Chapter Text
The soft squeak of Molly's trainers were the only sound that filled the morgue. Normally she would fill the silence with inane chatter, but a poorly timed comment about the sexuality of her previous partners had left her acting particularly frosty towards Sherlock.
"Molly-" Sherlock tried, getting cut off immediately.
"Timing, Sherlock," She snipped, not looking up from the man she was busy dissecting.
"I was just trying to point out-"
"That I would have much more success in relationships if I didn't constantly try to date gay men," She finished, looked harried. "Yes, you've pointed that out numerous times before."
"Yes, well, you looked down trodden that your relationship with Tim-"
"Tom."
"Yes, Tom," Sherlock sighed, trying to be patient. "You looked sad that it ended. I had pointed out that he was gay, and had you listened to me, you wouldn't be quite so upset."
"Sherlock," Molly warned, finally looking away from the cadaver to glare at Sherlock. "Timing!"
Sherlock's mouth snapped shut, trying to look properly contrite as he turned back to the thumbs she had given him.
"Anyway," She continued after a moment. "It might have all turned out well for him. I've found him a blind date. Or...well, Mike Stamford has."
"A blind date?" Sherlock scoffed. "The likelihood of a successful match so soon after the dissolution of a relationship, especially when the match was chosen by the other party of the failed partnership, seems pretty-"
A soft cough from the doorway interrupted him, and Sherlock turns to glare at the newcomer. The man was well dressed, his shoes gleaming as he shuffled nervously from foot to foot. A long, grey coat nearly covered his pressed black trousers and button up. Sherlock has just enough time to register the shock of curly brown hair before the stranger is swept into a hug by Molly.
"Tom!" She cried, "Oh, you look marvellous."
"Thank you, Molly," Tom replied softly, glancing over at Sherlock. "This isn't...err..."
"Oh, no!" Molly laughed. "No, this isn't your date. This is Sherlock!"
The apprehensive look fell from Tom's face, and he grinned brightly at Sherlock, who scowled back. "Oh, thank goodness. No offense, Mr Holmes, but Molly's told me all about you."
"All good things, apparently," Sherlock sniffed, trying not to look offended.
"Oh, I didn't mean it like that," Tom said cheerfully. "I just meant...well, it would be pretty rotten for your blind date to hate the idea of blind dates, wouldn't it?"
"Or know everything about you on sight," Molly added unhelpfully.
"Yes, thank you," Sherlock said, "That doesn't change the fact that a blind date set up by a previous girlfriend is statistically likely to end poorly."
"And where do you get your statistics from, Mr Holmes?" Tom asked, grinning when Sherlock was unable to answer. "Look, Molly knows me. She knows what I like. I trust her."
"I've been trying to set Sherlock up for ages," Molly told him.
"Romantic entanglements-"
"Would complete you as a person," Molly finished for him.
"That is highly offensive towards aromantic people," Sherlock sniffed.
"And you're not aromantic, no matter what you want people to believe," She quipped.
"Look, let's bet on it," Tom chimed in, "If the date between me and...err..."
"Doctor John Watson," Molly supplied.
"Right, John Watson," Tom repeated. "If the date between John and I goes well, then you have to agree to a blind date set up by Molly."
"John and me," Sherlock muttered distractedly.
"What?"
"You said 'John and I' when the correct structure of the sentence would be 'John and me'. Think of it as a replace and remove exercise where you remove the-"
"Sherlock," Molly interrupted.
"Oh, fine." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you and John have a grand old time, I'll agree to an insipid dated. Happy?"
"Chuffed," Molly intoned. She turned back to Tom, "now Tom, I told Dr Watson that you would meet him outside St Bart's, and you would be wearing a long coat with a scarf."
"Oh, blast," Tom gestured to his neck. "I forgot the scarf!"
"That's alright," Molly waved him off. "You can borrow Sherlock's."
"Excuse me?" Sherlock blinked.
"Please, Mr Holmes?" Tom asked, clasping his hands together in supplication. "I'll return it as soon as possible."
"The course of true love never did run smooth," Sherlock sighed, gesturing to the hook where his Belstaff and scarf hung. "Don't get it dirty."
"Thank you, Sherlock," Molly said, but Sherlock had already turned away, focussing once more on the bag of thumbs. "I've got to grab a few things from my office. Please don't touch the cadaver, Sherlock."
Sherlock gave a hum of acknowledgment, barely registering the soft swoosh of the door as it closed. He became so engrossed in his task, that the sound of Tom's cough made him flinch.
"Sorry," Tom said, looking amused when Sherlock glanced up at him.
"Do you really believe that this John Watson will be the love of your life?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow at him.
"I don't have any idea," Tom said with a shrug. "But I've always been too afraid to date another bloke, and it's worth a shot."
"Is it?"
"Bit of a cynic, are you?" Tom chuckled. "Love works in mysterious ways."
"Sometimes it ends in death," Sherlock replied shortly.
"Well, you'll see soon enough, won't you?" Tom said. "After my date, you'll have to go on one, too!"
"Overconfident," Sherlock remarked.
"Optimistic," Tom returned. "And with that, I must be off. Potential soulmates to meet, after all."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, ignoring the man as he swept out of the morgue. Really, if the man even knew half of what Sherlock did, he wouldn't want to have anything to do with romance either.
"Love is a much more vicious motivator," He mumbled to himself, glancing over towards the door. That was when he saw it.
"Idiot," Sherlock sighed, his eyes falling upon his coat, the scarf still wrapped around the collar. "Did he not pay attention to anything Molly had said?"
He walked over to the hook, pulling the scarf free. If he took action now, he might be able to catch Tom before his blind date gave up looking for him.
Without a second thought, he grabbed his Belstaff, wrapping it around himself to ward off any winter chill. He gave the pockets a quick pat, satisfied to feel his mobile in the right hand pocket. Then he grabbed the scarf and made his way out of the morgue.
The air outside was brick, quickly chilling the exposed air around Sherlock's neck. He tugged the scarf on with ease, keeping himself warm until he could find the sentimental idiot.
Sherlock strolled along the perimeter of the building, trying to figure out where Tom had headed. It was entirely possible he went to purchase a new scarf, or maybe he hadn't noticed the missing scarf at all and was waiting patiently for his date.
"Tom?" A voice from behind grabbed Sherlock's attention. He turned around to find an attractive man standing behind him, a cane clenched tightly in his right hand.
Oh, was all Sherlock could think, blinking down at him.
"Right, hi." The man, John Watson he could presume, smiled wryly at him. "Blind dates...bit different in my day."
Perhaps Sherlock should have told him that he wasn't Tom, that he wasn't John's date. Perhaps he should have explained the situation, and taken John to find Tom. There were a thousand things he could have said, but what really came out of his mouths was-
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
John blinked at him a few times, confusion flitting across his face. Sherlock wondered if John would vocal with his displeasure, or physical. Perhaps he would leave before Sherlock could explain that he wasn't his date, a thought that oddly satisfying. The idea of Tom and John going on a date was suddenly hateful, and Sherlock couldn't figure out why.
"Sorry, how did you-"
"I didn't know, I saw," Sherlock interrupted. Best get this over with as soon as possible. "You're a military man, judging by your haircut and posture, and you've got a tan, but it only goes to your wrists. So you've been overseas, but not sunbathing. It wasn't a difficult leap."
"You saw all that?" John asked, glancing down at himself.
"Oh, that was just the first impression," Sherlock said, strolling in a lazy circle around John. "You've been injured, but it wasn't your leg. You're standing just fine, as if you've forgotten about your injury. So it's psychosomatic. But the way you're holding your shoulders suggests there was an injury there. So, an army doctor invalided home."
"Wait...how did you know I was a doctor?"
"Your jumper," Sherlock replied. "You've repaired it a few times. The stitches aren't a simple whip-stitch; they're surgical in quality. Of course, they could be from a previous partner, but you've only recently come back. Difficult to maintain a long distance relationship while in the military, and you've also indicated that it's been a while since your last date. Also, Molly Hooper mentioned you were a doctor."
"That's cheating," John sounded amused. "And when did I say it's been a while since my last date?"
"You said 'a bit different from my day'," Sherlock replied. "Now which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Afghanistan," John confirmed. "That was...amazing."
Sherlock froze in his circuit, trying to decide if he had imagined John's words. "I'm...sorry?"
"Extraordinary," John said, and Sherlock turned his focus to John's face. Not lying. "Simply extraordinary."
"That's not what most people say," Sherlock said.
"What do most people say?"
"Piss off."
John snorted at that, holding out his hand for Sherlock to shake. "It's nice to meet you. I'm-"
"Doctor John Watson," Sherlock confirmed, shaking his hand.
"And you're Tom Anderson," John replied. "It's nice to meet you."
Oh. The warm bubble that had inflated in Sherlock's chest at John's words popped suddenly. John was waiting for Tom, not Sherlock. Really, the intelligent thing to do right now would be to tell John the truth. Explain how he had been looking for Tom, to give him the scarf,
"The pleasure is all mine," was what came out instead. Sherlock took his hand, giving it a firm shake.
"I'm going to be honest, I don't have anything planned," John said after a moment, pulling his hand out of Sherlock's. "I didn't think you'd show."
"That's alright," Sherlock said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "There's a nice Italian place on Northumberland Street. The owner owes me a favour."