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When Sherlock Holmes and John Watson took their relationship from friends to something more, they didn’t make a big production of it. For a man who makes his livelihood out of deducing other people’s secrets, Sherlock is rather private about his own, and John wasn’t really interested in facing the I told you so’s from everyone who thought they were together from the beginning.
Aside from the fact that Sherlock moved his things into John’s bedroom (being upstairs, it was more private) and that John no longer tried to meet women and, of course, the sex, nothing much changed between them. Sherlock still solved cases, John still worked the odd shift at the surgery and helped Sherlock as often as possible, and they still had Chinese after running across London in pursuit of some criminal or other, but now the breathlessness came after they went home, rather than as a result of the chase.
John was perfectly happy with their relationship, despite how non-traditional it was. If you had asked him at age twenty where he saw himself at forty, he would have said retired from the military with a nice suburban practice, married to a lovely woman who may or may not be a full-time mum to their three children who had football practice and piano lessons and came to John for advice on everything from switching to rugby to dealing with a first crush.
(John is remarkably specific in his daydreams.)
But now, here he is, forty, and not married and living the quiet life in Milton Keynes, but rather in a same-sex relationship with a man who could charitably be described as “eccentric” or perhaps “erratic”, using the skills he learned in the army to help this man solve crimes and catch criminals in the heart of energetic London.
This suits John right down to the ground. And if you asked him why, since it’s so different from his vision half a lifetime ago, he would simply shrug and smile, and move closer to the tall, pale detective with whom his life and his future are so irrevocably intertwined.
But John Watson does still have a bit of a traditional streak, and lately he can’t shake the memory of a conversation he once had with Sherlock, before they got together, before they were really even friends, when they were still just flatmates and John was still dating women.
“I need to get some air - we're going out tonight. ”
“Actually, I've got a date. ”
“What?”
“It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun?”
“That's what I was suggesting. ”
~~
“Sherlock,” John says casually one morning, in that sleepy time between waking up and getting up, the time of soft kisses and mumbles that could, if there’s nothing on the agenda in the morning, lead to a quiet, gentle shag. “You’ve been with someone in the past, right? I mean… before you gave it up and sort of…”
Sherlock burrows his face into the space between John’s neck and shoulder and sighs. “Yes, John. Before I decided that I had gleaned all I could from the sexual experience, there was one boy.” His tongue darts out and licks under John’s jaw. “Why?”
John shifts so he can wrap his right arm around the thinner man’s shoulders and pull him close. “No reason.”
He feels a huff of air against his neck as Sherlock exhales irritably. “John. It’s too early in the morning for you to be cryptic, and I can’t see your face. What is it?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking for a bit about what you said when we were on the Blind Banker case.”
“What did I say? I say many things when I’m working.”
John shifts uncomfortably. “Well, you told me we were going out, and I said I couldn’t because I had a date, and you… didn’t seem to know what that was.”
There is a slight stiffening in his arms; if John had been more asleep, he might have missed it. “I was distracted by the case, John,” Sherlock says a bit testily.
“Sherlock, when you were with this boy—“
“Victor.”
“What?”
“His name was Victor,” Sherlock says, rolling away from John to lie on his back. The covers slip loose, and his face and bare chest are silver in the grey light filtering through the curtain. “Victor Trevor.”
“All right.” John rolls onto his side so he’s facing Sherlock, who is studying the ceiling intensely. “How long were you with Victor?”
“Not long, barely five weeks,” Sherlock answers. His cheeks and jaw are rigid.
John sighs; this is harder than he anticipated. Sherlock can be prickly, especially when it becomes clear he has no experience in an area others seem to take for granted. “Well, did you ever go out? You know, for dinner, or a show or something, or even just a walk?”
He can see Sherlock’s eyes roll; he huffs out a great breath that ruffles the curls on his forehead. “No, John, we did not. We were in university; we had neither the time nor the funds to do such a thing.”
“So what did you do?”
“Worked.” Sherlock’s eyes are closed as he remembers. “Discussed literature. Went to lectures together. Spent time in each other’s rooms. Had sex.”
John puts the brakes on a sudden flare of jealousy; he very much wants to know if Sherlock lost his virginity to this boy, if he was kind to Sherlock, but now is not the time. He pulls his thoughts back on track. “So… you’re telling me, when I told you I had a date, and you didn’t seem to know what that was… you actually didn’t? You’ve never been on a proper date?”
Sherlock expels a massive sigh of irritation and puts his hands over his eyes. “Define ‘proper date’, John. Because social convention seems to describe it as ‘two people spending time together because they like each other’ and I think that that’s what we do.”
John struggles to put a lid on his frustration. “Well, I guess when you put it that way—“
“Do we not go out to eat?”
“Well, yes—“
“And do we not take turns paying for these meals?”
“Well, I pay more often than you, probably, but—“
“And do we not spend time together because we like each other?”
“I suppose we do—“
“AND we end up in bed together more often than not.” Sherlock raises himself to glare down at John. “So what exactly are you implying?”
John raises himself up and glares in his turn; this is not at all how he pictured this going. “Sherlock, have you ever been out on a proper date? You know, where someone asked if they could take you out, and then planned something, and picked you up and took you to dinner, and then maybe to a film or a show, or to something you both would enjoy? Ever?”
They glare at each other until Sherlock breaks the lock their eyes have on each other and flops onto his back again. “No. No, I have not been on a proper date. Besides, we are grown adults, John, not teenagers raging with hormones. Now, will you please explain the purpose of this inane line of questioning?”
John smiles. He wraps his arm across the white chest and traces circles on Sherlock’s ribs. “No.”
~~
Sherlock Holmes has one of the most brilliant minds in a generation. He applies to problems, more big than small, and is constantly working at improving it.
However, he does have a tendency to delete things he finds unimportant, and between that, his current case featuring a locked-room murder and his primary suspect turning up dead in the Thames, and his brother’s calling him three times today, it cannot be a surprise that he has completely forgotten the early-morning conversation he had with John a few days ago.
When there’s a knock at door, he ignores it; John is home, somewhere. He hasn’t seen him for some time, but he was there when Sherlock got home around four and he knows John’s not working.
The knock sounds up the stairs again, and Sherlock sighs. “John?”
Silence.
And another knock.
Sherlock frowns. Did John go out without saying anything? He pulls out his phone.
Where are you? SH
It chimes almost immediately.
Not home. JW
Where are you? There’s someone at the door and I’m working. SH
The reply is a bit slower in coming, but when his phone pings again, there’s another knock.
Open the door, you git. JW
Sherlock sighs loudly and drags himself off the sofa. Honestly, how am I supposed to work like this? He descends the stairs and shoves the door open, ready to unleash the full extent of his deductive powers on whoever dares to interrupt him. “What—“
It’s John.
He’s wearing black slacks, a blue button-down shirt that matches his eyes and a black sport coat. He’s also clutching a bottle of red wine, and his face is bright, as though it’s been recently scrubbed. Sherlock can smell his shampoo and shaving cream as the light breeze wafts towards him, and he notices that, despite his sunny smile and bright eyes, there’s an undercurrent of nervousness to John’s movements.
“Good evening, Sherlock,” John says calmly, albeit with a very faint tremor in his voice. “I was hoping you were free for dinner tonight.”
Sherlock is stunned. All he can do is stare at the shorter man in his doorway, dressed in his mid-priced dress clothes, holding on to a bottle of Sangiovese Chianti as if his life depends on it. He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “John?”
John smiles. “If you are, I’d like to take you out. On a date.” He offers the bottle of wine. “Can I come in?”
Wordlessly Sherlock moves aside, and John takes his hand and presses it as he moves past and up the stairs. “Can I put the wine in the kitchen?”
Sherlock follows him upstairs, still finding his voice. “Yes,” he manages. “Of course. On the table is fine.”
He can’t remember the last time he was this surprised. How did I not see this coming? He clears his throat as John comes back into the sitting room, hands empty. “John—“
“This is a nice flat,” John says, looking around. “Do you live alone?”
Sherlock blinks; if this is the way John wants to play it, he can rise to the occasion. “Er, no. I have a—a flatmate. He’s a doctor.”
John sits on the sofa. “A doctor, hmm? Good bloke?” When Sherlock smiles, he continues. “So, dinner? I made a reservation for six, I hope that’s not too early. It’s this great little Italian place I know. Is that okay?”
Sherlock crosses the room to stand in front of John; there’s a sort of nervous, desperate energy in his eyes that’s melting the detective’s heart. He takes John’s hand and pulls him to his feet. “It sounds perfect. Let me just get my coat and…” His eyes twinkle. “Leave a note for my flatmate.”
~~
They walk to Angelo’s, very close together but not touching, breathing in the cooling evening air. The city is alive around them, that time when the day people in their suits and heels are leaving work for the day, and the night people are coming out in their tight jeans and eyeliner. Sherlock drinks in the atmosphere as he always does, John watching him with an amused grin.
When they arrive, Angelo himself comes out, apron spotlessly white, arms open wide. “Sherlock! And your doctor!” He slides between them and gives each a one-armed hug. “Dr. Watson, we have the window table all ready for you, as requested. The antipasti will be out in five minutes, yes? And my Angelica will be along to pour your wine.” He winks at Sherlock and tightens the embrace. “Only the best for you, Sherlock and Doctor!” And he ushers them inside to their table.
The restaurant is the same as always, dim with low lighting and flickering candles. The rich scent of tomato sauce, basil and garlic permeates the air, and as they sit, Angelo’s niece appears with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. She pours a small amount into a glass and raises her eyebrows at John, who takes a sip and then nods. Encouraged, she pours two glasses for them and leaves the bottle in the middle of the table. “Gentlemen, the bruschetta will be here shortly.” She smiles and turns back to the kitchen.
Once alone, John’s nerves make an appearance; he clears his throat several times and his eyes dart around the restaurant, finally settling on the table in front of him. His features are brittle, polite. “So, how was your day?”
Sherlock chuckles. “Small talk, John?”
John giggles nervously, nothing like his warm, deep-chested laugh, the laugh Sherlock loves to draw from him. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, tell me, how was your day?” His blue eyes meet Sherlock’s flecked ones, and he blushes.
Just then, Angelica appears. “Bruschetta, sirs. Your pastas are nearly ready.” She sets down two side plates and a wooden plank bearing the appetizer. “Buon appetito.”
Sherlock reaches across the table and catches John’s trembling hand. “John. Look at me.” When John finally meets his eyes, he smiles. “What are you doing?”
John averts his eyes, then brings them back. “You said you’d never been on a proper date. So I thought, we should have one.” He clears his throat again, then catches up his wineglass and takes a gulp. “God, it’s hot in here.”
“John. Stop.” When John freezes, Sherlock squeezes his fingers reassuringly. “What made you think I needed to go out on a date?” At the flash of mortification on John’s face, he says quickly, “I enjoy our time together; I hope you know that. I’m just wondering why you felt the need to organize something like this.” He waves his hand around the restaurant; it’s empty but for them. “Clearly you had Angelo close for us. If you wanted to go out for dinner, you had only to say so.” He traces circles on the back of John’s hand with his thumb. “I’m just… confused, as to your motives.”
With a sigh, the mask John seems to be wearing falls away and Sherlock sees John, the doctor, the lover, for the first time this evening. “I know that you were with Victor when you were in University,” he says, looking at their hands on the table. “And I know you didn’t really do… relationship stuff with him.” He looks up when Sherlock’s hand tightens on his own. “But I’m a traditional sort of bloke, Sherlock. When I’m with someone, I like to show them a good time. And I enjoy our time together, I do, even when you leave toes in the fridge and I want to chuck them across the room at you. But I just thought, this would be a nice experience for you, since you’ve never done it before.”
“I don’t feel like I’ve missed out on something, John. Look at me.” The blond man looks up, and Sherlock meets his eyes. He feels like he’s sinking into calm, deep pools, but without fear of drowning. “Do you?”
John’s eyes widen in surprise. “What? God, no, Sherlock! No, I wouldn’t have us, our lives together, any other way!” He closes his eyes and rubs his free hand across them. “No, God, I’m sorry if I made you think that, it’s not true at all. It’s just, we sort of jumped into this, you know? We were flatmates, and then friends, and then sleeping together. And dating’s about more than just spending time with someone you like, it’s about getting to know each other, likes and dislikes, and finding out if you can really live with the other person… or live without them, you know? Or maybe you don’t.” He sighs and rubs his face again. “God, I’m so crap at this. Nice to see dating is the same whether I’m adult or a teenager.” He takes a toast point covered with tomatoes and garlic and sets it on a side plate, then dishes another one up for Sherlock. He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, and swallows, chasing it down with more wine. “Look, Sherlock…” He nudges the plate closer until Sherlock takes it. “I know you didn’t have the most normal life, growing up, and I know you’re okay with that, and I’m okay with that. But I thought you might like to see what it’s like for regular people, who go through life trying to find the person they’re meant to be with. You and I, we got lucky, but we nearly didn’t, I mean…” He trails off. “I was dating one woman after another, and as far as I knew, you were married to your work. We took a leap and, lucky for us, we landed in clover, but it doesn’t always work that way.
“Besides,” he continues, taking more bruschetta, “most married people I know say that dating’s the best part. That’s when the other person’s attention is completely focused on you, instead of work, the house, the kids, you know? You’re always the most important person in your partner’s life, but when you’re dating, you know it.” He smiles and refills his wineglass. “I just thought it would be nice for you and me to go on a date, have a nice evening out, maybe learn a little more about each other, and spend some time together, okay? No pressure.”
Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. He never expected John, steady, dependable, thoughts-all-over-his-face John, to plan something like this, keep it secret, and take him by surprise. He thinks about what John has just said to him. A date. Like regular people. He ruminates while he finishes his appetizer, then waits until Angelica clears the plates and sets John’s lasagna and his linguini in clam sauce in front of them. “A date sounds nice.”
John’s smile is dazzling, and lights up his entire face. His shoulders relax, and he picks up his fork. “So, how was your day?”
~~
When dinner is over and they’re sipping coffee and John is polishing off a healthy slice of Angelo’s light-as-air tiramisu, Sherlock removes his napkin and carefully wipes his mouth. “So on dates, do people just have dinner?”
John chuckles. “Well, some people go to see a film, but I’ve never been a fan of that, since you can’t talk to the other person. I was thinking, since it’s almost eight, that we could go for a walk through the park.”
Sherlock smiles, then reaches across the table and wipes a smudge a chocolate from the corner of John’s mouth with his thumb. “That sounds perfect.” When they rise from their seats, Angelo comes over to them.
“A perfect meal, no?” When they nod, he beams. “Excellent, excellent! Doctor Watson, please, bring your date back any time, we are always here for you!” He gives Sherlock a broad wink and then shoes them out. “Have a good night, yes? Come back soon!”
When they step outside, it is twilight, but the streets are still bustling. John slips his hand beneath Sherlock’s elbow and motions in the direction of Regent’s Park. “Shall we?”
Sherlock snugs his arm close to his body; he can feel John’s strong fingers through his coat. “We shall indeed.”
They stroll through the park, surrounded by couples on benches and groups of teenagers illicitly drinking beer most certainly liberated from their parents’ cabinets. A crescent moon is rising, and they even catch a glimpse of a few stars, despite the light pollution. “So how’s your first date going so far?” John asks.
Sherlock smiles. “So far, perfect. A lovely dinner and a quiet walk through a park. But tell me about your first date.”
John laughs. “Not much to tell, really. I was fifteen, and the girl, Suzy Wellington, was in my class. She was four inches taller than me, had long black hair, and she was gorgeous.” He sighs, and Sherlock feels a quick flash of irrational jealousy. “She was a lot more… developed than the other girls in my class, if you get my meaning.” He winks, and Sherlock smiles. “We went on a picnic. My mum made some fried chicken and pasta salad, and we brought some biscuits and a bottle of lime cordial. It was very grown-up and dignified.” He chuckles again at the memory and steers them towards the trees. “We went down by the little stream that ran past the school, and she laid out a blanket, and we just sat and ate and talked about school, the other kids there, and films we’d seen or wanted to see, and music.” His voice takes on a nostalgic tone. “She lent me her Dire Straits album, and I played it so much, I wore it out. Had to replace it.”
“Dire Straits?”
“Yeah, they were a band from Newcastle. One of the only great bands in the 80s.” He laughs, then sighs. “She let me hold her hand; we dated for almost two years. She was my first kiss, too, in the back of my dad’s car.” Sherlock looks down; John is smiling wistfully and a little sadly. “We broke up before I left for Uni. It was mutual, but it still hurt.”
“You wanted different things.”
“Yeah.” John’s voice is low. “I was already planning on being a doctor, and she… She really only wanted her MRS, as they said in those days.”
“MRS?”
“Yeah, as in Mrs. You know, she wanted to be someone’s wife. But I wasn’t ready for that, and she knew it, so we just let each go.” He shakes his head as if to clear it, and then his voice brightens. “We’re here.”
Sherlock peers through the trees and frowns. “What’s that?”
“You’ll see…” And John steers him through the trees until they get to a small clearing. There’s a tartan blanket on the ground, its four corners held down by blocky, square candles, and a small basket is nearby. “It’s a little chilly for a proper picnic, but I thought we could sit here for a bit and have a little dessert.” When he smiles, his eyes crinkle at the corners and the blue irises twinkle. “Will you sit with me, have some hot chocolate?”
“Hot chocolate?” Sherlock takes in the scene as John leads him to the blanket and pulls him down. “How… Ah. Angelo?”
John nods. “His son left the restaurant to set this up about the same time we left.” He opens the basket and pulls out a thermos flask and two mugs. Twisting it open, he pours the rich liquid into one and passes it to Sherlock, then pours another one for himself. He pulls a plate from the basket and removes the towel covering it with a flourish. “Ginger snap?”
Sherlock takes a cookie. “Mrs. Hudson?”
“Wow, I can see why you’re a detective,” John teases, taking one for himself. “Right again.” He returns the plate, then sits close to Sherlock; their hips touching. He dips his cookie in his mug and takes a bite and chews slowly; beside him, Sherlock sips at his hot chocolate.
They sit quietly together for nearly an hour, not talking; the only sounds are the gurgle of liquid in the thermos as John pours refills and the faint noise of other people in the park on the other side of the trees. The twilight deepens into dusk, and as the darkness envelops them, Sherlock’s fingers steal over John’s and grip tightly. When John shivers, Sherlock puts his arm around his shoulder and pulls him close, pressing a kiss on his temple.
Finally John stirs. “The park is closing soon.” He gives Sherlock an impish grin. “May I see you home?”
Sherlock stands and offers his hand to John. “I would like that very much.”
They blow out the candles and pack them in the basket with the blanket. Sherlock takes John’s arm and carries the basket with his other hand. They walk silently back to Baker Street.
When they reach the door, Sherlock fumbles for his keys. He’s surprised to find his mouth is suddenly dry. “I, ah…” He coughs quickly. “Is it conventional to ask one’s date up on the first date?”
John smiles at him, a smile full of promise and fondness. “It’s not unheard of, if the date’s gone very, very well,” he acknowledges.
“Would you say this date’s gone very well?”
If possible, John’s smile widens. “Oh, yes, I would. This has been one of the best dates I’ve ever had.”
“For me as well.” Sherlock swallows; why is he so inexplicably nervous? “Would you like to come up? I believe there’s a very nice bottle of red in my kitchen.”
“I would like that, very much,” John says softly. “But before we go up… it’s customary, if the date goes well, to leave one with a goodnight kiss at the door.” He presses his lips together. “May I kiss you goodnight?”
Sherlock’s stomach flutters; he mentally stamps the feeling down firmly. “Of course,” he hears himself saying.
John smiles. “Close your eyes.”
When Sherlock obliges, he feels John’s soft lips on his cheek, and then on his mouth. John pulls away as he opens them.
“Thank you for a lovely time, Sherlock. May I see you again?”
“Yes, John. I would like to see you again,” Sherlock manages through his dry mouth. He takes John’s hand. “Are you coming up?”
John’s smile is like the sun. “Absolutely.”
~~
Instead of opening the wine, John makes them tea as they get ready for bed. It’s early yet, just past ten, but somehow it feels like the next logical step. Sherlock takes his shower as John puts the wine away, makes a lunch for the next day and drinks his tea. When Sherlock is done, John takes his own quick shower; when he gets out, Sherlock is sitting in bed, frowning at his laptop.
“A new case?” John asks as he slides under the covers.
“No, it’s nothing important.” Sherlock snaps it closed and sets it on his nightstand. When John flicks off the lights, he slides down and towards the middle of the bed, pulling John’s back to his chest. As the smaller man snuggles in, he rubs his face on the soft blond hair.
“John. Thank you for tonight.”
He feels the doctor yawn. “Did you have a good time?”
“I had a wonderful time. It was perfect. Thank you.”
John twists in his arms until they’re facing each other. He kisses Sherlock on the lips, softly at first, and then more intensely. “You’re welcome. If you only get one first date, I thought it should be pretty great.”
Sherlock catches John’s lips again. “Is it traditional to sleep together on a first date?”
John chuckles. “I’m not really that kind of boy, Sherlock.”
“What if I promise to respect you in the morning?” Sherlock asks, sliding his hand under John’s T-shirt. There are goose bumps rising under his fingers as he moves his hand towards the strong chest, and he feels laughter rumbling in John’s lungs.
“Well…” and there’s a smile in his voice. “All right. But you better be here when I wake up, no sneaking out, using all the milk and leaving without even a note.”
Sherlock moves his lips to the shell of John’s ear as he brushes a hand down to his waistband. “I promise I will be here when you wake up.”
~~
In their years together, Sherlock and John will have dinner many times, take many walks, and spend evenings in many parks. They will share many intimate moments; however, none will come close to recreating the magic of their first date.