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“What do you think?” Irene stepped out of the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe, her red-varnished nails curling around the navy sequins clinging to her hip.
Sherlock swept his gaze over her frame. “It’s...blue.”
Irene’s eyes rolled over the ceiling, arms falling to her sides as her shoulders slumped with a sigh. “And you’re gay,” she muttered, rattling her head as she stepped into the room “Aren’t gay men supposed to have better fashion sense?”
Sherlock quirked a brow. “Aren’t lesbians supposed to wear plaid?”
“Touché,” Irene said, snapping a finger gun at him as she sat on the sofa, pulling her silver heels toward her across the white shag rug. “Have you heard from Molly?”
“Not yet,” he replied, pulling his mobile out again to be sure. “Should be soon, though. The movie was, what, two hours?”
“Probably.” Irene shrugged. “They all are these days. They’re still on track to meet us there though, right?”
“Last I heard.” He tucked his phone away, looking into the kitchen to the green numbers glowing on the microwave. “You know, we could still back out,” he said, Irene’s lips curling up as she shook her head down at the flimsy buckle on her shoe. “Stay in and get drunk watching terrible movies before going to bed at a reasonable time.”
“We did that last year,” Irene reminded, Sherlock wrinkling his nose at the top of her head as she moved on to fastening the other shoe, “and it’s the Saturday night before Valentine’s Day. We should be out celebrating love!”
“We can do that here,” Sherlock argued, but Irene only laughed, slotting the faux leather strap into place and wriggling her heel into the optimum position before standing up.
“Maybe,” she admitted, smoothing the sequins on her dress, “but I can’t get sloppy drunk and dance with strangers here.”
“We could find some strangers.”
“Sherlock.”
He huffed a sighed, and Irene chuckled, crossing the rug and placing her hands on his shoulders.
“It’ll be fine,” she assured, swaying him side to side for emphasis. “We’ll eat, we’ll drink, we’ll dance—”
“Well.”
“We’ll dance,” she repeated, removing one hand to jab a threatening finger at his face, “and then we can come back here and cry through The Sound of Music.”
Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head, a smile creeping over his lips in spite of himself. “Alright,” he grumbled, lifting a warning finger at her blooming grin, “but I am not sitting next to Molly and Greg at the restaurant. They’re always holding hands.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust, Irene rolling her eyes as she swatted him playfully across the shoulder.
“We’ll exile them to their own side,” she agreed, lifting her leather jacket from the chair and sliding it up her arms. “You can sit with me and Mary.”
Sherlock mumbled a begrudging agreement, Irene laughing at him as she slung her purse over her shoulder.
“Come on, sunshine,” she teased, linking an arm through his and dragging him out the door, her heels clicking down the stairs before they climbed into the waiting Uber and sped off.
The restaurant was loud and, to Sherlock’s dismay, crowded, traversing the dining room something of an obstacle course of chair legs and trailing coats, but the food was good, and the company better, Mary gleefully recounting her latest horrible customer story from the cafe where she worked.
“And then, then—shh, stop laughing!—he starts dragging the table across the floor to the outlet, like dragging it, making that horrible scraping sound and everything!”
“Oh my god!” Molly spluttered, dabbing her napkin at the corners of her eyes, her cheeks flushed with laughter as she leaned her head on Greg’s shaking shoulder.
“That’s not even the worst part!” Mary exclaimed, Irene drawing in a breath and taking a long sip of wine, as if to prepare herself for the thrilling conclusion. “Harry goes over to tell him he can’t rearrange the furniture—”
“Harry?”
“New hire. And he asked her—”
“Her?”
“Harriet, but she prefers Harry; now can we please hold all questions til the end?” Mary snapped, Molly miming a zipper over her smirk. “So, Harry went over, and he asked her—I shit you not—if she could go get him an extension cord. Said he needed to put down the next chapter of his novel before his ‘muse’ escaped.”
“His muse?” Greg echoed incredulously over his beer as the rest of the group laughed. “He actually said ‘muse’?”
“Hand to god,” Mary vowed, lifting one for good measure, and Greg shook his head, sipping over the lip of his glass.
“Twenty quid says his book’s about a middle-aged man having an affair with a barely-legal woman.”
“Well, obviously,” Molly muttered, rolling her eyes at Irene. “If we wanna bet on it, we’ve gotta get more specific. I’m calling middle-aged white man has affair with younger woman who is, at some point, described as ‘exotic.’”
A collective groan circled the table before Mary chimed in.
“I want English professor having an affair with a student who’s constantly crossing her legs.”
“Hey, I wanted student/teacher!”
“Snooze ya lose!”
“I started the betting!”
“You can have history professor,” Molly interjected, brokering a begrudging peace before turning to Greg. “What do you think, hon?”
Irene ducked her head, pretending to retch into her wine before Mary elbowed her hard in the ribs.
“I’m going with the classic,” Greg mused. “Seductive secretary.”
“An oldie, but a goodie,” Mary acknowledged, and Greg dipped a bow over his empty plate.
“How ‘bout you?” Irene asked, turning to him, and Sherlock frowned up at the ceiling, biting the corner of his lip.
“I’ll take...younger woman affair with clumsy depiction of bondage.”
“Of course you will,” Irene muttered while everyone else laughed, and then turned her attention to Mary. “Any chance we can actually get an answer to this?”
“Maybe,” Mary replied, shrugging a shoulder and draining the last of her cocktail in one gulp. “He was back yesterday; maybe he’ll become a regular.”
“And you can read over his shoulder and tell us how many different words he uses for ‘breasts.’”
Another groan, and Irene grinned, seeming to draw power from their discomfort.
“Okay, I am definitely not drunk enough for that portion of the conversation,” Greg said, tipping up his beer, a faint flush tinting his cheeks.
“Then we’d better get to the club,” Irene said, twisting in her chair to search for their server. “What’s Valentine’s Day weekend without a game of boob-synonym bingo?”
“A tragedy,” Mary said, Irene glaring at the mock sincerity, but their server arrived before she could give profane voice to the expression.
Half an hour later, they were freezing to death in a line outside Irene’s favorite club—the night before Valentine’s Day apparently a popular one for dancing to forget—but it moved quickly, everyone making it inside without needing to cut off any fingers.
Though, now that he was in here, Sherlock wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t give up a few digits to escape.
Apart from a few heart garlands draped around the color-changing bar, the space was largely devoid of decorations, which he could appreciate, but it was full of people, the dance floor throbbing to the pulsing bass of some endless electronica cover. The space normally reserved for maneuvering around the mob was stuffed with patrons talking as they worked their way to or from the bar in varying stages of drunkenness, and Sherlock drew in a shaky breath, his steps slowing as the group moved toward the bar.
As if sensing his hesitancy, Irene reached back, her fingers a steel claw on his wrist as she dragged him onward, tugging her up to her side when they came within striking distance of the bartender. “Flag him down,” she said, stretching up toward his ear to be heard over the din. “You’re the tallest.”
Sherlock sighed, but obliged, giving the closest bartender a nod when he happened to glance their way.
“Ooo, theme drinks!” Molly wriggled in between them, snagging a small stained menu from the bar top. “Aww, Cupid’s Arrow! But it has brandy.”
“Brandy?” Greg’s head poked in, Sherlock stretching back in the limited space to give Greg’s hair some breathing room. “I want that one. Why don’t you get a Lonely Hearts Club?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s got blackberries and gin,” Greg explained, pointing down at the menu, and Molly flushed, handing Irene the menu and clearing her throat.
“Oh,” she squeaked, “I’ll have that then.”
“Vodka cranberry for me,” Mary piped up, Sherlock casting a frown around the group.
“Why are you all telling me?”
“You’re still the tallest,” Irene said, winking up at Sherlock’s glare. “Gin and tonic,” she ordered, passing him up the menu. “None of these are calling me. What do you want?”
“Out.”
“I thought you did that years ago?” She grinned, winking up at him, Sherlock’s face falling flat as the bartender appeared.
Sherlock gave him the orders for the group, adding a glass of white wine for himself in spite of Irene whispering ‘vodka’ in his ear on repeat, and then turned around, frowning as he caught Mary coming down off her tiptoes. “What are you doing?” he asked, her eyes wide and blinking with suspicious innocence.
“Just...checking how crowded the dance floor was,” she muttered, looking back to the crowd. “Still very.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, scanning the side of her face, his mouth opening on further questions when a shout cut him off.
“Mary!”
They all looked toward the voice, a petite woman with shoulder-length blond hair breaking the wall of people in front of them, waving with the hand that wasn’t towing a taller redhead.
“Harry!” Mary replied, greeting the couple with a smile. “There you are! I tried texting, but-”
“Yeah, reception is terrible,” Harry said, rolling her eyes as she tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “I was about to ask the DJ to give you a shoutout.”
Mary chuckled, stepping to Harry’s side and turning out to the group at large. “Guys, this is Harry, my friend from the cafe”—Harry lifted a hand as Mary waved toward her—“and her girlfriend, Clara.”
“Hi,” Clara said, waggling her fingers and casting around a smile, her smile friendly despite her shy posture.
“You already met Irene,” Mary continued, the women exchanging nods, “and this is Molly and Greg”—the couple lifted the hands that weren’t looped around one another in an eerily synchronized wave—“and this”—Sherlock frowned at the emphasis, his brow creasing even more as Mary looped an arm through his—“is Sherlock.”
Harry’s eyes lit up, wafting down his frame before returning to his face. “So nice to meet you,” she said, grazing a glance over Molly and Greg as if they were an obligatory afterthought. “Mary’s told me so much about you; I feel like I know you all already.”
Sherlock’s suspicious glare roved over the group, landing on Clara, who had the weakest pokerface of the bunch, her eyes carefully averted and a corner of her lip pinched between her teeth. “What’s going on?” he asked, only Greg seeming just as oblivious as he was, even Molly suddenly getting very interested in the alignment of her bracelet.
Irene tilted her head, an Oscar-worthy wrinkle of confusion folding her forehead. “What do you mean?”
“I mean: what’s going on?” he echoed, frustrated at the presumption of his gullibility.
“Nothing,” Mary assured, shrugging the shoulder that was still pressed against his arm. “Why do you think something’s going on?”
“Because you’re all acting weird,” Sherlock snapped, and Irene rolled her eyes.
“Weird? Really, Sherlock, I expect more creative adjectives from you.”
“I—” Sherlock started, cut off by Mary’s elbow trying to puncture his right lung, but he swiftly regained his breath, opening his mouth to get very creative indeed when someone beat him to it.
“Fucking hell.” A man appeared at Harry’s side, rattling his head in annoyance as he turned over his shoulder to look back at the crowd. “Thought I’d never find you in here! Why is it so bloody crowded? And why didn’t you reply to my text?” He lifted up his phone, a blur of message bubbles on the screen as he flashed it at Harry.
“I did,” she answered, imperious, and the man rolled his eyes.
“With a shrug emoji,” he huffed.
“Well I didn’t know which side of the bar I was on.”
“East; you are on the east side of the bar.”
“We don’t all bring a compass to the club.”
“It’s an oval bar, Harry; ‘we’re by the bar’ isn’t exactly helpful.”
“Well, you found us, didn’t you?”
“After ten minutes of wading through undergrads. And a hen party.”
“Oh, please, you’re like, what, two years older than them? I am sorry about the hen party, though,” Harry muttered, planting a conciliatory pat on his arm, and then turned to the rest of the group. “In case it wasn’t obvious from our love and affection, this charming gentleman is my brother, John.”
John lifted a hand in greeting, the other slipping halfway into the front pocket of his dark jeans, a subtle sign of shyness. He was wearing a short-sleeved button-up shirt in a pale color—a gray-tinged purple or blue, it was difficult to tell in the dark—with a dark geometric pattern running through it. Lean muscle rippled through the exposed sections of his arms, the shirt stretched just enough over his chest to hint at a similar structure beneath, and a dusting of stubble—a shade darker than his sandy blond hair—wrapped around his jaw. A little shorter and more athletic than Sherlock’s usual type, but still very—
He snapped his gaze toward Mary, Irene, and Molly, narrowing his eyes as he caught them staring a moment before they became enamored with the floor or ceiling.
“You’ve already met Mary,” Harry said, and the two exchanged nods, “but I don’t know if you ever met Irene. She’s in the cafe a lot.”
“No, I don’t think we’ve crossed paths,” John said with a smile.
“We haven’t,” Irene assured. “I would remember.”
John chuckled, glancing at Sherlock before Harry directed his eye the opposite direction.
“And this is Molly and Greg; we just met them tonight.”
“Nice to meet you,” John said, but tilted his head, a shallow crease of thought forming between his brows. “Ya know, you look very familiar,” he said, waving a finger at Greg, who laughed.
“I was just thinking the same thing! Glad you don’t remember why either.”
“Maybe a class or something?”
“Doubt it. I went to London Met; graduated a couple years ago.”
“That’s it!” John exclaimed, snapping his fingers. “You played rugby there, right?”
Greg nodded.
“I played with Barts,” John said, tapping his sternum with his fingertips, and Greg’s eyes widened in recognition.
“Oh, right, I remember now! You were kind of a big deal—getting that much playing time your first year.”
“So were you. Top scorer for your team two years running, I think.”
“You never told me that,” Molly said, turning her eyes up to Greg’s face.
He blushed, lifting his free hand to knead at the back of his neck. “Well, I wasn’t on the team anymore when we met. It didn’t seem all that important.”
Molly rolled her eyes, bumping his side with her shoulder. “Too modest for your own good. That would have made an excellent pickup line.”
“I always tell John the same thing,” Harry laughed. “He was captain his last two years; I always say he should slip that in right after saying he’s a doctor.”
“Junior doctor. I’m only in my second foundation year,” John corrected, and Harry swatted a hand in the air.
“No one cares about that, if they even know what it means.”
“Talking to exactly the wrong group for that,” Mary said with a laugh. “We’ve got two medicine undergrads, a trainee clinical psychologist, and a chemistry PhD student.”
“And they all walked into a bar,” Greg said, and everyone laughed.
“Wait, so, who’s who?” John asked, scanning over the group with his index finger.
“Why don’t you guess?”
“So that would make you the clinical psychologist,” John said, and Irene blinked, looking wrong-footed for a moment before laughing, nodding in defeat. “I already know Mary is studying medicine”—he pointed at her and then steepled his fingers, tapping the point to his chin as he looked between Sherlock, Molly, and Greg—“and you said ‘they all,’ so I assume you weren’t included”—he dipped his fingers toward Greg, who nodded in confirmation—“so I’m going with…Molly for medicine undergrad.”
Molly laughed, lifting her hands as if having been caught.
“So that leaves…” He trailed off, turning his fingers toward Sherlock, a question in his lilting brow.
“Sherlock,” he supplied, a corner of his mouth drawn up in helpless reply to John’s blossoming grin, “and, yes, I’m the PhD student.”
“Really?” John blurted, and then seemed to collect himself, a swallow bobbing down his throat. “It’s just, you look sort of…young…for that,” he muttered, a wince of embarrassment pinching his face as he finished the sentence.
“He is,” Mary said, beaming up at him. “He skipped a year in secondary school and finished his degree a semester early.” She nudged him with her shoulder, the shallow V of Sherlock’s light jumper starting to itch at the praise. “Bit of a genius, this one.”
“Is he?” John remarked, a glint of teasing in his gaze when Sherlock met it.
“Well,” he muttered, clearing his throat, “I know nothing about rugby.”
John laughed, full-throated and unreserved, turning to Greg when it trailed off. “So what are you doing now?”
“Went from one Met to the next,” Greg chuckled. “I work for Scotland Yard now.”
“He’s finishing his training to be a detective constable,” Molly elaborated, lifting her chin in pride as Greg’s dropped with a bashful blush.
“Wow, congratulations!” Josh bade, an awkward huff of a laugh hissing from Greg’s throat.
“Well, it’s not for sure yet,” he muttered, smiling when Molly pointedly cleared her throat, “but thank you.”
“Chardonnay, gin and tonic, and vodka cran,” the bartender said, thumping the three drinks down in front of Sherlock as he spun around. “Last two will be right over,” he said with a parting customer-service smile before darting away.
“Oh, we should get our order together before he comes back,” Harry said, nearly decapitating Sherlock with the cocktail menu as she reached past him to snag it off the bar.
Sherlock passed Mary her gin and tonic and Irene her vodka cranberry before taking a sip of his chardonnay—nothing spectacular, but better than the typical bar selection.
Clara peered over Harry’s shoulder as they scanned the menu, Harry tipping it slightly toward John with an inquiring brow.
“No, thanks,” he said, lifting a hand as he shook his head. “I’ll just get a scotch.”
Harry mimed a yawn, John rolling his eyes at the theatrics, and then lunged forward, leaning past Sherlock as the bartender reappeared.
“Cupid’s Arrow and Lonely Hearts Club,” the bartender announced as he thumped the drinks onto the bar top, and Sherlock produced his card, per evening-out-with-Irene protocol.
“Leave it open,” he said, and the bartender nodded before turning to Harry.
“You ready to order?”
“Yes,” Harry said, consulting the menu. “Can I get a Cupid’s Arrow, a Puppy Love, and a Tried and True?”
“Hey!” John blustered as the bartender nodded and started away.
“It’s basically an Old Fashioned,” Harry huffed, and John smiled, shaking his head in resignation.
Sherlock grabbed Molly and Greg’s drinks, passing them across.
“So, how about we go look for a table or something?” Harry suggested, turning her hand out and scanning across the group to various nods and hums of affirmation.
“What about our drinks?” John asked, pointing toward the bar.
“Oh, Sherlock will help,” Irene said, beaming blithely at Sherlock’s narrowed eyes.
“Great!” Harry chirped, clapping a flummoxed John on the shoulder. “I’ll text you what quadrant we’re in if we find a place.” She then disappeared into the crowd, dragging Clara behind her. Mary and Irene followed with matching Cheshire grins while Molly buried her face in her drink and shuffled after them, Greg twitching Sherlock a sympathetic—albeit helpless—shrug as he trailed along.
“Well,” John muttered, stepping closer in the crowd jostling for the bar, “that was…”
“Subtle?” Sherlock offered, and John laughed.
“Yeah, that’s never been one of Harry’s strong suits.”
“Irene and Mary aren’t exactly renowned for it either,” Sherlock grumbled over the rim of his glass before taking another swig of wine, sobriety now something he was eager to leave behind.
“They do this a lot, then?” John asked, waving a hand between them when Sherlock tipped his head. “Set you up?”
“No,” Sherlock muttered, shaking his head, then stopped to shrug a shoulder. “Well, they used to,” he admitted, “but it’s been a while.”
“Why?”
“To which one?”
John chuckled, moving closer still to be heard over the throbbing electronica. “Both, I guess.”
Sherlock took another drink. “It’s been a while because I asked them to stop.”
“And that worked?”
“Once I stopped showing up, yes.”
John laughed with that contagious abandon again, compelling Sherlock’s lips to follow. “And, they used to set you up a lot because…” John prompted, and Sherlock bought a few beats of time with a slow sip of his wine.
“Because I got dumped,” he said, finding the direct approach often the easiest, and not taking John as the prevaricating type. “It was…difficult,” Sherlock expounded, not quite sure why he did, either John or the wine siphoning away his normal discomfort with the topic.
“How so?” John asked, and then lifted his hands, palms facing out, his eyes blown wide. “I am so sorry! That is none of my business; I don’t even know why I asked that…”
“No, it’s fine. Really,” he added, smiling to combat John’s chagrined wince. “He, er… Well, we’d been dating for about six months. I was about to graduate, and he’d just gotten a job offer in America, so he…asked me to go with him.”
John’s eyes widened, a flash of surprise before patient interest overtook his expression once more.
“The offer was with a law firm in New York City, so there were plenty of excellent graduate school options for me. He thought the timing was perfect. And, I dunno, maybe it was,” Sherlock muttered, rattling his head, “but…I didn’t…want to go.” He smiled, a sad little twist of his mouth, the memory still bitter even though it no longer stung. “So, we broke up,” he concluded, downing the rest of his wine and thumping it on the bar like a drained shot glass.
“Why?” John asked.
Sherlock frowned. “Why did we break up? I thought that was—”
“No, no,” John interrupted, shaking his head. “Why didn’t you wanna go?”
“Oh,” Sherlock said, twitching at his wine glass, the base clinging to the sticky bar top as he shuffled it side to side. “I suppose I just…couldn’t imagine ever living anywhere but London.”
“Ever?”
“Well, maybe not ever; I don’t think I’ll be eighty and elbowing my way onto the Central line”—John laughed, the pulsing crowd having pushed them so close together that his elbow brushed Sherlock’s arm—“but, until then, everywhere else is just…somewhere nice to visit.”
John nodded, slow and deliberate, the kind of nod that agrees rather than simply understands. “Did you consider long distance at all?”
“Between London and New York?” Sherlock scoffed. “No. Especially with me starting graduate school and him starting a new job.”
“That makes sense,” John affirmed, and then cleared his throat, shifting his shoulders as if to shake off the subject. “So, Mary and Irene got to work after that?”
“Not right away,” Sherlock chuckled. “I was allowed three months to ‘grieve’,” he said, curling his fingers around the word. “Apparently it takes half the length of a relationship to recover from the breakup.”
“Really?”
“According to whatever self-help blog Mary and Molly were invested in at the time, yes.”
A thump interrupted John’s laugh, and Sherlock turned to see a different bartender placing a trio of drinks on the bar.
John leaned forward, casting Sherlock an apologetic glance as he reached past to hand the bartender his card, a waft of cedar and orange drifting up from his neck. “Just keep it open,” he said, the bartender tapping the card once against the bar with a nod before turning to Sherlock.
“You want another?” she asked, eyes darting down to his glass.
“Er, no,” Sherlock muttered, his voice rough, and he cleared his throat before continuing. “Can I have a…one of those?” he said, pointing to the most attractive-looking drink of the trio.
“Cupid’s Arrow,” she said, and Sherlock beat down a blush. “You have a tab?”
“Sherlock Holmes,” he answered, and the woman nodded, flashing a swift smile before departing.
“Well, looks like they found a spot,” John said, turning his phone for Sherlock to see the series of nonsense coordinates Harry had sent him, along with a follow-up text stating ‘standing table against the wall behind the dance floor.’ “I’ll just run these over to Harry and Clara and then come back and wait with you,” he said, reaching past Sherlock to pick up the two drinks.
“You don’t have to,” he spluttered, but John shook his head, insisting.
“Better than being interrogated over there,” he said with a wry smile that swiftly warmed. “Company’s better too,” he added with a wink, darting off into the crowd before Sherlock’s brain could catch up to the statement.
He turned back to the bar, blinking down into John’s drink. Was John…flirting with him? He swallowed hard, lifting his gaze out over the bustling bar staff.
He really needed that drink.
Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing in the swirls of steam rising from his coffee as if the caffeine would hit his aching head faster that way.
Why had he agreed to meet Greg so early again?
His phone lit up on the table beside his drink, and he glanced over to find Irene’s good morning message scrolling across the screen—because some people had friends who let them sleep past 8 a.m. on the weekend.
Happy Valentine ’s Day, sunshine! Hope you drank lots of water last night ;)
Sherlock rolled his eyes, constructing a pithy response in his head when another text came through.
You and John seemed to get on well.
Sherlock sighed, leaving her on read as he took a languorous sip of his coffee.
He is an engaging conversationalist he replied, Irene immediately coming back with an eye-roll emoji before beginning to type again.
Did you get his number?
No.
Did you give him your number?
No.
Another eye-roll emoji, this time followed by the irritable, huffing one.
Well did you like him?
He was not unpleasant.
You ’re insufferable
Sherlock replied with a satirical winking-and-blowing-a-kiss emoji; Irene responded with yet another eye roll; and the conversation seemed to come to a close just in time for Greg to walk through the door.
He glanced around, lifting his hand in an unnecessary wave when he spotted Sherlock—hardly a feat, considering he was one of only three people settled at a table in the coffee shop at 8:45 a.m. on a Saturday. “Hey,” he panted as he reached the table, breathless from excitement or the morning chill, it was impossible to say, “thanks for meeting me so early.”
“No problem,” Sherlock murmured, and Greg chuckled as he sat down opposite him.
“I doubt that,” he challenged with a teasing smirk. “You got struck by quite a few Cupid’s Arrows last night.”
“Not you too,” Sherlock groaned, leaning back in his chair and tipping his chin up to roll his eyes at the ceiling. “I found him perfectly tolerable; we did not exchange numbers; we do not have plans to see each other again; does that about cover it?”
Greg blinked, an eyebrow slowly crawling up his forehead. “I meant the cocktail,” he muttered, eyes narrowing as Sherlock dropped his gaze to his coffee to conceal his burning cheeks, “but—”
“Don’t you have a bank robbery to foil or something?” Sherlock grumbled, and Greg smiled, shaking his head and leaning back, as if to signal the dropping of the topic.
“Not my division,” he replied, glancing over his shoulder toward the counter, “and, besides, I took the weekend off. You mind if I grab a coffee before we get into it?” he asked, standing up when Sherlock shook his head, flicking his fingers to shoo him away.
He took a deep breath as Greg headed toward the counter, drawing his coffee to his lips, letting the mug hover there for a moment and closing his eyes against the warm wafts of steam. Unbidden, the watery image of John’s face laughing in the shifting, colored lights of the club washed over his eyelids, and he snapped them open, rattling his head to dispel the vision as he took a long draft of coffee—the Tall, Dark, and Handsome blend, according to the unsettlingly chipper cashier and heart-encrusted chalkboards.
Three Cupid’s Arrows or not, Sherlock remembered every detail of last night. It wasn’t like him to get flustered, to feel anxious, to crave the dulling spell of alcohol to quell the roiling in his gut—though it had had the opposite effect once he got on the tube. It wasn’t so much that John made him nervous; rather, it was what he represented that had Sherlock’s stomach jumping into his throat.
In the time since Victor and him had broken up, dating and relationships had been the furthest thing from Sherlock’s mind, his hatred for Valentine’s Day cemented in the following two he’d gone through comfortably alone. He had assumed he had evolved past such base feelings and desires—attraction, companionship, romance—and none of the men he’d encountered since had given him any reason to question that assertion.
Enter John: charming, attractive, and unpretentious, with a dry wit that not only took Sherlock’s sarcasm in stride, but complemented it. He was confident and affable, yet still somehow reserved, as if unaware of his potential to command a room and all the attention in it. And Sherlock liked him. For the first time since Victor, he felt the saccharine sensation of—god help him—butterflies; though, now feeling it again after so long, “butterflies” seemed the wrong word, the feeling more akin to a murder of crows beating their wings against his chest, their hopeful talons clawing at the shell around his carrion heart.
He didn’t even know how to like someone anymore, how to return their attentions and affections, and he’d spent the whole evening trying to drink away the worry that he was laughing too loud or smiling too much—or not enough. It was a miserable feeling, attraction, which was why, when Molly had mentioned the time at a little past midnight, Sherlock had jumped at the opening to escape, tossing “nice to meet you”s and “see you later”s around haphazardly before fleeing for the exit and his own flat. It was better that way, he had decided at some point in his tossing and turning last night. He and John could remain two friends-of-friends who crossed paths at the cafe or parties: cordial but aloof. No numbers exchanged; no clumsy flirtations; no expectation of anything more than the occasional pleasant evening with an acquaintance. No potential for disaster.
No way to get hurt again.
“Alright,” Greg sighed, his cup tinkling against the artfully mismatched saucer as it wobbled while he lowered it to the table ahead of taking his seat again. “Now, let’s get down to business.” He clapped his hands together over his latte, as if to commence to proceedings. “Did you bring it?”
Sherlock reached into the pocket of his coat, retrieving a flash drive. “I’m still not sure why I couldn’t just email it,” he said as he thrust the drive toward Greg, who took it from his fingers as if it were a vial of nitroglycerin.
“I told you: Molly could have seen the email. And I didn’t want it to compress it or whatever and lose any quality.”
Sherlock thawed a little at that, taking another sip of his dark roast. “I stretched the intro out a bit; it’s pretty quiet for the first thirty seconds or so. I figured you’d be talking over that part.”
“I really appreciate this, Sherlock,” Greg said, uncharacteristically sincere, his earnest eye contact making Sherlock’s fingers fidget against his mug. “I was gonna just play the soundtrack, but she’s heard it so many times. Hell, I’ve heard it so many times,” he added with a chuckle. “I think I could conduct the whole Pride and Prejudice score by now. I just want it to be special, ya know?”
“Well, I should hope so,” Sherlock murmured, smiling despite his stupor. “I don’t imagine you plan to propose more than once.”
“No,” Greg laughed, shaking his head. “No, I do not. Plus, this way you’re all involved: Mary is setting up the flat while we’re at dinner; you played the music; and Irene helped pick out the ring. And my tie.”
“You asked Irene for help picking out a proposal tie?”
“No,” Greg chuckled, swallowing a sip of his latte, “but I got it anyway.”
Sherlock laughed, and the conversation drifted from there: Greg asking about his research project, while he inquired about his detective constable training.
At some point, after their coffees had gone dry, Greg’s phone buzzed, the flush in his cheeks leaving no doubt as to who it was.
“I’d better get going. I told Molly I had to fill out some paperwork at the station this morning and then I was all hers.”
Sherlock quirked a brow, and Greg blushed furiously as he stowed his phone in his pocket.
“Not— She booked us a table for the Valentine’s Day jazz brunch at some posh hotel in Knightsbridge. Coat and tie required.”
“Can’t be late for jazz brunch,” Sherlock teased, and Greg rolled his eyes.
“Just you wait, Sherlock,” he said, zipping up the front of his coat. “Someday, Irene will be picking out your tie.”
“Doubtful,” he muttered. “I plan to be cremated.”
Greg drew in a breath, his lips parting, and then stopped, his eyes drawn toward the entrance as the bell hanging over the door chimed. He lifted his lips in a sharp smile. “Alright, well, see ya!” he blurted, twisting on a heel and shooting for the door, Sherlock following his progress until his gaze collided with the customer who had just entered the coffee shop.
“Hey,” John said, greeting Greg, Sherlock so far going unnoticed as he considered vaulting the counter and running for the back door. “Fancy seeing you here! Up early for a Valentine’s coffee?”
“Sort of,” Greg chuckled. “’Fraid I have to run out on my date, though,” he said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder, and John’s eyes followed the trajectory to meet Sherlock’s.
Sherlock lifted a hand, uncertain if his mouth smiled like he told it to, having lost all feeling in his face.
“He could use a refill, if you’re drinking in,” Greg supplied, and Sherlock nearly swallowed his tongue. “Tall, Dark, and Handsome blend. Black, two sugars. Nice seeing you again.” He clapped John on the shoulder, glancing back at Sherlock with a jovial grin and a devilish twinkle in his eye, and then stepped out into the dreary February morning, the bell seeming to echo behind him.
Slowly, John turned to face him, tipping his head as a single straw brow inched up toward his hairline. “Tall, Dark, and Handsome?” A corner of his mouth twitched in silent mocking, and Sherlock sighed, rattling his head in irritation.
“I just ordered the dark roast; I didn’t name it,” he muttered, and John chuckled, moving toward his table.
“Do you mind though? If I join you?” He turned a hand down toward the chair across from Sherlock, a beat of silence thumping in Sherlock’s ears before he decided.
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean—” He stopped, drawing a breath in his nose and huffing it out his mouth, his eyelids loitering through a slow blink. “No, I do not mind; yes, you may join me,” he said, gesturing at the chair, and John graciously did nothing but smile and take the seat, unzipping his coat and folding it backward over the chair behind him.
“So, not to be a cliché, but…do you come here often?” John asked. “It’s just that I do—my flat’s right around the corner—and I’ve never seen you or Greg here before.”
Sherlock smiled, shaking his head down at the table. “No, I don’t. I usually go to the cafe where Mary works. And your sister, I guess. I’ve actually never been here before,” he explained with a shrug. “Greg wanted to meet somewhere out of the way. He’s…planning a surprise for Molly.”
“And she has spies in all the convenient coffee shops?” John whispered conspiratorially, and Sherlock laughed.
“One at least.”
“Fair enough,” John said, and then bobbed his head down at Sherlock’s cup. “Did you want another”—he paused, his lips pressing together in a repressed smirk as Sherlock’s eyes narrowed—“dark roast?”
Sherlock bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Sure,” he muttered, and John nodded, pulling his chair out and striding to the counter.
The second his back was turned, Sherlock flipped over his mobile, intent on ripping Greg a virtual new one, only to find a message from him already waiting: a collection of every heart-related emoji available. Sherlock tested out a few replies before settling on a simple middle finger emoji, and then flipped the phone back over as John returned carrying two mugs.
“Tall, Dark, and Handsome,” he announced, lowering Sherlock’s in front of him before pulling two sugars from his pocket and dropping them onto the table beside the steaming cup, “and Breakfast in Bed.”
Sherlock huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Wonder what the medium roast is called.”
“Ethiopian,” John answered, and Sherlock’s fingers fumbled the sugar packet he was pouring as he snorted, dropping the whole thing into his coffee. “Shit, I’m sorry!” John spluttered, but Sherlock just laughed, plucking the floating wrapper out of the cup with two fingertips.
“For what, telling a joke?”
“I wasn’t though,” John chuckled, wrapping his hands around his mug. “It really just says ‘Ethiopian medium roast.’”
“Huh,” Sherlock hummed, squinting toward the board. “I would have felt much less ridiculous ordering that.”
“I dunno,” John murmured, his lips brushing the curve of his cup, “I think Tall, Dark, and Handsome suits you.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened, shooting up to meet John’s, and then dropped to his coffee again as his face flamed, but he could feel John watching him, reading his reaction. He cleared his throat. “I, er… I always get the dark roast,” he muttered, but still didn’t dare look up, not sure the lump in his throat wouldn’t rapidly project out of it.
John hummed in reply, lowering his mug back to the table. “Did you know the dark roasts actually have less caffeine?” he said, the abrupt shift rattling Sherlock from his anxiety spiral, and he lifted his face with a frown. “Well, it depends on how it’s measured,” John continued, shrugging a shoulder, “but, if you’re using a scoop rather than weight, which pretty much everyone does, you get fewer dark beans per scoop because they’re larger. So, you get less caffeine.”
Sherlock blinked down at his drink, then back up to John. “I…did not know that,” he murmured, and John laughed, folding his arms on the edge of the table and leaning forward.
“You say that like… Well, like you’ve never said it before,” he chuckled.
A puff of a laugh hissed through Sherlock’s nose. “It doesn’t happen often,” he replied. “Why do you know that?”
“Junior doctor,” John sighed. “Every cup counts.”
“I bet,” Sherlock said with a short smile, and then they settled into a comfortable lull, the clinking of cups and clicks of swallows the only sounds between them.
“You know,” John blurted after a time, the syllables tumbling out in a rush, like they might never come out if they didn’t come out all at once, “I’m actually glad I ran into you.” His eyes were averted, and Sherlock watched as a swallow rolled down the front of his throat.
“Oh?” he said, because it seemed like John was waiting for him to say something, seemed like the whole world had gone silent to spin on this moment.
“Yeah, well, you left in such a hurry last night, and I didn’t get the chance to— I mean, I wanted to— I thought—” He stopped, staring down into his coffee, drawing a slow breath in through his nose before releasing it in a stretched sigh. “I like you, Sherlock,” he said, lifting his eyes, and Sherlock stared at him in disbelief, thoroughly wrong-footed by the simple sincerity, “and I’d like to go out some time. On a date.”
Sherlock’s fingertips went numb against the coffee cup, a high-pitched buzzing humming in his ears. He couldn’t make his body do anything, couldn’t even summon a blink as his eyes started to prickle from drought.
A line formed between John’s brows. “Sherlock?”
He blinked, a small hiss of needed oxygen whistling up his nose.
Wrinkles folded into John’s forehead, his eyes sweeping over Sherlock’s chest before returning to his face. “Yeah, that’s getting a bit scary now,” he muttered, eyes fluttering wide when Sherlock huffed a strangled chuckle. “Okay, I— I’m sorry, I— Clearly, I misread…something, so I’m just gonna—”
“No,” Sherlock spluttered, feeling his lips move, but his voice was beyond recognition, the reedy desperation foreign to his ears.
John froze, hovering in a hunched position that might have been funny if it hadn’t meant he was halfway to leaving. “No?” he echoed, and Sherlock closed his mouth, trying to steady his breathing in and out of his nose as his saliva turned acrid.
“No, you didn’t…misread,” he muttered, and John frowned, dropping back into his seat.
“Then…why do you look like you’re about to be sick?”
Sherlock laughed, a shrill, breathy thing he quickly cut off with a clearing of his throat. “I—I don’t…know.”
“Don’t know if you’re going to be sick or…don’t know if you want to go out?”
“I…” Where time had seemed to be frozen, it suddenly raced to make up the difference, Sherlock’s heart pounding so hard and so fast, he swore he could feel it banging against his lungs, inhibiting his breath. His eyes wandered of their own accord, as if searching for a sign—perhaps a teleprompter dropping from the ceiling to tell him exactly what to say—but found only the heart-speckled pastry case and windows and chalkboards. “It’s Valentine’s Day,” he mused, not even sure himself what that had to do with anything.
“Okay,” John said, leaning forward, his hands twitching toward Sherlock’s before he folded them back, lacing them together on the edge of the table instead, “it seems like I…really caught you off guard here”—Sherlock’s lips trembled into a smile, and John’s shoulders slumped with relief—“so…tell you what—well, first of all, are you free tomorrow morning?”
Sherlock’s brows folded together, but he nodded.
“Alright, so, tomorrow, 9 a.m., I will be here,” he said, pointing down at the table. “Well, maybe not right here”—he tapped the table for emphasis—“but I will be at this cafe. If you’re here…it’s a date,” he blurted, his flushing cheeks belying the confident delivery. “A Valentine-less date. Or something,” he muttered, shaking his head at himself. “And, if you’re not, we just…forget this whole thing ever happened and stay friends who enjoy yelling at one another in clubs.” He paused, scanning Sherlock’s face for something, but he must not have found it because he asked, “Okay?”
The pressure on his lungs—and his response—lifted somewhat, Sherlock managed to draw in a full breath. “Okay,” he said with a nod, and John’s shoulders fell with a heavy sigh of relief.
“Okay,” he echoed, and then, with a decisive nod, drained the last swig of coffee and stood. “I’ve gotta get to the hospital, but I’ll see you…sometime. Probably,” he muttered, smiling at Sherlock’s chuckle as he gathered his coat from the back of his chair. “I’ll, er…” He patted the back of his chair with his palm, eyes scanning Sherlock’s face, and then just dropped his chin, shaking his head with a breathy laugh. “Yeah, I’m just gonna…” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, and then turned, sliding his arms into the sleeves of his coat as he crossed to the door and left.
Sherlock watched him round the corner and disappear, never once looking back, and then dropped his eyes to the abandoned chair in front of him, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip as his coffee grew cold in front of him.
**One Year and Twenty-Three Hours Later**
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“I hate you so much.”
“I heard.”
John groaned, theatrically crumpling forward to bang his forehead on the table beside his coffee. “Why couldn’t you have been romantic tomorrow morning?”
Sherlock smiled, shaking his head over the mouth of his coffee mug as he hovered it below his chin. “Because tomorrow isn’t our anniversary.”
“But tomorrow I wouldn’t be exhausted from Molly and Greg’s wedding.”
“What happened to dancing ‘til morning?” Sherlock teased, and John tipped his chin up to glare at him before peeling himself up straight again.
“Besides, technically, I asked you out a year ago yesterday,” he snipped, somehow managing to look imperious even with an angry red splotch on his forehead from pressing against the table.
“Yes, but I didn’t say yes until a year ago today.”
“Semantics,” John grumbled, and then sighed, a smile lifting his lips as he reached across the table and took Sherlock’s hand. “You know I’m just joking, right?” he asked, stroking a thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand. “This is very sweet. And romantic. And early.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, threatening to pull his hand away, but John just laughed, tipping his hand up to lace their fingers.
“Seriously though, I’m glad we’re doing this,” John added, squeezing Sherlock’s hand for emphasis before sliding his digits free, picking up his coffee with a heaving sigh. “Even if we did have to squeeze it in.” He took a long drink, shaking his head around a swallow. “I know a morning-after brunch for the wedding party is pretty common, but did we really have to dress up again to wish them bon voyage?” He plucked at the lapel of his slate blue suit jacket, and Sherlock chuckled, lifting his mobile off the table and turning the screen to face him as it hummed against the wood.
Mission 221B Mine is GO!!
Molly followed her message with a thumbs-up emoji, Harry dropping an eye-roll emoji into the group chat a moment later.
We’ll be cleared out in the next five minutes, Harry added, and then Irene began typing.
Champagne is in the fridge for later (or now, I don ’t judge)
Good luck! See you at brunch! Mary said, Greg and Clara joining in with their well-wishes and premature congratulations.
Thank you, everyone Sherlock said, and then muted the conversation, returning his phone to his pocket as he looked back to John.
“Speaking of,” he muttered, flicking his brows, schooling his expression to tired resignation as he finished his coffee, “we should head back. We have to pick up their gift at the flat first.”
John nodded, standing and lifting his coat off the back of his chair, Sherlock taking the moment of his distraction to brush his hand over the box hidden in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
As they started down the street toward the tube station, the sun broke through, shafts of light shimmering through the moisture still suspended in the crisp morning air.
“Is this new?” John said, flicking at Sherlock’s tie when he frowned.
Sherlock nodded, adjusting the knot. “Yeah. Irene helped me pick it out.”
“I like it,” John said as he took Sherlock’s hand.
Sherlock smiled, staring ahead as the sun rays warmed his back, their tandem shadows stretching before them. “I’m glad.”