Work Text:
Sherlock was bent over his microscope when his cell phone rang. After the phone continued to ring, he remembered that John was working at the clinic. With a sigh, he lifted his gaze from the focus of the microscope and answered the phone.
“Yes?”
“Hey Sherlock, it's me, Victoria. Want to meet Charles and I for drinks tonight? We were thinking The Earl Ferrers' at nine.”
“--- Sure. Ok.”
“Great. We'll see you then. Any chance John will be able to make it?”
Sherlock ended the call and swore as he threw it across the room.
When John returned home at six, Sherlock was standing in front of John's closet, the closet doors flung open and clothes spread haphazardly across the floor and bed.
“Do I want to ask what's going on here?” John said.
“We're going out tonight. To a pub.”
“For a case?”
“No.”
John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock sighed and sat down on the bed. “It's a -- a sort of social obligation. A colleague of mine is in London with her fiancé and she wants to meet up for drinks,” he said, putting the same emphasis on the pronunciation of “drinks” that most people would use for describing a particularly large cockroach.
John sat down next to Sherlock. “So when you say 'colleague', do you mean, 'colleague' or...”
“I'm not certain as to what the most appropriate appellation would be,” Sherlock said, pressing the heels of his palms to his temples. “We met in grad school and solved a few cases together. Things ended... badly. I thought that was the end of it, but...” he looked at his husband. “Essentially, John, I would be throughly appreciative if you could – when you meet her tonight – if you could look...” Sherlock waved his hand in the air, trying to find the right turn of phrase.
“Sexy as fuck?” John said jokingly.
“Well, essentially, the nature of – well, yes.”
“Oh. You're serious? Well, thank god you made me buy some clothes that weren't jumpers, then. …Look, don't worry about it--.”
“I'm not worried. This whole affair is really rather trivial and--”
“Shh, shhh.” John squeezed Sherlock's hand. “I don't need to know what you did or didn't do with her to know that I don't like seeing you this – this, anxious about meeting someone. Needing someone to be there for you, that's ok. And I'll be there for you, so, it'll be ok.”
The night was warm and pub at which they had agreed to meet was close to Baker Street, so John and Sherlock decided to walk. John wore a black buttondown with grey jeans, which complemented Sherlock's purple shirt and black jeans. They held hands as they walked, and John squeezed Sherlock's hand tight as they entered the pub.
Victoria waved them over to the bar, where she sat next to a tall man sporting a goatee and short ponytail. “Hey, Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Charles. Charles, Sherlock.”
The two men shook hands.
“And, Charles, Victoria, this is my husband, John.”
A wry smile played on Victoria's lips as she shook hands with John. “It's such a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “Sherlock told me so much about you.”
Charles ordered the first round of drinks for the four of them, and they moved from the bar to a corner booth. Despite Sherlock and John's apprehensions, the conversation flowed smoothly, carried by the common scientific interests of the group. Victoria had just finished describing the Herculean process she had underwent to secure the necessary funding for her lab's newest project when John excused himself to the washroom, pulling Sherlock with him.
“I can see why you worked with Victoria,” John said. “She's nearly as bloody brilliant as you.”
“That might be a bit of an exaggeration, but she is clever.” Sherlock said. He pursed his lips. “Of course, back then, I wasn't nearly so selective about with whom I worked. It was she who made me realize that I needed more in a colleague than critical thinking skills and a reasonable disregard for legal and societal conventions.”
“Oh, Sherlock...” John murmured. He took his husband's hand, and held it tight as they walked back to the booth.
“So, tell me, John,” Victoria said, as the two settled back into their seats. “Just how much is he paying you?”
“Sorry, what?” John's posture shifted slightly as his muscles tensed, his body automatically get ready for fight or flight.
“Come on. I know Sherlock, and you'd have to be practically suicidal to marry him. So, I just want to know, how much is he paying you to pretend--”
“You think you know Sherlock?” John said. His voice was low, but menacing, like the calm before a storm. “You don't know a goddamn thing about my husband, but I'll tell you, he's a better man than you could ever deserve. C'mon,” John said, turning to Sherlock. “We're going home.”
They didn't talk about what had happened in the pub when they got back to 221-B. Maybe John's therapist wouldn't have approved, but John didn't feel a need to ask Sherlock for all the details about his relationship with Victoria. Sherlock was safe. That was all that mattered. If Sherlock didn't want to discuss it, so be it. However, that night, as John lay in Sherlock's arms, in the twilight between wakening and sleeping, he felt the warm breath of his lover as Sherlock whispered, “Thank you, John.”