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John huddled deeper into his scarf and narrowed his eyes against the strong wind that was sweeping through the streets of London. Tiny hard snowflakes prickled the skin on his cheeks and he quickened his steps. Cars crept by at a snail pace and honking could be heard from everywhere. The traffic, already bad due to the rush hour, was made ten times worse by the snow calamity. Four inches of freshly fallen snow and still there was no end to it. John looked both ways and crossed the road, dodging the barely moving cars with the annoyed drivers inside.
He glanced at his watch... and frowned. He was running late. They should have been meeting twenty minutes ago and just like that he’d left his phone at home so he couldn’t even let her know he was going to be late. Hopefully she wouldn’t mind...
He could see the bright restaurant door already. Barely five yards away from it he must have stepped on a sheet of black ice under the snow he was plodding through and he nearly ended up in a heap on the ground. A grip by the elbow from a passerby, a tall slender man with his scarf wrapped up to his nose and his hat pushed deep over his eyes, saved him from the worst. The stranger’s quilted jacket seemed to repel the falling snowflakes.
“All right?” the man asked when John found his footing again.
“Thanks,” John nodded and they continued on their respective ways.
John tried in vain to wipe his shoes on the restaurant doormat. It was full of trodden snow so he merely stomped his feet a few times to get the worst off and went in. The hot air inside slapped him in his numb face and he quickly divested himself of a few layers of warm clothing while he scanned the tables in search of...
Out of a corner of his eye he caught a little wave. He turned and waved back, picking his way through the restaurant to the little table in a booth, never taking his eyes off the guest who’d been waiting for him. John gave her a bright smile.
“Hi, Molly,” he said, his eyes sparkling with delight.
“Hi, John.” Molly grinned widely and shifted in her seat. “It’s getting worse by the minute, isn’t it?” She nodded to the broad window and the heavy snowfall behind it.
“Yes it is. I’m sorry. I’ve left my phone at home. I would’ve texted you that I was stuck in a cab. When it was five minutes and we still hadn’t moved an inch, I got out and walked.” John hung up his jacket and took a seat opposite Molly.
A waitress came over and took their orders. John clasped his hands together and licked his lips. Then he locked eyes with her.
“I’m... really, terribly glad you agreed to this.” He tilted his head to the side to indicate what he meant.
Molly bit her lower lip and smiled. Her eyes dropped for a moment before she held his gaze again.
“I’ve been thinking... and I realised that, somewhere inside, I’ve been considering it for a long time already.”
John’s eyebrows crept up in surprise.
“Yes, I mean it,” Molly insisted. “Since the...let’s say... Hmm. Ever since the wedding,” she added quietly.
John’s smile froze on his lips. He frowned momentarily.
“What do you mean?” he asked in a low, tight voice. Molly’s eyes widened.
“I – I’m sorry, I thought it best t-to be honest,” she stammered in that nervous habit of hers. “Things weren’t exactly smooth between me and Tom at the wedding, you know, but at the time I needed... someone. I was willing to overlook how much he grated on my nerves but only a few days after that...” She shrugged. “I knew why. And you know, now, too, don’t you? It’s pretty clear. And you, even back then... I mean, I had a hunch. Is it too wrong of me to be saying it now? I thought that Mary...” She scrunched her lips as if she didn’t really want to get out the next words. “...You and her... You’re divorced, aren’t you?” she asked in a low voice.
John watched her for a long while, thinking hard.
“I really loved her back then,” he said at last, slowly. “But you always saw far beyond what anyone was letting on, didn’t you? Even back then, when everything seemed to be so... ideal.”
Molly shrugged again. “Somebody wouldn’t agree with you,” she grinned mischievously. “And that’s going to come in handy.” She winked.
John searched her eyes for a hint of sadness, for some hidden pang of pain but realised there was not a trace of it. He straightened his spine and leaned comfortably into the back of his chair. Then he shook his head, smiling as if he couldn’t believe his luck.
“You... you’re serious, aren’t you? No second thoughts. You’re in.”
“Yup.” Molly nodded firmly. She smiled, leaned forward and grabbed John’s hand. “I’m in, John.”
***
Sherlock was skimming through the second edition of The Pharmaceutical Use of English Weeds, looking for any substantial changes. There have been only a few so far and he was already through half of it. He sighed in boredom. Putting a bookmark between the pages, he stared at it unseeingly for a couple of moments and then he laid the book aside onto the pile of other books and papers scattered on top of the coffee table. He steepled his hands under his chin and turned his unfocused gaze onto the ceiling, cataloguing. Marvellous activity. Interesting how quickly the time passed when one was at it.
Slam of the front door: John was back. Sherlock ran a quick internal check on his expression and added a layer of bored indifference to it, waiting.
John’s tread was suspiciously light today. Experienced something interesting – at work? No, he had a shift yesterday, today was his day off and he had to... hmm, where did he say he was going? No matter, Sherlock was about to find out.
Sherlock glanced at John coming through the door and shedding his jacket. He tossed it on the chair and attacked the loops of his scarf with fingers numb with cold (red fingers, clumsy movements, he walked for at least three quarters of an hour, why for God’s sake?). He gave a full body shiver and then he glanced over to Sherlock, quirked a corner of his lips in a little smile and went into the kitchen, presumably to make himself a cuppa.
“Have you lifted your arse off that sofa at all today?” echoed a voice from the kitchen. Sherlock checked the time. Oh. Half past one? Then his eyes narrowed. John’s voice sounded forced. He was trying to suppress something, not to give it away. The crack in the ceiling Sherlock had spent his attention on for the last few hours suddenly ceased to hold any appeal when compared to the infinitesimally more interesting John. Sherlock got up and padded on silent feet to stand right behind his friend. John was humming something under his breath and went about fixing his tea. Something was off – he was smelling of something –
Sherlock blinked slowly, sorting through his mental archive of smells and scent components until he could conclude that John smelled of:
Chips
Beef soup – bouillon – no, beef stew
Coffee, whole bean, (ugh)
Flowers
Sherlock opened his eyes, frowning. The last item was complex and intricate, so no floral decoration; it was a perfume.
John had been on a date. A date with someone who willingly slathered themselves with a concoction of vanilla and sweet floral scents, oh, disgusting, vanilla-scented women are romantic and insipid and boring... But... As it occurred to Sherlock, were it John’s first date, he wouldn’t be reeking with the typical odour of a pub. John liked to take his first dates to places where the cuisine was at least acceptable so this indicated...
Sherlock’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. John must have dated this woman for a few weeks, at least. They were familiar, comfortable with each other to the point that they could drop by a mediocre restaurant without jeopardizing the date and moreover, John was humming to himself, the relationship was thriving. How could Sherlock have missed this?
John turned around suddenly and jerked back in surprise, the hot tea in his cup sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Sherlock’s gaze flew to the cup and he quickly grabbed John’s wrist, steadying it. John looked at Sherlock’s hand on his for a moment, clearly nonplussed, then he lifted his eyes to Sherlock’s and laughed, an abrupt sound.
“You’re creeping up like a ghost.”
Sherlock reluctantly let him go (God he smells like flowers, he should smell like something-someone else) and John carried his cuppa into the living room.
“You keep saying that a lot,” Sherlock muttered and followed him, keen on the new discovery.
“How did it go?” he asked, all faked innocence, when John’s tea was safely on the table and John’s attention was on his laptop.
“Hmmm? Oh yes, well. Fine,” John remarked in a tone obviously designed to put Sherlock off prying. The result was, naturally, exactly the opposite.
“Six weeks?”
John hunted and pecked in his password, ignoring him.
“Seven?” Sherlock realised with no little alarm that anyone could detect the nervousness behind his questioning. John lifted his eyes from the keyboard and set his chin, hard.
“What exactly do you want to know?”
Sherlock huffed in annoyance and flopped into his chair opposite John’s. He tucked his knees under his chin, assuming the perfect impression of a petulant five year old.
“Don’t try to fool me. You’re dating someone.”
John hid his face, looking down and to the side, and licked his lips. Then he locked his gaze with Sherlock’s again, his eyes piercing. “And that’s a crime or what?”
Sherlock nonchalantly and exaggeratedly shrugged.
John was glaring daggers at him for a while, expecting another attack similar to those he had experienced several times after his divorce (even though they were mostly ungrounded), evidently ready for some blood-boiling action – but then the strain and anger seemed to dissipate from him, replaced by sadness. He heaved a long sigh and opened the browser.
“You’ve deduced it already. What’s there for me to answer?” he grumbled and skimmed over the headlines.
Sherlock added some flourish to his sulking when he didn’t dignify John’s question with an answer and retreated into his Mind Palace instead. He had to find the evidence of John’s relationship that he had so shamefully allowed himself to overlook in the past weeks.
***
On a Saturday almost-noon a week later Sherlock indulgently stretched on a bed where he had spent the last six hours on-and-off sleeping, got up and headed for the bathroom. Barely through the door of his bedroom, one arm still tangled in his dressing gown sleeve, he was stopped in his tracks by a tell-tale smell of a posh cologne. His brother, it would seem, had decided to pay him a visit.
Sherlock growled under his breath and went on and about his shower, fully intending to take his time and make His Majesty wait. At last, wrapped in his dressing gown again, he lifted his straight razor – only to remember that very few things could rile Mycroft up better than seeing Sherlock with a couple of days’ worth of stubble. He smirked and exited the fogged bathroom into the kitchen, prepared a cup of tea, a very single cup of tea, and with a fake smile he turned in the direction of the living room.
“To what do I owe the unwelcome presence of your bothersome self, brother?”
Mycroft was skimming through some file on his lap and his face would seem expressionless to the majority of mankind. When he lifted his eyebrows and then his entire head, thin lips extended into a wide smile, Sherlock felt a fleeting stab of panic. This wasn’t his usual condescending smile; this one was a mere mask, hiding a deep disconcertment.
Sherlock wasn’t sure what to make of it. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown, parting the tails a bit from where they were held together by the loose knot on his sash. Mycroft’s eyes flashed in irritation when he noted Sherlock’s state of undress and untidiness.
“Good day to you too,” he replied sourly. Sherlock calmed down. Whatever concerns plagued Mycroft’s mind, it couldn’t be really serious when such a silly bit of attitude was all it took for him to fall back into his usual behaviour.
“I’m under the impression you’d be truly interested in what I’ve brought you. And no, it’s not a case.” Mycroft raised his hand to stop whatever Sherlock was about to say. “It’s about you.”
He closed the file and lifted it towards Sherlock, his movements strangely hesitant.
Sherlock shuffled on his feet. What was this all about? Some pathetic attempt at brotherly care? Sherlock would have thought that phase was behind them. Clearly it wasn’t yet.
“Some ground-breaking result of your spying on me? I’d be tremendously surprised.” He played for time, pondering whether or not to accept the file.
The door upstairs opened; John was coming down. Mycroft shifted, an almost imperceptible move, and put the file back onto his knees. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.
“Ah-a,” John exhaled upon coming down the stairs and spotting Mycroft in his chair. “Good... um, day.”
Sherlock turned to his companion. Bad night? His gaze raked over him, searching for the signs of nightmares.
Mycroft gave John a very deliberate once-over and pressed his lips together. “Very good, indeed.” His tone was ice-cold and John shifted his gaze, blushing slightly. Sherlock snapped his eyes between them, trying to decipher John as to the meaning of the something going on between the two. Then he huffed in annoyance when he couldn’t find anything.
“Well, some other time, Sherlock. But very soon, mind you,” Mycroft said, rising from the chair and leaving, the file which he had been so bent upon giving to Sherlock earlier still under his arm.
So it wasn’t about Sherlock. It was about John. Mycroft would give it to Sherlock but didn’t want John to witness it...
Oh.
It must be about John’s new girlfriend. Sherlock swallowed with some difficulty. Had it got so serious that Mycroft deemed it necessary to brief Sherlock on it? Had he brought a report on her? Pictures of John and that woman, from their moments together, moments Sherlock refused to even think about?
Deep in thought, Sherlock retreated into his bedroom to put on more layers under his armour of a dressing gown.
John never commented on either Mycroft’s remarks or Sherlock’s later insinuations about wild nights. But Sherlock was relentless and even patient, when it suited him. Close to one o’clock John closed his laptop with a deep sigh (not relief – tension - anticipation) and left for his room. The more time he spent holed up in there the less theories about probable events of the previous night remained in Sherlock’s head.
The definite picture of John’s plans for the afternoon dawned on Sherlock when John came back down, heading for the bathroom. He wore his best jeans and a grey-stripped petrol blue shirt that brought out his eyes and the exact shade of his blond hair. Sherlock scowled, sprang off the sofa in a cloud of billowing dressing gown and followed John into the bathroom.
“You’re going to meet her again?” he asked in disbelief.
John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s reflection in the bathroom mirror.
“Do you really have mental spreadsheets on recommended date frequency in a flourishing relationship between two people?”
Sherlock was taken aback, mainly because he really kept spreadsheets of exactly the sort. Before he could collect himself, John was already giving him a knowing glance.
“Jesus.” John shook his head, smiling. He put down the comb and turned to leave.
“I’m leaving,” he announced pointedly to Sherlock who was blocking the doorway.
Sherlock didn’t move. Partly because he was currently concentrating on slow breathing due to the captivating woody fragrance of John’s cologne and its effect on his thought processes. He crossed his arms and weighed his options.
“Where to?” he asked, feigning nonchalance.
“Not your business. You’d be bored anyway.” John shuffled his feet but Sherlock still didn’t budge an inch.
“When will you be getting back?” Sherlock continued this ridiculous interrogation. John pressed his lips together in annoyance.
“Might actually be tomorrow,” John shrugged. Sherlock pouted.
John grabbed him by the shoulders and moved him out of the bathroom, like a piece of furniture.
“And what if I need you?”
“I’m switching my phone off as soon as I get there!” John called out merrily, running down the stairs.
Sherlock stood, frozen to the spot, listening to the silence that fell on the flat. John’s scent lingered for a little while longer before it, too, vanished.
John had never done this. Never. Never! Never was there anyone who would have John at their beck and call with such enthusiasm on John’s part. Ninety nine percent of his women were a mere distraction and John wasn’t even trying to fool them. All but for Mary, he really loved her at one time, but even Sherlock couldn’t think of her as of an intruder – well, not entirely – because she used to approve of their adventures and their lifestyle. Other women never stood a chance; John was always putting Sherlock and the Work first. Until now. Did he really want to switch off his phone??
All that flew through Sherlock’s mind between one eye-blink and the next. He shed the dressing gown, put on his coat and scarf and hurried out. He was going to stalk John; and once he found out who it was John was dating so happily, he’d have to devise a plan how to get John away from her, the sooner the better.
***
John looked back several times on his escape from Baker Street – for the first time before he was out of the door, actually – but there was no sign of Sherlock. He slowed down. His plans with Molly for today entailed a late lunch and then, today being her day off, they wanted to go to the pictures. The rest of the evening would be dedicated to the game of Monopoly they’d started the last time they were at hers...
This. This plan was simply brilliant.
A week ago Sherlock had finally realised that John was dating someone. Of course, he couldn’t deduce whom, and now John could see the angry swarm of question marks above the detective’s curly head every time he looked at him.
John smiled and checked his phone. Any moment now he expected a text from Sherlock along the lines of Experiment gone wrong need help or Help John I burned my hand/leg/eyebrows/arse. Only, Sherlock didn’t send a single iota. John pursed his lips and stopped, staring at the silent screen. What if–
He turned abruptly and searched the street behind him. But the crowds in the city centre didn’t make it easy to search for someone, even though said someone was a tall and a rather attractive detective whom John would recognise anywhere. Some minute later John felt the adrenaline rush fade and a blush take its place. Sherlock – trailing him, going to see him with Molly... Well. John resumed his previous direction and hoped that his addition to their plan wouldn’t throw Molly off enough to drop the character.
They both knew that Mycroft noticing them was inevitable, as well as his subsequent arrival at 221B to inform his brother about the affair. So they kept putting on the play for the benefit of the thick lenses of the CCTV system long before Sherlock had a clue something was going on. Peck on the cheek here, a hug there, one small chaste kiss on the mouth once. Just a small one.
Molly couldn’t keep her face in check after that and as soon as they were out of sight of the cameras, she burst out in a fit of giggles like a schoolgirl. John couldn’t help but joining her – for him that kiss felt like he was five again and had gone to kiss his Mum good night.
John’s phone buzzed. He fished it out of his pocket and stood to the side of the pavement to read the message.
Where did you put the new box of tea? You keep moving things. SH
John started to text back that he forgot to buy tea last time but then he stopped himself. What if this was Sherlock already trailing him and this was simply the usual cockblocking text, one you would expect from a detective sulking at home? Well, only one way to find out.
On the other side of the cooker, behind the coffee tin. J
No reaction. John narrowed his eyes, shifted on his feet and shook his head in obvious annoyance, doing everything to show to his invisible shadow that he was expecting a reply.
Did you find it? He added for good measure.
Yes. SH
You stupid, idiotic liar, John thought to himself with no small amount of affection. He bowed his head to hide his face so that the only witness to his amusement was graffiti on a wall. This was so good. Sherlock actually was somewhere near, watching him. John put his phone back into his pocket, smoothed his face into the usual blank expression of a London pedestrian, and hurried on to meet his date.
When he made it to the Park Village crossroads, Molly was already there, shuffling around in the trodden snow. Hands deep in her pockets and shoulders hunched against the wind, she spotted John and smiled. John crossed the road to her, lifting his eyebrows and giving her a pointed look to give her at least some warning. Close to her, he lifted his hand and cupped her cheek, reddened with the cold. Her eyes widened in surprise when she understood what was about to happen. John’s eyes burned with a plea: Don’t flinch – don’t give us away. So she closed her eyes and accepted the kiss – a proper lovers’ kiss, not overly vulgar but slow and languid.
John could feel Molly tense up. She had agreed to this hypothetical course of events back in the beginning because that was the point after all, to make whoever – Sherlock, at best –who’d observe their behaviour come to the conclusion that they were lovers. But that didn’t imply they were enjoying it.
John stroked her temple to signal I’m about to pull away and Molly remained still, eyes closed. Her breathing was elevated and John wasn’t sure if it was her nerves playing up or another fit of giggles kept at bay. He took her hand. Then she looked at him and it was instantly clear that she was struggling not to burst out in laughter. John’s guilt eased a little but at the same time his pride suffered a little bruise. He liked to think of himself as a good kisser. He smirked and together they went into the Edinboro Castle for lunch.
***
Hidden behind the yew tree branches heavy with fresh snow Sherlock Holmes stood and stared in shock.
Molly.
Molly? Molly? It was not possible. John and her – John would never – they’d never even looked at each other like that – like they were attracted to each other!
He was racking his Mind Palace, searching in vain for some clues on previous mutual sympathy. There were none. Yes, John always treated her courteously and they became closer friends after Molly introduced Tom to them (Tom, that moron, water under the bridge now but God what Sherlock wouldn’t give for him to come back to her!).
Data: courtesy – holding the door for her, helping her into the coat, boring, John for some unfathomable reason treated every woman this way even though he obviously wasn’t interested in her.
Data: becoming friends – shared experiences, like that pub night every Friday night the two of them attended (always), together with Tom (in sixty percent of occurrences), with Sherlock (only once, and God, he didn’t want to brave that mind-numbing inane chit-chat and sniggering and beverages ever again – not to mention the hideous morning after), with Mike Stamford (regularly), with Greg Lestrade (nearly always) and definitely without Mycroft (even though he attempted to sneak in once under the pretext of bringing Sherlock Greg an important case).
Oh.
Was there an important factor – the emotional bonding – he had overlooked in those pub nights when he wrote them off as too pedestrian? Back then it certainly looked harmless enough...
Sherlock shook his head to disperse the thoughts whirling in his head, mere unfounded theories at this point. He waited for the pair to disappear around a corner and then he followed them, intent on remaining unseen, keeping his eyes peeled, senses on alert, like a greyhound catching a scent, like a predator throwing himself after his prey ... oh shit, he nearly lost them in his zeal. Sherlock blinked and forced his mind to focus. Then he caught a sight of John’s shoe disappearing in some door and a whiff of that obtrusive perfume Molly must have bathed in today.
So they went into a restaurant. What’s that with people and shared meals? Do they really go lunching and dining together so they could know the worst about each other – that is, each other’s eating habits – while the relationship is still in the beginnings?
Sherlock’s eyes roamed over the restaurant front (clean) and the doormat (well kept) and pondered whether or not to follow them inside. Until now he had mostly succeeded in suppressing any reaction to the long (dear God, nearly never ending) kiss he witnessed but now it was almost getting the better of him: his palms were sweating (had he really walked so fast?), his throat was dry and something which shouldn’t physically exist inside of him burned and squeezed and altogether he felt exactly the way he did that day when John jumped into the Thames after a suspect and nearly drowned himself.
Sherlock gritted his teeth when he realised that his eyes were burning just as if he was watching John’s head disappear below the water’s surface all over again.
That’s it! His paralysed brain kicked in. You’ve got to see him. You’ll feel better.
A small but very insistent thought flashed through his head – how can a thing as simple as eye contact with John affect my behaviour so much? – and was promptly ignored. Sherlock entered the restaurant.
There; they were sitting in the back. Molly was relating some story and gesticulating and John was laughing from the bottom of his heart. Sherlock was slowly coming nearer; they hadn’t noticed him yet. John made some remark and Molly laughed too.
Something must have short-circuited in Sherlock’s brain in the moment of his stepping inside because though one of his hemispheres was all but yelling at him to turn on his heel and run away, the rest of his brain didn’t pay any attention to it. Only after he finally came to John’s table and sat down, that short-circuited bit re-connected itself and Sherlock could hear a frantic voice in his head screaming you’ve got no plan, you can’t just sit d– oh great you already did, so now hurry and think of something believable!
“Hello, Molly. John,” Sherlock said, as composed as he could, and put a napkin on his lap.
For a taut moment of silence both Molly and John just stared at him, wordless, and then Molly gave him her typical tittering smile. She looked from John to Sherlock and back, drank from her glass of water and then she focused on her menu, turning another page and not saying a word. A waiter materialised behind Sherlock, handed him another menu and disappeared again.
“So, you come here often?” Sherlock remarked and mentally kicked himself.
“What are you doing here?” John asked, drumming his fingers on the hard cover of his menu. Sherlock frowned and reluctantly lifted his gaze from the neat fine print. It was strange. John should have been furious – very surprised, at least –at Sherlock spoiling yet another of his dates. Surprised – yes, but only slightly – but definitely not furious. All things considered, John looked more like a curious mixture of annoyed/tense/amused.
“A difficult case? Happening around here so you just had to, um, come in?” Molly asked suddenly, putting down her menu.
Sherlock swallowed down the ready retort, willing to play for time. “Yes, something like that.”
The waiter was back to take the orders. Sherlock continued: “Stake-outs can be–”
Molly nodded to indicate she was listening and then she ordered a meal for all three of them. What? The waiter left, John licked his lips and smiled broadly, and Molly took his hand. Sherlock did his best not to scowl over such an obvious display of affection.
“– difficult.” He finished rather lamely. A rather pointed silence ensued.
“Well. You two. Together.” Sherlock stated the obvious. Nobody was buying the imaginary case explaining his presence in this particular restaurant anyway so why not address the matters at hand.
“Looks like it,” Molly answered gently and John’s smile for some unfathomable reason grew even wider.
“We didn’t want to... announce it, for the time being.” John shrugged and shifted a utensil on the table into a more symmetric arrangement.
“Really. Until now you paraded every one of your girlfriends in front of me, perhaps to prove your masculinity. What’s so different about Molly? Are you ashamed of her?” Sherlock nagged him.
“That’s not–” John blurted out but nobody paid attention to him. Molly jumped a little at the insulting words but didn’t let go of John’s hand.
“When were you planning on telling me?” Sherlock continued. “Oh! Of course, you weren’t. I was supposed to deduce it. Well, the cat’s out of the bag now.”
John spared a concerned glance for Molly who was keeping her eyes glued to the table cloth.
“We wanted to tell you,” John began slowly but he was interrupted by Molly:
“When we pick the date.”
Sherlock stared at her uncomprehendingly. He checked her ring finger: no engagement ring, thank God, his heart was about to jump out of his ribcage. John looked slightly perplexed–
“A date for our wedding,” Molly specified. John grew a bit pale but Sherlock couldn’t decide why, his observation and reasoning momentarily drowned out by a flood of strangely bitter feelings. He’s going to get married again?
“You don’t have a ring!” he accused her. It came out sharper than he intended it to. His heart seemed to engage in a wild set of dive rolls.
The waiter was back, stupid man, couldn’t he tell when he was playing third wheel...? He brought them aperitifs and left again.
Molly let go of John’s hand and fished for something behind her neckline. John still looked vaguely frightened, that much Sherlock managed to register before Molly took out a chain with a ring on it. Engagement ring.
“Rings with stones and latex gloves just don’t go together.” Molly shrugged.
Sherlock closed his mouth. Very deliberately he lifted his glass and knocked down the gin in it.
“Of course,” he agreed a moment later, in a voice that betrayed nothing of his inner turmoil. Well, he hoped it didn’t.
He felt absolutely dire. John proposed to Molly and she agreed. It happened totally under Sherlock’s nose, he didn’t even know they were dating. John was going to marry. He was going to be married. Again. And his wife wouldn’t be a psychopath this time but an intelligent, albeit a bit clumsy, passably attractive and sometimes even witty Molly. It was clear to Sherlock when he entered the restaurant that the two could entertain each other just fine.
He’s going to get married. He’s going to move out. Again.
Did they always look together like that on those Friday pub nights?
Sherlock will be left alone again.
He brought out his phone, read off an imaginary incoming text message and fake sent a reply. I’m in no way thrown off by this announcement. Not at all. I’m reacting absolutely normally. Just as if you told me you were going to a pub on Friday.
“It would seem that the suspect showed up.... somewhere else.” He put back the napkin, rose and put on his coat in a hurry.
“Well,” he nodded, suddenly at a loss for words, and went away without a single glance back. It hurt. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.
And he didn’t want them to see him hurting. He didn’t want John to see.
***
Sherlock left and John stared after him in consternation. Molly cleared her throat.
“Seems like it worked,” she said cautiously. John looked at her. She was biting her lip, apparently deep in thought.
“Yeah,” John said, far from sure. “Sorry–” he waved his hand to encompass the usual sorry that Sherlock was such an arse.
“He didn’t mean it.” Molly shook her head. “You should go after him and explain.”
“Hmm.” John couldn’t forget Sherlock’s expression when Molly showed him the ring. So open and unguarded. “Where did you get it?” he nodded towards the chain.
“It was my Mum’s,” Molly grinned. “Just go. You might catch him before he gets home.”
“Right. Okay. Sorry.” John pulled a card out of his wallet and handed it to Molly who tried to protest. “It’s Sherlock’s. You can give it back later. Some time. Ehm – later,” John added absent-mindedly, trying to wrestle himself into his coat and still hesitating, torn between wanting to bolt and feeling embarrassed for leaving Molly alone.
“Just go, silly. I’ll be fine,” Molly laughed and raised her glass. “Wishing you luck.”
John grabbed his own glass, clinked it against hers and knocked it down, wincing at the taste.
“Thank you.” He kissed her cheek and rushed out.
Sherlock was nowhere in sight. No flapping dark coat on the streets. He must have flagged down a cab. John sighed and headed home.
All he wanted was to get a rise – or at least some kind of reaction – out of Sherlock. How else could he be sure if Sherlock was ever going to speak his mind, or worse, if Sherlock himself was aware how differently to everyone else he treated John? Aware of the way he looked at him? John knew Sherlock liked him, to an extent, but was it enough to move things any further?
If John had been the one to open the dialogue and admit his feeling for Sherlock to him (and honestly, he couldn’t fathom under what circumstances Sherlock would ever let the answer be pried from him), the most likely outcome would have been Sherlock’s pride rearing its ugly head and denying everything. And John would have accepted it despite knowing better. He would have let Sherlock carry on as he did, oblivious.
But John couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t carry on living beside Sherlock, sharing the flat, the Work, sharing everything, without at least trying. At least once.
John heaved another long sigh. He sidestepped a frozen puddle and continued on the trodden path through Regent’s Park.
He had to know if Sherlock was capable of jealousy. And more so, jealousy because of him. A real, proper jealousy, not some half-hearted spoiling of John’s dates just to keep him available for cases. But John didn’t expect him to accept the fabricated story about him dating Molly so easily. Well, the wedding news Molly whipped out so readily was probably a heavy calibre.
The sky darkened and it began to snow. Soft flocks of snow were falling on the ground, catching on John’s coat, on his hair, caressing his face with cold fingers.
John narrowed his eyes and looked around. The road was splitting into two before him, and as he blinked, gaze roaming across the half-deserted park, he was suddenly arrested by the sight of something in the distance–
On a bench under a young tree sat Sherlock, unmoving, collar turned up, hands deep in his pockets, staring ahead. John couldn’t tell what expression he wore, and he wished for what could well be the thousandth time that he could read his friend’s mind. He adjusted his scarf and went right to him.
The nearer he got the more he was aware of the strange fluttering in his stomach. Sherlock didn’t notice him until he was standing next to the bench which was definitely odd. Only then did Sherlock spare him a glance and then his head snapped up, a startled expression on his face swiftly morphing into a frown.
***
“Shouldn’t you be elsewhere?” he asked. John sighed and shook his head. Then, much to Sherlock’s surprise, he sat down directly next to him. Next to wasn’t even describing it any more; their legs touched from hip to knee. John leaned forward, elbows on his knees, interlocking his fingers, and stared ahead.
“What’s going on?” Sherlock asked and fidgeted. It was disconcerting, having to admit that he had no grasp on the situation twice in such a short time. John bowed his head and Sherlock could see the snowflakes landing on his hair and refusing to melt. Did he have a cap of snow like that as well? He hadn’t even noticed when it started to snow.
“Back at the restaurant, when you observed that I and Molly are together, what did she tell you?” John asked in lieu of answering.
Sherlock huffed in annoyance. “I’m not here to be tested for–”
John straightened up and looked at him. He had to sit back a bit which disappointed Sherlock but it also had the benefit of being able to look directly at him without squinting.
“Do me a favour and answer the question.”
“She confirmed my observation.” Sherlock shrugged. John still stared at him, irritation slowly growing behind his eyes, an expression that left Sherlock with an intense feeling of déja vu. He rolled his eyes.
“Well then. She said exactly, ‘looks like it’. And you made a face like a happy loon.”
John nodded, smiling.
Smiling?
“Care to explain why you left your fiancée alone in a restaurant? Don’t try to convince me that you suddenly had a strong urge to talk,” Sherlock gritted through his teeth, “and with me, to boot, instead of planning the honeymoon and such nonsense with her – why,” he stopped short and tilted his head in confusion, raking his glance over John who looked more and more relaxed, “why do you look so bloody satisfied?”
***
John shook his head and nudged Sherlock’s knee with his own.
“Leave off. You want to let me stew a bit, don’t you? You surely figured it out by now.” John snorted. But Sherlock was still looking at him uncomprehendingly and now even a bit angrily and John finally realised that this magnificent idiot was never going to get it. He dropped his smile and licked his lips. Now or never.
“It was meant to look like that. We aren’t engaged, we aren’t going to get married – hell, we aren’t even dating. We never dated. It was just–” he shrugged, cleared his throat. Shifted on the bench.
“For your sake,” he added quietly.
He looked away. He desperately wanted to be looking into Sherlock’s eyes when his friend finally made the connection but he couldn’t be looking there because the moment Sherlock got it he would smirk disdainfully, saying something along the lines of John, please. You can’t be serious and John couldn’t take it from such proximity, couldn’t see it coming from the very depths of those clear, piercing eyes. He would manage, he repeated to himself while his mind was throwing at him one rejection scenario after another. He was going to manage, somehow.
For a while all he heard was silence, the noise of the city, cars and honks and people and life subdued by the distance. The park was quiet; he could nearly hear the snow falling.
“For my sake,” Sherlock said and John looked up. In the end, he couldn’t ever look away again.
***
Sherlock stomped down on the confusion and unexpected joy John’s declaration had brought to swell inside him. The whole matter was too permeated by emotions and while he was self-assured enough when it came to analysing the emotions of others, he couldn’t maintain the same unbiased stance where he and his friends were concerned.
Why would John want to pretend that he was dating Molly? He had kissed her, it looked so loving and tender and soft from the distance – hold on, was he really contemplating the softness of John’s lips right there? Sherlock woke from a brief drift-off and he realised that he had indeed been staring at John’s mouth for God knows how long.
Backtrack. Focus. Why would John go to such lengths if he wasn’t in fact interested in a relationship with their mutual... friend?
Sherlock couldn’t see the motive. If he was in John’s shoes, what would he do? Sherlock bit back a growl. Okay. Another way.
What was the outcome? Ridiculing you, his mind readily offered. Sherlock shushed it angrily and the unwelcome bitter voice stopped.
It was all for your sake. So it was Sherlock’s reaction that was relevant. How could it be? Did John really want to see Sherlock hurt and frightened by the idea of him leaving? The idea that John had found someone good enough to spend his whole life with them (her, with Molly, only that he won’t, he denied it just then!)
Why would you want to watch how the idea of you leaving wounded me and how your seemingly happy relationship with Molly was destroying me?
Oh. John was gaping at him. Sherlock must have been speaking aloud. Unacceptable. He pressed his lips together.
John looked sad-nervous-hopeful. The last component of his expression didn’t fit and Sherlock dismissed it as another glaring evidence of his inability to label emotions of people from his inner circle. Then John shifted closer to him. Sherlock noticed with satisfaction how his leg made contact with John’s warmth again.
“I didn’t want that. I just wanted to stir you up a bit – but I didn’t think you’d take it that way.”
Sherlock lifted his eyebrows.
“Facts about it being fabricated aside – had the affair be real, would you have asked me to be your best man again?”
“That’s not the–” John retorted in surprise.
“Simple question, John.”
“And an irrelevant one, too.” John frowned. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched upon the word out of his vocabulary. John heaved another one of his long sighs.
“Look, it wouldn’t have come to that.” Sherlock drew breath to interrupt him but John put his hand on Sherlock’s knee, squeezing a bit. “I don’t want to get married. Not to Molly, not to anyone. Never.”
“How can you be so su–”
“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock!” John groaned. “I only wanted to know if you’d be jealous, really jealous after finding out that I was dating someone actually intelligent and with a long-term relationship potential. I needed to know if you weren’t behaving like this,” he waved his hand abruptly, “simply because I’m just slightly more bearable than the average idiots around you and because I’m the one who can put up with you for more than an hour!”
John tilted his head, suddenly looking terrified before the old Watsonian courage glinted again in his eyes and he continued: “Or if it’s because you – I wanted to know if you – if you value me, that is. If you want me. If you’re willing to think of something... more. Between us.”
His eyes flickered again and then he set his jaw hard, prepared to deal with anything coming his way, and met Sherlock’s gaze again. Sherlock continued to stare at him like he was seeing him for the first time.
About two minutes of the silent staring contest John’s eyes began to burn. It was too much. He had said too much. He shouldn’t have been shouting. And he shouldn’t have fake dated Molly either. The whole plan was rubbish. He should have–
“I don’t do this often because it usually irritates me,” Sherlock began slowly and John frowned. He didn’t know what Sherlock was aiming at and frankly, such a reply to John’s more-or-less declaration of love didn’t exactly encourage him. “But I’m going to resume my conclusions, all right?”
***
John nodded hesitantly.
“You have – for how long, exactly?”
“About three weeks,” John supplied.
“So you have pretended for three weeks,” Sherlock internally growled at his previous wrong estimate, “that you’ve been dating Molly Hooper to make me reconsider your value?”
John blinked. Put like that it must have sounded rather awful.
“How far would you go in your quest to ‘stir me up a bit’? Today, you’ve been kissing–”
“That was because I knew you were there, idiot,” John smiled briefly. “Honestly, if we didn’t kiss here and there under the CCTV cameras, how long it would take Mycroft to visit you or for you to get a clue?”
Had Sherlock had feathers, he would have ruffled them in his outrage right now. So he at least scowled. “It looked very authentic.”
“It was weird and a bit disgusting. Like kissing your sister.” Those words probably brought up the image of John’s real sister, judging by the way his eyes widened. “Oh God. Definitely not good. Not good at all. When we rounded the corner Molly nearly laughed her socks off so she probably thought the same.”
Sherlock pursed his lips to hide his smile.
“Idiot. Of course you’re invaluable to me,” he grumbled in a deep, strangely gentle voice. John went still.
***
John didn’t know whether he should ask again. It was embarrassing enough the first time. Sherlock looked like he was about to drop the question of a closer relationship entirely and maybe that was for the best. Maybe he was being gentle with John. Not wanting to hurt him with sarcastic rejection–
“All you had to do was ask.” Sherlock lowered his head and leaned closer to John. “If I want. Something more.” He was smiling and giving John a sidelong glance that was almost coy.
John searched his face for a trap but Sherlock...was...serious?
“Correct me if I’m getting this wrong,” Sherlock rubbed his lips and fixed his stare at John’s, “shouldn’t there be a kiss to confirm the step-up in a relationship?”
John wasn’t aware when he leaned closer. Sherlock swallowed and kept gazing into his eyes.
“You think we could...?” John didn’t finish.
“Hmmm,” exhaled Sherlock and bit his bottom lip.
“Begin... with a kiss?” John couldn’t tear his eyes from that lip and registered with growing exhilaration that yes, he was allowed to watch that breathtaking mouth from such proximity–
“Hmm-mmm,” Sherlock affirmed and then their lips met.
The first contact was brief, firm but gentle. Then Sherlock tilted his head a bit. John’s lips slid to the corner of his mouth where he planted a soft kiss. He caressed his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue in a hesitant invitation and Sherlock sharply drew in a breath and invaded John’s mouth and it was... John surrendered himself to Sherlock’s insistence, letting the hot feeling wash over his body and come to settle in his groin. He sighed in bliss and only barely registered that the hand squeezing Sherlock’s knee has mysteriously wandered higher, groping the solid muscle of Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock growled deep in his throat, as if he was suddenly overwhelmed by everything he could feel, and John seized this opportunity and kissed him deeply, and Christ, he had never had a kiss this brilliant. He didn’t want it to finish but in the end he had to come up for breath and he pulled away reluctantly.
They were both panting slightly and John noticed with satisfaction that Sherlock’s eyes were full of something dark and very, very hungry. Sherlock raised his hand and touched John’s face, weaving his fingers in silver-blond hair. He smiled, mouth half open.
“Home. Now.” He said determinedly.
“Freezing your arse off, too?” John grinned.
Something indescribable flashed through Sherlock’s eyes. Something... wild.
“That, too.” Sherlock attempted to shake off the snow from his wet and wilting curls. John giggled and licked his lips, not missing the way Sherlock watched the movement. “But first...” his voice dipped low and John suddenly felt very hot, “you take a shower. You smell like a schoolgirl with a first crush.”
John groaned and rolled his eyes. “I tried to tell her! You’re right, it was far too much flowery vanilla for someone so small.”
They rose and set out for home. After a while, Sherlock offered his hand to John. He accepted it with a warm feeling around his heart.
“But really. Molly?” Sherlock asked in disbelief. “How did you come up with it? How did she ever agree?”
John shrugged. “She was the only one to do such a thing for me. And – according to her – she’s been waiting far too long for us to get together.”
Sherlock tripped over his feet.
“Oh.”
John was watching him with amusement.
“I never understood your predilection for winter walks in the Park,” Sherlock observed and sped up his steps, having obviously recovered from the mental image of Molly sitting at home and daydreaming about Sherlock and John together.
“It’s nice here. Quiet. When someone is riling me up it’s the ideal place to chill out a bit,” John added cheerfully.
“There are no cabs!” Sherlock shot him a distressed look, looked around, and then he adjusted the front of his trousers. John’s heart skipped a beat.
“Yeah,” he cleared his throat after a moment. “You’re right. It’s far from... practical.”
The dusk had fallen during the time they spent on the bench, heavy snow clouds shielding off the remaining sunlight. Not even the white snow was enough to brighten the surroundings. The lamps along the paths were blinking to life, one after another. John noticed a small summerhouse not very far from them. It would be locked but not too secured... He licked his lips.
“How much do you mind the perfume?” he asked quietly. Sherlock gave him a questioning glance and then he followed his gaze to the summerhouse. He inhaled sharply, left the path and dragged John across the snow-covered lawns to the abandoned shelter. He didn’t even mind the snow getting into his shoes.
“Not overly much,” he said. John grinned and couldn’t wait ’til they reached the summerhouse; ’til Sherlock picked the lock on the door and then they would at last be... warm.
So, it was a good plan after all.
He would have to thank Molly properly. How exactly, he was going to figure out after they left the summerhouse. Just now the only thing on his mind was a tall, breathtaking detective.