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It had been a really weird day for John, not in the usual daily events of work, home, chores etc but it was what was going on inside his head. Last night had been strangely wonderful and just a little bit eye opening, at least when it came to his own self image. Even now walking back to the flat after a completely normal and frankly boring day at the surgery, the thought and feel of holding Sherlock kept coming back to him. And the really interesting thing was he enjoyed it, wanted it again and if he was honest with himself, was thrilled that Sherlock had accepted to go on a date this very evening.
However he was worried, not about himself or even how other people might react but with how Sherlock was going cope (or not cope as the case may be) with something as social and ordinary as a date. He was a dick at the best of times and it was no secret he had little to no experience with relationships.
John, on the other hand was a physical being, he would, does, want contact, not necessarily public displays of affection but he was going to need something.
This was going to be much more complicated than spooning a cold Sherlock in bed. Though that was nice, maybe we should just stay in? No. He accepted a date, might not happen again.
John resigned himself to the possibility of a difficult evening but convinced himself it was going to be worth the effort (even if it turned out he was the only one making any effort). Angelo’s, we’ll go to Angelo’s, keep it simple, somewhere we’ve been before and besides that the food is excellent.
And so it was that two hours later Sherlock and John were strolling up to Angelo’s and taking a seat at their reserved table, in the window. Sherlock had actually seemed nervous, spending an inordinate amount of time getting ready and choosing what to wear. Although this comforted John to start with, apparently the detective was like everyone else after all, he was now starting to worry that Sherlock’s nervousness would lead to a misunderstanding, awkwardness and maybe even a falling out.
Sherlock sat down opposite John and took the menu with a slightly shaking hand.
“John, would you?” Sherlock asked passing the menu across the table.
“Er ok, yeah, I know what you like.”
John has said the words innocently enough and was scanning the menu as Sherlock looked up at the comment. Do you John? Do you know what I like. This might be easier if you did, oh god, what am I doing?
As John ordered their meals Sherlock considered his situation. Never been on a proper date, haven’t had any sexual/romantic physical contact in at least a decade, on a date with my flatmate who has no idea of my history of masochistic tastes, at least not outside the realms of a crime scene or the process of gathering data.
As Angelo reached over and picked up the candle, John gripped his arm.
“Actually this is a date, the candle stays.” John spoke with hint of command as he guided the candle back to the center of the table. Sherlock couldn’t suppress the grin spreading slowly over his lips. Angelo just smiled, shrugged and left.
Why was he so nervous? It wasn’t as if they didn’t do this sort of thing all the time. OK this was different, what would John normally do on a date, or what would he normally expect from a date? Under the table Sherlock heeled off his right shoe and slowly, gently ran his instep up John’s shin.
John jumped, nearly knocking the candle over, he made a grab for it and steadied it before turning a questioning eye on Sherlock, who looked mortified and even a little guilty.
“I’m a little out of my depth here.” Sherlock mumbled, slipping his shoe back on.
“Look, this is a bit unusual for both of us, just relax and behave as you normally would…actually scratch that, try and behave…oh just relax. We don’t have to force anything.” John smiled, he had to admit he was finding a rattled Sherlock more attractive than usual. Nice to know he could be rattled really.
The meal passed pleasantly, John had stroked Sherlock’s ego which he knew would help him relax and it worked. Sherlock had deduced the origin of at least half of the ingredients that had made up their meals and the nighttime habits of the retired police officer at the table across from them. Angelo once again refused payment and John had been more than a little surprised when buying a bottle of wine to take home. Sherlock had slipped two twenty pounds notes under the till, winking at the bar tender.
“Do you always do that?” John asked as they walked back to 221B.
“Do what?”
“Pay Angelo.”
“Mostly, yes, if he doesn’t see it.”
John had stopped, Sherlock stopped and turned back.
“What is it?” Sherlock asked, taking a step towards him.
John reached up and pulled a piece of lint from Sherlock’s hair.
“You. You are more feeling than you let on. You actually do care about people.”
“John…”
“And you are seriously attractive, you must know that.”
“John…”
“This hair of yours, for a start. I’ve been wanting to touch it for ages.” John reached up again and pressed a lock between thumb and forefinger. “I want to run my fingers through it.”
“J..John…”
John did just that, he threaded his fingers into Sherlock’s hair, surprised by the softness and let them slide through the silk like curls.
“J…” Sherlock coughed. “John I think you’d better not do any more of that …until we get home.”
John let his hand drop and grinning wickedly he asked. “Have I found a weakness?”
“Let’s just say that if you do that again…with a little more force, I may even get the milk tomorrow.” Sherlock turned and started walking, his face felt hot, he wanted to be home now and not discussing this on the street. John usually knew when to shut up, he hoped this wouldn’t be an exception.
“OK.” This was intriguing, a little more force huh? Still grinning John followed Sherlock home silently.
John couldn’t take his eyes off Sherlock, that tall thin frame, the way he carried himself and once again those curls. He was fixed on that now, he wanted to know more, needed it, he felt like some love sick puppy, a stupid teenager. God, he hadn’t felt like this for years.
As usual there was an internal conflict going on for Sherlock. What should he reveal, what should he say. Better to keep the darker side under cover for now. He couldn’t risk losing John. Maybe he was underestimating him again, maybe John was more openminded than first supposed. After all he denied any interest in Sherlock for a long time and now…
John closed the living door behind him, turning the key as an afterthought. Sherlock shrugged off his coat and threw it over the back of John’s armchair, he turned, his head tilted down, his eyes piercing in the half light. John’s stomach flipped and he drew in a sharp breath.
The silence was thick, heavy and soft between them, comforting and laden with promise, with just a hint of trepidation. Sherlock stepped forwards, closing the distance.
John’s breath caught again, there was a distinct lack of air getting to his lungs and something in Sherlock’s gaze. Fear. He reached up and touched that amazing hair again, Sherlock’s eyes slowly closed, his lashes sweeping down. John’s fingers threaded into the curls, softly carefully he pushed them forward. Intently watching Sherlock’s face, he started to grip, gently at first, then with increasing pressure he fisted his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and pulled. The reaction was unexpected and …beautiful.
Sherlock’s lips parted at the first soft grip of fingers in his hair, his heart rate picked up a notch and he swayed slightly on the balls of his feet. As the grip tightened he lost all strength in his legs. He folded slowly in on himself, gracefully sinking to his knees, his mouth opened further and low, deep sigh escaped his lips as his head dropped back, exposing the long pale line of his neck.
John gasped this time, there was a sharp constriction in his chest, just for a moment, a physical reaction to the vision kneeling at his feet. John’s grip tightened further and Sherlock let go of all his fear, all the times he had been shunned, all of his hurt and he moaned with want.