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“Uh. Sorry mate, I can’t. I’ve, um, you know…got plans…” Lestrade murmured with a wincing smile, not exactly meeting John’s eyes. Part of the reason was because he was keeping Sherlock in his sights as the lanky git pranced around angrily, waving Anderson back with a sneer when he got too close, while the other part was no doubt down to the inspector’s scheduled date that he had neglected to tell John about until that moment. Maybe it had been last minute? Maybe Lestrade hadn’t had chance to tell John? Whatever the case, the dark haired detective, whom had just solved the crime scene in less than a minute after being promised at least a six on the ‘interesting murder mystery’ scale, was an easy distraction. A tantrum was bound to manifest itself after such a quick and easy solution. Just John’s luck. “Oi! Sherlock. Leave off, will you?”
“Plans?” John kept an eye on his flatmate, already dreading the hissy fit he was sure to witness now that Greg had foiled his attempt to escape. “But I thought you’d…” He turned to frown at the Detective Inspector. “We were supposed to go to the pub.”
Lestrade rubbed at the back of his head uneasily, clearing his throat, “Another time, yeah?” He murmured, continuing to use Sherlock as a means to lengthen his eye contact avoidance, watching as the detective stormed over. Lestrade exhaled roughly through his nose and held up both hands. “Listen, I’m sorry, Sherlock. I thought it was at least--”
“John. Let’s go.” Sherlock brushed past the inspector with his nose in the air, flicking his collar up as he stepped outside onto the kerb, hailing for a cab.
“Sherlock!” Lestrade sighed, crossing his arms with a roll of his eyes. “Well thank you anyway, Sherlock! Really helped us out there!”
“Shut up!—John, let’s go!”
John huffed, shoulders falling as he resigned himself to his fate. “Have a good one Greg,” he said sullenly, even as he gave the man a comforting pat on the shoulder, and headed over to where Sherlock was waiting, just as a taxi pulled up. It was a good job he’d taken some money out earlier, or he wouldn’t have had enough for the fare; there was no chance Sherlock was paying it today after all.
Sherlock petulantly slid in and across the seats, slumping back and immediately taking out his phone, fingers rigid and stabbing, “221B Baker Street,” he told the driver curtly, mouth pursed.
John didn’t say a word, simply climbing in and shutting the door, intending to stare out of the window the entire journey home.
It was Valentine’s Day, the day of romance and love and cupids and all that stupid pointless twaddle that John had no doubt he would have been enjoying had Francine not dumped him the week before. It was hardly his fault that Sherlock had decided to drag him to a crime scene half way through their third date. You’d have thought people would be more understanding.
“Stop blaming me,” Sherlock rumbled from beside him with a shooting sideways glare. John was sure he picked and chose when to ‘read’ John and when to act ignorant. There was no way he could understand and know some things and not know the other. “You can’t always blame me. Especially when it comes to all of that.” Sherlock flashed a tight, condescending grin in John’s general direction and then turned his head away to look out the taxi window. “And do stop sulking. It’s rather irritating.”
John huffed. “You’re the one who keeps interrupting everything.”
“You had a choice. Stay or go. You chose to go. I didn’t force your hand,” Sherlock told him.
“You knew I would follow you,” he growled. “You just wanted to get rid of her. You always want to get rid of them.”
Sherlock looked at him, supercilious and horrendously frustrated, “As do you, apparently.”
“No,” John said, turning to face the arrogant arse. “I want a girlfriend. I want to go on dates.”
“Then why do you readily choose not to?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him, blinking slowly with a condescending air and tilted his head with another quirk of a grin that was clearly only used to make John’s blood boil.
It was working. “Because I don’t trust you not to go off and get yourself killed chasing after murderers!”
“Hm. Right,” Sherlock nodded patronisingly. “Because I can’t do anything without you. I never did cases before you. Oh no. It’s only with you around and so I need to be constantly looked after.”
“The night after we met you almost killed yourself,” John dead-panned.
Sherlock snorted, “No I didn’t. You’re being melodramatic. I had it all under control.”
John chortled humourlessly. “Right. So you weren’t really going to swallow that pill, were you?”
“I had it all under control,” Sherlock repeated and turned his head away to openly mope. “Anyway, you can talk. I’ve had to save you a lot more than you’ve had to ‘save’ me. If anything, I have to look after you!”
“I don’t actively go looking for it though do I?” John replied, turning to his window again.
Sherlock sniffed and folded his arms, “Neither do I.”
“No, you just lack any kind of self-preservation and go chasing after it when it presents itself.”
“And you jog right alongside me,” Sherlock said.
“So I can stop you before you do, inevitably, do something that could get you, or the both of us, killed!” John declared, running a hand through his hair.
“Keep telling yourself that,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, though loud enough for both John and the driver to hear, who seemed to be flicking his eyes back at them every so often, visibly eavesdropping.
John sent the driver a glare before turning to look out of the window again, only to notice a billboard advertising a particular brand of perfume that was ‘perfect for your partner this Valentine’s Day’. God, it was everywhere, just rubbing it in his face. He turned to stare at the back of the seat in front of him instead with a grunt.
After a few minutes of tense silence, Sherlock glanced at him, “You were single last Valentine’s Day as well. What’s your problem? Who cares? Why do you care? Why should it matter? – It’s a pile of derivative consumerist-oriented, wholly capricious, unscrupulous rubbish and a rather superficial, frivolous interpretation of romance.”
John snorted. “Because it rubs it in your face.”
“Yes. And? – Christmas is always rubbed in your face. As is Easter. And Halloween.” Sherlock griped.
“Of course you wouldn’t understand,” John muttered with a roll of his eyes.
“Enlighten me then,” Sherlock scowled.
John glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “Come on Sherlock, I’m sure you can figure it out.”
“You just indicated I wouldn’t understand,” Sherlock said. “So if you think I wouldn’t grasp the concept, why don’t you explain it to me? – In the simplest of terms, please, you know how slow I can be.” The sarcasm was thick and Sherlock said each word with a sardonic drawl and another tight, belittling grin.
“Er… we’re here,” the driver piped in, and it was only then that John noticed they had pulled to a stop outside of their flat.
Sherlock got out first, as usual, slamming the car door behind him and making a dramatic sweep toward the front door, getting it open to disappear within and leave John with the flare. Also as usual. When didn’t Sherlock leave John to pay? John scoffed, passing the driver some money and waiting for the change – he wasn’t going to let Sherlock get to him. Plus he was running low on money anyway.
“You two uh… having a bit of a domestic?” the driver asked, obviously trying to make light of the situation, but John just glared at him again, accepting the change and getting out of the cab. Unfortunately, he caught the beginnings of a laugh as he slammed the door, and he had to grit his teeth to keep himself from shouting after the driver as he pulled away.
“I’m not gay,” he muttered to himself, then turned to head indoors.
“Everything all right?” Mrs Hudson asked the moment he stepped front through the threshold. She flinched and her smile faltered when John shut the door – a bit too heavy-handedly – behind him. “That’s a no then – Oh dear. I thought things were starting to look up! What with the case and everything. Was it a bust?”
“He solved it in less than a minute,” John sniped. “And now he’s going to sulk and stew all day.”
Mrs Hudson winced and bit her lower lip, “Perhaps something else will crop up? A mysterious theft or a nice mass murdering, eh?”
John sighed. “I’m sorry, Mrs Hudson,” he said. “I’m… not in the best of moods today.”
“Yes, I can see that,” she nodded. “Would a nice tart help?”
John coughed, his face heating up. “Uh, no, thank you.”
“You sure? They’re homemade? Nice bit of Bakewell tart might do the world of good?” she beamed.
Making to answer in the negative once again, John found himself getting drawn in by Mrs Hudson’s pleading eyes, and he caved. “If you insist,” he agreed with a sigh and what he hoped was a smile.
Giving him a wink she turned back to her own flat, “I’ll bring a few up. For the both of you.”
“Thanks, Mrs Hudson,” he said, then finally made his way up to his own flat.
Sherlock was already back in his dressing gown, sitting in his chair with his legs elegantly crossed and his violin in his hands, “Go on then.” he said without looking over at John. “Still waiting for you to educate me. With bated breath and everything.”
John snorted. “Do you even know what Valentine’s Day is?”
“Do you?” Sherlock retorted.
“I’m not talking about the history behind it, or what it’s supposed to be, but what it is.” John pulled his coat off, throwing it onto his chair. “Valentine’s Day is the day when everyone either spends it with their significant other, or you don’t have a significant other to share it with, and the world snubs you for it.”
Sherlock shrugged, “What’s your point?” He asked and ran the tip of his index finger down one string as he tightened it. “The world, and the stupid people that seem to popularise a great deal of it, will snub you for a lot of things. Insignificant things. Any little thing. Because they’re ignorant idiots.” He tilted his head. “Some people like being single. There are millions of single people all over the place. Happy single people, might I add. – I’ve often heard of them renaming today and instead calling it ‘Anti Valentine’s Day’. Some even call it ‘Single Awareness day’.” Sherlock smirked. “Why don’t you celebrate that instead of the mushy, pathetic, ridiculous, unneeded impractical crap that today is supposed to symbolise and bring?”
“Because I want that!” John exclaimed, only to turn his back on Sherlock again. “I want to have all the cheesy romance stuff. I want to have a girlfriend. I want to be able to say that I’m in love again. And today just… rubs it in my face that I can’t.”
“Who says you can’t? – Go get a stupid girlfriend if you want to. You certainly don’t need any help picking up women, John,” Sherlock huffed, sliding his fingers down the strings again, putting John on edge. “Go out and…mingle.”
John chuckled without humour. “’Who’ he says.” He shook his head, turning back to Sherlock again. “It’s you. You’re the reason I can’t have it anymore. You and your… your murders, and your experiments, and your bloody laziness. It’s impossible to have a life outside of you! Even my work is suffering because of you!”
Sherlock frowned at him briefly and then sat back with a stiff body, “Leave then,” he murmured, gazing at John with a hardened stare and an emotionless face.
“… I can’t.”
“You’re not chained here or held here against your will.” Sherlock looked away, plucking a gentle tune. “If you feel that being here, with me, stops you from having what you naïvely think that you require in life, then go.”
“No,” John replied through gritted teeth.
“Then shut up.” Sherlock glared at him from under his brow. “Stop moaning. Stop complaining. Stop going on about pitiable things. – Grow up.”
“You’re one to talk,” John scoffed. “I didn’t know thirty year old toddlers existed before I met you.”
“What are you on about?” Sherlock frowned, narrowing his eyes.
“Are you two still grumpy?” Mrs Hudson asked with a tut as she suddenly walked into the tension that filled the space around them with a plate and a curling smile. “Here. Have a tart.”
John glared at Sherlock, but then grabbed his coat, intending to hang it up. “We’re fine,” he said, perhaps a little too firmly, his shoulders a little too tense.
“Hm. Right – Give that to me,” she told him with a stern and motherly tone after she’d put the plate down on the coffee table, holding her hand out to the coat in John’s hand, “and sit down.”
He hesitated for a moment, but then he saw the look in her eyes, and held the coat out.
“And sit,” she repeated, nodding to his chair as she folded the coat over her arm, looking between both of them. Sherlock was blatantly glowering at John as he cradled his instrument against his chest, sullen features darkened by how he had tipped his head, bringing his curled fringe over his forehead. “Sherlock Holmes, you wipe that expression from your face this instant. You wouldn’t want it to stick like that, would you? It would be a terrible shame. You have such a pretty face.”
John soon lowered himself into his chair, watching Mrs Hudson carefully, though he did send Sherlock a scowl on occasion.
“Now, what’s brought this on then? It can’t all be down to a rubbish case?” she asked them, lifting her eyebrows.
“John’s a sentimental fool and is trying to blame his nonsensical, stupid, self-created issues onto me,” Sherlock drawled, making his violin screech.
John snorted. “Says the child who wants my constant attention.”
“I can go days without speaking and spend hours thinking, quietly, to myself, without any need for so-called ‘attention’. Not exactly childlike behaviour that,” he spat.
“Good gracious,” Mrs Hudson sighed. “You were both fine yesterday.”
“Well yesterday wasn’t today,” John complained, folding his arms across his chest.
“What’s so different about today?” Mrs Hudson asked.
“He hasn’t got a girlfriend to spend stupid amounts of money on and stuff full with heart-shaped chocolates and wine,” Sherlock replied mockingly with a fake look of sympathy. “No one loves him. Poor John. Alone and unloved. No cards through the post. No kisses and cuddles. It’s heart-breaking, truly heart-breaking. However will he cope?”
“Are you sure you’re not talking about yourself?” John retorted.
“I’ve had some cards,” Sherlock told him and the smile he sent his way was overly smug.
“Liar,” John hissed.
Sherlock glanced toward the mantel where some red, pink and white envelopes were stabbed into place, “Must be awful. Being wrong all the time. Really quite upsetting. Are you ever right?”
“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson frowned, upset and noticeably disappointed.
John stared at the envelopes, the ground falling out from beneath him – or so it felt. Was this what his life had come to? Was he really the only one left unloved? Tearing his eyes away, he growled at his flat mate. “You were just waiting for the right time to show those off, weren’t you,” he accused. “Well congratulations, now you really are a bastard.”
“They were there all this morning. You’re just an idiot. A blind, sappy idiot,” Sherlock rumbled. “A few even came before today--”
Mrs Hudson sighed sharply, “Really now!”
“The only reason you got any at all was because of me,” John snarled. “Where would you be if it weren’t for my blog? How many clients would you have?”
“You think I wasn’t working before you?” Sherlock scoffed before laughing a haughty, condescending laugh.
“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson glanced between them and moved to stand almost in the middle. “This is silly now…”
“No, I think you were bored out of your mind half the time and resorted to other ways of keeping yourself occupied,” John said, ignoring Mrs Hudson’s admonishments.
“I’m still bored out of my mind and resort to other ways of keeping myself occupied,” Sherlock told him snappily, purposely overlooking the saddened look Mrs Hudson sent his way at his words. “The world is boring. The people in it more so. This is something that shan’t change.”
“The world is more than just problems to solve, Sherlock!”
“Not to me!” Sherlock shouted. “Nothing else matters but the work!”
“That’s because you’re not human!” John exploded.
“John! – Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson drew herself up and glared at them both. “Right. That’s it! This stops now! Do you both hear me? You are saying things you don’t mean just to get a silly little raise, just to act all big and tough, and it’s both juvenile and absurd, and it stops now!” She took a breath and looked between them as Sherlock sneered at John with an intense and penetrating glare. “Say you’re sorry to each other.”
John snorted, looking down at the floor, but he refused to say a word, even going so far as biting his tongue.
“I’m waiting!”
“And you’ll be waiting for awfully long time, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said briskly, getting up to stand at the window and screech deafeningly on his violin, his arm movements frenzied and rough. John rolled his eyes, turning his head to face the fire. Was he ever not a drama queen?
Mrs Hudson only took three seconds of the noise before she was storming over and yanking the bow from Sherlock’s fingers, “Enough,” she said, cutting off what Sherlock was seconds away from snarling. “Say you’re sorry.”
“No.”
“Now, Sherlock.”
“No! – Why do I have to say anything? John is the one who—”
Mrs Hudson pulled the instrument from him entirely, putting it away in its case, and then threw down John’s coat, grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, and pulled him over to stand before John’s chair, “Look at him – Look at each other. John. Sherlock. Look!”
John managed to stay firm for several seconds, but then turned his head back, looking down at Sherlock’s feet first, then raising it to meet Sherlock’s eyes.
Sherlock’s mouth was pinched and his eyes were squinting and narrowed, but he met John’s gaze after a moment, “Good,” Mrs Hudson said in a sigh, reaching to take John’s hand as she grasped Sherlock’s in her other. “Now, say you’re sorry. You both didn’t mean those horrible things. You both know that.”
Gritting his teeth, John waited. He wouldn’t be the first this time.
“…Come on,” Mrs Hudson whispered, shaking the both of them.
Sherlock tried to wriggle free, “Why should I?”
“Because you both mean a great deal to one another,” she told him persistently, ignoring Sherlock responding scoff.
“I think Sherlock’s made it abundantly clear that I don’t mean much to anyone,” John growled.
“Nonsense!” Mrs Hudson turned to Sherlock with her eyebrows lifted meaningfully, shaking the detective’s arm again. “Tell him, Sherlock.” When nothing was forthcoming, Mrs Hudson huffed loudly. “If you didn’t care about each other, you wouldn’t be here, you wouldn’t be arguing this way.”
“Sherlock doesn’t care about me,” John scoffed, keeping their eyes locked. “Why would he? I’m just some idiot replacement for his skull.”
Mrs Hudson glared at John with a hard breath through her nose while Sherlock stared at John unblinkingly, no expression on his face, “Oh come off it, John! You know that isn’t true!”
John looked over at Mrs Hudson, and his expression softened. He truly loved this woman. She was the mother he wished he’d had. “No. No it isn’t true,” he admitted, then sighed. “But I am an idiot. That’s always so clear. Sherlock he’s… You’re just so much better than I am.”
Sherlock’s jaw muscle jumped and his glare only seemed to increase before he finally spoke, “I’m sorry,” he whispered softly, his tone contradicting his thunderous expression.
Blinking in surprise, John looked back at Sherlock in disbelief. He hadn’t expected him to actually say it. He’d never heard Sherlock apologise before. It was… humbling. “Me too.”
“Good,” Mrs Hudson smiled, signalling John to his feet with a pull to his hand. “Now, why don’t you shake hands?”
“You’re still being overly ridiculous. Just because you’re not together with the prissy, tedious, conceited, woman that you thankfully are now rid of, and just because—”
Nudging him with her elbow warningly, Mrs Hudson frowned, “Sherlock.”
With a roll of his eyes, John held his hand out between them.
Sherlock glowered at it but took it without hesitation, his palm warm and fingers gentle, “If you are unhappy here,” he murmured, “I am not going to force you to stay.”
“John isn’t unhappy! – Today is just a bad day for the both of you. You’re both grumpy and just needed someone to blame,” Mrs Hudson said, “when there is really no one to blame at all. Is there?” She looked at John. “Just because you’ve not had a silly card or have a girlfriend, doesn’t mean you aren’t loved.” She turned to Sherlock. “And I’m sure some spurned lovers will murder one another very soon!”
John gave Sherlock’s hand a light squeeze as he smiled at their landlady. “Thanks you, Mrs Hudson,” he said, though he didn’t feel fully placated. There was still something missing. Something tangible.
“You’re welcome. Have a tart,” she told him, stepping away to pick up his coat again. “You too, Sherlock!”
The detective, however, seemed to have other plans because he waited until John turned his attention back upon their joined hands and then dragged him in for an awkward embrace, their hands still warmly clasped between them. With his free arm, Sherlock coiled it around John’s shoulders, drawing him in, and his curls were cool and soft when they brushed against John’s jaw and throat as Sherlock bent his head down to seal the hug.
John froze, almost stuttering at the sudden contact, but as Sherlock’s hair tickled at his chin, something warm bubbled up inside him, and, slowly, he brought his own free arm up to curl around his friend as the stiffness in his spine seeped away. As he turned his head into Sherlock’s hair, his eyes began to water, something he would forever deny should anyone ask, and he didn’t quite understand why.
Mrs Hudson, who had obviously spotted the affectionate display, sighed soft and happy, “Lovely,” she uttered under her breath.
“Be quiet, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock griped, though his tone was amused and friendly. He tightened his hold on John after he spoke and then cupped his nape, stroking at the skin and short hairs that he found there with a massive amount of tenderness, more than Sherlock had expressed before.
With a light shiver at the touch, John clutched tighter at Sherlock’s dressing gown, so starved of physical affection that he wanted as much as he could, and released Sherlock’s hand so he could hold him properly, Mrs Hudson be damned. “Thank you,” he said, face ducking further into Sherlock’s hair.
Both of Sherlock’s hands moved to his back, patting and then rubbing, allowing John closer, “Any time,” he rumbled. He smelt of home and felt solid and warm and kind and loving.
John sighed, happy, almost light in… relief? Yes. That’s what it was. Relief. Unfortunately, that feeling was edged with the knowledge that they were being watched, and this moment felt far too private for prying eyes. With a cough, he pulled himself back from Sherlock’s embrace, carefully wiping at his eye as he gave Sherlock’s shoulder a squeeze, and looked down at the plate Mrs Hudson had brought up. “… Tart?” he offered, picking one for himself.
“One is from Molly. Another from my own bloody mother. And the other is from a prepubescent fool from my homeless network,” Sherlock told him suddenly, nodding to the letters as he grabbed a tart, watching Mrs Hudson grin.
John smirked. “Got yourself a bit of a starry-eyes fan club?”
“He wrote a poem and everything,” Sherlock said with a sneer. “He’s worse than you are with the sappy rubbish you send your flings.” Mrs Hudson cleared her throat pointedly and Sherlock pursed his mouth in annoyance. It was obvious he was trying to change the atmosphere back into something else to put both John and himself more at ease. Perhaps to distract Mrs Hudson as well.
One of John’s eyebrows rose, and he bit into the tart as he sat back down again. “These are lovely, Mrs Hudson.”
“How about you two have your own little Valentine’s Day?” Mrs Hudson unexpectedly suggested.
John scoffed. “Sherlock, celebrate Valentine’s Day?”
“Oh come on, it’d be fun!” she told him as she bustled over to them again. “What do you like about the day, John? What is it you’re so grumpy about missing out on?”
John shrugged. “I usually go to the pub with my other single mates, making fun of the couples we see.” He brushed a crumb from the corner of his mouth. “I went with Greg last time, but he got himself a date this year.”
Sherlock, who had stuffed his entire tart into his mouth, snorted through his nose and Mrs Hudson swatted at him, “Well, take Sherlock with you. Sherlock is single,” she winked.
John looked up at him with a smirk. “Pub, Sherlock?”
“No. That pub you frequent is vile,” Sherlock complained around his mouthful.
“Oh go on, Sherlock! You love picking apart people and deducing their dirty little secrets,” Mrs Hudson prompted.
“Doesn’t have to be that pub,” John replied with a shrug, already feeling much happier now that the prospect of getting out instead of being stuck inside and sulking had reappeared as a possibility.
“Go on,” Mrs Hudson urged. “It would do you both a world of good to get out of the flat. Get some fresh air.”
John settled back in his chair, finishing off his tart as he waited for Sherlock’s answer.
Sherlock regarded him with a small frown, “I thought you didn’t want it to be rubbed in your face? The streets are filled with repulsive hearts and roses and couples--”
“Just go out, Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson pressed.
“Fine!” Sherlock replied. “Fine. I’ll go. If it will shut you both up, I’ll go.”
John grinned, springing to his feet to grab their coats. “Great!” He kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek in a moment of whimsy, and held Sherlock’s coat out to him.
Snatching it up, the great sulking, but loveable, detective swung it on and grabbed for another tart, “I hope you’re happy,” he grumbled at a beaming landlady. He didn’t embrace or kiss her, but she didn’t seem to mind and instead happily waved them off.
With a quick wave of his own, John turned back to Sherlock with a light smirk. “Oh come on, it could be fun!” he said. “It is your choice of pub after all.”
Sherlock cocked his head, “Really?” He asked in a very impish sort of tone of voice.
John rolled his eyes. “Yes. Really.”
“I know just the place then,” Sherlock smirked, taking a bite of the tart and turning to John as he did so, looking ridiculously charming with his cheeks puffed out, full of pastry, jam and frangipane.
John chuckled. “And the dress code includes dressing gowns?”
“I doubt we’ll be out long,” Sherlock told him with a shrug as he closed his coat around his gown and flicked up his collar. “I estimate at least a quarter of an hour before we’re kicked out.”
“Is that so?” John smirked. “Lead the way then.” Perhaps this Valentine’s wouldn’t be so bad after all.