Archive of Our Own

"Right, Sherlock, I'm off." Watson says, dressed sharp ( to the nines , he would say) and with his hair meticulously combed into a swoop.

Sherlock jolts up straight from where he'd been laying on the couch, disinterestedly scrolling Tiktok.

"What? Why?" he asks. "Where are you going? Why didn't you tell me about this earlier?"

"I'm going on a date, Sherls," the other man sighs. "And yes, I did tell you this earlier. It's not my fault you don't listen."

Sherlock ignores the jab. So what if he gets distracted sometimes? "Who's your date?"

"Hah. Well. About that." Watson stutters, face reddening. "I don't really know."

"A blind date, then?" he asks. "I thought you didn't do those. Didn't you say your mum set you up on one too many of those, and the girl–"

"Yeah, no, mate, no," Watson cuts in. "It's a dating app."

"How do you not know her if it's a dating app?" Sherlock asks. Does he have those apps down wrong? Does he need to check them again?

"Err, I've never really seen her," he says. "Don't know her name either."

"What sort of dating app is that? "

"It's called Bantr."

"Bantr?"

"Yeah, it's this new dating app," Watson says. "The whole point is that there's no pictures, so you can't just say no because the person's an inch too short for your liking." He scowls, and Sherlock muffles a snort in his hand. "Something funny?"

"No, no, nothing," he says, placatingly. "Are you sure this is safe though?"

Watson raises an eyebrow at him. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"I mean, you've never seen this girl. She could be catfishing you. Do you know how many people die because of dating app meetups gone wrong?"

"People get catfished on normal dating sites all the time , Sherlock," Watson smiles. "It'll be fine. I can handle myself."

"Are you sure?" he presses. "You know, I can come with you if you'd like. Just to make sure."

"Sherlock, if anything, she should be bringing a friend, not me, " he snorts. "You know, the first time we met was in person and let me tell you, I felt a lot more unsafe then than I do right now, mate."

"Fine. If you get murdered, I won't say I told you so." Sherlock huffs, in the voice of someone who very much would do that at his funeral.

"If I get murdered, I look forward to not hearing it."

It’s not hard to tell that Watson’s in a bad mood by the time he comes home, considering the slam of the front door that makes Sherlock jolt upright.

“Are you alright?” he asks, abandoning the acid experiment in front of him in favor of looking at the man at the door with worry in his eyes. Well, looking is a strong word considering he doesn’t have his glasses on, so it’s more of a squint than a look.

“Yeah, absolutely not,” Watson mutters, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “I must be getting too old for this dating thing.”

“You’re only 35,” Sherlock scoffs. “Stop being so bloody dramatic.”

“I’m serious, mate,” he moans. “I have never in my life fucked up a date this badly.”

“Well, it’s been a long time, to be fair,” he says. “I’m sure the next one will be better. You just need practice.”

“You know she pretended her friend was having a medical emergency so she could get out of the date? Never in my life, mate.”

Sherlock raises a brow.

“How do you know it wasn’t a real emergency?” he asks.

“Well, she was fidgeting while she said it, you know, twirling her hair, biting her lip. And she kept overexplaining, like, if it were a real emergency, she would’ve been gone in a second.”

Sherlock beams.

“You’re picking it up!” he smiles. “I didn’t think you could!”

“Well, she also did block me.”

Sherlock’s face drops.

“But I had it figured out before! Sherlock, don’t make that face at me, I’m not lying to you…”

“What face?” Sherlock pouts.

“Do you know you’re insufferable?” Watson says, rolling his eyes. Sherlock just pouts at him harder. “Right, it’s been a shitty night overall, I’m making some hot cocoa. Do you–?”

“Yes,” he grins, lie forgotten.

“Do you think this looks good?” Watson asks, slowly walking into the living room.

He’s hesitant. Nervous. He’s obviously trying to impress– not Sherlock, of course, but he presumes his opinion matters all the same.

Watson’s wearing a navy jumper, faded jeans that cuff at the bottom, and the friendship bracelets they’d all made one long night when the three of them hadn’t been able to sleep. His hair is combed into a swoop, and Sherlock can tell there’s at least a little bit of gel in it. There's the faint scent of cologne– it’s not Sherlock’s favorite thing in the world, he thinks Watson’s natural scent is much more palatable than any artificial musk, but the one he’s chosen isn’t nearly as pervasive as most mens’ first choice, so it’s not the worst thing in the world, either.

“Erm. Sherlock?” Watson asks, wringing his hands together.

“Oh, sorry. You look adequate.”

“Just adequate?” he groans. “Is it the jumper? Or the hair? Oh God, I bet it’s the hair.”

“What? No, no, none of that, you look fine,” Sherlock backtracks. “You look great. Is that better?”

“Well now it feels like you’re being insincere, mate,” he complains.

“Why is ‘adequate’ not an adequate compliment?”

“Adequate is, like, the bare minimum, Sherlock. I don’t want to look like I’ve only done the bare minimum.”

“I see,” Sherlock says, despite the glaring inconsistency of the fact that he does not, in fact, see. “Well, I think you look better than just the bare minimum, for the record.”

“Aww, thanks, mate,” Watson preens. “Hey, here’s to me not mucking this one up, ey?”

Sherlock tips an imaginary glass towards him and basks in his rueful smile before calling out “good luck!” as he throws him a two fingered salute and walks out the door.

“Do you think I’m cursed or something?” Watson asks, walking into the flat sopping wet. It doesn’t take a genius, though one he certainly is, to figure out that the date went badly.

Again.

“Curses aren’t real, which you very well know,” Sherlock says blandly. “Not good?”

Watson gestures at himself. “Are you kidding, mate? Not good? Yeah, not bloody good! As soon as it started raining she hightailed it out of there!”

“What about before the rain though?” Sherlock asks. “Surely it can’t have been too awful.”

“She was nice, I guess,” he hums.

“But…?” Sherlock prompts.

“Okay, look, I don’t– I don’t have anything against shy people, but she was really, really quiet,” he mumbles. “It’s not a bad thing! But I felt so awkward just talking about myself the whole time, and I guess she liked it? But I was going out of my mind! And every time I thought I was gonna get her to talk, she would just go quiet again!”

Sherlock hums in sympathy.

“She seemed social enough online! But I sat down with her and she just clammed up. I feel bad– she was probably nervous, and I get it, but like– not even a word? Really?”

“You tend to like talking about yourself, though,” Sherlock remarks.

Watson glowers at him. “Yeah, sure, when I have stuff to talk about! It’s not like I can talk about you and I the whole time, can I?” he moans. “God, this is so hard, I wish I could just rehearse these bloody dates beforehand, and maybe they wouldn’t get all messed up before I got to the second fucking date.”

Sherlock, suddenly, is struck by an idea.

“I could.”

“Er, sorry, what?”

“I could. Rehearse them with you, I mean.”

Watson opens his mouth to retort, then shuts it. Weighs the pros and cons. Sherlock sits in anticipation, on the edge of rescinding the offer and playing it off as a joke, and then–

“What would you get out of it, though?”

“What, it’s not enough to want to help a friend?”

“I mean… sure? But I’m having a hard time believing that’s all you want.”

Watson’s brows are furrowed and his arms are crossed and he is most definitely expecting an answer that is not I’m just being a generous best friend. Sherlock thinks quickly.

“Data collection,” he says.

“Collecting what?” he asks.

“Romantic cliches and tropes,” he says.

“Oh, really.”

“It would certainly help me expand my horizons,” he says, defensive. “Is it a yes or a no, Watson?”

Watson sighs, rubbing his face. “What the hell, mate, fine. Sure. Let’s– do that.”

“Great!” he claps, rubbing his hands together. “When do we start?”

The first one is a movie date. Or, as Watson calls it, a Netflix & Chill.

“Usually if someone invites you over to Netflix & Chill you’re not gonna watch anything, but–”

“What? Why not?”

“...they’re usually just trying to hook up. And they don’t want to say so.”

“Ah.”

“Anyways, Bantr isn’t really a hookup app, so I think this girl is actually just trying to watch a movie with me. We even picked a movie to watch.”

“A horror movie…?”

“Yeah, it’s the perfect genre to get touchy with someone without it being weird, cause you can just play it off as getting scared of the movie.”

“You can’t just ask to touch the person?”

Watson snorts. “I wish it were that easy, mate. Dating’s all about subtlety, y’know? You can’t seem too desperate for the other person or they’ll drop you like that.” He says, with a snap of his fingers.

“Right…” Sherlock says, curling a lip.

“Yeah. I know. It’s bollocks. This is why I have to rehearse,” he sighs. “Come on. We’re gonna go watch The Conjuring .”

“I thought you were going to watch The Shining ?”

“Well, yeah, but I don’t wanna go into the date having watched the movie the day before. I’ve gotta experience it with her, you know?”

“You’ve watched The Shining before, though. Multiple times, in fact, you said you first watched it when you were nine, and subsequently–”

“Would you just sit on the bloody couch and let me go make popcorn?”

Sherlock does as he’s told and settles himself onto the couch as Watson moves to go microwave a packet of popcorn (of course, Watson will eat all the buttery ones and Sherlock will eat all the plain ones because the butter is too strong for him and Watson is some kind of fiend). He stretches out into the usual position he assumes whenever he, Watson, and Mariana have movie nights, which means his whole body spread out on the sofa and his feet atop Watson’s lap. (Sometimes Archie will join, and curl up at Watson’s feet, snoring lightly through the whole movie. Watson is usually quick to follow.)

The movie is decidedly not that scary, despite what Watson says. The special effects are cheesy, the makeup is done well, but he’s not immersed . The plot is just… boring. He does notice, however, looking at Watson, who is leaning forward with his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted as he shakes and shudders with the movie, hands clenching and unclenching in his lap, what the romantic appeal seems to be.

“Enjoying?” Sherlock whispers, pulling his eyes away, which seems to startle the man out of his half-scared, half-awed trance. Watson leans back into the sofa, unclenches his hands, inhales deeply and exhales.

“‘s pretty good, yeah,” he says, clearing his throat and crossing his arms. Sherlock smiles, grins, even, a wave of fondness rushing through him, and he’s grateful for the dark. Watson crosses his arms over himself, trying to regain his breath.

Sherlock leans back into the couch as well, pretends to look at the telly even though he’s really just staring at the man next to him from the corner of his eye, waiting for him to make any sort of move on him.

And then Watson yawns, very clearly fake, and Sherlock diligently does not roll his eyes as the blonde raises his arms all the way into the air, then slowly (and with all the famous subtlety of a bull in a china shop) lowers them back down so they can fall perfectly on top of his shoulders. But before he can, the poor child on screen screams as its mother tries to kill it, and the shriek that erupts out of Watson's mouth make Sherlock damn near jump out of his skin, too, and he buries his face into Sherlock's chest, gripping his pajama shirt like his life depends on it, trying not to sob (and failing miserably).

"...it's not real," Sherlock says, not sure how to comfort the man.

"I know that," he mutters, fingers still digging into the fabric of his shirt so much Sherlock is for a second afraid that he'll rip it. It was a gift from his brother. He so rarely receives gifts from his brother. It'd be a shame.

With a racing heart and great amounts of hesitation, he slowly starts to stroke Watson's hair, and inexplicably, it seems to be the right thing to do, because he slowly starts to loosen his grip on Sherlock, and just loosen in general, until he's nearly dead weight.

"...do you want to keep the movie on?" Sherlock says over the sound of excessive screaming.

"Yeah. 'm not scared," Watson says, or, rather, lies, clearly, considering he's still flinching a bit at some of the worst.

"Whatever you say, Watson," he sighs.

It doesn’t work.

Watson comes home in the early morning, as in, three in the morning, despondent. He sighs, but there’s no door slamming, which is a blessing. He just shuts the door and turns around, pressing his head to the wood.

“Yes to Netflix, no to chilling?” Sherlock asks, dropping himself out of a handstand.

“Opposite. She just tried to jump me, like, immediately,” Watson complains. “Does decorum not exist anymore?”

“I thought you said that was normal. In fact, you said you expected it and you were going in prepared.”

“I mean yeah, sure, fine, but come on, that is so not romantic. At least wait a bit and keep up the pretense of a movie before pouncing me, Christ.”

“Maybe she simply didn’t want to do romance, Watson.”

“Then why the hell did she match with me, anyway? I explicitly put it in my bio that I wanted someone looking for an actual fucking relationship!”

Sherlock tries not to look amused.

“Do you want me to make you some tea?” he asks, morphing his face into a passably sympathetic expression rather than someone trying not to laugh.

It’s not that he doesn’t feel bad for Watson. He does! But his impression of these apps is that… yes, generally they’re made for hookups. Even the ones that repeatedly claim different.

Also, he’s been on too many failed dates with this exact problem. You would think one would learn and look closer to home.

Much closer to home. 

Perhaps inside the home–

“Yes, please,” Watson sighs. “No fucking marshmallows.”

“Which restaurant did she pick?”

“An Italian one,” Watson answers as he taps away at his keyboard, cutting out about ten minutes of waffling from what will be the next adventure. “I think we’ve been there before, actually.” Rewind. Watson groans and clicks furiously at his mouse. 

“What do you need my help for, then? We go to restaurants all the time.”

“Well, we don’t flirt, for one,” Watson says. “And we don’t really touch—“

Sherlock tilts his head, confused. “But we do touch,” he says slowly, recalling the times they had hugged and held hands. Watson had tried to put an arm around him during the movie, even.

“Yeah, but not in a, like, romantic context. It’s touch between mates. Friendly and… masculine,” he ends weakly.

“...ah,” Sherlock agrees, even though it really doesn’t make sense (what’s the distinction?).

“And usually, on dates, you’re trying to get… somewhere,” Watson continues suggestively. He waggles his eyebrows, much to Sherlock’s chagrin.

“Where, exactly?” he asks, playing dumb.

“Y’know…” Watson says with a lilt at the end, shrugging his shoulders, “ somewhere. First base, second… third if you’re lucky.” He tries to wink. Again. Despite Sherlock having told him before that he can’t. It looks more like something’s caught in his eye.

Sherlock just nearly represses the urge to roll his eyes and instead blinks owlishly, as if still clueless. “What do sports have to do with dating, Watson?”

“No— not sports…”

“I admit I’m confused.”

It’s amusing, watching Watson go red in the face as he splutters in embarrassment.

“I– Sherlock,” he says, pouting. “I know you know what I’m talking about. You’re being oblivious on purpose.”

“Yes, of course, I know exactly what you’re talking about, Watson,” he deadpans. “I’m well known for being a master of allusions and social cues, as you are well aware.”

He can see the deliberation on Watson’s face, from disbelief and indignation to concern and back to disbelief, and they almost know each other well enough at this point for him to take the bait.

But, he knows, Watson will never take that risk.

“It’s–” he sighs. “First base is kissing, second is above the waist, third is– you know.”

Sherlock takes pity on the poor man. “Ah, I see,” he says. “You do want a sexual exploit this time.”

Well. Not too much pity, as it were.

“I don’t want one, I’m lowering my standards,” he mutters. “And yeah, it’s been too bloody long since I’ve gotten properly laid. I think I was just… scared last time. I’m ready now.”

“Congratulations,” Sherlock says, and he gets a swat to the arm for all his efforts.

“This is a big step for me! It’s been ages since I’ve even thought of dating, let alone letting myself get lucky,” Watson huffs.

“Are you sure the only reason you haven’t been getting ‘laid’ is because you’re not letting yourself ?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t pay you to question my logic,” Watson pouts.

“You don’t pay me at all,” Sherlock says, smiling.

“I paid for takeaway last night!” Watson says, affronted.

“Yes, because you owed me after that inane bet you made trying to prove that you could–”

“We don’t need to rehash all of that, do we!” Watson says, interrupting. “Why don’t I, why don’t I pick you up at seven. Does that sound good?” And without even waiting for an answer, “yeah, that’s good. I’m going to go prepare myself.”

Sherlock watches him go, and hides a smile behind his hand.

Mariana graciously agrees to cook the food. In her words, “I have a real date tonight, and she’ll be so impressed if I bring leftover Italian that I made.”

Sherlock puts on a simple dress shirt and slacks, wipes his glasses and puts them back on, and sits on his bed in wait of Watson.

He self-consciously straightens his dress shirt several times. Which is ludicrous, and he isn’t sure why he does it. Curious. He hasn’t ever been one to care overly much about his appearance, even when Mycroft used to gently point out that his clothes were all wrinkly. 

A rhythmic knock on the door— that one from Frozen , Sherlock recalls from a Pixar movie night— and he gets up to open it.

“Why, hello there, date of mine,” Watson grins. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long?”

It’s 7:15. “You could’ve been earlier,” is all Sherlock says.

“Wha– it’s only 7:15!”

“That’s a quarter of an hour. You were a quarter of an hour late.”

“But you have to think about transit, you know, what if there was traffic?”

“There was no traffic in the hallway from your room to mine, Watson. You have no excuse for being that egregiously late.”

“No— hypothetically! Like, pretend you live in a different house and I’m picking you up.”

“If you anticipated traffic, you should’ve started earlier.”

Watson heaves a sigh. “Yeah, fine. I’ll keep that in mind for my actual date.”

It’s then that Sherlock only just realises how Watson looks.

And, well.

He cleans up nicely.

It’s more casual than he himself had gone for, but undoubtedly attractive. It’s similar to what he wore that first night, but clearly improved. Watson has his hair combed in a way that makes his hair look softer and wavier than usual, with a noticeably lessened amount of gel, and he’s even picked a less ratty shirt from his closet— a shirt without a stupid pun printed on the front, and not fraying at the edges. He has cologne on, a spicy scent. It’s just enough to be noticeable and tantalising instead of overpowering and obnoxious.

“Right,” Watson says, breaking Sherlock’s internal observations, “here’s a list of questions people usually ask on first dates.” He hands him a ripped out page from his notebook with questions written in barely legible scrawl. Sherlock, not for the first time, is glad Watson didn’t seek out a job as a GP. Lord help his poor would-be patients.

Sherlock squints. “You expect me to read this?”

“Oh, come on, they’re not that bad, really, they–”

“No, you think I can read your handwriting? Despite my reputation for being able to decode ciphers, it takes me quite a bit of time to solve.”

“Bugger off.” Watson scoffs, but his mouth is upturned and his eyes are alight, and Sherlock’s heart jumps into his throat. 

He clears his throat. “I suppose I can make an effort to read this, if you say it’s necessary.”

“It’ll give me practice for my actual date, so, yeah, bit necessary. The reason why we’re doing all this.”

It’s not a wake up call, nor a bucket of ice cold water over the head, because Sherlock knows that all of this is fake. That’s why they’re in their flat and their chef is their waiter who is also their best friend. So there’s nothing to jolt at, nothing to flinch at being reminded of. Because he knows exactly where he stands. So.

Watson clears his throat and offers Sherlock his hand. Sherlock eyes it for a moment before accepting the hand. (Which is a big mistake— why?) Watson laces their fingers together, warm and steady, and says, “well?”

Sherlock has to fight back a smile as he says, “lead the way, Watson.”

When they step out into their kitchen, Sherlock is half-way surprised at the sight. There’s a nice red-and-white checkered sheet draped over the usually scratched, acid-burnt Ikea pine, and you can barely tell there’s a defective leg. The lights are down low, the small dining room’s only lit with a small, incandescent candle placed carefully in a glass cup. Something about the romantic ambience makes Sherlock’s stomach flip. (Why?)

Watson pulls Sherlock’s chair out for him with a flourish. Sherlock winces as it scrapes against the floor. It takes everything in him to not burst out in giddy giggles. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock says pleasantly, elegantly slipping into the chair and folding his hands in his lap. Watson walks over to his own chair and sits down. 

Sherlock glances down to the list in his hands. “Do I just start reading questions from this, or…?” he asks, uncertain as to how he’s to work these into conversation. The paper crinkles in his hand. 

“No, on dates, you’ve gotta sort of… ease into the flirting. Just… light conversation at first. Small talk, y’know. How are you and it’s a nice night, isn’t it and all that.” 

Sherlock pulls a face. Eurgh. Small talk. 

“Don’t make that face. You’ll survive,” Watson grumbles. “It’s only going to take like thirty minutes, and then you can go back to destroying the walls of our flat.” He rests his arms on the table, and for a moment, it wobbles, the defective leg almost hitting the floor.

Sherlock makes it clear that if he has to engage in small talk, he won’t be starting it, which Watson realizes after a minute of silence that he fills by tapping his fingers on their egregiously small dining table.

“So, how are you, then?” he asks.

“Just swell,” Sherlock deadpans. “What about you.”

“Well,” and by the smirk on Watson’s face, he’s about to say something outrageously stupid, “not great, honestly.”

“And why’s that?”

“You know, just work stuff. One of my colleagues–” and here he clears his throat obnoxiously– “is just the worst. But I think it’s starting to look up, actually.”

“Oh, really?” Sherlock asks.

“Yeah, I mean, I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

“And what a miracle that is.” He glances down at the list, and asks, “so have you been here… I can’t read that.” Sherlock squints, ignoring Watson’s indignant scoff. “…Before? Have you been here before?”

“Nope, this place is actually pretty new to me,” Watson says. “What about you? You ever been here before? Is the food nice?”

“I hear the food’s fantastic, Watson,” he says.

“Well, thank god for that, yeah?” Watson laughs. Sherlock hums.

“Sure. Now, err… what do you do for work?”

“I’m a podcaster!”

Sherlock sighs. “I don’t want to break the immersion, but is any woman actually going to be impressed by that?”

“Well– it’s not like I’m running some alpha male podcast here, am I? We’re doing true crime. Women love that.”

“Then say you’re a true crime podcaster, not ‘a podcaster’. Anyhow, I’ve found that saying you run a true crime podcast still gives rather the wrong impression. And please, Watson, refrain from stereotyping people.”

“Right, yeah, sorry,” Watson says. “How could it possibly give the wrong impression?” 

Sherlock raises a brow. “Exploitative,” is all he says. Watson sighs at him.

“What would you have said, then, Mister Consulting Detective?”

Sherlock thinks. “I work with the police when they are in need of additional assistance. They commission me for my services.”

“That… makes you sound like a freelancer.”

“That’s a bad thing?”

“I mean, not really what one wants to hear, that your job relies on the whims of someone else. Especially if they’re expecting you to support them financially.”

“Doesn’t every job rely on the whim of someone else? Also, wouldn’t expecting someone to financially support you on a first date be excessively presumptuous?”

“There’s a difference between dating for sex and dating for love, Sherlock. Sure, it’s only the first date, but you’re going on it with the expectation that there will be a second, a third, a fourth.”

Sherlock hums in assent. “I see. How would you word it?”

“I guess… that you’re a police aide. It makes it sound less unstable when you put it like that, doesn’t it? Official, recognised job title and all.”

“I suppose,” he says. “So… after work, how do you…— your handwriting is abysmal– how do you relax, Watson?”

“Well, usually, I wind down with my dog, Archie, and I’ll pet him while I read a book—“

“Watson, you never do that,” Sherlock interjects, unimpressed. Sherlock had been under the impression that one was meant to be honest to one’s partner— but all Watson had done so far was fabricate lies.

“And you’re not a police aide,” Watson counters. “You just have to give off a good impression.”

Sherlock grumbles and concedes the point, though he does point out that there was a hint of truth to the police aide lie. “We do help in aiding the police. That’s not a lie, the official title is.”

Watson rolls his eyes. “Semantics,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “Look, I’ve just gotta come off as cool to have even the slightest chance of being able to get into a new relationship. They can learn the truth about me later, I just… need to appear cool. Chill, y’know?”

Something in Sherlock turns and twists unpleasantly at the notion that anyone Watson may bring home might stick around later to learn the truth . He nods all the same. “Right. Of course. Chill,” he parrots blandly. 

Mariana comes around with the food in hand, two plates of, of course, penne pasta with marinara sauce. There’s some parmesan grated onto the tops of both plates, and Watson’s seems to have more spices added.

“Your food, sirs,” she says, smiling.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says. He stares at Watson, expectantly. The blonde says nothing.

“I’ll be on my way now,” she whispers, winking, and she turns off the light in the kitchen, walking out into the hallway.

Sherlock’s eyes bore a hole into Watson’s head. He doesn’t notice, preoccupied with the food at first (which isn’t surprising, Mariana is an amazing cook), but eventually the silence gets loud and he looks up.

“What?” he says, covering his mouth. “Is there something on my face?”

“Why didn’t you thank her?”

“Well. I thanked her before. And she makes dinner for us all the time. I figured it wasn’t a big deal.” Watson swallows, and wipes his mouth. “Why? She text you something?”

“No, it’s not that you didn’t thank Mariana. You didn’t thank our waiter.”

Watson stabs another noodle with his fork. “...what’s the difference?”

“If you go out on a date and don’t thank the service, you’re going to look rude.”

“But– that’s not the service! That’s our friend!”

“In any other context, yes. Here, she’s the waiter. And you have to thank the waiter.” He raises his eyebrows. “You tell me this incessantly.”

“Obviously I’ll thank the actual waiter, Sherlock. We’re at home. She doesn’t mind.”

“Well, you at least ought to thank her when she makes breakfast tomorrow.”

Watson sighs. “I’ll do that.”

“Now,” Sherlock says, “what do you… how’s your life at the moment?” He raises a brow. “Didn’t I ask this already?”

“Well– I was thinking more generally, you know?” Watson says. “Like, someone would want to know how my life is currently going, right?”

“I suppose,” he acquiesces. “Answer it, then. How is your life?”

His eyes glint. “It’s good. Great, even. I have two best friends, a stable job–” (Sherlock snorts, Watson hisses shut up) “–and I’ve pretty much made my home here. I feel happy. I think I’m doing well. Perfect, even.”

Sherlock has a comment somewhere in the back of his head about that, about how he ought to make his life seem like a little less so the girl will think that he needs her to be fulfilled, but it gets caught in the back of his throat. Something as simple as I feel happy, but Sherlock feels it. And it’s intoxicating.

And Watson rests his head on a hand, and the added weight causes the table to wobble, falling onto the defective leg, and the moment is lost to their helpless laughter. 

“It was the simplest thing,” Watson laughs.

He leans on the couch, watching over Sherlock’s shoulder where he’s playing a video of slime ASMR. Mmmm, the satisfying crunch is quite to his tastes. His eyes are closed, and he doesn’t open them for Watson, though he does take an earphone out.

“What was it?” he asks.

“She–” he huffs a laugh, but it’s less amused and more distraught. “She thought I was too happy.”

He sits up at this, taking his other earphone out. He pauses the video and turns around, facing the man. 

He’s gotten better at reading Watson’s face. The furrow between his eyebrows, the press of his lips, the heave of his chest, the squint of his eyes.

“I really liked this one, too,” he mumbles.

Sherlock motions at him to come sit down. “What do you mean too happy?” he asks, as though he hadn’t thought the same thing on their practice date. 

Watson sits. “I told her the same thing I told you, and she just thought my life was already fulfilled. I think she thought… I dunno, my life was already so perfect, and where would I be able to fit her in?” Watson sighs. “ Did I make it sound like I was too happy?”

Yes, in fact, you did, Sherlock thinks. He swallows. “I didn’t think so,” he says smoothly instead.

Watson sinks into the cushion with a hopeless look on his face. “I am happy, ‘course I am. How couldn’t I be, having you and Archie and Mariana? I just… I need somebody to project romance on. Platonic love is great, of course it is, but I feel like I need something more. You know? Like— I wanna be a part of a stupidly obnoxious couple, that parades around right in front of your face, just spewing happiness. I want to be disgustingly in love with someone to the point that people wince and roll their eyes and wolf whistle…”

Watson continues jabbering on, but Sherlock hears none of it as his mind begins to race. 

For a split second, Sherlock’s mind conjures up an image of Watson and himself being that couple, radiating sickening, bright, obvious joy to everyone in their vicinity. He doesn’t know why he does it, and he’s not sure why he goes all warm at the thought. Absent-mindedly, registering that Watson is still talking, he mutters, “waffling, Watson.”

“—and— sorry, mate.” Watson sighs again. Then he looks at Sherlock and gives him an awkward looking smile. “ ‘Least I have you all in the meantime, right?”

Sherlock blinks. “Right,” he agrees, his voice going oddly croaky.

“Roller skating for a first date? Isn’t that a bit… much?” Sherlock asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, it really depends on the people going on the date,” Watson explains. “We both like roller skating, so–”

“You cannot rollerskate.”

“How do you know that?” Watson glares.

“We’ve gone ice skating. You wouldn’t be so awful at that if you could ice skate, meaning you lied to your date. Lied, Watson. Lied! To your date!”

“Yeah, fork found in a kitchen, mate. People lie on the apps all the time, and about arguably worse stuff,” Watson says, rolling his eyes. “Plus, I’m technically not lying at all– I do like roller skating. And I have roller skated before– I actually used to be pretty good at it, you know.”

Sherlock stares at him, both eyebrows raised.

“...okay, when I was, like, eight,” he mumbles. “But hey! You’re the one who suggested practicing dates in the first place, and now I have a really good reason to practice a date.”

“You do realize that I’m also unable to roller skate, yes?”

“Yeah, but two idiots trying to learn how to skate is always better than one idiot trying to learn how to skate.”

“I’m absolutely certain that is not the case.”

“Two idiots is less pathetic, then.”

“Should I feel offended?”

“Look, are you coming or not, mate?”

“Yes, yes, fine, fine, yes–”

“Err… do you need help, Watson?” Sherlock asks, watching in half amusement and half concern as he struggles to shove his foot into one of his skates. Watson’s head pops up, his face pinched in frustration.

“No, no, I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s fine.”

“You don’t look fine. In fact, you seem to be having quite a bit of trouble, over there. Do you… want me to help?”

Watson huffs and rolls his eyes, bending back down and having another try at pulling the skate on.

“I don’t need your help to put on roller skates. I can do that myself, Sherlock.”

“Right, but you seem like you’re struggling a bit. Rather, a lot. ”

“Thank you for your riveting commentary.” he snipes.

Sherlock stares at him, raising an eyebrow.

“I think my feet are just–” he grunts, giving up on the skate and picking up the other one– “–a little big.”

“Then go exchange your skates for bigger ones,” Sherlock says, like it’s obvious. (Because it is.)

“Well, no, because, we, y’know, were just at the counter, and I don’t wanna go back to the counter to tell them I don’t know my own fucking shoe size. That’s embarrassing. ”

“But you can’t get your feet into the skates,” he says, a bit confused, at this point.

“Yeah. Sure, fine, I probably actually could, but we were just at the counter, Sherlock, that’s odd,” Watson whines.

“I’d assume roller skate sizes can be different than one’s normal shoe size.”

“But you got yours right,” he says, pointing at Sherlock’s fully laced skates.

“Well, we don’t have the same feet,” Sherlock rationalizes.

“I– you know what? I got this. I don’t need to go back and exchange these, and, matter of fact, I don’t even want to. It’ll be fine.”

Sherlock stares for a couple more seconds as Watson sits there, the poor man, trying his damndest in vain to shove the skates onto his feet.

“...do you want me to return them for you?”

Watson looks like God has descended upon him.

“Oh, god, yes, please. ”

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock says kindly, even offering the person behind the counter a toothy smile as he takes the proffered new pair of roller skates. Watson is standing to his side, slightly behind him, and Sherlock can see Watson shifting his feet back and forth like a small child in embarrassment from his peripheral vision. The worker smiles back at the two before addressing the next person. 

The duo turn back to the rink and Sherlock hands the new pair over to Watson, whose face is flushed pink. He takes the roller skates and pinches the two sides between his fingers. 

“God, that was humiliating. Jesus, I felt like a 5 year old,” Watson mumbles, shaking his head. His shaggy hair (and he really needs to cut some off, it’s as though he’s trying to emulate some 70’s rockstar and it might be hazardous to Sherlock’s health) bounces around his temples at the motion. 

“I really can’t comprehend why that was so terrible for you,” Sherlock comments, not unkind. He’s only curiously blunt.

“It just… was, mate. Makes me look incompetent. I mean, who can’t even give someone their own fucking shoe size properly?” He stresses as he sits down on the bench they were at earlier, groaning as he does. His back is terrible for someone who’s only 35.

“Do you need me to help you put it on?” Sherlock inquires with a tilt of his head.

“Fuck off,” says Watson. Sherlock’s lips quirk up. Watson shoves his right foot into the thankfully now fitting pair of roller skates, and then slips his left into the other. He leans down, letting out a short puff of air as he strains his chest, strapping down the velcro. He sits back up, placing his hands palms down on his thighs. He tries to wiggle his toes to get comfortable, but he winces, meaning they’re still a bit tight. 

That isn’t Sherlock staring, that’s just good observation at work.

Watson carefully moves to stand up again, his legs chattering like cold teeth. He yelps in an undignified manner when the wheels move and he lurches forward, arms a blurry windmill as he tries to regain stability. 

Sherlock catches him before he can fall flat on his face into the 80s patterned carpet, and Watson’s breath stutters a bit in his chest. There’s a slight reddening to his cheeks, and if Sherlock thinks about it, maybe the roller rink is a bit cold.

“Alright, Watson?” Sherlock asks, and when did he get so close to him? 

Watson swallows. Sherlock watches as his Adam’s apple bobs tantalizingly.

Which is only tantalizing because… No, he really can’t think of an excuse. 

Well. He doesn’t have to rationalize anything to himself. 

“Yeah. Fine,” he says, “dunno if my ego’s ever gonna recover, though. This many mistakes in one day, I really do feel like a loser podcaster.”

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “You undoubtedly are one, anyhow–”

“Hey!”

“—But it’s not as though anyone in this rink will give you more than a moment’s thought.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks. Still feel like I made a tit out of myself, though.” Watson clears his throat, sniffs, and rubs his hands together. “Right! Skating. I am basically a pro. Don’t even begin your protest. You’re looking at the star of the local Swindon skating rink of 1997.” 

Sherlock’s brows raise to nearly kiss his hairline. “Oh? Are you really? Is that an actual award they give out?”

“No, but I was there after school basically every day. The workers hated to see me coming, hah. Knew I’d decimate the rink.”

“Or they knew you would decimate your legs, judging by the state of them,” Sherlock quips to Watson’s chagrin.

Watson rolls his eyes. “Hil arious. Alright, c’mon, let’s hit the rink. My feet are getting antsy.”

“Okay, so, basically, you want to bend your knees– no, a little more than that– and then kind of push yourself forward with one foot, so– Sherlock– Sherlock, you’re just walking.”

“You’re not giving me a good example to follow, Watson,” Sherlock counters. He takes another step and his wheels push him backwards. “In no circumstance should you ever become a teacher,” he grumbles, even as Watson takes his hand to stop his stumbling. 

“How–? Go forwards,” he hisses, pushing Sherlock forward just a bit. Sherlock’s eyes go wide in panic and he clutches onto Watson’s bicep, which makes them both slide forwards. 

“Sherlock what the fuck—?! ”

“I panicked, Watson, it wasn’t a conscious decision!” 

“What d’you mean it wasn’t– right. Okay. Just shift your weight from one foot to another.”

Sherlock eyes Watson nervously, holding onto him for a moment longer before letting his arms drop. Slowly, slowly, he pushes himself forward. His stance is all wobbly and his arms are out like a fool, but he’s making progress.

“Good, good, you’re getting it!” Watson says from somewhere behind him, and he can picture the two thumbs up that he’s almost definitely holding up.

“You’re not even qualified for this,” Sherlock mutters distractedly, far more focussed on his roller-clad feet. He furrows his brows and narrows his eyes as he pushes himself forward again, shakily, and then again, this time more controlled, and soon his eyes are on his feet no longer, and this is much better than walking. He chances a glance back at Watson, who’s grinning widely with his stupid– beautiful– stupid dimples. 

“You’re doing it, you’re doing it!” he whisper-yells across the rink, slowly pushing himself forward as well. There’s a grin on his face so wide it might split, and Sherlock’s chest warms dangerously.

Once Sherlock gets used to the pattern of shifting his weight from one foot to the other, repetitive and surprisingly calming, he finds that it’s actually quite easy to do. He speeds up a bit, gaining confidence in his steps. The world is a blur in his eyes. It’s a bit like flying, he imagines, just gliding with little care for where you’re going. It feels like a childhood dream of his. He’s completely at peace. Nothing is screaming for his attention. His overactive mind is left at the mercy of the liberating rolling wheels and the sensation of flight.  

Suddenly Watson is in front of him (when did that happen? Not that he minds) and he tries to stop himself, but putting his hands out doesn’t actually do anything in time, as it happens, and he slams into the shorter man, sending them both careening into the hard floor.

“Oof—!” Watson exclaims. He groans and winces at the weight of the taller man currently situated on his front. “Jesus, you’re bloody heavy.”

“Thanks,” Sherlock snarks.

“You don’t get to be offended by that, mate, I had to live through 5 minutes of you trying to pull me up an elevator shaft and it was the most painful 5 minutes of my life.”

“The most painful?” Sherlock asks doubtfully.

“Worse than that IED,” Watson deadpans. “Get off me, you’ll suffocate me.”

Sherlock’s lips involuntarily quirk up, and he scrambles off of Watson, trying not to roll away. He reaches a hand out and heaves Watson up. 

Sherlock makes to push off, but Watson is white knuckling the wall, unmoving, and he looks distinctly like a wet shivering dog.

Sherlock frowns in worry. “Watson?” He asks softly. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Mate. I’m. Fine.” he grits out between his teeth.

“Would you like to… hold hands? To keep steady?” Sherlock offers tentatively. 

Watson’s face goes pink, and he stammers a bit.

“I– I don’t– You don’t have to do that,” he says.

“ I offered, didn’t I?” Sherlock says, peering at him over his glasses.

“Yeah, fine, alright then,” Watson mumbles. He holds out his hand and Sherlock grips it, squeezes it once, and then slowly skates forward, waiting for Watson to come off the wall.

Like a baby deer, and with wobbly legs to play the part, he slowly detaches himself from where he’s stuck to the wall of the rink, and his grip on Sherlock’s hand tightens. 

It’s nice. The pressure is nice. He has no other thoughts on the subject.

None at all. 

Honest.

They glide around the rink a few times hand-in-hand.

“You were right, Watson, you just have to shift your weight from foot to foot,” Sherlock says, watching the blonde’s feet. “You’re simply scared.”

“I am not,” he insists, despite the both of them knowing that he really is. Deathly afraid. He muttered as much under his breath somewhere around the second lap.

“Really?”

“Really, Sherlock.”

“Alright then,” he says, but he doesn’t let go of Watson’s hand yet. He has a plan.

He distracts him, asks him about the football match he watched the other day (“Sherlock Holmes asking me about a Swindon Town match? Never thought I’d see the day,”) and listens attentively while he hisses his curses at the opposition and praises Swindon, maybe a bit too much (is a football player ripping his shirt deserving of that much attention?)

Watson’s rambling is possibly the only rambling he can stand. From anyone else, it’s boring, annoying, irritating, migraine inducing. From him, it’s endearing, interesting, comfortable. 

…attractive, even.

No. Not that track. Train, divert.

Watson’s grip on Sherlock’s hand is already loosening, so it’s not hard to untangle their fingers by any means.

He misses the warmth of his hand for a moment, his hand feeling incomplete and empty without Watson’s calloused palm against his, but that’s quickly overshadowed by the pride and excitement of watching Watson skate by himself without Sherlock’s assistance.

He lets him talk for a few more minutes before slowly drifting away, inching closer to the center of the rink, waiting for Watson to spot him.

He stays unobserved, and he takes the opportunity to admire his best friend.

Watson looks so peaceful, at ease just skating. Sherlock wonders if he’s gained some of his childhood confidence back, watching him sway to the pop music playing in the speakers above the rink.

Sherlock does a quick spin, smiling to himself. He really is so… fond of the man.

No. He’s in love with him.

And he’s staring at Watson, who is yelling something he can’t hear through the rushing in his ears.

He’s in love with him.

Fuck.

“I made a fool of myself,” Watson spits as he swings the front door open, limping across the room.

Sherlock looks up from his scrolling on his laptop through a crime article. Watson’s holding an ice pack to his hip. “Did you… stumble over your feet?”

“Stumble, fall over, everything you can think of.” He sighs, falling onto the soft sofa and pushing his hair back with a stressed hand. “Jesus, I’m terrible at this.”

“A few failed dates with women you’ve met on apps doesn’t mean anything, Watson,” Sherlock says, putting a hand over his. “Maybe you just don’t click. That’s perfectly fine.”

“ One or two dates don’t mean anything. Sherlock, I’ve been on five,” he stresses. “ One means nothing. Two is a coincidence. Three is a pattern, four is a concern, and bloody five is insane! I’m hopeless. ”

Sherlock feels a really very inappropriate sense of satisfaction. It’s a horrible thing to feel. He swallows harshly, fighting it down guiltily. “Well, they’re ludicrous, Watson. You’re a catch!” He affirms. How could anyone not realise how wonderful he was? People really were incapable of spotting the obvious. 

“Certainly doesn’t feel that way,”  Watson mutters, forlorn. He’s staring straight ahead into the void, a subtle frown settling on his face, picking at a stray thread of his jeans. From what Sherlock has learned about Watson over the year and few months they’ve known each other, he knows Watson is holding back (what he thinks are embarrassing) tears. His jaw is clenched tautly, enough that it is a genuine concern on Sherlock’s end for the state of his friend’s teeth, and his hands are now balled into fists. And yet he’s not breaking down.

Keep calm, and soldier on.

Sherlock knows, or at least has an idea, as to what’s racing through his intimate friend’s mind right now. Thoughts of being washed up and old and broken. It makes something uncomfortable curl in his gut. All traces of satisfaction vanish. 

“John,” he starts softly, tentatively, “you’re incredible. Invaluable. You’re a dangerously loyal companion. Any woman would be lucky to have you.” And any man , Sherlock thinks, but of course doesn’t voice it.

Watson’s eyes dart to the side to eyeball Sherlock for a second. Sherlock gets a feeling akin to that of a specimen being analysed underneath a microscope, being searched for a lie, and he shifts nervously despite knowing he’s being truthful. 

Watson looks at Sherlock for a moment longer before he puffs his chest out as he sighs, letting go of all his tension. He smiles again, nodding tightly. “Yeah. Yeah. Thanks, mate,” he says quietly. “Sorry. I— Christ. It’s a stupid thing to want to cry over.”

“Perfectly alright, Watson,” Sherlock assures him quickly. “Human connection is natural to seek out. Approval. Being wanted. ” 

Sherlock has never in his life wanted to hold someone’s hand more, to give it a squeeze, to lean in and watch as all of Watson’s worries fade away under his hands. 

I would treat him better, Sherlock thinks, the thought coming unbidden from the deepest recesses of his mind. Better than anyone else could. He would be paramount to me. He already is.

His hand twitches. 

Watson grins. It’s like watching the sun peek out from threatening black clouds of storm against a dull blue/grey sky. “Well. Better luck next time, I guess,” he says, tapping a rhythm on his thighs.

“You’ll have it,” Sherlock says, and it feels like a glass shard shot into his chest.

“We’re doing something nice and simple,” Watson announces over greasy takeaway just two nights after, not even bothering with swallowing down his food before he speaks. Frankly, Sherlock is less repulsed by the sight of chewed-up, mushy food and more astounded at the rate at which Watson seems to be pulling women. It’s damned quick. Sherlock had thought that he’d have a bit more time to brood with his newfound feelings before he had to put on an actor’s mask and pretend that he didn’t yearn for their fake practice dates to be real.

“Oh?” Sherlock asks interestedly. 

“Yup,” Watson says, popping the p, “a mall date. Going shopping. Get something from a coffee shop first, probably, and then… I dunno. It wasn’t my idea, admittedly. I’m just going along with it; I’m being texted the plans.”

“That doesn’t sound too interesting,” Sherlock comments. Shopping, for a first date? He spears a lone piece from his plate with his fork, bringing it to his mouth and chewing. 

“No, see, it’s actually genius,” Watson says as he gestures his disgusting, saliva-covered fork around in the air. “You get to see your date’s tastes on the first date. So, next time, when you turn up at their door, you can give them something you know they’ll appreciate.” 

An image comes to Sherlock’s mind of Watson waiting outside of his door, dressed like a proper gentleman with a bouquet of his favourite plants. Something Watson would know he appreciates. And God knows he would… “Smart,” he concedes. 

“Isn’t it just,” says Watson with a self-satisfied grin. 

“Where are you taking her, then?” he asks.

“Well, that’s the thing, y’know…” Watson mutters. “I haven’t been to that mall, like, ever , but it seems to be a favorite on the other end. What if the date ends early?” He drops his head into his hands. “What if I’m just being used for my money?”

“Which you have plenty of, of course,” Sherlock says. At Watson’s look, reminiscent of a hurt puppy looking up, he closes his eyes in defeat. “Sorry. When do you want to scope the place out, then?”

Watson sighs. “I was thinking tomorrow? It’s open from 10 am to 7 pm, so we pretty much have the whole day. We could eat, take Archie out, and go right before lunch?”

Sherlock hums. “That sounds nice. And a shocking display of planning from you, Watson, I didn’t know you were capable.”

Watson huffs. “Yeah, because I don’t need to plan. I figured you’d appreciate it, but clearly my efforts here are wasted.” He rolls his eyes and takes another bite out of his food.

Sherlock’s heart stutters.

He watches Watson, then, chewing and wiping at his mouth, his dirty blonde hair falling over his face. He pretends he doesn’t care about these things, but Sherlock knows he does. He knows that all the man really wants is to be loved the way he loves, pouring himself into his partner. Sherlock has watched him do it before.

Sherlock doesn’t know if he can.

“...thank you,” he mumbles, before shoving food into his mouth so he can pretend he’d never said it at all.

The next morning, Sherlock is greeted by the scent of fresh, homemade Watson Waffles (the recipe given to them by Carol on her last visit) when he stumbles out into the kitchen later in the morning, still gummy-eyed and blinking off sleep. 

Watson is already fully dressed in a red long sleeve with a darker, nearly maroon coloured stripe across the midriff. It’s the jumper with the soft, thin material that he favours on sunny days. Well, what passes for sunny in London, anyhow. He has tan shorts on and plain white socks that shoot up to his ankle. He doesn’t have his trainers on quite yet, but Sherlock can see the pair of shoes sitting just next to the sofa, waiting for Watson to slip them on.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Watson chirps jovially when he notices Sherlock’s entrance. He’s already eating the fruits of his labour. He flips a waffle from his own plate onto Sherlock’s and slides it across the table.

“Mmmm, Watson. Smells delicious,” Sherlock compliments as he sits down. “Oh, fork.”
“Here.” Watson scrapes open a drawer and Sherlock can hear the clinking of cutlery being shoved about before Watson produces a fork and shoves it in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock mumbles a thank you before viciously stabbing the fork straight into his waffle. 

Watson looks out of the window onto the already bustling streets of London. “It’s a real nice day out,” he muses, “perfect conditions for a walk in the park and a mall trip.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees, because it is, objectively, a nice day. “Did you already give waffles to Mariana?”

“Yeah, like, half an hour ago. I think she likes my waffles more than she likes me…”

“Well, the waffles don’t waffle on and on quite as much as you do.” It’s a light-hearted tease, as it usually is on nice mornings just like this. And although his mind rebels at stagnation, Sherlock would not mind if he were sentenced to breakfasts just like this for the rest of his life. 

“Oh, yeah, thanks,” says Watson, rolling his eyes. “I really do feel so loved by everyone in this flat.” Watson passes over some chocolate syrup, too, knowing that Sherlock prefers it on his waffles. 

You are, Sherlock thinks, drizzling the syrup, so stop seeking love outside of it.  

Watson polishes off the last of his waffle, and then sets the dirty dish into the sink. He glances up at the clock. “I’ll get Archie’s leash, then, shall I? We can head out already once you’ve finished.”

“Right, so, I’ll have an Earl Grey Milk Tea with tapioca, and he’ll have– Sherlock, sorry, what did you want again?”

Sherlock sighs. “Caramel Milk Tea. Large, less ice, pearls, small pearls, and lychee jelly. 60% sugar.”

“It’s not my fault your order is egregiously long,” Watson mutters.

“Did you want your drink regular or large, sir?” asks the barista (third year of university, engineering major, recently dumped, is also a swim instructor), turning to face Watson.

“Uh, just a regular sounds good, thanks,” he says, his hand hovering over the card reader while the barista enters their order. The receipt prints. Order #1077, it reads. They’ve just called #1062.

“Bloody busy shop,” Watson grunts as the two of them sit down at one of the small tables.

“Indeed,” Sherlock says. “So. What’s our agenda, Watson?”

Watson hums in thought. “Well, to be completely honest, I hadn’t really planned anything in particular.” At Sherlock’s pained look, he quickly adds: “But! I did take the liberty of looking up some shops online. There’s a toy shop that isn’t too much of a walk from here, and then a jewelry shop somewhere closer to the center. And there’ll be a few clothing stores, which is great for me considering you just about destroyed a fourth of my wardrobe yesterday.”

“I was bored,” Sherlock says, defensive. “We haven’t had a case in weeks, Watson. You can’t expect me to do nothing.”

“Yeah, sure, I get that, but normally, when people get bored, they don’t set their best friends' clothes on fire.”

“I was testing for burn patterns! Those are actually quite important to be able to identify, especially on clothing. You wouldn’t believe how crucial–”

“You burned like half my clothes! Where am I supposed to get good trousers for my date now?”

“I thought it was a fourth, now it’s half? Is there a fire at the flat as we speak? Is it mystically only burning your formalwear?”

“Does it matter what fraction of my clothes have been burnt? You burned my clothes, Sherlock, you fucking set my clothes on fire!”

Watson is panting and red in the face, the last comment having burst out a bit louder than intended. Timidly, the barista calls out:

“...#1077?”

Sherlock doesn’t particularly mind. He will never see any of these people again, and none of them will ever see him again. He gets up and picks up their drinks, plucking two straws out of the bin.

He sits down, and he can feel the barista’s stare on his back. Watson, being an avid member of society, is red in the face, and the cause is no longer pure exertion (though he is still a bit out of breath).

“I suppose that’s a yes for clothes shopping, then?” Sherlock asks, setting Watson’s drink in front of him and stabbing the top of his own with the sharp part of the straw.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Watson mutters.

“Aww, look at all these soft toys, Sherlock. They’re so cute, don’t ya think they’re cute?”

Watson has dragged Sherlock inside of a childrens’ toy store, one that specializes in soft toys. It’s not the largest store but it is still quite big, considering it only sells one type of toy.

“Yes, and I assume this cat is the mascot of the brand?” he asks, picking up a black cat with eyes much unlike the others.

“Yep, but this bunny right here’s a lot more popular,” Watson says, picking up a brown bunny. “He’s so cute. Hello, little guy, you’re so cute, you are.”

“Oh, these are quite soft,” Sherlock remarks, picking up a brown bear with short limbs and a large body. “What are these made out of, Watson?”

Watson gasps. “Look, this rain cloud looks just like you. Oh, I’ve gotta send this to Mariana, give me your phone, Sherls, that’s too perfect, my god. ”

“You are being ridiculous, Watson, I see no resemblance between this— cloud and myself.” He swats at the thing, trying to knock it out of Watson’s hands. “Put it down.”

“You hold it then, because I am so taking this picture,” Watson says, shoving it into Sherlock’s hands. The plushie has a sad face, and with a sigh, Sherlock morphs his face accordingly, to Watson’s immediate delight. He snaps no little amount of pictures, changing angle every single time for no apparent reason.

“You look so adorable with that, oh my lord, Sherlock,” he coos, and Sherlock tries his very level best not to go red in the face. “We have to buy this, how much is it?”

Sherlock holds it away from his face, peering at the price tag. “£25.50. Watson, that is egregious.”

“Good lord,” Watson says, appalled. “Never mind. That has to be illegal.”

“Oh, look at this one,” Sherlock says, picking up a fat bee. “This one resembles you, doesn’t it?”

“That thing is huge, Sherlock,” he says, horrified. “What are you saying?”

“No it isn’t!” Sherlock says. “He looks just like you, Watson! He is also £21.50, so we are not buying him. But look!”

“I’m looking, and I think you’re dead wrong,” Watson frowns.

“Well, I’m taking a picture now, so hold it,” Sherlock says. He yanks Watson’s phone out of his pocket, throwing the bee up in the air and taking a very blurry picture in which Watson tries valiantly to swat the thing off to the side (and fails to do so).

“That’s just mean,” Watson pouts, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder as he sends the picture to the group chat. “That picture doesn’t even look good. Yours is all stable and everything.”

“I think it’s…” he almost says adorable. But that is too much, too soon, and it gives away the game. And Sherlock wonders, for a moment, when this became a game, the game of keeping his affections secret for as long as possible. Does that mean he’s taking advantage of Watson?

A chill runs down his spine. No. He isn't. He’s simply trying to help a friend.

Right?

Yes. Yes, he is, definitely. 

That’s all that matters. He’s helping Watson. 

That’s all that matters.

He doesn’t even believe it as he thinks it. 

“It’s…?” Watson asks, breaking Sherlock out of his panicked reverie. “You alright, mate?”

“It’s charming, Watson,” he finishes, smooth as anything, and neglects to notice the second comment. Sherlock feels the beginnings of a headache coming on, paired with a churning in his gut. Guilt. Realisation. Nausea. 

And then he pushes it down, and lets Watson drag him out of the shop.

Sherlock’s appetite has mostly been voided, but he still carries his cup of tea as Watson pulls him into shop after shop. None of the clothing seems to appeal to him, and he steadily grows more and more frustrated. Sherlock thinks he would benefit from having only one shop to go to. Watson doesn’t generally do well with an abundance of choices, and he keeps picking out a garment only to put it back on the shelf on the off chance that he might find something better at another store.

If Sherlock hasn’t somehow lost count, and he doubts that he has, this is the fifth store that Watson has visited. He hasn’t bought a thing, and his frustration becomes more and more visible as he tears through the clothes, tossing Sherlock flannels and slacks and dress shirts. Sherlock scrambles to catch them before they fall to the floor, looking like someone’s bedroom couch.

The pair they make. Sherlock’s fingertips buzz, and they shoot warmth through his arms and up his spine. Watson tosses something at him, and it lands on his head, and he tries not to huff out a laugh.

“If you could possibly improve your aim, Watson,” Sherlock grumbles. They both know that the irritation is just for show, at this point, and Watson only rolls his eyes as the corner of his mouth pulls up.

Sherlock plucks the clothing article off his head. It’s a rather handsomely made dress shirt. Just by touch alone Sherlock knows it’s worth more than either of them have in their pockets combined. The dress shirt is silky soft and a deep blue that would match the colour of Watson’s eyes exquisitely. Sherlock can see it in his mind now— Watson wearing this with a plain white shirt underneath it that hangs just below his clavicle with a few of the top buttons undone (showing off his suprasternal notch), and the sleeves rolled up to show his (strong) forearms. Pair it with a loose-fitting tie, maybe, and a belt from which a tailored pair of trousers would fall down—

Oh, Christ.

Sherlock swallows and fights between feeling extremely guilty and feeling… well, the exact opposite of that. Surely, though, the thought of Watson being well-dressed wouldn’t make only him feel hot in the collar (is that the saying, or is he mixing it up again?). From research, Sherlock knows that many people would feel a swoop in their abdomen at the thought of an objectively attractive man dressing up well. Yes. It’s just an… aesthetic appreciation, he rationalises. He’s not going to make this worse for himself by indulging in his feeling.

“Keep hold of that one for me, mate, I think that one might make it to the dressing room,” Watson calls over his shoulder.

Oh, Christ.

The clothes do, in fact, make it to the dressing room.

Sherlock sits on a small bench they have just outside the dressing rooms, mindlessly clicking and snapping his fingers.

He hears the rough swiish of Watson sliding the curtain to the side and he looks up.

“Sooo, how do I look, then?”

The various responses that flit through Sherlock’s head will probably get him sent to hell. He looks like a perfect picture, Watson does, like he’s been made up for telly or something of the sort. It’s almost unfair that any human being is allowed to look like that in any shirt.

But he looks down and of course, one of the worst pairs of jeans he’s ever seen in his life hits his eyes like a particularly feisty criminal. He cringes and Watson sighs like a kicked puppy.

“It’s the jeans,” Sherlock hastens to clarify. “The shirt is… fine. The jeans look awful. I haven’t ever seen you wear a worse looking pair, honestly.”

“The shirt is fine?” Watson says. “Are you sure? I’m assuming that fine means great. I don’t want to go out looking average just to get shown up by my date. I have to leave an impression, y’know.”

Yes, he is certainly leaving an impression.

Stop!

Sherlock fiddles with the hems of his own shirt. “The shirt is fine,” Sherlock says again, “but you really must find a different pair of jeans. They’re assaulting my eyes, Watson.” 

“Got it, got it. What’s so wrong with it, though? It looks fine to me…” Watson mutters, looking down at himself. He runs his hands over the rough material, and then looks back to Sherlock. 

“The fit is just horrendous, Watson. There are far too many wrinkles, they hang oddly on your hips, the leg is too short, and the wash doesn’t fit you at all.”

Watson harrumphs. “Damn. Good that you’ve got a keen eye.” 

“It wouldn’t be right for me to let you parade about this city looking like a child’s dress-up doll.”

Watson closes the dressing room door, and Sherlock can hear him shuffling about for a minute or two before opening it back up again with a different, black pair of jeans that don’t look as awful. He says as much.

“Do you think they go with the shirt?”

“Yes, quite.”

“Hey— are you sure the shirt looks good, Sherls? I’m just not too sure…”

He has the insane notion to imply that he was lying, just so that no one else will see Watson in that beauty of a blouse, but he stops himself. That wouldn’t be fair.

Besides, it’s not like he would sugarcoat it if he didn’t think the shirt fit Watson— fortunately for him, the color is complementary to his eyes, and it suits him perfectly. And Sherlock doesn’t know if he’ll be able to lie convincingly about that, just how well he looks in the shirt.

“It looks more than good, Watson. I’d even go as far as to say that you look like a handsome prince,” Sherlock says. He regrets it immediately; he should’ve spouted some half-truth that would keep his true feelings under wraps while placating Watson. But he’s already said it now, and there’s nothing to be done. “If you add that belt with golden embellishments to your outfit, it’ll look much better,” Sherlock advises. Damn himself.

Watson turns back to the mirror to take another look at himself. He bites his lip in consideration and Sherlock wryly wonders when his life became some terribly cheesy B-movie rom-com that Mariana might force him and Watson to watch sometimes on movie nights. “Yeah, alright,” Watson decides eventually. He searches for the price tag on the hem and sighs. “Well. It’s not like we need dinner for a month anyway,” he jokes.

Sherlock thinks he would give up more than just a month’s dinner to see Watson all dressed up. 

“We’ll be alright, Watson,” Sherlock says. “I can take on a most extravagant case later.”

They pass by Victoria’s Secret.

It’s a women’s underwear shop, Sherlock has gathered, and the subject of many jokes, some of which he’s heard from Watson himself. The sign is bright and glowing, a font in all caps with the logo set in the middle of both words. The interior is striped in different shades of pink, with mannequins in outlandish poses displaying lingerie sets. Sherlock’s lip curls a bit. It’s garish and unnecessary, but he supposes it is a product of its times.

To his surprise, Watson walks right past it.

Sherlock taps his arm, and Watson looks right at him, taking a sip from his coffee. His eyes are caramel brown in the light of the shopping center and he imagines they’re not the only part of him just as sweet—

“Yeah?”

“Are you not going to…” he gestures in the direction of the store.

“What, go inside?” Watson asks. When Sherlock nods, he furrows his brows. “Why would I?”

“It seems like it would be helpful, no?”

Watson huffs out a laugh of disbelief. “What the hell would I need inside a Victoria’s Secret?”

“Simply that you haven’t gotten much ‘action’ in the past few years… would it not be prudent to practice?” Sherlock asks, holding back a smile. 

“Hey— I have not been celibate for the past few years!” Watson says, affronted. “I get lots of action! I have not forgotten how to unhook a bra, mate.”

Sherlock chuckles, and Watson smiles into his drink. “Anyway, I don’t know if you would bring a date here, but if the date went well enough, maybe she would be interested? You at least ought to get comfortable with the shop.”

“Thanks for the concern, Sherls, but I really don’t think he’s going to take me to a lingerie shop on the first date,” he snorts. “Bit presumptuous, innit?”

Sherlock freezes. 

“S-Sorry, what?” He must’ve misheard. That or Watson misspoke. He has a bad habit of misspeaking frequently, it wouldn’t surprise him if this was one of those moments. He certainly has not gone a year and nearing five months without realizing that his best friend and roommate is not, in fact, straight.

“I said it’d be presumptuous–”

“No, no, before that?”

“...I don’t think he’ll take me to Victoria’s Secret on our first date? Sherlock, are you alright?”

Sherlock can feel his mind going into shutdown. A weird buzzing sound pangs through his head.

“Lovely and jubbly,” he says, or, rather, wheezes, and when did he lose his breath? He’s barely done anything today.

“Do you want to sit down?” Watson asks, countenance quickly morphing to concern.

“I don’t think—“ he says, before coughing a bit. “Well, maybe.”

Watson rests a hand on his shoulder, guiding him to the nearest bench while he focuses on the floor’s patterned tile and clears his throat. He breathes deeply, trying not to think about Watson’s hand laying heavy on his shoulder.

“You alright, Sherlock? Got some medical condition I'm somehow not aware of?”

“No, certainly not, doctor,” he assures. “Simply… a one off incident.”

“If you say so,” he frowns. “But sit for a couple more minutes. Just to be sure.”

Sherlock nods his assent.  Watson keeps his hand firm on Sherlock’s shoulder, rubbing circles into his shoulder blade, and Sherlock almost lets his breath escape him again.

He looks up. Tries to distract himself with people watching. There’s a man in a teal polo and a gray jacket, half zipped up. He’s looking for toys for his kids, one of them a toddler and one of them probably a girl in primary school. There’s a boy standing by the massage chairs checking his phone repeatedly and looking up, searching for someone. Probably a date. The poor boy is probably about to get stood up, just like Watson’s been getting with his sequence of horrible dates, but not him right now, not him—

He spots the barista from the tea shop. They’re on the phone with someone, in distress. Probably their ex. Why is everything in Sherlock’s life about romance lately?

He strains his ears, tries to listen to the conversation.

“…you know I wouldn’t do that, Sunny! Sure, I didn’t like her, but not enough to— god, I'll be sick. Are you sure she’s really—?”

Sherlock perks up. Oh. There might be something there.

“No— don’t call the cops. Man, you know they’ll arrest me, she was in my flat! …oh, don’t tell me— you know I wouldn’t. Sunny, please you know me, you—“

They stop speaking, pulling the phone away from their ear.

“Hello— hello? Fuck!”

Sherlock turns to the man next to him. As expected, Watson’s on his phone. He nudges the man.

“Hm?” he says, looking up.

“That’s our barista,” Sherlock hisses.

“Yeah…?” Watson says. “I don’t follow?”

“Their ex was just killed. In their flat. And their friend is calling the police on them.”

“So… what. We were served by a killer?”

“She’s not guilty, Watson, look at her,” he whisper-yells, pointing at them. They’re pacing, a hand running through their hair. They look nauseous, or close to tears, or maybe a mix of both.

“Sherlock. Do not go up to this person and ask if their ex was just murdered. Don’t you dare— Sherlock!”

Watson ends up skipping the date.

Although he keeps whining and griping and grumbling about it all throughout the case, Sherlock can tell that he secretly prefers this more than romance; the thrill of the chase, the excitement of the clues coming together, the fun in apprehending a criminal. The sense of justice that comes after it. 

It’s relieving. He’s relieved.

Even past the romance— Sherlock’s long since accepted that Watson won’t reciprocate his affections, even in spite of the recent realization that he is not heterosexual— he doesn’t want Watson’s attentions stolen by romance. Sherlock can manage without him, of course, but he doesn’t want to. He’s grown used to Watson next to him as he links everything together, fond of his running commentary as they travel from one place to another.

He can do it on his own, but he can do it better when Watson is with him. And a romance would throw it all out of balance. It would shift their dynamic.

It would make Sherlock less important.

Does that make him selfish? Yes, probably, actually in fact. He holds no ownership over Watson. The man is free to do whatever he wants, Sherlock simply wants for Watson to want to stay with him.

He wants Watson to want him.

Oh, how he wants.

They’re drinking hot cocoa on the sofa, and Watson has chocolate in his moustache. The mugs are matching— it’s still a bit tacky, in Sherlock’s opinion, but it’s what makes Watson happy, and he wouldn’t dare wipe the smile off his face when he’d first set eyes on the mug and its gigantic eyes.

The couch creaks— it’s not unusual for the couch to creak when the two of them sit on it, its springs are old and its leather cushions are going soft from use. The blonde is leaning on Sherlock’s shoulder, their computer on the table in front of them.

Watson’s taking a break from editing, the new case having a lot of dead or unnecessary noise. It’s a long one, and Mariana had offered to help, but his Watson never accepts aid.

He can tell the shorter man is tired, yawning and rubbing the side of his face against Sherlock’s shirt sleeve. It’s concerning. Watson is certainly not the most vigilant about his sleep schedule, but he knows his limits.

Generally. Not all the time.

“Do you need to sleep?” he asks. “I’ll take you to your room.”

“Nah, just—” he interrupts himself with a long yawn. “Just taking a break, mate, I’ll be back to work in a sec.”

“You seem exhausted,” Sherlock says. “You ought to sleep.”

“No, I’m fine,” Watson whines. “I have to get this episode done, Sherlock.”

“It’s Saturday. You upload on Mondays, therefore you still have all of tomorrow to edit, Watson. Your sleep is far more important at the moment. Your brain is not functioning at full capacity, you are bound to make a mistake in your state and not realize when you wake up tomorrow. You will make a better episode when you are well rested. Go to bed.”

Watson smiles, and he puts his mug of hot chocolate next to his computer. Sherlock does the same.

“I promise I’ll be fine, Sherlock. It’ll be better if I get this done today. We’re doing something tomorrow, aren’t we? Don’t wanna mess it up with work.”

Sherlock tilts his head, furrowing his brows in confusion. “We have plans?”

“Yeah, we have plans, mate,” Watson says, pushing himself off Sherlock’s shoulder. The loss of familiar warmth discomfits him, though Watson is still quite close. “Did you forget?”

Sherlock quickly runs through his memories of the day, a particularly lazy Saturday, one mostly spent doing petty errands and talking fluff. Yet: “I don’t recall you informing me of any plans for tomorrow, Watson,” he insists. “You must have forgotten to tell me. See, you’re tired.”

“Right… I don’t believe you, but we’re doing a picnic tomorrow, Sherls,” he says. Sherlock’s a bit miffed at that. Why shouldn’t Watson believe him? He knows that sometimes his memory isn’t quite the best, especially when it comes to little events, but that shouldn’t make Watson so distrustful of him. If he was told about a picnic, he’d have remembered, thank you very much. “I’ve, uh… got a date.”

“Really.” 

And the word is almost catastrophically flat, carefully devoid of any emotion, and Sherlock is not sure he can quite take this anymore. It’s torture, going on these little outings and trying to hold his heart together as its walls begin to crumble apart.

“Yep,” Watson says, popping the p. “It’s uh… next weekend, yeah. Greenwich Gardens. Anyhow, we’re doing that for lunch, so prepare a couple things for yourself, would you? Wouldn’t want to make everything for myself and leave you to starve.”

“Mm, maybe not,” he says, “but I could just get something when we’re there. They have food trucks at the park, no?” 

He sets his drink down on their only coaster and tries to hide his smile at the knowledge that they’re about to have a quite nonsensical fight.

“Food trucks—? Mate, no.”

“Well, there’ll be food somewhere,” he rationalizes.

“Yeah, but why waste your money when you can just prep the food at home? And it’s a picnic, mate, if I wanted to buy something outside I would just go to the Volunteer.”

“Your immediate thought for food is the Volunteer?”

“Their fish and chips are good!”

“Why would you eat that for lunch?”

“The point is—”

“That’s utterly preposterous. One fish and chips plate and you think you would be satisfied?”

“I would not eat just one plate! That’s not the point— the point is you’re supposed to make your picnic food at home—”

“That’s so much work, can’t you just make all the food yourself?”

“Absolutely fucking not! I’m already exhausted as shit, I’m not making you food on top of the food I have to make for myself.”

Sherlock crows in triumph. “If you’re that exhausted, Watson, do you know what you ought to do?”

Watson groans. “You’re throwing stones from glass houses! When have you ever gone to sleep at a reasonable time?!”

“I don’t require it. You do.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“Good night, Watson!”

“Oh, piss off!”

Watson’s deep blue dress shirt from the mall hugs his figure, and he decides to leave the collar unbuttoned. Not just that, actually, he decides to leave the collar and the first button unbuttoned, and the shirt is tucked into black trousers that are cinched tight with a brown braided belt. 

Sherlock almost has a heart attack when he sees him, and then almost has another when Archie runs up to him to say goodbye, his drool getting all over the newly cleaned floors as his tongue lolls out.

“Hey boy, who’s a good boy, you are! I promise I won’t be long, boy,” Watson says in the babying voice he always uses on Archie, though the dog is getting up in years. Talking to a dog like a baby has never made sense to Sherlock, in all fairness he’s never understood baby talk in the first place, but when Watson does it it’s… charming. God, he’s become sappy.

He scratches Archie behind the ears a few times and coos at him before standing up. “Are you ready to leave, Sherls?”

Sherlock hums. He himself is simply wearing a short sleeved shirt, jeans, and a jacket. He doesn’t want any of the clothing he likes to get ruined by the grass, so he’s sacrificing his least favorite and most comfortable. (Watson still says that he likes the shirt, and Sherlock doesn’t really understand why. Possibly he’s practicing flirting, though he’s been on so many dates at this point that there would be no need to, especially considering how nervous he seemed making the comment.)

Once Watson’s bid farewell to Archie, it takes them almost no time at all getting to the park. They switch the picnic basket off halfway through as it’s quite heavy, and Watson’s the one who offers anyway, probably trying to make sure that he could impress his date later on. 

Sherlock really is trying not to be sour.

They find a place under a tree, quiet but not too quiet, as neither of them are comfortable being completely alone whilst in public. It feels more intimate, somehow, watching people with someone next to you. It’s a ritual they’ve perfected over the past few months.

Watson opens the picnic basket and procures a folded piece of fabric. He airs it out, letting it unfold into all its eight foot by nine foot glory before setting it down on the grass, still slightly damp from the midnight rain. It isn’t exactly cold, per say, but there’s movement in the trees as Sherlock carefully sits down, wary of getting his trousers wet. Watson, on the other hand, has none of that regard for his clothing, sitting down all at once with a groan of effort.

The picnic blanket is stereotypically red and checkered, its edges fraying and tied into little knots. It’s a cute little thing, just barely big enough to fit two adult men and their picnic basket. Sherlock sits down cross legged, not wanting to take up too much space. Watson, on the other hand, sits with a leg stretched out, the other one bent. Sherlock doesn’t mind.

Watson leans over and he opens the basket, pulling out little sandwiches. “Made three sandwiches, split them diagonal, how you like. Three halves for me, three for you.”

In the end, they’d both decided to make a couple things to share. (Well, John did most of it. Sherlock bought some fruits and two bottles of apple juice, and made a bit of banana bread. He’s… not great at cooking. Baking suits him better.) Sure, he could’ve stuck to his plan to just get something on the way to the park, but he’s not keen on seeing Watson’s expression go the complicated mix that it does when he’s exhausted yet still willing to humor Sherlock.

…anyways.

Sherlock takes one, and he does a mock toast with Watson, touching the edges of their mini sandwiches.

“To, errr…” Watson looks up, thinking. He frowns. “To us, I guess.”

Sherlock smiles at him. “To us, indeed.” He takes a bite of his sandwich, and snorts at Watson, who simply pops the whole thing into his mouth. He picks up a clementine, and offers it to Sherlock with a silent glance. Sherlock shakes his head, and Watson peels the skin off.

There are dogs running all over the park, chasing their own tails or some poor squirrels, causing general ruckus. Sherlock watches them for a while, tries to distract himself from the man next to him.

“Damn, I should’ve brought Archie,” the man in question says, chewing on a clementine slice, and Sherlock winces a bit at the noise. “He would’ve loved it today. It’s practically Archie-heaven out here.”

He watches as Watson throws bits of his clementine peel onto their blanket, and he’s vaguely aware of the fact that they’re being watched by several animals, specifically the squirrel hiding in the bush over near the white bench.

“Pick your peels up,” he hisses.

“Sorry?” Watson says, confused.

“Squirrels are watching us. They’re going to steal your food. And then ants are going to come, and you’re going to squeal and it will be the worst noise I’ve heard this week, if not this month, so please pick up your clementine peels?”

“...right,” Watson says. “Why’re they hiding in a bush?”

“Because there are about twenty dogs running around,” Sherlock says, like it’s obvious. (Because it is.)

“Well that’s not fair. They deserve sunlight too,” Watson frowns. “Come over here, squirrels! I promise we don’t bite.”

Sherlock tilts his head at him in utter confusion, but says nothing.

“Shoot, should I sing something at them? Do you think that’d work?”

It’s the stupidest thing Sherlock has ever heard. With anyone else, he’d have shot them a judgemental look. Sing something at the squirrels, how ridiculous and cartoonish. And yet. And yet, he only feels himself fall a little further. 

He sighs. “Alright then, go for it,” he says, and Watson chuckles.

“Right, let me find a good song…” he hems and haws, scrolling through the phone he’s just pulled out of the basket. “It’s got to be a Disney song, for sure.”

“Like The Little Mermaid?” Sherlock asks, remembering Mariana’s pyjamas. “Does that movie have good songs?”

“Oh, does it ever,” Watson says. “But I want something slower than that, otherwise they’re just gonna come running at me. I don’t want a redo of the ducks. ”

Sherlock tries not to laugh at the memory, but really, it’s a Herculean task not to laugh at the thought of Watson running through the park and trying not to get pecked to death by ducks.

“What about… oh, what about Mulan? I’ll sing I'll Make a Man Out of You at them and they’ll come rushing to prove themselves.”

Sherlock can’t help it— he devolves into giggles at the thought. Mariana has, at this point, made him watch all of the “classic Disney movies” according to her, and the imagery of Watson commanding an army of squirrels is… adorable, if he had to pick a world.

“No, no, let me do something romantic. I’m going to seduce it into taking this from me. I’m gonna—” his face lights up like he’s just connected two very important dots— “I’m gonna show them a Whole New World.”

Sherlock’s face is in his hands as Watson clears his throat and hums himself into tune (or, as in-tune as he can be, being horribly tone deaf).

Sherlock knows (unfortunately) intimately how this is going to play out if he doesn’t stop it now, and so he says, “how about a Cinderella song, instead?”

“Like what?”

Sherlock thinks. “ A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes ?” he suggests. That song had been peaceful enough when they watched Cinderella, enough to nearly lull him to sleep, even. “Surely that song would prove irresistible to squirrels.”

“Yeah, sure, but I really wanna sing a romance song,” Watson says. “It’ll make me feel like I’m mourning an unrequited love and the squirrels are coming to, I dunno, soothe me.”

“I thought you wanted to seduce the squirrels?” Sherlock teases. 

“I want to emotionally connect with the squirrels,” Watson says, generalizing. He looks dead serious as he explains his master plan . “We have to have a bond in order for them to come to me and take food, and a romantic song would be ideal.”

“Is that your hypothesis?” Sherlock teases.

“Yeah, how do you format those? If I sing a romantic song, then I will form the strongest bond with the squirrels…”

Sherlock can’t help but laugh. “Alright, then. Why don’t you sing… that song from Hercules?”

Watson stares at him. “Which song from Hercules?”

Sherlock kisses his teeth. “Oh, you know the one. The one where she vehemently denies being in love with Hercules despite clearly being in love with Hercules?”

“Do you possibly mean I Won’t Say I’m In Love?”

“Yes, yes, that one. Sing that one.”

Watson clears his throat, looks up at the sky, possibly thinking of the lyrics.

“Alright, alright, settle down, ladies.” He clears his throat again.

“Do you want a cough drop, perchance?” Sherlock says, a smile tugging at his lips. Watson swats him in the arm.

“If there’s a prize for rotten judgement,” he snipes, singing, “I guess I’ve already won that.”

It’s a bit of a fast paced song, but the squirrels seem to enjoy that, as they’re slowly creeping closer.

“No chance! No way! I won’t say it, no, no,” he sings, before switching into falsetto and trilling “You swoon, you sigh, why deny it, oh-oh?”

Sherlock is very pointedly not laughing. This is very serious for him. It is a very serious moment.

“It’s too cliche, I won’t say I’m in looove,” Watson sighs, swooning into Sherlock’s arms.

He’s trying his level best not to laugh at their antics, but now he’s cooing at the squirrels and they’re sitting there entranced by his soft voice and his smile. They’re fully distracted from the dogs now, attentively listening to Watson pours his heart out.

“I thought my heart had learned its lesson,” he croons, clutching his shirt, “it feels so good when you start out.”

Suddenly, he whips around to face Sherlock dead in the eyes, singing, “my head is screaming, ‘Get a grip, man! Unless you’re dying to cry your heart out!’”

He swings back to the squirrels. “You keep on denying, who you are and how you’re feeling, baby we’re not buying, oh, we saw you hit the ceiling, face it like a grown up! When’re you gonna own up that you got got got it bad?! ”

He flows into the chorus again but Sherlock feels frozen in place. It feels like he’s talking directly to him, telling him to stop dancing around the fact that he’s fallen so irrevocably in love with him, and yet he’s frozen with indecision. He could be making it all up, or it could be a sign to tell Watson he’s been feeling things recently, to tell him before he doesn’t have the chance.

Watson’s still belting out his denial of being in love, and the squirrels are scampering closer as if to encourage him.

“You’re way off base, I won’t say it,” he sings, picking the walnuts off of their store-bought banana bread. 

“Get off my case, I won’t say it,” he sings, holding them out for the squirrels to take from him.

“Girl, don’t be proud, it’s okay, you’re in love,” he sings, as the bravest squirrel finally scurries up to him.

“At least out loud, I won’t say I’m in… love,” he finishes, and the squirrel in front of him hesitantly takes the walnut before scurrying off to share it with its friends.

“Very generous of you,” Sherlock remarks. “A true Disney Princess.”

“Aww,” Watson says, face tinted red, “you’re too kind, Sherlock.”

“Oh, spare me,” Sherlock smiles, rolling his eyes.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” Watson says. He pulls something out of the picnic basket, rummaging through the basket until he finds whatever he’s looking for. “In the spirit of generosity, I got you something.”

Sherlock’s baffled. A gift? For him? That doesn’t make sense, unless he’s presenting him with his date gift, which seems unnecessary cruel, which Watson is generally not. Not unless Sherlock has pissed him off, and he can’t think of an instance where he has, at least not in recent memory. So either it’s for him, or Watson is being daft. Which he is, but not like that. And he really does look earnest, plus he’s worrying his lip between his teeth… and… and he’s rapidly tapping the box as he takes it out and otherwise fidgeting which implies nerves, and there’s really no other reason for him to be nervous unless he’s waiting on Sherlock’s reaction to the gift, and the only reason he would want that is if the gift were specifically for him. 

“Have you, now?” he asks, his interest keenly aroused.

“Yep. Go ahead then, dig in,” he grins, tapping his hand against his knee.

Sherlock has never really held any regard for wrapping paper, no matter how much his brother had tried to instill the idea of saving it all into his head, so he tears into the box with reckless abandon. Watson, of course, laughs at him, a full belly laugh, and his laugh is contagious, so Sherlock laughs with him. They dissolve into laughter, and Sherlock doesn’t quite know what he’s laughing at, but it feels so good to laugh with Watson that he doesn’t quite mind this time. His face and chest almost hurt from how hard he’s been laughing, leaning into Watson who’s leaning into him for support.

He wipes giddy tears from his face, and takes a calming breath, tapping his fingers against the box. It’s a fairly small box. If he shakes it, he’ll probably be able to tell what it is, but he knows that would most likely upset Watson, so he doesn’t.

With the wrapping paper off it looks like a little jewelry box, which is odd, because Sherlock doesn’t wear any jewelry. He looks up at Watson, raising a brow.

He motions at the box with his hands. “Well, go on, then,” he says, grinning widely.

Sherlock opens the box, and it’s a black file with various pasta shapes printed onto it. Wait, no, not a file, a Swiss Army Knife. He flicks it open, and it has two small knives, a pair of scissors, a corkscrew, a wire stripper, a bottle opener, a hook, and a reamer. He flicks it closed, back open, back closed, back open. He’s enthralled.

“I hope you like it,” Watson says. “Didn’t know exactly what to get you, but I thought you’d appreciate all the little tools. I would’ve gotten a train design but there wasn’t one, and then there was one with flowers and I remember you used to like botany, but I thought you might appreciate this one. I’m pretty sure there’s penne on there, right? Plus a couple others. You know, I actually—”

Sherlock drops the knife, and Watson pauses briefly, concerned, and he takes the chance. He pulls Watson by the collar, and all at once, lips are pressed against lips, smooth skin against facial hair, hands in dirty blonde hair.

Watson stiffens in momentary shock for long enough that Sherlock begins to worry that he’s read all of this all wrong. He pulls away— stammers— says he’s sorry— and spirals for just long enough to not notice that Watson wants to kiss him again until he does.

Watson has one hand in his hair, one hand cupping his face, and Sherlock just melts into him. What must be weeks of weight now falls off his shoulders, and his hands keep moving, not sure where to land. He feels Watson smile against his lips and take his hand away from his cheeks. Sherlock’s eyes flutter open, and he’s about to ask why the hell Watson is depriving him of the wonderful sensation of his hand on his cheek, but then Watson’s hand finds his own and guides Sherlock to his hip.

Oh.

He still mourns the loss of warmth on his cheek, but this works too, especially when Watson’s hand starts to move up his arm and rests on his shoulder. 

For the first time in Sherlock’s life, the world seems to quiet. The hustle and bustle is reduced to the touch of Watson’s lips against his. Fleeting memories of that one kiss between him and Victor pop up into Sherlock’s mind, all quickly replaced by the current sensation of John Watson. Everything clicks perfectly into place. Just this; just here. Forget about cocaine— Watson is the real drug. And one Sherlock hopes he’ll never have to quit. 

Eventually, though, they do have to pull apart. It’s not quitting, it’s just… pausing. They’re both running out of air to breathe, and they’re in public, which Sherlock quickly realizes as the world builds back up in front of him and there are still dogs chasing squirrels and children running around. Maybe… a bit tactless, but Watson’s never been known for tact, and Sherlock doesn’t see why he should start having any now.

“That was nice,” the man in question sighs, still catching his breath. His eyes glimmer with affection, affection for Sherlock, he belatedly realizes. Watson runs a hand through his hair, mussed up from Sherlock’s hands carding through.

Sherlock hums in agreement, a bit dazed. And then—

“What about your date? ”

He’s a bit horrified. This was meant to be a practice date. Watson still has plans after this, and Sherlock has, most likely, messed them all up.

Watson, however, seems to share none of the same sentiment, chuckling a bit. “I, err—” he runs a hand through his hair again, hunching over. “I don’t have another date today.”

Sherlock stares at him for a few long, excruciating moments. He supposes he ought not to be surprised at all, really, Watson’s been lying the whole time.

The whole time. The whole time?

“Wait— was this all just a ploy to—?”

“No, no, no,” Watson stammers, holding his hands up in surrender. “No, that was just this one. The rest of them I actually did have quite terrible dates. I didn’t— I swear I didn’t actually know.”

Inwardly, Sherlock sighs in relief. It’d be an impressive feat, keeping something like that from him, but he’s not sure how he’d feel if Watson had just been… toying with him for weeks straight. 

“You’re still a liar,”  he says, narrowing his eyes, but with that particular fear dissipated, it’s just a tease, and Watson swats his shoulder for it.

“I didn’t lie! I just, omitted,” he mutters.

“A lie of omission is still a lie,” Sherlock says. “You’ll have to make it up to me. I’m not very fond of being lied to, Watson.”

“Well then,” Watson smiles, exasperated, “can I take you out?”

“On a real date?” Sherlock asks. “Why, of course, Watson. I’d be delighted.”