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There's a single candle burning on the table. I pick up the drinks menu, put it back, take another sip of my beer. I haven't been able to meet Sherlock's eyes since we sat down. I'm certain he's noticed how I keep glancing up at the hanging lamps above us, over at the cocktail bar, down at my lap, hoping against hope that I look casual, comfortable, alert, prepared--anything but confused as hell and vaguely terrified by the behavior of my flatmate, who has never before shown any particular awareness of things like bars, and men, and men at bars (there are quite a few of them around, drinking, dancing, exchanging shy smiles and braver laughter). I'm not really sure who I'm with any more--certainly not the Sherlock I know, whose only concession to "cool" is a turned-up collar and a superior expression, who despises casual chitchat and social smiles and flirting (God) over drinks. I hadn't thought it would be like this when I said I'd come along tonight; I'd imagined he'd case the room, making his way through the crowd, seeing everything, saying nothing, while I sat at the bar and kept an eye out for trouble and a hand free for the gun at my back. I'd imagined he'd pull someone aside and we'd have a nice, threatening conversation in a dark corner, or out by the bins, and Sherlock would be brilliant, and I'd pull out the handcuffs and text the Yard to let them know who we'd caught, and the police would show up, and then we'd go out for curry and bask in our triumph. I'd imagined Sherlock striding away from the scene in his enormous coat, looking a little out of place, as always, but not in a way you could pity; more as though the rest of the world was somehow less real and right than he is.
We got out of the taxi in front of a trendy little brick building in a stylish corner of Soho. I could hear music pulsing through the open door. Inside the front hall, in the dim pink glow of the neon lights, he pulled off the coat and his everlasting scarf, and he was wearing jeans. Also, a nicely fitted black v-neck. Still posh, but not at all like him. He looked at me looking at him; smiled. He rather likes bewildering people. "Take off your jacket and your jumper, John, and give them to me."
"Why?"
"I've got something for you. Help us fit in."
I'd never say so, but I generally do as he says when we're working, particularly when he knows what's going on and I don't. I pulled them off. Under his direction I unbuttoned my shirt, too, and let him take it, feeling a bit silly standing there in the hall of an upscale gay bar in just my vest and jeans. He took out something he'd been apparently carrying folded inside his coat, soft fabric, deep gray, and handed it to me. I shook it out. It was a pricey-looking tee shirt. I put in on and didn't say a word, even when he went and dumped our outer clothes unceremoniously in the back of the cloakroom and came back to wind his scarf around my neck (it was still warm from his skin and surprisingly silky), and then reached up to rub a hand roughly through my hair. I've no idea what that did to it. I'm sure it's tastefully mussed and entirely out of character for me. He scrubbed both hands through his curls, too, leaving them looking somehow better than before, and said, "Come on, John, let's get a drink."
All I could do was follow him. I've said I didn't think Sherlock noticed men, or bars, or men at bars; I do. I always have, but I notice women, too, which is less confusing by far, and a lot easier to face the morning after, having fought as long as I had to convince Dad and our classmates that unlike my sister, who I love dearly and am very proud of, I am not what Dad would term a goddamned queer. I figured I couldn't be, with how I felt about girls. The trouble with growing up in the 70s is that we didn't really believe in bisexuality; and there are quite a few things I'd have to face up to if I let myself go there now, between my former commanding officer who won't talk to me since his mission blew up, and my oblivious flatmate who's married to his work. Well. Generally oblivious. Right now he looks startlingly aware--if not of me, at least of himself and how best to utilize his eyes and a dangerous smile to make everyone think the two of us have got something going on between us.
The thing about disguises and going into strange places is that you really don't feel like yourself; somehow the undone hair and the lights and the heat in the air add up to you feeling like you've changed more than just your clothes, been made over into someone you could have been if things had been different. As though you're living someone else's life for a little while.
Now we're sitting at an ridiculously tiny table, and our feet keep brushing underneath, and Sherlock's talking to me about people he knew in school, about his favorite composers, about last month's fashion feature in some magazine (he really does read those), leaning over our (really very small) table, gesturing, animated--he's wearing bracelets, of all things, beaded ones that shift when he waves his hands. His eyes are shining; he looks like he's forgotten to be conscious of himself, like he does at a really good crime scene. He's not drunk; he's only sipping at his cocktail. So, just pretending to relax, I think. But it's very effective. He laughs, tracing circles with a finger on the tabletop, glancing casually around the room. Only I would ever guess he's looking for a criminal; the looks he gets from the men around us aren't in the least suspicious. But his eyes come back to me, time after time, and I blink and try to meet his shining gaze in the low light and fail, and look away again. Every time he does this, acts like he's an ordinary, casually emotive human for a case, it's the strangest feeling, like the man I know has been body-swapped, or mindwiped, but it doesn't usually last this long--a minute or two and then he's done, suddenly smirking, information obtained, the disguise slipping off to let the real Sherlock through again. This is different, like I'm spending the evening with an alternative Sherlock, who maybe went to art school and found some real friends and never took that first hit.
A short, bearded man in stud earrings and the all-black uniform of the cocktail bar has been making his way toward us, stopping to chat here and there, but getting steadily closer to our corner. Sherlock hasn't looked that direction in a minute. I raise my eyebrows and jerk my chin toward him. "You know that guy?"
Sherlock looks. When he turns back to me the open smile is gone. He looks embarrassed. And then the man is right behind him, and a high, enthusiastic voice says, "Sherlock!"
Sherlock turns, looks up at him. "Hello, Raghu."
"Sherlock Holmes. Oh, my God, it's been years. You look stunning, darling." The man's beaming. I am speechless. Sherlock appears to be blushing. Raghu's eyes flick over me, appraising me. Approving. "Who's this, then? Date or just a mate?"
"John." Sherlock's voice sounds a funny mix of proud, flustered and fond. "This is John." He shoots me a glance. "John, this is Raghu Dev."
"John, fantastic, oh, you're really rather lovely." He winks. "I didn't think you'd be coming around here any more, Sherlock, not after all this time. You're a bit of a big thing now, aren't you?"
"I would have stopped by after I moved back, but I didn't realize this was still your place," Sherlock admits, and he sounds strange, and I realize why; it's the light, warm voice he's been using on me all night, but it's almost genuine now. He's not putting it on any more; he's slipping back into something he used to be.
"Oh, yes, we just updated the building a bit. Well, more than a bit. We're sort of having a moment. They've run few features in the glossies and the nightlife blogs, and it's brought out the crowds. Look at the floor tonight." He smiles out over the room, looks down at Sherlock, the way Mrs. Hudson does, the way Angelo did that first night. Oddly protective. "You were always the best one out there. Want a go? I can have Drew put on some of your old favorites. Or doesn't your man dance?" He raises his eyebrows at me, and I live a long, strange moment in which John Watson, post-army, post-limp, has a mental argument with John Watson as he is tonight, in Sherlock's scarf, being smiled at by a stranger, as though Sherlock's done right by snagging me. The lights over the dance floor are flashing blue and pink, lighting laughing faces, moving bodies. Raghu's resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock doesn't appear to mind.
I say, "I dance."
Sherlock's eyes flick back to me. "You do?"
"Ta. I do, is that so surprising? Been a while, though."
"But you would?" His voice sharpens. Sounds more like him. Not sure if I'm relieved or not.
"Yeah. If you want."
His eyes stay on me for a long moment; then they flick to something behind me, and I see the flash of recognition, the silent shiver of energy that runs through him, changing him further back into the man I know, and I let my hand drift toward my gun. "Raghu, maybe later, I'm afraid we need to dash," he says lightly, and raises his eyebrows at me. I nod.
Sherlock is brilliant, as always. The suspect is taken aback, as they tend to be. Confronted, and then chased through the lav and a shadowy service entrance into the back alley, the kid (he's barely nineteen) really doesn't know how to handle the knife he thinks he can use to shut Sherlock up about the drugs we just watched him hand over to a man inside. The kid's no big deal, but his boss is. He can probably cut a plea deal in exchange for some information. I cuff the boy, Sherlock calls the Yard. The cars come. Lestrade looks a bit taken aback by us in our gay-bar-appropriate outfits, but he gets the kid in the back of the squad car and shakes our hands. Listens patiently through Sherlock's triumphant explanation, and waves us away. "Go on, then, go have a drink, or do whatever it is you do to celebrate your intelligence. I'm going back to bed." He settles into the driver's seat; pauses. "Thanks, Sherlock."
Sherlock nods, and something about the memory of his wide, unaffected smile over our candlelit table earlier makes me decide to put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. "Yeah, you were fantastic."
He freezes. I take my hand away. He looks at me sideways, and a ghost of the smile comes back.
In the dim light of the front hall, Sherlock brings me my button down and jumper from the cloakroom, helps me back on with my jacket. He doesn't ask me for his scarf, but I unwind it and say, "Here." He nods, ties it on with practiced elegance; shrugs on his coat, smooths down his hair and looks like my Sherlock again. "Hello," I say, feeling a bit unmoored and giddy, and he frowns, bemused.
"Hello, John."
We regard each other.
The ride home passes in unbroken quiet. He may be reviewing the case, storing away all relevant data, or he may just be admiring the moon out the window of the cab; I've no idea. I'm studying him out of the corner of my eye, looking for traces of that other Sherlock, the unguarded one I assumed was put on, who looked more and more like someone real as the night went on. I'm wondering if that's who he was when Raghu knew him. I'm also thinking my neck feels cold now without his scarf. I may need to start wearing one.
We don't talk on the stairs. It's past eleven and Mrs. Hudson is definitely sleeping. Sherlock's texting for Thai takeout, I know without actually seeing what's on the screen; we had Chinese two nights ago and he doesn't like a repeat within the week. I wait until we're upstairs and the lamps are on and we've settled into our chairs to ask, "When did you meet that man--Raghu Dev?"
"Oh, ages ago. I was still studying." He taps a few buttons on his mobile, puts it away. Shifts deeper into his chair and looks at me steadily.
"And he worked at the bar then? And you used to go dancing?"
"I did."
Sherlock in uni, taking time off work for a night out. That's a thought. "He said you were good."
"I was." He smiles a little. "I liked the music. He liked having me around. The bar was less--elitist, then."
"Did you and him--?" I'm not sure if I ought to ask, but I've always wondered; more often, since Irene.
"Did I date him? No, of course not. He was careful of me. I was young. I used to show up with a half-dozen others, all of us barely drinking age. He kept an eye on us."
"You and your friends." We all hated him, Sebastian had said.
"Yes, friends. Sebastian was in my graduate level class, John."
Leave it to him to know exactly what I was thinking of. "So you got along with people in uni."
"A few. At first. Fellow chemistry majors and the drama geeks and some kids from the orchestra. They were odd, too. They didn't mind me, until--the trouble with Victor, and then they all took his side. I wasn't any better at all this, back then."
"All what?" And what trouble, and who had Victor been?
"This." He gestures vaguely. "Understanding people. Showing feeling. I messed things up then the way I always do--by living too much in my own head to have any idea how to talk to them when it mattered."
I'm beginning to feel uneasy. "You seemed to be doing fine tonight."
"It was easy, tonight. We were playing a part."
"Were we?"
His eyes search mine. "I thought so."
"I'm not sure I was." I still have the soft tee-shirt he gave me on under my button down. I still have the feel of his scarf on my neck, and it's late, and the lamplight in the darkened flat warms the space the way the candlelight did in the bar. "And I sort of thought you were just being--you. Not all of you, but the part of you that fit there."
He looks startled. I'm not meant to be the observant one, but I do know him. After a moment he nods. "I suppose I was." He eyes me. "So you really do dance?"
"Badly, but I like to."
"I'm sorry we didn't get to do it, then."
"I'm sorry, too. Maybe I could have gotten some tips from you."
He smiles, a real, surprised smile. His lips part soundlessly. He's thinking something, but not saying it. "What?"
"Do you want to? I can put on some music."
"Mrs. Hudson, sleeping?"
"We'll be quiet."
"All right." I'm always restless for hours after we wrap up a case. All that post-chase adrenaline.
He springs up, takes down his iPod from the bookshelf. "I've got a playlist."
"Of dance music."
"Yes."
"You keep a playlist of dance music ready on your iPod."
He's smiling. He's leaning on the mantle in that damned tee shirt and the jeans and smiling, and I can see it, the kid showing up at the bar with his group of misfits, following the music. "I told you, I love to dance, John. I live in hope of the right case." He pulls out the speakers, plugs the iPod in. "Are you ready?"
"I'm always ready, Sherlock." I pull off my jumper and throw it onto my chair; face him.
This is ridiculous, and a bit embarrassing, and also fantastic.
He pushes play.
He has Michael Jackson, Bobby Brown, Janet, Prince. It gets inside my head; an old song comes on and suddenly you can feel it, the person you were when you first heard that music. I might have felt shy about it--I really am not a good dancer--but Sherlock's immediately assertive, the authority on this, as on everything; gets right in front of me and grabs my shoulders, gets me moving with him. He's so serious about it, insisting I loosen up, move my hips, try bigger moves; shaking his head at me when I groan over my clumsiness, and then breaking into a delighted laugh when I get the rhythm right. I get the giggles more than once, and he mock-glares at me. I'd have expected his teaching to be methodical, logical, but it's not, it's like his violin playing, or the times he tries to get me to deduce--pure feeling; he just wants me to go with it.
When the doorbell rings for the takeout, we tumble over ourselves to shut off the music and straighten ourselves out. "I'll get it," I say.
We don't bother with plates, sit sprawled across the sofa to eat out of the containers, lying back across the arms, our feet tangled in the middle. The adrenaline's dropping, now, helped along by the warm food. I feel pleasantly useless, limply content. I fish out a dumpling from my soup, put in my mouth; consider. "Thanks for the dancing. It was good."
"After I showed you how, it was good. That's what you mean to say."
"Git."
"Yes." He smiles, bright and lovely. I can't stop looking at him. This is getting dangerous.
I really don't care.
Why don't I care? Maybe because he'd said something about someone called Victor, and something about having trouble showing how he feels, and I'm thinking of him laughing, drawing circles on our table with his finger, looking at me that way.
Maybe because I'd never said a word to James before he'd stopped answering my calls and our chance was over, and I still wonder if he'd have let me.
Maybe it's the tee shirt Sherlock's wearing. It's sweaty, soaked through around the neck from our dancing. He looks so comfortably ordinary in it, reachable.
Maybe I'm just too old to give a shit anymore about my dad and his opinion of the goddamned queers.
"Sherlock," I start, and then I realize I have no idea what to say. He sets down his spring roll and looks at me.
"John. You can ask."
"All right." I cast around in my mind for what it is I want to know. There's a familiarity about tonight. I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic. Raghu had looked at us sitting there and asked him, Date or just a mate? And Sherlock had just said, This is John.
"At Angelo's."
"Yes."
"That first night. You asked what ordinary people have in their lives."
"And you said friends, and girlfriends, and boyfriends." He raises an eyebrow at me.
"Yes, I did. And you acted like none of that meant anything to you. But a little while ago, you told me--" This is hard. I don't like talking about feelings. I like doing things about them, when both people are into it, and it's simple and straightforward. This is not. "You told me I was your friend. On Henry's case. So you do friends, after all. And tonight Raghu was asking you about dates, like that's something you might do too."
"I don't."
"Oh." Why am I taken aback? He'd said so. That very first night, he'd said, Married to my work, and I had said, Fine. I pull my legs back, tuck them under me. "All right." I take another dumpling.
"John." He pulls his legs back, too, sits up straighter, looking at me intently. "I'm not saying--I only meant that I haven't had anything like girlfriends or boyfriends in the period of time that's elapsed after that discussion."
I let out a breath. "So Irene wasn't your girlfriend, then."
"No!" He looks incredulous. "God, no."
"Oh." That's rather definite. "But you're saying--well. You might do. Dates."
"It's possible, yes. In theory."
"So you don't think it's all beneath you any more."
"I'm not sure I ever thought it was beneath me, John, not really. More beyond me."
"Oh." Talking about this is actually going rather surprisingly well. "Beyond you. Because of--Victor, and them? And not being good with feelings?"
"Yes."
"But you would like to try it if you could."
"Yes."
I put my plate on the coffee table, lean toward the middle of the sofa. He leans forward, too; rests his forearms on his knees. I look down at his hands, flexing slightly--restless--and see he's still wearing the bracelets. I put out a finger and touch one. He stares. I sigh.
"Oh, God, Sherlock, I give up. You must know what I'm trying to say, here. Help me out."
"You are personally interested in the question of whether I would date."
"Yeah."
"You are no longer denying that, as you did when this conversation first occurred."
He only speaks so formally when he's nervous. This is unreasonably encouraging. I lean further forward. "Yeah. Sorry about that. I had a little issue with denial. Well. A rather big issue with it, actually."
He's flushing. His voice is going up into that soft, warm tone I heard at the bar. "I may have an issue with that as well, John."
"Does that mean--?" God, this is so easy with a woman. Ask her out to dinner, offer her a kiss. I can't help glancing down at his mouth. I look back up quickly. "Let me tell you what that means for me and see if it's the same for you. I'm not gay, but I do like men sometimes, Sherlock."
His lips part on a silent Oh.
"Yes, I'm admitting it. Because I--well. Like you."
"Oh." His eyes open wide, fill with something bright and beautiful.
This is bigger than anything I've ever tried before.
"Do you want me to do anything about that? Now, or later? If I'm wrong, that's okay." Please, don't let me be wrong. "Or if you need time to think about it that's fine too. But would you want me to do something with you, sometime?"
"Now." His answer is so immediate and sure that it takes me a moment to understand.
"Now? You mean--"
"I mean now, John. If you like." He twists his hands around each other, the only indication that he's anything but calm. I stare at them. He wants this. He wants me.
Oh, my God, he wants me.
Slowly, carefully, I take both his hands; rub my thumbs over the backs of them. They curl around mine, warm and hopeful. I almost laugh. "Please tell me this is what you were thinking about at that sodding bar."
"Yes."
"Me, too. I noticed you never really answered Raghu's question. Did you want to tell him I was your date?"
"Yes, I did." His voice is rough. He's staring at our hands. I hold tighter.
"I think maybe I was. Your date. It was a pretty good date, as they go. Thanks for taking me there." I let go of his fingers to stroke up and down his arms, try and settle us both a little. I'm so fucking nervous. I have done this a hundred times, and also never. Not once, not with him. This matters. "Sherlock."
"John." His fingers are trembling. I can see his pulse jump in his throat.
"This really means something to me, okay? I don't just want to go out with you just to try it. I--well. You already mean more to me than pretty much anyone. I want a lot. I want so much, Sherlock. Is that going to be okay? Because if not, maybe we should stop here."
"No," he says sharply. "I want this. Please. I want--" God, is he going to cry? "I want--please, John. I want a lot, too."
He does. I can see it in his face. I guess, really, I've been seeing it all along, that utter certainty when he looks at me. "Oh," I say, "you don't do anything halfway, do you?"
"I hope not," he murmurs. His eyes shimmer. I reach to touch his cheek, cradle his beautiful bones. I want to kiss him.
"Yes, do," he says quietly, and I realize he knows exactly what I'm thinking, and I'd feel silly, but he just asked me to kiss him and now there's no room for anything else in my mind, not now that I'm dizzy with knowing that for once, oh God, this once I've tried for what I really want, most in the world, and it's mine.
"I'm glad there was a candle on the table," I say. "That was right," and I lean in.