Work Text:
John had figured something was wrong when the smell from the kitchen was actually pleasant for once. Yet several minutes of confused peeking at his flatmate had rendered him speechless -- the smell was food. Sherlock Holmes was cooking food.
Sherlock was quick to notice John's presence, of course, but he only offered John to sit down at the table, not explaining his sudden decision to cook, or speaking at all for that matter.
"Are you sure this isn't another experiment of yours?" John asked suspiciously as he engaged in a staring contest with the oddly normal looking plate of fried rice.
"I would have used tea if I wanted to drug you," Sherlock said. "No, this is me genuinely wanting to cook. Is it so shocking?"
"Yes... I thought your only hobbies involved body parts and sulking around."
Sherlock didn't seem offended. "Well -- I had never really cooked before. I found that it wasn't dissimilar from a chemistry experiment. It was all rather fascinating."
John grinned. "Really? Hopefully you can do most of the cooking now, and I can do... literally every other chore in this flat."
The detective did not appear to be listening, now rambling on a tangent. "There is a balance of flavours, particular measurements, and the reactions that occur during cooking as well. I cannot believe I've never looked into this realm of experimentation before. Yes, it is exactly like a chemistry experiment!" he exclaimed.
John hated to admit that he was impressed with this sudden change. Normally Sherlock would go from morose to ecstatic -- and sometimes that kind of abrupt switch could be overwhelming. Despite Sherlock's assurances, he still felt that something was up. "I know you keep mentioning chemistry, but are you sure there aren't any -- non-food chemicals? You didn't inject this with hydrochloric acid or something, right?" he questioned, raising the spoon to his lips.
Sherlock's gaze absentmindedly followed spoon to John's lips, then quickly averted back to the table before John noticed. "Um -- no. Nothing odd in there. I followed a recipe," he explained, then couldn't help but add, "obviously."
Trusting his words, John took a small bite and was astonished at how good it was. He wasn't expecting much, but Sherlock seemed to have made good use of their spice rack. "Sherlock -- this is really good."
"Perhaps I'll look more into cooking, then," Sherlock said, a small smirk upon his lips.
"And perhaps I'll look into -- well, whatever hobbies you have that tend toward the normal side."
Since that day, Sherlock had done all the cooking. John grew suspicious every time, and couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock was literally buttering him up to get him to do something. But a week had passed, and another week, and Sherlock still hadn't asked anything of John besides his daily demanding for tea, or to fetch the newspaper, or his laptop, or his violin, or a cigarette (which John always denied him, of course), or -- well now John realised Sherlock asked for a quite a bit. But still, there wasn't anything peculiar about any of his demands.
John had made an empty statement to pursue one of Sherlock's hobbies, and despite Sherlock's consistent cooking, John hadn't taken an initiative of his own just yet, which was so unlike their usual dynamic that John sought to change this.
But this meant finding a more ordinary hobby Sherlock had. John did not want to make an interest in inspecting cadavers or dissecting various body parts, as he had done enough of that in medical school. And then there was his crime solving, but that was more of Sherlock's profession, not a hobby. John scanned all around the flat, seeing if he could find some evidence of any other pastimes. Sherlock's violin caught his eye, but the thought was quickly dismissed; John had enough embarrassment in his middle school music class. Sherlock's chemistry experiments were another option, but even his more normal experiments would be difficult to replicate, and they sometimes seemed downright dangerous.
John was close to giving up this search for how to repay Sherlock. He'd done enough in favour to the man anyway. However, when he caught glance of an opened letter on the coffee table, he grew interested. Sherlock, who had left to Bart's that morning, must have already read it. But when John picked it up, he noticed that it was all written in French. "Right then," he said, to no one in particular. Sherlock's fluency in French had slipped John's mind. Perhaps he could try his hand at the language. Looking back on it, John had taken a few classes in secondary school, and hadn't been bad at it, really -- he had just forgotten all of what he learned the moment he entered uni.
He imagined Sherlock's face of astonishment if John were to tell him that he was learning French. Not to mention Sherlock had a flair for the dramatic. John supposed a sudden and sensational reveal of his knowledge in the language would be best. Yes, Sherlock would be so impressed, especially considering how frequently he underestimated John. John grinned to himself as he placed the letter back down on the coffee table.
John had figured his little idea would be easier said than done, but it still had been more difficult than he imagined. What was the most troublesome was hiding his whereabouts from Sherlock. John's thorough plan had to be thorough if he wanted to surprise the detective. It would be such a disappointment to tell him and only receive his regular stoic stare with an "I know," followed by an offhanded request for John to get his mobile.
If John watched a French movie or listened to a French podcast, Sherlock would inevitably find out, seeing as they lived together. Hell, if he even went through the more appropriate parts of John's search history he would know. Going the non-electronic route, John took an interest at his flatmate's modest bookshelf, because there were a couple books in French in there, along with a Larousse French-English dictionary. But when John had stood on his tiptoes to get a better look, he noticed the layer of dust that had formed and knew Sherlock would deduce if he took a look at the books, even if John put them back.
Therefore, John opted for his learning to occur outside of his lodgings, at the library. He knew that no matter what he did, there would be a stray hair or wrist flex that could give away something, but at least Sherlock couldn't go investigate more like he could the flat. John joined a group that met at the library and studied the language diligently during the next several weeks.
Sherlock had shrugged off John's frequent visits to the library at first, but after two weeks, he finally asked about it when he caught sight of John grabbing his coat by the door. "John, wait."
John paused, and turned to look at Sherlock.
"I've tried to figure it out but I can't. Just why do you keep running off to the library?"
Inwardly, John was secretly pleased at the success of his plan so far. "Because," he started calmly, "at the library there are no incessant flatmates stealing my laptop."
"It's hardly stealing. I only use it for a few experiments," Sherlock claimed.
"Right," John said sarcastically. "Well, I want my own peace and quiet every once in a while, you know."
Sherlock didn't seem to accept this answer. "You've never bothered before. Why now? What happened to cause this?"
"Don't ask me," John said, failing to hide his amused smile. "You're the detective here." And with that, John left the building and was on his way, trying not to burst into laughter at Sherlock's dumbstruck expression.
Since then, anyone could see how closely Sherlock was eyeing John. The assumptions of being a couple from strangers had nearly doubled just because of the amount of unadulterated staring from the detective. It was as John predicted: Sherlock was trying to find more data to see just what John was hiding from him, whether it be from the motes of dust on his clothing or his gait or how long it took John to enter the password on his laptop. When John occasionally met Sherlock's steely gaze, he wouldn't do more than hold it for a few moments and smile politely like there was nothing wrong.
"You're normally such an open person. What is it you're keeping from me? Is it another woman? Did Mycroft tell you something?" Sherlock demanded a few mornings later after he failed to discern anything of use.
John yawned. "I'm not hiding anything. You've just failed to see."
That only frustrated Sherlock even more, but John thought it was entertaining to see the detective so puzzled. Sherlock eventually stopped asking his questions as it was clear that John wasn't going to answer him, but the way he looked at John didn't cease. So, so much staring! Any time they were in the same room Sherlock would be staring pointedly at John. It nearly sent a flutter in his stomach a few times, but John only reminded himself that Sherlock was only an expert in deductive reasoning and not in the art of subtle flirtation.
He had planned to tell Sherlock about his little secret two months in, where John would have enough knowledge to have a simple conversation. Although his motivation dwindled at times, when he felt like giving up, he imagined Sherlock's reaction and that face of utter shock that he so rarely revealed.
The two months went by, and the day John planned to tell Sherlock was interrupted when Lestrade had texted Sherlock about a case. It was related to a Frenchman whose son had turned up missing in London.
Unfortunately, Sherlock didn't deem the case worthy of leaving the flat. Instead, John peered over Sherlock's shoulder, where he texted Lestrade, "Send me his number. I will call him. - SH" and frowned.
"What are you doing?" asked John.
"I only need to call him and ask him a few details and I can locate his son. Based on what Lestrade said, he is either at a friend's place, at a hotel here in London, or staying in Edinburgh."
"Edinburgh," John repeated. "That's quite the distance."
"Lestrade found a train ticket, that's why. Whether our man boarded it was another matter."
John hummed. "Sounds interesting."
"Hardly. I imagine I can figure it all in the next hour, though the Yard will likely take a week." Sherlock dialed a number in his mobile and brought it to his ear.
John returned to the television, which he had been watching, Sherlock's one-sided conversation in the background.
"Hello, yes. I am with the police, and I believe I can locate your son if you answer just a few questions," Sherlock began. A pause, then he continued. "Vous pouvez parler en français si vous préférez." A pause. "Oui. Comment sont les amis de votre fils ?"
John continued staring at the television, but found himself shocked to understand what his friend was saying. He felt giddy at the thought, the idea of catching Sherlock off guard. He continued to listen in. John never considered it before, but Sherlock sounded different in the language. Perhaps it was just the words, but Sherlock's voice seemed to have had a softer tone than when he spoke in English. From what John understood, Sherlock believed that the Frenchman's son was indeed staying with a friend, nothing more. Indeed, a simple case.
Sherlock hung up afterward, glancing at John. "I imagine you were wondering what we were talking about, since I started speaking in French."
John thought about responding that it was quite the opposite, but reveled in the feeling of knowing something Sherlock didn't. "Hmm, yes. Did you solve it yet?"
"Mostly so, just need to make one more call," he muttered, already dialing away.
"Okay." John continued pretending to watch the telly.
"Bonjour," said Sherlock on the phone. John heard him say a few more sentences, and didn't get their exact meaning. However what prominently stood out was Sherlock's use of the informal "tu" as opposed to the formal "vous" he had used in the previous call. This wasn't a client, or anyone related to the client. This was a friend -- someone Sherlock knew already. John didn't know Sherlock had any friends -- any Francophone friends, that is, though the initial statement also somewhat holds.
John heard an awkward chuckle from beside him. "Oui." Sherlock hesitated. "Oui je l'aime."
Sherlock's statement was a relatively simple one. Je l'aime -- I love him. Or her. Or it. Perhaps it wasn't a relatively simple statement. The apostrophe made it rather ambiguous. John listened closer, hoping to hear some context so that he could assign the right definition to the phrase.
"Non, je ne dis pas son nom, il est à côté de moi. Il m'entrenda." A pause. "Ne t'inquiète pas, il ne comprend pas un mot de français et il est en train de regarder la télé, donc je sais qu'il ne prête pas la moindre attention."
Il -- that was the pronoun for "he." So whatever -- or rather whoever -- Sherlock loved was a man. John had suspected as such... Sherlock never paid any woman much attention. He wondered who it could be. Perhaps another French-speaking guy? No, that didn't make sense either, Sherlock had basically pronounced what translated to, "he doesn't understand a word of French." Additionally, John recalled the lesson over relative distances, and realised Sherlock had said "à côté de moi "-- "next to me." Sherlock had also said "regarder la télé" -- "watching the telly," no doubt, though some of his phrases and expressions were ones that John was unfamiliar with and unable to decipher.
But John was, in fact, sitting next to Sherlock. And he was watching television. And he did, in Sherlock's perspective, not know a word of French. Which meant -- but surely that didn't mean --
"T'as raison," he heard Sherlock say. "Je sais pas comment lui dire, mais je ne peux plus garder ça pour moi. Comment puis-je lui avouer mon amour ?" John concentrated to translate the words. Sherlock had said, "You're right. I don't know how to tell him, but I can't keep it to myself anymore. How can I confess my love to him?"
John froze, swallowing slowly, utterly stunned when it dawned with striking clarity the depth of the situation. He couldn't believe the hours of studying French would lead to this discovery. Sherlock was in love with him. He had no idea that Sherlock had been struggling with these feelings, that he even had a chance at returning the number of emotions John felt for him. Perhaps there really had been that other reason for all that staring Sherlock had been doing lately, John realised.
He discretely glanced at Sherlock, saw he was listening to the other person on the phone with a strained expression. "Bien sûr. Peut-être. Au revoir," he finished shortly, ending the call.
Finally, John turned to face Sherlock instead of side-eyeing him. The latter's cheeks were faintly pink, and he was looking down at his mobile, lost in thought. After a moment, John asked, "So who was the son staying with?" acting completely oblivious.
"Oh, he was -- he was staying with his friend," Sherlock said absently.
"Is that so? Nothing -- Nothing else?" John wondered if Sherlock would reveal any details of the true nature of his call.
"Yes, utterly dull," muttered Sherlock, seeming to come back to himself. His gaze was still turned towards his mobile, which his hands were fidgeting with.
"Alright," John said, and he continued to watch the telly without another word. Sherlock resumed texting Lestrade the case, barely affected by John's suspicious questions.
John watched his flatmate from the corner of his eye. Was this really the man who asked for love advice over the phone? Was he really so in love with John? Although stunned by the information, it wasn't the first time he'd considered such a notion. As he reflected on it, an idea struck him. After seeing Sherlock have the upper hand most of the time, John couldn't help but tease him a bit too.
They sat in relative silence for a few moments longer, the television hum in the background. John casually asked, "Quelle heure est-il ?"
Sherlock furrowed his brow and glanced at John with a look he normally reserved for Scotland Yard. "There is a clock right there, but if you're too inept to read it, it's nearly two." Sherlock didn't seem to consciously process that John had asked the time in French and not English. To be fair, Sherlock had just spoken in French and had been more engrossed in his mobile than his companion. Psychologically speaking, he didn't discern the language spoken, just the underlying question and answered it.
"Alright, thank you."
Sherlock began to return to his texting, but something else seemed to weigh on his mind yet again. His head snapped back up again to study John with apprehension. "John... did you just speak French?"
Remaining innocent, John replied, "I have no idea what you're talking about. I just asked the time."
He looked at John for a long moment, and eventually said, "Yes. Alright," in a slightly more subdued tone.
"Seriously, Sherlock. I don't know a word of French, remember? I have no idea why you'd ask that."
Sherlock seemed unnerved by what he had heard to be John's word for word translation of what Sherlock had just said on the phone earlier. A mixture of surprise and panic appeared on his face. "You're... Did you understand my conversation on the phone?" he asked, very quietly.
John turned to face Sherlock with a knowing smile of amusement. "Which one? The one related to the case or the one related to your affection for me?"
Sherlock's jaw nearly dropped. He struggled to find the right words. "That... That was merely an experiment in linguistic skills?" he tried, his voice trembling.
"Is that so?" John asked with a soft chuckle. "Your considering to confess your love to me was an experiment?"
"I -- " Sherlock attempts at explanation faltered, and he took in a deep breath. With more clarity, he uttered, "John, you -- I think you misunderstood. You -- You never told me you knew French. I'm -- I won't mention it again, what I said on the phone. Delete it John, please."
John slowly reached toward the television remote and muted the volume, plunging the room into abrupt silence. The air between the two men suddenly shifted to one of the more intimacy. In a quieter tone, John asked, "Even if I could... why would I delete it?"
Sherlock's eyes darted from John to the telly, as if to find a route to escape. "Because it's clear you don't see me like that. I -- It wasn't supposed to happen like this," he mumbled, seeming regretful. John scooted closer to Sherlock on the sofa, which the latter did not seem to notice as he continued to ramble. "John, please, don't go, I'll delete it myself, I'll -- "
"Shh," John interjected gently, placing his hand reassuringly over Sherlock's, effectively silencing him.
"...John?" Sherlock whispered, eyes wide as he looked down at their hands and back at John.
With tenderness, John said, "Shut up for a moment. I'm very glad I heard you over the phone, because I feel the same."
"You do?" Sherlock's voice shook with disbelief.
"Yes."
"But... you're only saying that..."
His desolate words were cut short when John leaned in, their lips meeting in a lingering kiss.
"John?" the latter whispered again in awe, this time against John's lips.
With some reluctance, John moved away slightly to give Sherlock a proper look. "Problem?" he asked, quirking his eyebrow in the same way Sherlock had when they initially met.
That got a chuckle from Sherlock, and he relaxed quite a bit. Relieved, he replied, "No, none at all... How did you -- Have you always known French?"
"Not always... I wanted to surprise you," John confessed. "I thought you would appreciate it... Since you've started doing all the cooking and such. I didn't know you were talking to friends about me."
"That was... an acquaintance I had met when I was solving a case in Paris -- before I had met you. I only talked to him a few times, mostly when anything France-related comes up in my work, but when I had mentioned you -- only good things, of course, -- he was insistent that we either were or should be romantically affiliated," he described, though his cheeks were darkening at John's reminder. "Parles-tu couramment ?"
"Couramment ?" John said, reiterating the unknown word. "I don't think think I've -- "
"Then that's an answer enough. I was asking if you spoke fluently."
"Oh -- no, I've only been learning for a few months."
Sherlock's eyes suddenly lit up, that expression of utter realisation and surprise that John had been imagining for a long while now. "The visits to the library!"
"Yes!" John exclaimed, grinning.
"And I thought you were meeting with a woman!" Sherlock exclaimed. "How dense of me, how utterly stupid --"
"I made an extra effort to hide it from you, that's all. On any other occasion you would've unraveled my plans the minute I began."
Sherlock seemed to accept his words. "And you managed to understand my phone conversations too?"
"I got the general context, yeah," John shrugged.
"Mon Dieu," breathed Sherlock. "John, I've underestimated you."
"That you did and that I took advantage of," John agreed with a grin. "It was quite entertaining to see you squirm and try to explain yourself."
"So you wanted to see me squirm, is that it?" questioned Sherlock with a smirk.
John, despite feeling a flush to his ears, teased, "Well, it's nice seeing the cool and calm detective get a little flustered every once in a while."
"Is that so? If you want to see me flustered, John, you only need ask."
He wasn't expecting such an insinuation, but there was no denying the suggestive tone in Sherlock's voice. John felt his pulse quicken, as he responded, "And how do you plan to do that?"
"I am very... susceptible to certain stimuli," Sherlock replied. "Perhaps you can help me figure out which ones."
John couldn't help but laugh at Sherlock's wording. "Do you mean what I think you mean?"
"You understand me exactly, John." Sherlock's eyes gleamed and he quickly took John's hand and stood up. "I had a new kind of experiment in mind..."