over his microscope. Sherlock had glanced up, and took in the morning paper rolled under John’s arm (Sudoku and Crosswords; John liked to do them on the Tube), his briefcase in his hand (work case; Oyster card in the front pocket – bad place for it, John; you’ve lost it three times already since you moved back in) and dressed in his work attire (No) . “Don’t forget, Love.” John was searching the flat for his keys, which Sherlock secretly hid every morning, hoping that if John couldn’t find his keys, then maybe he wouldn’t leave Sherlock to go do something as banal as working at the surgery, away from 221B and, more importantly, from Sherlock.
Sherlock frowned and watched John meander around the common room, lifting and replacing papers on the various tables and griping under his breath about someone being a “git” and where his keys were this time. If John wanted to do some doctoring so bad, he could stay at home, be one of those online consultants or something. Or better yet, Sherlock could lay out naked on his bed and let John examine him all day. Maybe check his prostate a few times. Many times. Why did John have to put his hands on other people? John’s hands were for SHERLOCK, not for anyone else.
“– face again, Sherlock,” Sherlock caught John saying, clearly having tuned John out while he was silently brooding. “I know you don’t like it when I go to work, Love, but I need to do it for me.” John stopped in front of Sherlock and put his hand on Sherlock’s head, which sent an immediate jolt to his stomach, the butterflies immediately making Sherlock forget about his brooding. He sat up taller to push his head into John’s palm. He looked up, and saw John’s sympathetic smile directed at him. “It doesn’t mean I want to be away from you, Love. I just like helping people. Just like you do.”
Sherlock loved John so much; he loved that John knew exactly how anxious John’s leaving every morning made Sherlock. “Mm,” was all he hummed in response. He decided to not put up much of a fight this morning; John’s Smile #563 was the 'I love you so much I could die’ smile that Sherlock had yet to build up a defense against, and he always inevitably gave in to whatever John wanted.
He wondered if John had somehow tapped into his John Room™ and figured out which things he did that Sherlock was weak against. They seemed to be more common lately, and it made Sherlock suspicious but in a ‘I don’t care because I love John’ way.
“Now, please tell me where you put my keys, Sherlock,” John stated softly, stroking his fingers soothingly on the spot behind Sherlock’s left ear that he loved so much. “I know you hide my keys every morning, Love.”
John was spending too much time around Sherlock, he decided, if he was getting too observant to know yet another thing Sherlock thought John didn’t know he did. Sherlock found, once again, that it didn’t bother him as much as he thought it should – he loved that John was the one and only person who knew Sherlock better than himself. He supposed it was good for John to be away from Sherlock for a few hours… let John think he had something more important than Sherlock in his life to take care of.
Besides, Sherlock had a Very Important Thing™ he had to do today, and John needed to be away for a few hours, as much as it pained Sherlock to admit.
That didn’t mean he wouldn’t indulge a bit first. “Under the sofa, left hand side, behind the front leg,” Sherlock replied, reaching around John’s waist to give him a light parting hug.
John’s soft chuckle made Sherlock’s heart skip a beat, and the overwhelming smell of freshly-washed John filled his space again as John leaned over to kiss his forehead. “Thank you, Sherlock,” John replied, caressing Sherlock’s cheekbone as his hand brushed down to Sherlock’s shoulder, where John squeezed gently. He wandered over to the spot Sherlock had directed him and bent over, his trousers pulling tightly around John’s beautiful, muscular arse, and bunched up suggestively near John’s groin, from the angle he could see.
Sherlock drank it all in, and filed it away, under ‘John’s Bum in Work Trousers #256-M, Three Quarter View, 4.6 seconds’ . He turned back to his microscope, surreptitiously wiping away a bit of drool which had gathered at the corner of his mouth. Sherlock really liked John’s bum.
“John!” Sherlock called out just as John was making his way to the door. John turned, his eyebrow quirked. Sherlock pointed to his lips.
John’s Sideway Smile #129 nearly ended Sherlock on-the-spot as John walked back to the table, bending down to peck Sherlock on the lips and scratch his head again. “You’re such a silly git,” John said, scratching lightly at Sherlock’s scalp.
Bliss.
“I’m not silly,” Sherlock croaked, gone off in another haze caused by John’s magic fingers.
“And you don’t deny being a git. You are silly, though. Most people use words, Love.”
“Bah,” Sherlock replied, moving his hand to squeeze John’s that was in his hair. “Words are boring. People that aren’t you are boring.” Sherlock huffed. “Best be off, or I may have to keep you here forever.”
John sighed contentedly, patted Sherlock’s head, and pecked him one final time. “Love you, Sherlock. Have a good day.”
Sherlock’s butterflies twittered happily in his stomach. “Mmm,” was his reply, grabbing his pen to jot down a note in his Moleskine. John knew Sherlock loved him, silly to repeat something John already knew… right?
… Right?
Glancing back up at the flat’s entrance, Sherlock furrowed his brow as he heard John descend the stairs. He then heard John call a cheerful goodbye to Mrs Hudson, whom he bumped into as she was coming up the stairs. John didn’t seem upset that he didn’t verbally return the sentiment. But then again, John was incredibly skilled at hiding a lot from Sherlock – in fact, it took Sherlock seven years to figure out John loved him, and that was only because John TOLD him.
“I love John!” Sherlock blurted out as Mrs Hudson’s knuckles were hovering next to the door frame in preparation to knock, her mouth halted in its customary greeting. His face exuded worry and panic.
The outburst didn’t phase their not-their-housekeeper in the least as she stepped into the flat, her other hand holding a shopping bag. “Well of course you do, Dear, anyone with eyes can see that!” Mrs Hudson chirped as she placed the bag on the kitchen counter and started emptying its contents.
“No! But does John know that?”
Mrs Hudson looked up from her place and took in the anxiousness emanating from Sherlock’s tense body. “Well of course he does, Luv,” she stated, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world.
“But I never tell him. I haven’t told him since I told him the first time!” Sherlock reached for his fidget cube John had got for him and began to twiddle it in his hands. It didn’t do much to calm his sudden bout of anxiety, but John had assured him that it would help.
Mrs Hudson’s eyes watched Sherlock’s hands quickly play with the clicking bits on the cube. “Oh, Sherlock,” she sighed, putting down the celery in her hands and walking over to Sherlock. She placed a gentle touch on his shoulder; his fidgeting calmed slightly. “That man is so gone on you, and he knows how much you care about him.”
“You don’t understand,” Sherlock pouted, suddenly losing interest in his plans for the day. “John gives me everything, and I give him nothing. I can’t even ask him properly for a kiss.” Sherlock really needed John here, right now; he felt like it was already all over.
“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson cooed, wrapping herself around Sherlock, giving him a hug across his back. “Now, none of that, Dear. You give the world to John, and he knows it. And he loves you just the way you are.” She squeezed him gently. “Now! We have big plans today, and you will show John just how much you love him! You know he adores it when you show him your affection!”
Sherlock’s fidgeting slowed, and he inhaled a deep breath through his nose. He played with the switch on the cube. That one always felt like he was turning off the dark thoughts and the ‘John loves me’ thoughts on. He liked that one the most.
“And you were so looking forward to today, Luv! You wouldn’t stop talking about it! So, how about we get started?”
Hudders is right, Sherlock thought to himself. He hadn’t forgotten at ALL that it was Date Night – it was to be their first together as a couple – and Sherlock had been researching for three days in secret to make it the best and most romantic Date Night for John ever. This included calling up all his old, dusty files in his Mind Palace on John’s past dating endeavours, as well as obtaining a new identity as a teenage girl on a dating site's message board dedicated to dating tips and what they thought was romantic first date ideas.
That last one wasn’t very helpful, in hindsight, since most of their pre-couple dates involved Sherlock pining hard for John standing all sexily with a gun in his hand and sharing Chinese takeaway at 3 a.m. ‘What do I do if he likes catching criminals and I like seeing him shoot things?’ didn’t really go over well in that group.
After failing to come up with anything on his own, ready to call in a favour to one of his former clients for a seat at a swanky restaurant, he happened to mention to Mrs Hudson yesterday that it was going to be their First Date Night as a Couple, and Mrs Hudson then promptly squealed in excitement, immediately beginning to plan for Sherlock something he can’t believe he never thought of doing.
He and John liked to share meals, and they liked spending time together, alone, away from everyone else. When she said, “Oh Sherlock! You can cook him something! That would mean the world to John, what with him always making dinners for you!”, Sherlock promptly began scouring his John Files for 'Things That Make John Happy'. From there it had spiralled into something Sherlock needed to make absolutely perfect, lest John hate it and never want to do a Date Night with him ever again.
Sherlock shoved the cube into his trouser pocket and shut off his microscope, sighing heavily. He lifted one of his hands up to Mrs Hudson’s arms around his neck, gripping it gently. “You’re right, Mrs Hudson. I just don’t want to ruin this. I’ve never made a full meal before, and John is so amazing and…”
“…And so are you,” Mrs Hudson tutted, straightening herself up and patting Sherlock’s shoulder. She walked back to the counter and continued to empty the bag’s contents onto the counter. “Cooking is just chemistry, Sherlock. You’ll enjoy it! All its preciseness will help you with your anxiety over tonight.” She glanced up and raised up her index finger. “But, you have to have FUN, Dear. You have to put all your love into it, and John will be able to taste that too!”
Sherlock looked at her thoughtfully, and stood up. A thought niggled at his brain: “What if it doesn’t turn out? What if John hates it?”
Mrs Hudson tisked and flapped her hand at him dismissively, “Now, none of that Dear. John can’t possibly hate it, and it will turn out spectacularly. Besides, you know what he likes better than anyone, Luv.”
Sherlock refrained from trailing his thoughts to the lusty things John liked, like the mole on his neck that John liked to suckle at… he called Sherlock’s moles his personal map to Sherlock’s erogenous zones…
STOP.
Sherlock subtly adjusted himself as he stood up and walked over to pick up his iPad on the living room table, opening up the web browser where he tabbed a recipe for vegetarian shepherd’s pie, something John had mentioned once that his sister used to make for him whenever she was sober and he stayed with her on leave from service. It’s not that he ever expressed a particular fondness for the meal, but John loved all the food that went INTO the pie, ergo, Sherlock concluded, that he could make ALL of the food John liked and put it into one place, something domestic and comfortable, and make John want to stay with him forever.
Mrs Hudson offering to help Sherlock make it was a moot point.
“I just want to impress John,” Sherlock muttered as he returned to the kitchen, showing the recipe he had chosen to Mrs Hudson.
She patted his arm, a warm smile on her face. “I know, Dear. Now, let’s prep this meal, and all you’ll have to do is pop it into the oven when John lets you know he’s on his way home!”
That sounded like a very agreeable plan. Plus, it would give Sherlock plenty of time to run to the flower shop, the bakery to pick up a cheesecake, and the candle shop to pick up the mood lighting.
His confidence started to rise as Mrs Hudson showed him all the measuring devices and how to prep each item that would go into the pie. He did have to concede that she was right – the preciseness of the recipe calmed his mind, enough that he even braved adding extra wine to the sauce, as well as some spice to the pie that he knew both he and John would like, which caused Mrs Hudson to praise him.
It was a silly thing to be happy about, but it really did help him feel better about sharing his creation with John tonight.
The fidget cube sat forgotten in his pocket, only touched once when Sherlock pulled it out an hour later, plopping it back onto a table as he walked by it to go get his coat to head to the shops.
✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ:* \(◕ω◕✿)/ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
Sherlock had been setting the candles around the room when John had texted him that he was on his way to the Tube station. The bubble of anxiety was pushing its way back into Sherlock’s stomach, so he walks to his cube and flicks the switch on and off a couple times. Satisfied, he proceeds to the fridge where the pie is now waiting to be baked. He switches on the stove to the proper setting, and places the pie into the oven. He closes the oven door with a flourish, sets the timer, and nods to himself. John would be home in 45 minutes; that would give the pie plenty of time to aromatize the flat and to bake to perfection.
Sherlock glances at the dining table where he had set the bouquet of sunflowers (they remind him of John’s Smile #23-B), and notices the card he had got John isn't lined up perfectly to the table settings. He promptly straightens it out, and then heads to the loo to shower. He washes with John’s shampoo, because he likes smelling like John (it also helps to curb his loneliness whenever John is away). He dries and tames his curls, deciding that the one flyaway curl in the front that never seems to like staying tamed could remain having its own mind tonight; he hopes it will pop loose and John will try to fix it.
He smiles at his reflection giddily, noticing the flush high on his cheekbones; he pinches them a bit to keep the flush there long enough for John’s arrival home, and then rubs some vanilla-scented body lotion into his face and neck, rubbing the remainder into his hands. He decides against shaving, thinking the light dusting of stubble he managed to grow makes him look rather dashing; he has a hard enough time trying to grow it at all, so he thinks perhaps tonight John wouldn’t mind seeing a bit of it.
The sudden thought of John’s morning stubble rubbing against his inner thigh while John is sucking him off slams into the forefront of his mind, and how the feeling made Sherlock go off in less than thirty seconds. Sherlock sniggers to himself – he wants to do that for John, too. With that thought, he decides to put on some lip gloss as well – John had often commented how sinful his lips were, so he figures there is no harm in encouraging that thought in John’s head. The gloss was tinted a soft pink, which made his lips even more prominent. Satisfied, he plucks a couple of his more wayward eyebrow hairs, and proceeds to their bedroom to put on one of his suit ensembles, choosing the aubergine shirt he knows John loves.
Just as he is heading to the kitchen, the oven’s timer beeps its completion. The flat smells heavenly – like home and love. Sherlock’s whole skin thrums pleasantly at the thought, pleased with himself. He peeks inside the oven, and sees that the top has gotten a little bit crisper than he had wanted.
Maybe if he doesn't mention it, John won't notice it.
He shuts off the oven, leaving the pie in it to keep warm until John arrives home. Still a bit worried about the crispy bit, Sherlock pockets his cube and thumbs over the smooth, concave side of it, which he uses to ‘smooth away intrusive thoughts’.
There, much better.
He sets about to light the candles around the flat, closes the curtains – it would be dark in an hour or so anyway – and starts a fire. He pushes their chairs closer together, setting them at perfect 45˚ angles to the fireplace. He walks back to the table to realign the utensils, then pops the cork on the wine to let it breathe.
He scans his surroundings again – perfection. John would definitely want to stay forever now. It was homey and lovely and smelled like happiness.
Just as Sherlock readjusts the sunflowers in the vase again, he hears the door to 221 open, and John’s angelic voice calls out a greeting to Mrs Hudson. He hears John’s voice rise up in an intonation – possibly asking her if she’s making something (Sherlock is pleased that the smell had carried down the stairs) – and then Mrs Hudson voice her reply, though he can’t make out what she says.
Sherlock pinches his own cheeks again to regain the flush, smacks his lips to ensure the taste of the gloss is still there, and then thinks about where he should stand for John’s arrival. He has about 3 seconds to decide, for he could hear John tread his way up the stairs to their flat. He decides upon leaning his hand on the table, just slightly off to the side so John could see the sunflowers when he got in. He puts his other hand into the pocket with his cube, and fiddles with the five-buttoned side of it, which he pushes in time with John’s steps on the stairs. In the last second, he settles on putting a smouldering expression on his face.
“Sherlock, what’s going on –” John starts as he pushes open the door to the flat, a crinkle accompanying the movement – a bouquet of flowers, Sherlock deduces. “… here.”
John halts in the doorway, taking in his entire surroundings with his mouth in awe, dropping his briefcase on the floor next to him. A lingering doubt starts to creep into Sherlock’s brain – fidget cube flipped to the dial side, spun counterclockwise, rewind the doubt back to its cave; better.
“Hello, John,” Sherlock greets, dropping his voice down an octave.
John blinks, looks down at his own bouquet of flowers – carnations – and then back up at Sherlock.
“I made you dinner.” Sherlock straightens up to his full height, putting his other hand in his pocket and subtly pushing his rear out just a bit to enhance it. His untameable curl pops out of place and drops in front of his eye. He tries his best to ignore it.
John gulps, inhales heavily, ogles Sherlock’s lithe form up, down, up again and stops his leering on Sherlock’s face. “I’ll say. Actual food, or you?” John jokes as he closes the door behind himself. He starts slowly towards Sherlock, his tongue licking at his lips.
The butterflies dance in Sherlock’s stomach. “Both?” he manages, though he couldn’t help making it a question. It didn’t matter, it still earns him John’s Smile #1: ridiculous fondness, incredulity and affection – Sherlock’s favourite. He finds himself releasing the cube in his pocket, and taking his hands out, pulled toward John’s approaching form. “Shepherd's pie. Vegetarian, of course.”
John’s eyes twinkle. “Sounds delicious,” he answers, walking into Sherlock’s outstretched arms. “All I had was a reservation at Angelo’s and this bouquet of flowers.” He nods to said flowers lamely, then puts them on the table at Sherlock’s place-setting, only then seeing the sunflowers and card Sherlock had put at John’s. John smiles back up at Sherlock, and Sherlock tugs at John’s hips to move him closer. John reaches one arm over Sherlock’s shoulder, and the other hand up to the stray curl, brushing it back into Sherlock’s other curls.
“I did it because I love you,” Sherlock explains, leaning his forehead into John’s. “I don’t tell you ever, but I really do. Love you. So much that it hurts sometimes, John.” Sherlock tries not to panic.
“Sherlock, you do it everyday just by being here and by being yourself around me,” John assures softly, wrapping his other arm around Sherlock’s shoulder. “This… you doing this is incredibly romantic and thoughtful, Love. You know that, don’t you?”
“I want a kiss,” Sherlock whispers in lieu of an answer.
John chuckles, and presses his lips onto Sherlock, caressing them, sucking on them, and finishing with a couple soft pecks. He pulls back, looks into Sherlock’s eyes. “You taste like cherry lip gloss.”
The blush rises quickly onto Sherlock’s cheeks, no pinching required. “You like my lips.”
“That I do.” John pets the side of Sherlock’s face. “Hi.”
“I missed you,” is Sherlock’s reply, head nuzzling John's hand.
“I know you did, Sherlock. But I see you kept busy today.” John’s hands fall to Sherlock’s chest.
“Mrs Hudson helped a little.” Sheepish, but not ashamed. “I’ve never cooked a big meal before… I needed a bit of, ah, instruction on how to decipher the recipe. Not my area.” Sherlock rests his nose on John’s head, inhales. Bliss.
“Well, it certainly smells like it is most definitely your area. The flat smells divine.” John pulls back, much to Sherlock’s annoyance. “Why don’t you get us some of your delicious concoction, I’ll cancel Angelo’s and we’ll have a night in, just you and me. A perfect first date night, wouldn’t you say?”
Sherlock grins at this offer, and he nods, helping John out of his coat, then gestures to John’s seat for him to sit.
“You sure know how to woo a girl,” John jokes as he reaches for his phone, and Sherlock chuckles on his way to the kitchen to retrieve the shepherd’s pie from the oven. He hears John call Angelo’s as Sherlock searches around for a knife to cut the pie. He locates one, places it on the countertop and puts on oven mitts to pull out the pie from the oven. Sherlock carries both over to the table, placing the pie between the two of them. John’s eyes widen as he rings off his mobile, and his tongue peeks out of his lips, something Sherlock has always found adorable. He decided to never mention to John that he does this, since it would make him self-conscious and stop doing it.
“Mmm, Sherlock, that looks amazing! First time, you say?”
Sherlock can only nod as a burst of warmth floods all over his body at the praise. He pulls off the oven mitts and sets them aside. He proceeds to cut John a large helping and puts it on his plate, then cuts one for himself. John reaches over and pours them each a glass of wine while he waits until Sherlock sits down. John then enthusiastically takes a bite of the pie – a loud, pleasurable moan follows that sends a shiver up Sherlock’s spine.
“Oh God,” John exclaims through a mouthful of pie. “That’s it, you’re doing the cooking from now on, Love.”
The look Sherlock gives John can only be described as ‘horrified’, his fork hovering in front of his mouth. A piece of celery falls off and back onto the plate.
“I’m kidding, Sherlock.” John pats Sherlock’s hand that’s on the table closest to him, then grips it. “It is fantastic, though. You did good.”
Sherlock grips John’s hand in return, relaxing his posture once again and resuming his eating. A thought comes to his mind, though.
“We could do it together?” Sherlock suggests. “I found the preciseness of the recipes helped with my anxiety a bit.”
John beams at Sherlock like he’s the most precious thing in the world. “Oh yeah? That’s fantastic, Sherlock. And I think that’s a great idea.”
“I think it would be better with you there.” Sherlock rubs his thumb over John’s knuckle as he heaps another forkful into his mouth.
John nods. “Alright. Next date night?”
Sherlock grins. “Yes.”
And so, as the two men shared in food and drink, they chatted about each of their days, about everything and nothing, and about how happy they each were in that very moment.
There may have been a talk resembling something akin to “forever”, and it loosens the knots Sherlock carries within him constantly, just a little bit.
And later that night, Sherlock is pleased to find out that John does, in fact, really like Sherlock’s stubble against his thighs, Sherlock’s lips swollen and his moans erotic.
When they snuggle up, sated and sleepy, under the blankets, Sherlock in his customary “Little Spoon” position, he reflects upon just how lucky he is to be held by the man nuzzling his nose into Sherlock’s neck.
Sherlock is relaxed and content as he succumbs to sleep from the feeling of their two heartbeats becoming one.