Work Text:
“What about this one?”
John glanced up from the women’s fashion magazine he’d snagged from the coffee table, boredom placing within him an urgent need to know what spring must-have dresses best suited his body type. “I like it,” he said, nodding for added sincerity. “Very flattering.”
Molly huffed, shoulders slumping beneath the thin royal blue straps of the latest dress option. “You said that about the last one,” she whined, twisting on her bright coral heels and stomping back toward her room.
“They were both very flattering!” he called after her, receiving a door slam for his trouble, and shook his head, flipping to a makeup tutorial and contemplating if he had yellow or peach undertones.
He had just finished checking his horoscope—‘Put your fears aside and take a chance!’—when Molly remerged, her footfalls heavier now in brown oxfords with a sturdy heel.
“Okay,” she sighed, giving a single twirl and flapping her arms to her sides, “this is the last one I’ve got. Otherwise, we have to go into trousers.”
John smiled, scanning up and down the muted emerald dress. The body of the dress was satin, overlaid with a transparent material that also composed small sleeves covering just the cap of her shoulder. It was fitted to the waist, and then flared out slightly as more volume was added, the multiple layers rippling to a stop just above her knees, and John nodded, returning the magazine to the table and standing. “Perfect,” he said, chuckling at Molly’s skeptical brow. “Seriously. Green’s a great color for your skintone.” He waved a hand back at the magazine. “And I read that in a book, so it must be true.”
Molly laughed, taking the skirt in her hands and twisting side-to-side, biting her lip as she scanned down the outfit. “Really, though, you like it? It’s not too fancy?”
“I don’t think so,” he assured, taking her hand and stretching her arm out wide, “but so what if it is? Just means you’ll get more numbers.” He lifted her arm over her head, prompting her into a twirl, the girl laughing as she obliged, but only the once, dropping his hand as she stepped back.
“Do you think the shoes are alright?” she asked, twisting one of the toes into the grey shag rug. “The red were too Christmassy, and I thought the black might make it look even more fancy, but I’m not sure if these are enough.”
“They look great,” John said, even less out of his element in footwear than he was with dresses, but he did know better than to pair red with green, “and there’s an inch of ice on the ground outside. No sense risking a broken ankle.”
“Good point,” Molly remarked, and then sighed, bouncing her shoulders to release tension. “Alright. Okay. Now I just have to finish my hair and put on lipstick, and we’re good to go.”
“Okay,” John chuckled, following as the girl tiptoed to her bathroom, only putting her heels down when she reached the faded blue mat in front of the mirror.
“You think I should curl it more?” she asked, prodding at the loose ringlets, and John shook his head, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe.
“No. It looks nice like that. And still looks like you,” he added, Molly meeting his eyes with a fond smile in the mirror. “You gonna add a barrette?” He bobbed his head at the array of hair accessories laid out beside the sink, Molly biting her lip as she nodded.
“Yeah. Not sure which one, though.”
“I like the gold.” He pointed to a piece near the middle, delicate gold flowers spotted with presumably fake pearls and diamonds.
“Does it compliment my skintone too?” she teased, sneering at John’s protruding tongue, but did pick it up, testing it at different heights before pulling back a portion of hair and pinning it up on the right side. “Any strays?” she asked, leaning in for John to get a closer look. “Bumps? Bald spots?”
“I think you’re still a bit young for that,” he chuckled, shaking his head, “but no.”
Molly nodded at him in the mirror, and then opened a drawer, fingers hovering over the row of lipsticks a moment before plucking up a deep red berry shade. “Sorry again for dragging you out like this,” she said for the hundredth time, pulling her lips tight over her teeth and swiping on chapstick, rubbing it in with a fingertip. “I probably should’ve just gone alone, but I’d planned to go with Rachel, and...well, I’m kind of terrified.”
John laughed, smiling at the woman’s apologetic eyes. “It’s no trouble. Probably better, actually.” He shrugged, turning to plant his spine into the doorframe, tipping his head up toward the ceiling. “Saves me from spending Valentine’s Day getting drunk and introspective.”
Molly clicked her tongue sympathetically, pausing her routine to place a hand on his arm. “It’s been four months,” she reminded, giving him a light squeeze before returning to twisting up her lipstick. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ll find someone when you’re ready.”
“Who says I’m not ready?” He shrugged at the ceiling, his unceremonious dumping no longer the sore spot it was, though he was grateful the cause had been Mary transferring to a different uni, wounds healing easier without the ever-present fear of bumping into their cause. “It’s the finding someone part that’s tricky.”
“Well, that’s what tonight is for!” Molly chirped, smacking her lips together, ripping off a sheet of toilet tissue to sharpen the edges.
“Yeah,” John chuckled, turning his face out to the corridor, “maybe.” He twisted at the cuffs of his navy suit jacket, checking his white collared shirt was firmly tucked into his dark jeans above the centered silver belt buckle. His black oxfords could have been a little more polished, but it had been short notice, and it wasn’t as if he was genuinely expecting to impress anyone.
John had nothing against the concept of speed dating in general, and he supposed it was nice for the LGBT society to offer up a companion event to the Valentine’s Day hetero-fest that had taken over the notice boards for the past month, but it didn’t seem like the kind of thing that would work for him . There was too much pressure, a literal ticking clock counting down the 180 seconds you had to figure out if you were compatible, and John took longer than that figuring out his lunch order, let alone a significant other. Molly had attempted to ease his reservations by explaining that, due to the small size of the event, everyone would be meeting everyone rather than splitting them up by orientation, so there was always the opportunity to just make new friends, but John would still much rather do that without the candles and flowers, not that he’d conveyed as much to Molly.
Since coming to terms with her bisexuality, Molly had been too shy to join the LGBT society outright, using the speed dating event as something of an audition on the urging of her friend, Rachel, who was already a member. Of course, Rachel had contracted a cold that sounded not dissimilar to the plague, making John the bisexual alternate, a role he was more than happy to fill if it meant saving Molly’s Valentine’s Day.
His beer would keep.
“Okay.” Molly turned, waving her hands in front of her face. “Could you tolerate sitting across from me for three minutes?”
John grinned. “I could tolerate you for six ,” he said, and Molly rolled her eyes, swatting his arm as she nudged past him through the doorway.
“Ever the charmer. You ready?” She slid her purse off the hook by the door, slotting her lipstick in an inside pocket as she tried to drag on her coat one handed. “The bar opens half an hour before the start for people to mingle a bit.”
“I could drink,” he joked, helping Molly with the other arm before lifting his black jacket off one of her kitchen chairs.
Molly scoffed, the sound shrill with terror. “Yeah, me too,” she muttered, John laughing at her urgency, but he was hot on her practical heels as they clomped down the stairs, stepping out arm-in-arm into the bitter winter night.
They had originally planned to take the underground, but, between her nerves and the chill, Molly was trembling before they’d even reached the station, and John had made the executive decision to hail a cab, bringing them rolling up to the restaurant twenty minutes before the event was due to start.
“Are we too early?” Molly fussed as John paid the fare, stomping her feet on the pavement to keep warm. “I don’t want to look desperate.”
“You won’t look desperate,” John assured, grabbing her elbow and steadying her toward the door. “You’ll look punctual.”
Molly sucked her bottom lip in over her teeth, planting her feet and growing roots just shy of the door.
“Molly, what-”
“This was a stupid idea.” She was shaking her head so fast it blurred, voice breathy with panic. “I-I can’t- It’s Valentine’s Day and I’m- No, no, I can’t , I-”
“Molly.” He gripped her shoulders, her eyes blowing wide as a sharp gasp hissed through her teeth, as if startled to still find him standing there. “It’ll be fine,” he assured, meeting her frantic gaze with what he hoped was a steady one. “It’s just two hours. Two hours and an open bar.”
A jagged laugh grated from her throat, her smile hesitant, but growing.
“And, like you said”—he lowered his hands to rest on her triceps, no longer worried she might make a break for it—“there’s always the chance you’ll make some new friends.”
The girl took in a deep breath, dipping her chin so as not to blow it out into his face, and then lifted her eyes with a single determined nod. “Okay,” she said, spine straightening as she looked past his shoulder to the door, and John smiled, pulling away and grabbing the handle.
“For Sparta?” he asked, the last of Molly’s tension dissolving as she laughed.
“For fucking Sparta!” she exclaimed, and John flung open the door, holding out a hand to beckon her to lead the charge.
The restaurant was warm—John’s observations stalling on that for a long moment of relief—and appropriately dim, candles winking at them from every angle, the flickering light catching on the glittering heart garland wrapped around the hostess stand.
“Hello,” a cheery young woman greeted, smiling between them. “Are you here for the speed dating event?”
“Er, yes,” Molly murmured, fidgeting with the front of her dress, and the woman nodded, stepping out from behind the stand and waving a hand down a corridor to their left.
“The room’s just down there at the end of the hall, but I can take your coats here, if you’d like.”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” Molly hung her purse straight down from her neck, freeing her arms to strip off her coat.
“Wow, I love your dress!” the hostess breathed, taking Molly’s coat and draping it over her arm. “That color is gorgeous .”
“Oh, er, thank you,” Molly muttered, glancing down at the fabric, her cheeks pinkening. “I got it at BCBG a few years ago. During their winter sale.”
The woman nodded, stepping away to hang up Molly’s coat before collecting John’s. “Well, it looks great on you,” she added, beaming at Molly’s shy smile. “The banquet room has a private bar, if you wanna head down. There’s a few people already milling about.”
“Thanks,” John said, and the woman returned to her post, Molly leading the way down the corridor.
She stopped before the open doorway, turning to John with bared teeth. “Do I have lipstick on my teeth?” she asked, and John leaned in, squinting through the dim light.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Do I?” He mimicked Molly’s gesture, the woman already leaning in before catching up to the joke, pulling away with a flat expression.
“Come on,” she muttered, tugging at his hand, and John gave it a single reassuring squeeze, breaking contact as they rounded the corner into the fray.
The minimalist approach to Valentine’s Day decor had extended to the banquet room, he was relieved to find, but he supposed it had been too grand a dream to hope they would escape the glitter and hearts entirely. At least it had been mostly contained to the ceiling, streamers strung in alternating stripes of pink and red interlaced with the same glittering heart garland that had bedecked the hostess stand outside, the only other indication of the day being the single red rose on each of the two-person tables lined up on the far side of the room. In front of them was the bar, a handful of people already seated or wandering between the stools, but their beeline was cut off by a voice to their right, as chipper as it was jarring.
“Hello!” The man looked to be about John’s age, but the similarities ended there, his olive face splitting into a bright grin beneath a shock of fluorescent magenta hair. “Checking in?”
“Yes,” Molly replied, leading him by the bicep as John recovered from temporary blindness. “Molly Hooper,” she supplied, and the man—a name tag denoting him as Sai—began scanning the list, “and this is John Watson. I called earlier to say he’d be taking Rachel Chalmers’ place?”
“Oh, right,” Sai said, glancing up with a smile before crossing off—predictably—the last name on the list. “Glad you could join us on such short notice! Never good to have an odd number for these things.”
“No, I’d imagine not.”
Sai chuckled, setting the list aside and gesturing to the array of colored stickers in front of him. “Now, let’s get you two set up, and then you can head over to the bar for one of our custom cocktails! I recommend the Cupid’s Arrow, but it is not for the faint of heart.” His eyes widened with the wisdom of experience, and then winked at them as they chuckled. “Okay, so, what we’re doing is using different colored stickers for your orientation.” He moved his hand down the line, hovering over each of the stacks in turn. “Purple is ace—anywhere on the spectrum, no one’s going to be interrogating you here—, yellow is gay, blue is bi, and green is for questioning, or if you’d just rather not say.”
They nodded, John picking up two blue stickers and passing one to Molly, lifting a brow at Sai’s sigh of relief.
“Sorry, you’re just the only other bi people here so far,” he explained, tapping at the blue dot on his nametag. “I was starting to worry I might be an island for the evening. Anyway”—he pointed to the line of permanent markers and name tag sheets on the other half of the table—“write your preferred first name in big bold letters on the front, but make sure to leave room for your pronouns somewhere on there too. Other than that”—John grimaced, bracing himself for the camp counselor flashback—“just have fun!”
“Thanks,” Molly said, writing out her name and pronouns in neat looping handwriting that made John’s doctor scrawl look even more like toddler refrigerator art than normal. “I’m sure we will.”
“See ya out there!” Sai bade farewell with a wave as they turned away, John leading the way as Molly meticulously smoothed the sticker against her dress.
“Can you read that alright?” she asked, turning her chest toward him, the oddities of friendship never ceasing to amaze. “It’s not too wrinkled?”
“It’s not wrinkled at all,” John muttered, rolling his eyes away to the bar. “It looks like you fucking ironed it on there.”
Molly tutted, but did drop the topic, and the two of them slipped through a gap to the bar, Molly grabbing up the laminated sheet listing the festive cocktail offerings. “Love at First Sight,” she read aloud, quickly scanning the description, “which I might like, but it’d be too sweet for you, I think. Cupid’s Arrow doesn’t sound too bad, actually, but you don’t like flavored vodka, do you? Ooo, An Old Flame—you’d like that one, it has scotch in it! The Romeo and Juliet has-”
“The what?”
“The Romeo and Juliet.”
John snorted, wrinkling his face down at the inverted list in Molly’s hand. “What’s that, a shot of arsenic?”
A spluttering laugh sounded behind him, and he turned to see the back of a man’s head having a coughing fit, dark curls bouncing while the woman sitting across from him glared at John over his shoulder.
“Oh, shut up!” the woman snapped, bracing herself on her stool to kick out a polished red heel at the man’s shin, jolting loose a dark brown ringlet from behind her ear. “It’s romantic!”
“Only to the illiterate,” the man replied, his deep voice dripping condescension, highball glass thunking down onto the wooden bar as he spun on his stool to face them. “Sorry, she’s being rude,” he said, smile smooth and charming even as his body jolted with another kick to his leg. “I’m Sherlock, and this is-”
“Irene.” She stood up, draping over Sherlock to extend an arm, hand shooting past John to-
“Molly.” The girl smiled, sparing John an apologetic glance as their hands brushed against his shoulder. “And this is my friend-”
“John who doesn’t like my drink names,” Irene interjected, glancing down at his nametag as she rounded Sherlock’s shoulder, folding her arms over her sleek black dress with a stare that somehow added four inches to her height.
John blinked, instinctively glancing to Sherlock for help, and the man smiled, hopefully an indicator John could reply without being beheaded. “Only the one,” he murmured, and Sherlock laughed, shaking his head up at Irene’s blazing eyes.
“I told you that one was in poor taste,” he muttered around the lip of his glass, a whiff of scotch breezing through the air on his breath as he continued. “Although I suppose the brevity of the relationships does correlate well enough.”
“Romeo and Juliet in three minutes,” John murmured, looking thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “That’s worth the price of admission.”
“Hopefully a little less bloody though.” Sherlock took another sip, looking out across the room to the lines of waiting tables. “I don’t believe our deposit covers double suicide.”
“ Our deposit?” Molly moved up to John’s shoulder, pulling some of Irene’s attention away. “Oh! You’re Irene!” Molly exclaimed, lifting her hands out toward the woman with dawning comprehension, Irene’s arms uncrossing as a brow rose. “Irene Adler, the president! I’m friends with Rachel Chalmers.”
“Oh, Rachel!” Irene nodded, expression softening as her body shifted toward Molly, subconsciously blocking John out of the conversation, and John glanced at Sherlock, the man lifting his brows a moment before nudging the drinks menu toward him with a fingertip. “Wasn’t she supposed to come tonight? She said she had a friend she wanted-”
Sherlock cleared his throat, patting his sternum when the women turned to look. “Wrong pipe,” he croaked, taking another sip of his drink, and John turned away to hide his smile, shaking his head when the women looked away.
“Subtle.”
“Desperate times,” Sherlock murmured back, and John chuckled, waving to catch the bartender’s attention.
“Yeah, that-that was me. Is me,” Molly muttered, and John and Sherlock turned over their shoulders in sync, catching the moment the horror of the near-miss passed across Irene’s face, “but she got sick, so I dragged John with me instead.”
“How fortunate,” Irene deadpanned, and John lost his mind just long enough to flick a two-finger salute and a wink, but Sherlock seemed to enjoy it, chuckling into his drink while Irene rolled her eyes. “So,” she said, turning back to Molly, “how do you know Rachel?”
“Well-”
“Oh, wait, before you smalltalk into the sunset,” John interrupted as the bartender approached, “what do you want to drink?”
“Oh, er, that Love at First Sight one,” Molly answered, blushing faintly, and John nodded, relaying as much to the bartender before adding his An Old Flame order.
“It’s not bad,” Sherlock said, clinking the side of his glass with a fingernail as the bartender moved away to start preparing the cocktails. “Not nearly strong enough, but...” He trailed off with a shrug, and John chuckled, sitting down on the stool beside the man, a glance at Irene and Molly indicating they wouldn’t be moving any time soon.
“It’s only two hours,” John said, and Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head through another sip.
“Trust me, it will feel like more.” He returned his drink to the counter, looking through the growing crowd to the flickering sea of tables beyond. “Time loses all meaning at these things.”
“A regular in the speed dating circuit, are you?” John teased, smirking at Sherlock’s sneer.
“More like a hostage,” he grumbled, bobbing his head at Irene. “She tricked me into becoming treasurer for the society, so I have to be at all these things now. Though this is my first foray into the ‘speed dating circuit’, as you put it.”
John chuckled, nodding his thanks to the bartender as he dropped the drinks down in front of them, passing Molly’s back to her with a tap on the shoulder and brief exchange of smiles. “Yeah, mine too,” he muttered, letting the smoky warmth of the scotch sit on his tongue a moment before swallowing it down. “Wouldn’t mind it being the last either.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Sherlock said, smiling as he lifted his glass, tipping back another sip. “Although I do quite like the idea of limiting conversations to three minutes.”
John chuckled, pausing with his glass halfway to his mouth to pointedly check his watch. “Suppose I’d better be moving on then,” he sighed, and a corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched, the darkening of his cheeks barely visible in the dim light as he ducked his head toward his glass.
“Someone would probably steal your stool,” he muttered, watching the ice shift in his drink, and John bit hard at his lip, tamping down a grin.
“Well,” John answered, glass hovering just beneath his lips, “we can’t have that.” Their gaze met out of the corners of their eyes, exchanging twitches of smiles before John took a drink and steered the conversation into smoother terrain. “So, what are you studying?”
“Chemistry,” Sherlock replied, and then froze, frowning into the middle distance. “Which is probably not what I should say for the main event.”
“Not unless you want to hear the same bad joke all night,” John agreed as Sherlock grimaced. “Just...add an ‘organic’ in front of it.” He shrugged, taking another swig of his drink, a glance over his shoulder suggesting the festivities would soon be getting underway, the room full and organizers buzzing around with frantic expressions. “Probably put people off asking questions too.”
“I suppose,” Sherlock mused, tipping his head, and then shrugged at nothing in particular, dismissing the topic as he turned to John. “What about you? What do you study?”
“Medicine,” John answered, nodding somberly as Sherlock laughed. “Yeah, I know. I’m doomed.”
“You could get specific,” Sherlock suggested, leaning closer as the crowd pushing at the bar infringed on his personal space. “Trauma care or-or oncology or something.”
“Nah.” John rattled his head, watching his drink dropping closer to the ice, considering another round for survival purposes. “Worse comes to worse, I’ll just talk about cadavers. Or colonoscopies.”
Sherlock choked, face turning bright red as he coughed violently into a fist.
“Colonoscopies on cadavers if I’m really desperate,” he added, and Sherlock cleared his throat enough to laugh, eyes sparkling with mirth and lack of oxygen.
“Who can resist a colonoscopy?”
“Certainly not me,” John said, shaking his head out at the bar, and Sherlock lost it again, dropping his forehead into his palm as his shoulders shook. “That’s a dream Friday night right there.”
Sherlock lifted his face, still working to control his laughter as he shook his head, and then turned over his shoulder, expression sobering. “Looks like they’re getting ready to start,” he observed, John following his eyes to find Sai fiddling with a microphone in the corner. “Tim!”
The bartender turned, Sherlock signalling at his and John’s drinks, and the man—Tim, presumably—nodded, flashing a thumbs up before finishing off his current project.
“He’s a member of the society,” Sherlock explained. “Everything’s cheaper when you can supply your own bartender.”
“Oh,” John murmured, never having given it much thought. “Is he joining in on the festivities then?”
“Why?” Sherlock quirked a brow, the question more teasing than affronted. “Hoping to get your three minutes in?”
John wrinkled his nose. “No. Just curious.”
Sherlock laughed, unconcerned. “I don’t actually know. Hey, Tim?”
The man paused in collecting their empty glasses, brows lifting expectantly.
“Are you dating with speed tonight?” Sherlock asked, folding his arms on the bar, and Tim let out a hearty scoff of a laugh, shaking his head.
“No.” He moved their glasses down below the counter, collecting two fresh ones from an unseen lower shelf. “I’m camping out back here. Leave the wooing to you lot.” He winked over the club soda nozzle, smiling at Sherlock’s scornful expression.
“Traitor,” Sherlock muttered, swiping at the pooled condensation on the bartop and flicking a spray of water at him, and Tim laughed, shaking his head as he finished off their drinks with a healthy splash of scotch.
“There ya go! Extra strength,” he added in a whisper, dropping his head, and John smiled, pulling his drink toward him.
“Cheers,” he said, and Tim gave him a nod, his head turning as someone farther down the bar waved a hand.
“Duty calls. Make some memories, kids!”
He waved at Sherlock’s pointed middle finger, and John laughed, his first sip trailing a pleasant burn down his throat.
“He seems nice,” he remarked, smiling at Sherlock’s rolling eyes.
“He’s not,” he deadpanned, and John chuckled, watching Tim’s back while he prepared a row of drinks for a group at the far end of the bar. “His birthday is the same day as mine, but a year earlier, which apparently makes him infinitely more mature.”
John hummed, scanning the tall man’s broad shoulders and neat brown hair, his stomach squirming. “How long have you known him?” he asked, eyes idly scrolling through the vodka selection on the back wall, sipping his drink so he couldn’t babble into the lengthening pause.
“Two years,” Sherlock answered, John nodding without looking, “and it’s always been platonic.”
John whipped his head around, a corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked around the lip of his glass as he drank, eyes pointedly averted. “I-I wasn’t-”
“No,” Sherlock agreed, shaking his head as he lowered his glass, “but you were wondering.”
John blinked, forehead moving in and out of creases as he thought, Sherlock watching him with cautious curiosity. “How-How did you-”
“Hello? There we go! Alright, everyone, now that we’ve got our sound system working,” Sai spoke into the microphone, and John glanced away, Sherlock turning his back to him in the brief interim, “we can get this show on the road! Now, when you reserved your spots, you were emailed a number we told you to keep track of.”
Molly appeared at John’s side, already swiping through her emails.
“So, pull that up if you don’t remember, and then can I get all my evens seated on the far side of those tables over there, the side closest to the wall.”
“You’re an even,” Molly muttered, yanking him up by the arm, John barely having time to grab his drink and register Sherlock still wasn’t looking at him before he was shoved forward, nearly crashing into Irene’s back as she too started toward the tables.
“Guess I won’t get to talk to you,” the woman muttered into his shoulder as they shuffled along with the crowd.
John chuckled, glancing down at the yellow sticker on her nametag. “Somehow, I don’t think we’d hit it off,” he replied, and Irene smiled, something John instinctively knew was a rare accomplishment.
“Maybe not,” she said, shrugging a shoulder, “but I would’ve liked to ask a few questions.”
“Like?” John asked, but their time was running out, the penguin waddle of the group bringing them near the first line of tables.
“I’m not sure.” She glanced around the empty tables, scanning for an ideal spot. “I was going to ask about your friend, but now I wonder if I should ask about your intentions with mine.” She turned up a brilliant smile, and then darted away, settling into the corner table and leaving John’s mouth open, too many things happening in that sentence to make sense of them all at once.
In something of a daze, he picked the first empty table he came to, putting him near the middle, five people away from Irene, and dimly heard the other half of the group being organized, jolting back to himself when someone scraped the chair out in front of him.
“Sorry,” the young woman said, curling her draping red hair behind her ear as she sat down, John glancing down to see a blue sticker and the name Sarah. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No, you-you didn’t.” He smiled, shaking his head. “I’m just a little...”
“Nervous?” Sarah offered, smiling as John nodded, no need to go any deeper than half truths at the moment. “Me too,” she said, lifting her hands up to the table and twiddling her thumbs. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Me neither,” John replied, and Sarah smiled, opening her mouth to reply when Sai called them to attention, John taking the opportunity to scan the room as Sarah turned her back to listen.
Molly was in the first row, almost directly in front of him, her face twisting with anxious excitement as their eyes met, and then she turned, giving Sai her full attention.
John, being part of the seated group, didn’t much care what the signal sound was, and set his sights on finding Sherlock, a task made more difficult by the fact that he turned out to be very close.
He was on the opposite side of a table three people to John’s left, back turned for the moment, and John tuned in just enough to hear they would be moving clockwise, making John one of Sherlock’s last stops.
He considered for a moment whether that had been intentional, but couldn’t think of any logical reason for it, leaving him floating in anxiety limbo, nervous without any concrete cause to affix it to, and he was still trying to puzzle that out when the instructional lecture apparently ended, Sherlock turning back and meeting his already fixed eyes. He blinked, caught, but felt no rush to pull away, half his lips turning up in an involuntary smile that Sherlock, after a moment’s curious frown, returned. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sarah turning, and took a deep breath, looking away from Sherlock and steadying himself.
Into battle.
************
It was not, on the whole, as bad as John had imagined. Of course, the whole was a matter of averages, individual points on the graph ranging from sky-high to at least seven levels into Dante’s inferno, a journey John would gladly undertake rather than spend a single second over three minutes with half the people in the room. To be fair, he hadn’t been through them all yet, but wasn’t expecting a fourth quarter miracle, contenting himself with hoping it just didn’t get worse.
Not that that seemed possible with this crowd, who seemed to be vying for top honors in the Worst Three Minutes of John’s Life contest.
Sarah had been lovely, as had all the lesbians who had occupied the seat, the lack of romantic possibility leading to some of his best conversations of the night, but the vast majority of the men were, as Jeanette—a bisexual John would probably have liked under less contrived circumstances—had put it, ‘about as interesting as rice cakes’.
There was Michael, who John couldn’t necessarily fault for having allergies, but he did rather jump the gun by listing them all, John’s joke about a chicken broth diet falling flat when Michael informed him he was a vegetarian. Jake was next, a pale third-year with dreadlocks, which was about all John remembered about him, too preoccupied by what appeared to be mold growing in his matted hair to listen. Tyler might have taken the cake—a self-professed gamer who seemed to be talking in some kind of algebraic code most of the time—if not for Randy, who was not only named Randy, but also very comfortable with the fact that he lived in the attic of his mother’s place.
“She wants me to move out now that she’s gotten remarried,” he had explained, John leaning as far back in his chair as possible, “but I was there first, ya know? Why should I leave just so step-douche can have room for his weights?”
“I haven’t the foggiest,” John had replied, tone bereft of feeling and drenched in sarcasm, but Randy wasn’t the perceptive type, barrelling on like a modern-day Holden Caulfield the world somehow owed.
Thankfully, John had other things to occupy himself with, watching both Molly and Sherlock as they ran the circuit around him. Being on the opposite side of the tables, John could see all of their facial expression playing out, which would have been entertaining enough individually, but were hilarious by comparison.
Molly seemed to be having a delightful time, chatting amicably with anyone and everyone, and John saw more people than not lean toward her, body language open and inviting.
Sherlock, on the other hand, looked like he was barely restraining a scream, his expression schooled to indifference, contorting with hints of pity or agony whenever his current match looked away. More than once, their eyes had met over their respective partners’ shoulders, widening in commiserative exasperation, always playing chicken with their match’s gaze, looking back with a blithe smile before they noticed their attention had wandered, but that respite was lost when Sherlock moved down to Irene, putting him in the same row and much more difficult to sneak a glance at.
Of course, that put Molly only one more person away from him, her smile brimming with secrets she was ready to share as she sat down opposite Landon, who launched into his speech about the non-profit he worked for that John imagined was quite impressive if you weren’t sitting next to him and hearing it a dozen times.
Molly was listening intently, frowning and humming in all the right places, and John felt just guilty enough to tune in to whatever Richard was saying, answering a rote question John had thrown out about his hobbies.
“You have to be really careful, ya see,” he said, hands gesticulating in front of his chest, “because you have these tiny pliers, and, if you let go before the glue has set, it’s just falling where it may, ya know? Not like you can shake the bottle to get the mizzenmast out!” He laughed, John’s obligatory smile feeling like shards of glass in his cheeks, and he saw Molly’s expression twitch with stifled amusement, vowing to make her buy him the largest bottle of tequila the liquor store had to offer.
An endless minute later, the bell chimed, John trying to look regretful as Richard moved on to be someone else’s problem, and then latching onto Molly’s arms as she sat down, drawing curious glances from the surrounding couples until Molly laughed, revealing their familiarity.
“I owe you,” she said for him, giggling as he thunked his forehead down to the left of the vase. “I know. But I only have three minutes, so-”
“Right,” John clipped, sitting upright and releasing her arms, folding his on the table and leaning forward so they could speak in relative confidence. “How’d it go with Irene, then?”
Molly blushed, shoulders lifting as she tucked her neck, eyes dropping to the table. “Why are you asking about Irene?” she mumbled, John lifting a brow over an otherwise flat expression. Her composure cracked, and she beamed, glancing in the direction of the woman in question before bending low toward John’s face. “I really like her,” she hissed, and John smiled, secondhand joy blooming in his chest at the light in Molly’s eyes. “She’s so interesting, not at all what she seems on the surface! Not that her surface isn’t interesting- I-I mean-”
“Looks can be deceiving, but she’s still hot; I got it, carry on,” John urged, rolling his hand in the air between them, Molly sparing but a moment to huff.
“She volunteers for a local animal shelter,” she continued, nodding when John blinked in surprise. “I know, right!? To be fair, it started out as community service—vandalism, but it was for a good cause!” she added, thrusting her hand between them, quick to cut off the concern on John’s face. “Remember that coach whose office was broken into last semester?”
“The one who kicked two guys off the track team because he found out they were gay?”
“Yeah.”
“That was Irene?”
“And a few others. She drew dicks on his face in all the team photos.”
“Nice.”
“Like I said, good cause. Anyway, she ended up loving it, and now she volunteers there twice a week. The LGBT society does a fundraiser for them once a year too, a cycle race that doubles as an adoption event. And she wants to adopt cats when she gets a bigger place. Cats !”
“You love cats.”
“I know!”
John laughed, grinning at Molly literally bouncing with excitement, teeth nibbling at the corner of her lip in a vain attempt to hinder her glee. “Well, I’m happy for you,” he said, Molly closing her eyes to grin with comedic intensity. “She seems nice. Bit scary,” he muttered, shrugging a shoulder as Molly laughed, “but what’s life without a little danger?”
“Stop it,” Molly chided, bumping the side of his foot under the table. “I don’t even know if she likes me,” she murmured, the joy in her eyes shrinking as John watched, a fog of doubt clouding the glow on her face. “I’m probably just being silly.”
“No, you’re not,” John assured, covering her hand with his, bending low to smile up at the girl’s downturned eyes. “She likes you. Even Rachel thought you two would hit it off! She was gonna set you up tonight.”
Molly looked up, a wrinkle forming between her brows. “Who told you that?”
“Irene. Sort of. Don’t you remember?” he asked, frowning when Molly shook her head. “Irene was saying Rachel had wanted her to introduce her to a friend—meaning you—and then Sherlock cut her off.”
“I-I guess I sort of remember,” she murmured, shaking her head thoughtfully at the table, “but I didn’t really think much of it. Then again”—she waggled her brows, centering John in her mischievous sights—“you were paying much more attention to Sherlock than I was.”
John lifted his chin, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mhmm,” Molly mocked, tapping his foot with both of hers. “Come on, spill! I shared my speed dating gossip.”
“There’s not much to spill,” John said, shrugging a shoulder. “He’s...interesting.” He smiled absently, eyes unfocused as he traced the woodgrain with a fingertip. “Different. And he’s quick, ya know? Like he’s really paying attention. I dunno,” he mumbled, shaking his head, “he was just...easy to talk to. Even about stupid things.”
“Hmm,” Molly hummed, smiling smugly when John looked up.
“Hmm what?”
“Nothing,” she chirped, examining her nails for no other reason than playing coy. “Just something Irene said.”
John lifted his brows. “Which was?” he prompted, twisting a hand in the air, glancing over her shoulder to where Sai would surely ring the bell any second.
“Well, apparently ,” Molly drawled, on her way to setting a record for longest trip to the fucking point, “Sherlock normally hates these things. Spends the whole time scowling in a corner somewhere and hissing at anyone who gets too close.”
“You still have cats on the brain, don’t you?”
“ Irene says ,” Molly pressed on, raising her voice to silence his, “that she’s never seen him that comfortable with anyone before. Anyone .” She stretched the repetition into three separate syllables, flicking her brows as the bell chimed, and once again John was left reeling, mouth dry while Molly got up to move down the line, his eyes lifting without his permission to find Sherlock inching too slow down the line toward him.
Anyone .
God bless Riley, they were trying, but Sherlock was only two people away now, and, as fascinating as Riley’s story about their most recent trip to Africa truly was, John was going to have to bookmark getting to know them for later, Sherlock’s voice now close enough to hear in the lulls.
“Sorry,” John said, genuinely disappointed as the bell chimed, and Riley stood, pink lipstick stretching as they smiled, “but I want to hear the rest of that later. Or it will literally be the elephant in the room.”
Riley laughed, nodding. “Sounds good,” they said, and then someone new sat down in front of John, a faceless anyone with a sloppy name tag John only knew was one more person closer to Sherlock.
That conversation had required little more than appropriately timed nodding, and then there was one, Sherlock sitting on the opposite side of the table next to him, John’s leg bouncing with anticipation as he fought not to stare too much.
So, naturally, this was the slowest date yet.
“Did you see that documentary last month?” Adam droned, John fairly certain he could feel his brain leaking out his eyeballs.
“Fascinating,” Sherlock said to Landon, his voice only flat if you knew how expressive it could sound, and John tried not to listen, tried to focus on Adam and his beetles or crickets or-
“The one about the Malaysian cicada?”
“Can’t say I did,” he replied, probably imagining the ghost of a smile spasming in the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.
“They’re the largest species in the world.”
“You don’t say.”
“ Pomponia imporia. ”
“ Imperatoria .” Sherlock turned, cutting Landon off mid-sentence to glance between John and Adam. “ Pomponia imperatoria . The Empress cicada.” He paused, looking to John, who had the strangest urge to burst out laughing. “Anyway,” he muttered, blinking back to Landon, “you were saying?”
John coughed so he wouldn’t guffaw, trying to affect a neutral expression as he looked up, prompting Adam to continue with a polite roll of his hand, though he didn’t hear much more of the conversation, head buoyed up into the clouds at the realization that Sherlock had been eavesdropping even more than him.
Finally, the bell chimed, Sherlock standing up as if the chair had shocked him, stretching his spine while Adam took his time, and then flopped down into the seat opposite John, long legs bumping his as he settled.
For all he’d been looking forward to this, he suddenly found himself with nothing to say, surrounded by people and chatter and protocol he’d much rather circumvent with an invitation to make a runner for coffee, but then Sherlock smiled, an easy thing that made John perfectly content to be wherever it was.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he drawled, John’s heart stuttering with panic as his breath seized in his chest.
“Oh?”
Sherlock smiled, leaning forward to fold his arms on the table, and John swallowed hard, steeling himself. “You’re going to be seeing a lot more of Irene from now on.”
John blinked. And blinked again. And then laughed, shaking his head with relief as the tension was sieved from his body. “I kinda figured,” he said, matching Sherlock’s posture on the table. “What did she tell you then?”
“What did Molly tell you?”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
John lifted his brows.
“She said,” Sherlock began, John allowing himself a smile at the small victory, “that she was very sweet. Half the room is smitten with her, of course”—John nodded, that much obvious even to him—“but Irene likes her chances.”
“So do I,” John murmured, glancing to his left to ensure Molly was far out of earshot. “I reckon they have a cat menagerie in under six months.”
“Four,” Sherlock corrected, smiling when John lifted a challenging brow. “Irene already showed her pictures of the one from the shelter she wants to adopt first.”
John rolled his eyes, and Sherlock laughed, silence settling between them as their eyes darted from the table to one another’s faces.
“Look,” Sherlock muttered after a time, fingers twisting together in front of him, “about- about earlier- I didn’t mean to...overstep.”
John frowned, looking between Sherlock’s eyes for an answer that didn’t come. “Overstep?” he echoed. “You mean...with the Tim thing?” He waved a hand toward the bar, dropping it when Sherlock nodded, his eyes averted.
“I don’t mean to, I just- I notice things. And then tend to say them. Even when I shouldn’t,” he murmured, but John shook his head, the man lifting his face with a puzzled frown.
“I don’t think that’s overstepping,” he said, and Sherlock blinked, eyebrows rising. “I mean, I suppose I can see why people might see it that way”—he shrugged, half of Sherlock’s mouth lifting in a wary smile—“but I don’t. My mother always said I had a very expressive face.” He lifted his chin, striking a pose, and Sherlock laughed, shaking his head in fond exasperation.
“You do,” he confirmed, “but that’s not what gave it away.”
“What then?”
“Your voice,” Sherlock said, smiling at the skeptical narrowing of John’s eyes. “It got higher. Just a little,” he added as John moved to touch a hand to his throat, “but enough if you’re paying attention. That typically indicates deception or anxiety of some sort, and, given the context”—he bobbed his head backward at the bar—“it wasn’t difficult to extrapolate the cause.”
John blinked, hyperaware of the swallow rolling down his treacherous throat. “And you can...do that with anyone? Tell when they’re lying or something?”
Sherlock shrugged. “For the most part. It’s easier with people you know, of course. Or people with very expressive faces,” he added with a smirk. “But most everyone has some sort of tell. For example.” He leaned so close, John could feel his breath on his cheek, scotch blending with mint in the warm whisper. “Landon”—he tipped his head at the man—“doesn’t work at a nonprofit. Don’t look !” he hissed, and John jerked his chin back, blinking guiltily. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Seriously, don’t look.”
“I won’t.”
“Yes, you will.”
“No, I won’t.” John lifted two fingers, holding them astride his face. “Scout’s honor.”
“Were you even in the scouts?”
“Why, you need a fire started with two sticks and some dried leaves?” He winked, Sherlock’s exasperated expression cracking with a valiantly suppressed smile.
“Okay,” he muttered, knees pressing into John’s under the table, neither of them pulling away, “are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t look.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t laugh.”
“Roger that.”
“Don’t say anything.”
“Aye aye captain!” He threw in a salute for good measure, Sherlock shaking his head at him as his shoulders wriggled with excitement.
Sherlock glanced at Landon. Glanced at the table on the opposite side. “He’s married,” he whispered, and John nearly swallowed his tongue, “to a woman.”
John’s jaw dropped, Sherlock’s long fingers cold as they pushed it back into position. It was several seconds before John felt he could speak without screaming, lips parting just enough to hiss out the syllables. “Married?”
Sherlock nodded.
“To a woman?”
He nodded again.
John bit his lip, staring down at the table.
“How badly do you want to look ri-”
“So badly!” John broke in, and Sherlock laughed, adding a few inches between them as he shook his head. “But how- how do you know?”
“Easy,” Sherlock said, and something changed about him, the demeanor equivalent of someone straightening their glasses on their nose. “As far as him not working at a nonprofit, surely you’ve noticed he tells the same story about the little girl with leukemia who made him a valentine one year to every person who sits down.”
John nodded.
“Well, it’s exactly the same. Verbatim. Right down to where he gets emotional when describing the way”—he paused to sniffle for dramatic effect—“they were holding hands in the drawing.”
John frowned, realizing the truth of the statement now that he was examining his memories, never paying enough attention before to notice anything amiss. Although, that was Sherlock’s whole point, he supposed: Paying attention.
“The married one is equally obvious, though I will admit to balancing some probability on the feminine aspect.” He tipped his head to the side, as if this were some great concession. “He keeps stroking his left ring finger with his thumb, as if accustomed to there being a ring there, and most wedding bands wouldn’t turn that easily, so we can assume he’s lost weight and not bothered to get it resized, or it’s been loose all along—either way, not the happiest omen. There’s also the matter of the tan line, but that feels like cheating, to be honest, although it is the dead of winter, making it likely he’s been going tanning, which alines with our losing weight theory. Who is he making the effort for? Certainly not his wife or he wouldn’t be out speed dating, and, as for how I know it’s a wife, that lipstick smudge on the back of his neck isn’t really his shade, don’t you think?”
John blinked, mouth slightly agape.
Sherlock tipped his head toward the man. “You can look now if you really”—his tone flattened as John twisted—“have to.”
To be fair, he was more subtle than he thought Sherlock had given him credit for, peering mostly out of the corner of his eye, and then pretending to crack his neck and stretch, giving him an excuse to seek out the lipstick mark on the back of the man’s neck.
Sherlock had been right about everything, not that John was particularly surprised, but he was impressed, and leaned forward to stare at the man, shaking his head in wonder.
“Amazing,” he breathed, Sherlock’s brow creasing with what looked like confusion before a gentle smile crept over his face. “So, you could do that with anyone?” John asked, scanning the gathering. “Any of these people?”
“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, “though not in the next thirty seconds.”
“Thirty- Oh,” John murmured, looking down at the table, forgetting they weren’t merely out at a crowded bar with a statistically unlikely amount of queer people, “right.” He frowned, searching his mind for something to say, speculating how many seconds he’d wasted having his epiphany.
“They’ll go by at the same speed whether you count them or not,” Sherlock said, John looking up in alarm, and then chuckled, shaking his head.
“You’re going to do that a lot, aren’t you?”
A single sculpted brow lifted. “Am I going to be around a lot?”
John’s mouth wavered over broken off beginnings, stomach swirling at the precipice of a leap of faith. “I- Er-”
“Fifteen seconds.”
“Why would you-”
“I’m spurning you to action.”
“With panic?”
“Do you want me to be around a lot?”
“Do you want to be?”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?”
Somewhere in the back of his mind, John knew Sherlock wasn’t going to vanish from existence if he didn’t say something right this very second, but the clock was ticking in his head, and Sherlock’s damn eyebrow was still stuck in his hair, and the flame of the candle was waving in his eyes and-
“Five seconds.”
“Son of a- YES!” John exclaimed, glancing apologetically at the tables on either side of him, though not at Landon directly. “Yes, I would...like you to be around.” He propped his elbow on the table, cradling his forehead in a palm as he shook his head in shame, face burning.
And then stilled, lifting his face to meet Sherlock’s smug grin with a frown. “That was more than five seconds.”
Sherlock shrugged. “I exaggerated by”—the bell chimed behind him—“three.” He grinned at John’s glare, letting out a brief chuckle as he stood, the next person already shuffling over by the time John realized he’d been duped.
“Wait!” he blurted, Sherlock looking back with an imperious lilt of his brows. “You never...answered,” he muttered, not wanting to give too much away to the listening parties, but Sherlock’s smile made it obvious he’d never forgotten.
His face wrinkled with theatrical indecision. “I’ll think about it,” he quipped, and then sat down in the next chair, leaving John shaking his head and flexing his jaw as he turned to a petite woman named Diane, who was—to his immense post-Sherlock relief—wearing a yellow sticker.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” he muttered, extending a hand, the woman chuckling as she took it, her bright pink fingernails glowing against her pale skin. “I’m John.”
“Diane,” she said in a thick Scottish accent, blond curls bouncing in ringlets around her face. “So,” she said, balancing an elbow on the tabletop and cupping her hand around her mouth to keep her voice from carrying, “are you as eager for this thing to be over with as I am?”
John smiled, gaze unwittingly wandering to Sherlock. “Definitely,” he answered, and they laughed, the pressure off as they discussed what cocktails they’d tried at the bar and compared Premier League predictions.
John’s last few dates went smoothly enough, or maybe he was just in a better mood, but he was still happy to hear that final bell, Sai giving a soppy closing speech John was sure he’d intended to be taken seriously, and then they were released to the bar, encouraged to mingle with people in their same group—either seated or rotating—that they hadn’t had the chance to speak to yet.
Which John had no intention of doing.
“Did you get cicada guy?”
“What do you mean did I get cicada guy? They went in a circle, Irene, we got all the same people.”
“Yeah, but did you get him?” Irene urged, getting overdramatic with her revisionist history. “Understand his hopes and six-legged dreams?”
“There’s nightmare fuel for the next two weeks,” John muttered around the rim of his glass, a Romeo and Juliet Irene had insisted he try, which was quite good in spite of inspiring suicidal thoughts.
“I still can’t believe Landon is married ,” Molly hissed around her straw, three cocktails in and losing her grip on what whispering meant, but the man had left shortly after the festivities had ended, and no one else was paying any attention. “Something did feel off about him though. I mean, who talks about sick kids on a date ?”
“Better that than cicadas,” Irene muttered, forced to lower her drink as Molly swatted her on the arm. “Do you mind?” she grumbled, and Molly grinned, Irene’s sour expression seeming to soften in spite of herself.
“Statistically, he was bound to be unhappy getting married that young.” Sherlock stood at John’s shoulder, nearing the bottom of his scotch cocktail, apparently something of a creature of habit. “Their brains probably weren’t even fully developed yet.”
“Says the man who cried at the end of Love Actually ,” Irene muttered, and John choked, trying to laugh and gasp for air at the same time while Sherlock spluttered arguments.
“I was very drunk!” he appealed, and Molly bent double, clutching Irene’s arm for support, “and that kid was probably thirty in that movie anyway, so-” He broke off, sighing with resignation as the battle clearly slipped through his fingers, draining the last of his cocktail in one swig. “Are we going, or do I need another one of these to tolerate you people?”
Irene pulled her phone out of her back pocket, checking the time. “Should probably head out,” she said, taking a large gulp of her drink. “You’re not on clean-up crew, are you?”
“Am I ever?”
“Good, me neither.” She glanced at Molly and John’s drinks, both more ice than liquor at this point. “Chug those,” she ordered, pointing between them, “and then I vote we go get pizza.”
“With mozzarella sticks!” Molly added, punching a fist in the air as she downed her drink, and, though Irene shook her head at her, she also looked like she thought she hung the moon. Though probably rather crookedly in her present condition.
“With mozzarella sticks,” Irene agreed, and Molly squealed with delight, latching onto her arm, Irene hastily passing her drink to John to avoid spilling it. “Alright, I think we’re going to go get some air,” she said, lifting her brows pointedly, and John chuckled, nodding as Molly blinked dazedly at them.
“I’m not drunk,” she assured, wobbling on one of her heels a bit as she tried to straighten, and Sherlock had to turn away, only John hearing his muffled snort.
“‘Course not, dear.” Irene patted her head as Molly glared. “We’ll see you guys out there,” she said, handing Sherlock Molly’s empty glass, and then weaved away through the waning crowd, John shaking his head at their backs.
“You know, just this once,” he said, turning up to Sherlock, “I think you might be wrong.”
Sherlock frowned, looking offended even prior to the context.
“Probably only be three months.” He grinned, waiting for Sherlock to place the joke, and then chuckling as the man huffed a laugh, following John toward the bar to drop off their empty glasses.
“Possibly,” he said, giving a busy Tim a wave before they worked their way toward the door, “but Irene’s lease isn’t up for another four.”
“Molly doesn’t have much stuff,” John said, shrugging a shoulder as they walked down the corridor, smiling at the hostess and removing their coats. “And, trust me, Irene’s place is bound to be bigger. Although I was planning to crash on Molly’s couch for a bit when my lease ends in April.” He frowned, fastening the buttons on his coat. “Does Irene have a couch?”
Sherlock hummed, wrapping a deep blue scarf around his neck. “Horribly uncomfortable though. I think she only keeps it for when I stay over.”
“Do you do that often?”
“Not since I found a place.”
They pushed out into the cold, hands moving immediately to their pockets as a gust of cold air whipped through them.
“Jesus!” John hissed, Sherlock nodding in commiseration as he burrowed his chin into his scarf. “Where the hell-”
“Two months!” Molly’s voice rang out to their left, just out of sight of where they hovered in the inlet of the restaurant, and John glanced up at Sherlock, both of them soundlessly agreeing to snoop. “I would bet my 6-cup food processor on it!”
“I dunno, I’m still saying one.”
“Nope, that’s too soon.”
“You don’t know Sherlock.”
John glanced up to find the man in question frowning out at the street, a wary look in his eyes.
“He’s extremely clingy,” Irene concluded, and John slapped a hand to his mouth, muffling a snort as Sherlock stamped on his foot.
“So’s John.”
John’s laughter abruptly ceased, mouth dropping open in offense, and then closing as he glared up at Sherlock’s smug grin.
“When he cares, anyway. And, besides.” Molly paused, heels clicking dangerously close to their location before winding back the other way. “John’s lease isn’t up until mid April.”
“You cheat!” Irene spluttered as Molly laughed, John staring in the direction of their voices, suddenly acutely aware of where Sherlock chest was pressed against his back. “You had insider information!”
“Too late! A bet’s a bet. If they move in together within one month, you get my food processor-”
“The fuck would I even do with-”
“ Everything , trust me, it’s life-changing. And, if it’s within two months, I get your shoes.”
“I want a do-over.”
“There are no do-overs.”
“I was coerced.”
“This isn’t a court of law, it’s morally questionable betting on your best friends’ relationship.”
“Are you even drunk at all anymore?”
“ Oh yeah, that sentence just came out way smoother than I’d expected. Weren’t we going to get pizza?”
Irene laughed, heels beginning to click away from them. “I’ll text Sherlock and tell him we’re heading out; he knows where it is. You should give me John’s number.”
“Why?”
“So I can pry.”
“ Ohhhh . Yeah, sure, gimme your phone.”
They stood in silence until the heels had faded to nothing, both of their phones buzzing once in their pockets, the chill growing on John’s ears the main impetus for plunging into the inevitable.
“Well,” he mused, a swallow clicking down his throat, “so that happened.”
“Indeed it did,” Sherlock said, and then nothing but the wind.
John took a deep breath, blowing it out and twisting back around to the man. “Twenty quid on three months,” he said, extending a hand in the short distance between them, Sherlock frowning at the digits before a smile broke his tense expression.
“You’re on.” He took John’s hand in his, and they both stilled, looking down at the folded fingers in synchronized realization of something John couldn’t put the words to, something he wasn’t sure even had words, a cross-cultural concept as old as the stardust in their bones, and yet John had never truly believed it possible.
Until now.
“Holmes,” Sherlock blurted, looking up from their hands through his lashes. “Sherlock Holmes.”
John smiled, a new star burning bright in his chest. “John Watson,” he said, their hands bobbing once in the air, and then tucked back into their pockets as they set out after the girls, arms brushing more often than accident would allow.
Two months later, Molly arrives at their housewarming party wearing bright red shoes.