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John
John is nervous, and also annoyed about it. Why on earth should he be nervous? He’s a grown man, and he can live his life however he pleases, goddammit. Sherlock bloody Holmes isn’t allowed to make him feel like he’s a silly little teenager, afraid to bring a date home for fear of interrogation.
The truth is that he wants Sherlock to meet his dates - he wants to know what the detective thinks of them, and what they think of him. Sherlock’s opinion is, somewhat unfortunately, important to him. This all being said, Sherlock has made it endlessly clear that John’s dating life is of absolutely no interest to him, except when it distracts John from a case, or from anything else Sherlock might want from him. Despite that, he never fails to respond to John’s previous girlfriends with disdain. In anyone else, John would view it as jealousy, but with Sherlock, he’s never quite figured out the man’s intentions.
He feels the beginnings of a sigh forming as he unlocks the front door, but holds it in. Best to just get it over with, he tries to encourage himself. The first meeting is always the worst - Sherlock rarely gets more acerbic than in the first encounter - either that will drive them away, or it won’t. After that, he just keeps up a general stream of pointed vitriol until John loses his temper, or his new girlfriend does.
This time though… well, this time is just a little bit different.
“It’s just up the stairs here,” He says to his date, and politely gestures for the man beside him to ascend first.
Sherlock
Sherlock is at the sitting room table, fingers clattering across the keys of John’s computer as he types an email, when he hears footsteps coming up the stairs. The sound gives him pause, and he cocks his head slightly towards the door. One set is obviously John’s. His date must have ended early - then what? Perhaps he arrived home to a client on the doorstep. The steps are clearly those of a man, but not one that Sherlock recognizes.
No matter, he thinks, and turns his attention back to the computer. John will deal with the tediousness of a new client - Sherlock will only need to tune in if the case is of interest to him.
The murmur of the two men’s voices stop, and the door clicks open. John enters the room first; Sherlock does not need to glance over to know this.
A slight silence, then John clears his throat - the way he does when he’s nervous, and Sherlock shifts his attention from the laptop to hone in on the noise. He doesn’t look over.
“Sherlock,” John starts, “This is, ah -,” the doctor stutters a bit to a stop, which is unusual.
“For God’s sake, John,” Sherlock murmurs, “Just spit it out already…” He trails off. He has finally looked over at the two men hovering awkwardly in the doorway. His observations come flying at him with a speed he doesn’t remember allowing, doesn’t remember wanting in this situation. It’s painfully obvious - the man is not a client. John’s date did not end early. John is dating a man.
“This is Ross,” John says, practically vibrating with discomfort. “He’s, ah - “
“Your boyfriend,” Sherlock cuts him off, deliberately pouring a cutting edge into his tone. “Obvious.” He turns back to the laptop, and very purposefully, very gently closes the computer. He stands, gives a light tug to adjust his left shirtsleeve. He suddenly realizes that he’s holding his breath, and lets it out while he collects his teacup and saucer from the table.
Sherlock is rarely surprised. Surprise for him is when all the blocks and pieces finally slot together perfectly, and he understands everything. This, however - this is a true surprise. Of course he knew that John isn’t completely unattracted to the male gender, but the doctor’s adamance at being ‘not gay’, and his proclivity to dating women, well… In any case, he is surprised, and he doesn’t like being surprised.
Finally, the other man speaks, “Well, ah, boyfriend seems a bit much, it’s just been the two dates, really.” Ross also shifts uncomfortably, and puts his hands in his coat pockets. Chuckles a bit. Shrugs. Objectively, he’s a handsome man, but certainly ill at ease with the tension in the room.
John hasn’t said anything else - when Sherlock glances at him, the look on his face says he wishes the earth would open up and swallow him completely.
Sherlock can’t say with any certainty that he doesn’t feel the same.
“It’s real nice to meet you, though,” Ross offers, an annoyingly earnest tone and nod of his head.
A wave of what Sherlock can only describe as spite comes over him, and with a monumental effort, he says nothing more - simply sweeps past the two men. He deposits his teacup on the counter, and goes into his bedroom, closing the door behind himself.
John
John huffs out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and smiles over at Ross. “Well that went as well as could be expected,” he admits, with some relief. It didn’t go well, of course, but where Sherlock is concerned, one takes what one can get.
Ross chuckles, and moves closer to John, pulling his hands from his pockets, taking John’s arms, pulling him closer. “You told me he could be a bit sour, but I wasn’t expecting such a freak, you know?”
And there it is. The true reason that none of John’s relationships last - it always seems to come back to the same old, tired thing. He stiffens in Ross’ hands, and looks up at the other man, feeling that smile he gets when he is right pissed off warping his face into something that he never recognizes. “Get out.”
Ross blinks, and his hands tighten slightly, “What?” He asks, with an incredulous tone.
Deep breath in, deep breath out. John steps back, pulling out of the other man’s grip, feeling ice crawl up his throat until his voice comes out like frost, “I said, get out of this flat.”
The blank look on Ross’ face is starting to morph into outrage, and he puts his hands up in an innocent gesture. “Look, John, whatever you’re pissed about, you ought to just calm down.”
John actually laughs out loud, and the other man’s face relaxes a little, thinking he’s broken the tension. He is very wrong. “Well, that’s not going to happen, Ross, because here’s the thing. The man you just met is my best friend, and I while I understand that his reaction to being introduced to you was not exactly ideal, calling him a freak is stepping over a line that I will not and cannot accept,” John slides past the other man, and pulls open the door with a force that betrays the strain he is under, his other hand clenching so hard into a fist, he imagines he can hear his bones creaking. “Now get the fuck out of my flat before I chin you.”
Ross scoffs out loud, his face an angry mask. “Whatever, mate, if you’d rather fuck your flatmate than me, why don’t you just do that?” He pushes past John and down the stairs. John watches him go, then closes the door ever so gently. No sense in breaking anything, no sense in making undue noise, no sense in luring Sherlock from his room if it can be helped.
Of course, it can’t be helped. Sherlock is standing in the kitchen, his fingertips lightly grazing the grain of the tabletop, face inscrutable. John sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. He’d have been just fine if Sherlock hadn’t witnessed any of that. “How much did you hear?”
One eyebrow quirks up neatly. “I was just in time to hear your generous offer to chin him. I was rather hoping he would take you up on that,” Sherlock shrugs, fingertips actually pressing down into the table now.
Which means he heard the acerbic reply about fucking your flatmate, John thinks and sighs audibly again. This is part of why he was so nervous to bring home a man - people make jokes so frequently about the detective and the doctor being together, and Sherlock has always disdained such a concept. Right back to their first meal together, he was so very specific about not being interested in John, that, well… John did his best to pass as straight from that point. He always figured life would just be easier that way - and it’s not like he isn’t attracted to women, God knows.
He just… didn’t want to complicate things, but he supposes it’s too late for that now.
Sherlock
“Now get the fuck out of my flat before I chin you,” are the first words that coalesce clearly from the rumble of John’s voice, and Sherlock can tell from his tone that he’s not simply upset, he’s furious.
He’d only been behind his closed bedroom door for a few moments before remembering that this was his flat too, for God’s sake, he would not be chased out of it by one of John’s dates, man or woman, thank you very much. So he left again, intending to sweep back into the room and reclaim his seat at the computer - and if it made this ‘Ross’ so uncomfortable he left, so much the better. He’d only gotten as far as the table in the kitchen before John’s ultimatum, and he stopped dead in his tracks.
He’d heard no sounds of prior violence, which meant there hadn’t been an altercation. John’s date must have said something to set off John’s temper, in that case. Ah, the realization comes to Sherlock - whatever Ross said, it was about Sherlock. This wouldn’t be the first time that John approached the limit of his control when it came to the detective.
An angry hiss in response, “Whatever, mate, if you’d rather fuck your flatmate than me, why don’t you just do that?” An invisible hand twists Sherlock’s stomach in on itself - John won’t take that well, he’s always been uninterested in the detective in that way. The door closes softly; John’s motion, not his date’s. Sherlock extends one hand to brush the top of the table with his fingertips - a steadying motion for when John realizes that he is in the kitchen.
John’s face falls slightly at the sight of him, and so does Sherlock’s knotted up stomach. With his eyes closed momentarily, the doctor asks “How much did you hear?”
Sherlock considers lying - he’s been given to understand (by John, of course) that sometimes lying is kinder. He isn’t interested in lying to John, though, so he doesn’t. “I was just in time to hear your generous offer to chin him. I was rather hoping he would take you up on that,” he says in as level a tone as he can manage, with a small shrug. His fingers aren’t so much brushing the table now, but digging in, holding on for dear life.
An audible sigh from the doctor. “Sorry,” John says in a low tone. “Sorry about him.”
Whatever Sherlock was expecting John to say, it wasn’t that. “What for?” He asks sharply, and tucks his hands into his dressing gown pockets, rather than let his fingers pick away at the grain on the table. That would look like a nervous tic, and he is anything but nervous, surely.
John shrugs, and looks away with a shake of his head. “He was a git. Shouldn’t have brought him here.”
Sherlock is silent for a moment, and chooses his words carefully. He wants to get this exactly right - he can’t help but feel this is his only possible moment, “Look, John,” he trails off, as John looks back at him with piercing eyes. “Look, I know I sometimes behave, well, less than kindly to your dates -”
This earns a scoff from John, and a small upturn of the doctor’s mouth. Sherlock gives a small smile as well, he deserves that response, but carries on, “Yes, perhaps I could be more polite, but I just… I guess I just want to say that I hope you don’t stop bringing anyone you’re dating back here, just because of me.”
John cocks his head slightly to the side, his eyes narrowing. He moves forwards to the edge of the table, leaning his hip against it. He’s less than a metre from Sherlock now. There’s no rhyme or reason to Sherlock’s thoughts, but he wants to take another step closer to the doctor. He doesn’t. It isn’t necessary.
“Sherlock,” John starts, licks his lips, and continues, “Sherlock, I always bring my dates home because I actually honestly want to see what they’ll make of you, and what you’ll make of them. You’re my best friend, and I can’t imagine having a serious relationship with someone that doesn’t like you for who you are - even if you do act like a prat half the time.”
Sherlock raises one eyebrow, reading the tension on John’s face, “Did he call me a freak?” The detective asks quietly. His body does shift forward, an infinitely small movement, not entirely of his own volition. John drifts forwards as well, though one could mistake it for just the man shifting his weight.
The doctor shrugs slightly, a confirmation in his refusal to say.
Silence. An odd little frisson runs up Sherlock’s spine, and he refuses to break eye contact with the other man. The moment feels fraught with opportunity. “I’m a jealous man, John,” he murmurs in a low tone, and slips forwards again, just a hair.
Now or never.
John
John feels the table against his hip and the pressure of Sherlock’s gaze. He didn’t want to complicate things, and this feels… complicated, very suddenly.
“I’m a jealous man, John,” Sherlock practically purrs, sliding a little closer, and John’s pulse ratchets up in speed until he can feel it in his hands. “I have never liked any of your girlfriends, but apparently that’s not the worst that could happen.”
There’s a lump in his throat that he tries to swallow around. “What-” He clears his throat against the rough edge in his voice, “What does that mean?”
Sherlock’s mouth crooks up on one side as he considers the question. “Well,” he murmurs, “It means that I thought I hated seeing you with your girlfriends before.” He’s coming closer every second, and John can hardly breathe. This is not a topic they’ve ever discussed, and he doesn’t know how he’s meant to respond.
“And you don’t now?” John responds, somewhat faintly. Sherlock’s hand brushes up John’s arm and John nearly has a coronary. The detective hasn’t broken eye contact, and John finds that he can’t either - or perhaps just desperately doesn’t want to.
“On the contrary, John,” Sherlock rumbles, “I still hate it. But apparently -” He pauses, and leans in ever so slightly, leans over John, close enough that John can feel the other man’s curls brush against his forehead.
“Apparently,” Sherlock continues, so quietly it’s almost a whisper now, “The only thing I hate more than seeing you with a woman is seeing you with a man.”
This is the last thing the detective says before his mouth finds John’s.