Fic: Proper (First) Date
Title: Proper (First) Date
Author: red_carrigan
Pairing: Sherlock/John, a little bit of Mike/Molly
Length: 6,305
Genre: romance, fluff, humor
Warnings: Some sensuality, very, very light mentions of gore
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing!
Summary: John wants to take Sherlock on what he considers to be a 'proper' date. He then discovers that it's Sherlock's first. Ever.
Notes: A companion piece to ' Once More With Feeling' but you don't have to have read that to enjoy this. Also, the event I described actually took place here at the Wellcome Collection. I did a wee bit of tinkering for fictional purposes, but you can watch the actual video online and it is amazing!
"I've been thinking," John said conversationally from the kitchen as he poured himself a cup of tea.
"Have you?" Sherlock asked in a tone that suggested that he did not care in the slightest. He rested on the sofa, long legs spread out before him, his nose buried in a thick textbook about forensic science. John sipped his tea and then leaned against the nearby doorframe. His eyes ghosted over Sherlock thoughtfully before he took in a deep breath and licked his lips, "Yes. I think…we should go on a date."
Sherlock's brows knitted together and he lowered his book, finally looking interested, "Oh?"
John took another sip of his tea, this one longer and deeper, before humming an affirmative, "A proper one."
Sherlock said nothing but his face spoke volumes so John hastened to explain, "You and I have been, ah, out before. Naturally. We've gone out for food, the occasional bit of shopping, and certainly for crimes. As colleagues and as friends, but we've never…not-not properly been out as…as…us."
"'Us' as in you and I in our now advanced intimate relationship."
John used the cup of tea to shield his face, "Yes."
There was a resounding silence wherein John mentally tried to convince himself that he could not hear his heartbeat in his ears as he waited for Sherlock's response. Sherlock put his book to one side, sat up straight and steepled his fingers. He looked at John cagily, "What would you say constitutes as a 'proper' date?"
John blinked, "Ah, um, well…I suppose…" he rubbed at the back of his neck and Sherlock's lips twitched, "You said you had given this some thought."
"I have, yes."
"Yet it would appear you're baffled by its very nature."
"I have given it thought!" John muttered, "You've just put me on the spot!"
"Then you do have some idea of what we would do on your so called 'proper' date."
"Yes. Of course." John snapped, "But I don't want to tell you. That would spoil the fun of it."
"I see." Sherlock returned dryly, "I take it the element of surprise plays an important role in a 'proper' date."
"It does. Though, god help me, you probably already know what we're going to do."
Sherlock gave John a patronizing smirk, "That would be impossible, seeing as neither do you."
John rocked on his heels and finished off his tea, "If you say so."
Sherlock's smirk faded.
John temporarily disappeared into the kitchen to rinse out his cup and place it in the sink before returning to speak to Sherlock again, "I was thinking this Friday. I don't have work. You don't have a case. We're both free and Friday nights are a typical date night."
"There are typical date nights?"
John shrugged, "In a manner of speaking. Friday and Saturday evenings. Dinner, cinema...."
Sherlock wrinkled his nose, "That's what you have planned?"
John chuckled, "I don't know, you're the consulting detective, you tell me?" followed shortly by, "I take it Friday is good, then?"
Sherlock sighed, "I suppose. Though I hardly see the point in it."
"You wouldn't," John replied easily, "But I would like to take you out. Properly. On a date. Like regular, real people."
Sherlock rose to his feet, "You and your 'real' people. The vague, dull, mindless masses that make up the vast majority of the populace…"
"Looking down our nose again, are we?"
"Still, it could be considered a good case study."
John frowned, "How so?"
Sherlock shot him that look that suggested that he should have known better, "I've never been out on a date. Obviously."
That took John by surprise, "You've never…seriously? You've never been on a date?"
Again with the 'how-can-you-even-ask' look, "I pride myself on not being counted amongst the earlier mentioned mindless masses. However, I will concede that, considering my line of work, learning about what transpires on a 'proper' date could prove to be beneficial in the future."
"Yes, okay, yes, but…I'll be your…this will be your first date. Ever. You're not just having me on?"
"Problem?"
"No," John returned swiftly, trying to ignore the fact that actually, yes, it was a problem. A very big problem, indeed. An unexpected sense of pressure was now added to the event as the realization of what Sherlock was saying began to sink in. Now not only would the date be heavily scrutinized but so would John, seeing as he was being perceived as some sort of expert when it came to dates.
John had initially thought his plans for said date to be ingenious but now his mind began feverishly working over each and every detail, wondering if they would truly be up to snuff. Sherlock, unaware of his internal turmoil, rose to his feet and donned his coat and scarf, "It's a quarter past three. Molly will be starting her shift at the morgue soon. She promised to resupply me on some…particular specimens. I look forward to this Friday."
And with that Sherlock was gone and John was left with his mounting apprehensions about their date.
+
"No."
A salt and pepper colored jumper was tossed to one side. A butter yellow one was raised to John's eye line, inspected, and then met with another, 'no', before joining the first. The 'no' pile of jumpers grew higher and higher - the colors and patterns mixed and varied. Each rejected for a variety of reasons - too worn, too unattractive, too…
John shook his head and started tossing them more quickly, "No, no, no, no!"
He let out a groan and rubbed at his eyes. Friday had come far quicker than he would have liked and now, with the date mere moments away, John found himself still questioning everything he had planned and was beginning to wonder if all the hassle was really worth it.
Sherlock had said it himself; he didn't see the point, so why should John bother? It would be easy enough to cancel; Sherlock certainly wouldn't care -for all John knew he'd be relieved. But the problem was that John wouldn't be. He wanted to take Sherlock out and he had already made all the arrangements, so he couldn't let something as simple as picking out an outfit stop him.
It was rather funny, actually- he hadn't had this much trouble getting ready for a date since, well, since he had first started dating. He could still recall that glorious day in his boyhood when Natalie Fenwick had actually agreed to go out with him. He had had very much the same trouble in picking out something to wear even back then. He remembered the anxiety, the butterflies in his stomach as he tried to think of what to do, what to say, wondering if she would be his first kiss (and possibly more). That date, his first ever, had gone smoothly enough despite the fact that he had been completely unprepared. Now here he was, this entire evening meticulously mapped out save this one, tiny issue.
"What to wear, what to wear..." he murmured under his breath and he reassessed some of the clothing in the pile. For a while he had even been tempted to buy something new but that would have been extremely obvious, not to mention embarrassing. He and Sherlock were already…whatever exactly it was that they were now…so there was no reason for a lot of flash. Technically the hardest part was over - he already knew Sherlock was interested and they were already an established item (ah, item….that was a good explanation for what they were - he could use that, 'item') so anything that happened this evening really couldn't hurt.
He could wear the butter colored jumper if he wanted - Sherlock had seen him in it before and accepted him so there was no reason not to sport that again…save for the fact that it was hideous and honestly, John wondered why he even owned it, why he had ever even worn it…
John had never considered himself one of those blokes obsessed with appearance, picky about clothing, but he supposed it could be considered acceptable under the circumstances. Tonight was special. He finally settled on a nice pair of tan trousers, a crimson jumper, and a long sleeved checkered shirt beneath. He checked himself over in a mirror, ran a hand self-consciously through his hair, then nodded at his reflection. Not bad. Not bad at all.
He dashed into the restroom, dabbed on some cologne, brushed his teeth, and then headed down the stairs to meet Sherlock, doing his best to remain casual. Sherlock was once more on the sofa, this time using John's laptop, which immediately made John grimace. Damn. He had hoped his latest password would be harder to crack.
Sherlock, as if reading John's thoughts, didn't take his eyes from the screen as he scowled, "Good brother Mycroft', John?"
"I did replace some O's with zeroes."
If it was possible, Sherlock's tone became sourer, "That's not my objection."
John grinned, "Ready to go?"
Sherlock hummed an affirmative as he powered down the laptop and set it aside. He looked John over, "You're dressed up."
John felt his face heat and hoped the tips of his ears weren't turning the same color as his jumper, "Ah, yes."
"Why?"
"It's…just something you do. For dates. You present the best version of yourself."
"Yet you chose red," Sherlock replied thoughtfully, "Not your best color."
John's head reared back, "Wow. Well. Thanks for that. I see we're off to a brilliant start."
In a surprising show of emotional comprehension, Sherlock replied, "I've upset you."
"A bit. Yes."
Sherlock's head tipped to one side, "You said that you were supposed to present the best version of yourself. Blue better brings out your eyes."
John opened his mouth, but no words came as he was not quite sure how to respond to that. Luckily Sherlock continued, "However, this shade of red is far more flattering on you than that yellow monstrosity you wore two weeks ago."
"Are you…trying to say I look nice and just failing spectacularly?" John asked with narrowed eyes.
Sherlock looked him up and down again before offering a placating, "You look nice, John."
Bastard, John thought ruefully but found he was unable to keep himself from smiling, "Thank you."
"Should I change as well?"
John waved a hand, "No. You always look like you've just wandered away from some posh photo shoot. Besides, we should get going, running a little behind…"
Sherlock's eyebrows rose, "There's a schedule to keep?"
"Sort of," John returned cautiously, "I told you I had this planned. Have your vast skills of observation revealed to you yet where we're going? What we're doing?"
Sherlock didn't answer, instead pulling on his coat and scarf when suddenly John snapped his fingers, "Oh! Right! Wait! Forgot something!"
John quickly darted upstairs to his room only to return with a small bag which he held out, clearing his throat as he did so, "This is for you."
Sherlock eyed the bag, "Ah, yes, I see. My research did indicate that gift giving is often viewed as a requisite on dates. It apparently speak volumes about your intentions, represents your feelings, and yet apparently the most popular gift given is flowers, regardless of the fact that they wither and die within the span of a week."
"I didn't buy you flowers," John assured him before frowning, "Wait, you did research? On dates?"
"Better to arm myself," Sherlock returned as he took the bag and began to dig inside, "Prepare myself for whatever you planned on subjecting me to."
"Mmm. Right," John murmured, wondering whether or not he should be vaguely insulted, when Sherlock withdrew his gift, a handful of test tubes that had been bundled together, a black ribbon tied around them in a bow. John crossed his arms and, considering how things had been going so far, decided to go ahead and be on the defense, "See? No flowers. Still, I thought I should get you something so why not a bouquet of test tubes? After all, your current set is-"
"Thank you," Sherlock cut him off and John swallowed at the way his voice sounded when he spoke. If John didn't know any better, he would almost swear that Sherlock had sounded more than a little pleased, that he sounded, in fact, actually surprisingly delighted.
Sherlock carefully set the test tubes in the kitchen with his other equipment before returning to John's side and waving at the door, "After you."
John licked his lips and nodded, heading out of the apartment, with Sherlock close behind, preparing himself for what was sure to be an interesting evening.
+
"Hang on…this can't be right."
"'Closed for private party'." Sherlock read aloud, "It's rather straight forward, John."
He scowled, "I can read, Sherlock. But still…this must be some sort of mistake…"
"We can eat elsewhere," Sherlock offered, then under his breath, "Or more accurately you can eat elsewhere."
John heard that, "Oh, no. We're both going to eat if you want to experience this date properly, which, by the way, you do. Nothing worse than a half-finished experiment."
"Case study."
"Whatever," John returned impatiently as he cupped his hands together and pressed them against the glass of the windows, peering into the restaurant. There appeared to be no one inside but there were certainly a lot of lit candles scattered throughout the restaurant and he shook his head in confusion as he drew back and looked at Sherlock, "I don't get it! I told Angelo ahead of time to expect us and I don't see why he would…" his words cut off abruptly as something occurred to him and a gibbering sort of panic began to take him, "…unless…oh no…"
Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together and just as he opened his mouth the door was thrust open, Angelo standing in the doorway, positively beaming, "Sherlock! John! Come in, come in…I have everything prepared for tonight!"
He ushered them both inside, still talking as he closed and locked the door behind them, "Hope you gents are well," he gestured to the small table near the window, which not only had several candles but a small cup with fresh flowers, "Your table."
Sherlock sat down but John leaned close to Angelo, voice low, "Can I have a word?"
Angelo looked bemused but nodded and followed John towards the back of the restaurant and, what John hoped, was far enough away from Sherlock's range of hearing as he asked, "What are you doing?"
Angelo frowned, head tipping to one side, "I don't know what you mean."
John's eyes darted wildly about the entirety of the restaurant, "I mean this, all of this. You closed the restaurant? The candles? The flowers?"
Angelo puffed up proudly, "Thought it would be a nice touch. There are a few things I am exceptionally skilled at - I can tell when a soufflé is absolutely perfect and ready to come out of the oven, I can tell when a house is optimal for breaking, and I can tell when two people are destined for romance. I knew the night you came in with him and that you two were going to be-"
John cut him off, hissing, "Yes, I get it, you're a jack of all trades, this is still too much! Far too much!"
"You said a candle would be appropriate this go round," Angelo nearly pouted and to see Angelo of all people pout was quite a sight to see. John rubbed at his face, "No, yes, I said a candle. A candle. Singular. Not several! This is a bleeding fire hazard!"
Angelo shook his head, grinning as he patted John's back roughly, "You worry too much! I had this same set up for Billy and his girlfriend, Denise, when he proposed last month and there was nary a problem."
John closed his eyes tightly, not believing his ears, "You…you've done this before? For proposals?"
"As I said, I know romance."
"This is our first date!" John nearly roared and Angelo balked, "Thought you said you two have been together for-?"
John quickly interrupted again, "Okay, yes, technically we are already…established. But this was supposed to be our first, formal date and I told you then, I said I wanted the table near the window, a candle, and that's it! That's all I wanted! Not-not…"
"So…I should get rid of the band, then?"
John felt his eyes bug, "There's a band?"
As if on cue, four people bustled from the back room, instruments in hand and went towards the table. Sherlock looked at each of them in turn as they walked up with polite greetings, then waved at John and Angelo before going to what John now noticed to be a cleared out section of the restaurant to set up.
John's mouth flapped in silent horror, stunned as the first musician started playing a violin, followed by the second on a cello, and then the last two accompanying them on guitars. The music was low, sweet, and most likely the theme song of John's impending nervous breakdown. His gaze whipped back to Angelo, "Did you see that film with the cartoon dogs one too many times?"
Angelo blinked, "I did make spaghetti."
"With meatballs?" John retorted peevishly and Angelo didn't answer, instead shooting him an extremely guilty expression before disappearing into the kitchen. John buried his face into his hands to muffle a scream, his imagination naturally stirring up an image of a single noodle strand connecting his mouth to Sherlock's, followed by John pushing a meatball about his plate with his nose. Bloody Walt Disney.
As if in a haze, John went to the table and sat down, waiting for Sherlock's no doubt sarcastic remarks. But to his surprise, none came, Sherlock instead remarking blithely, "The violinist should tune his instrument."
"Huh?" John responded dumbly and when Sherlock indicated the band he merely mumbled, "Oh right," as he continued to try and wrap his mind around what was happening. He thought he had been very clear with Angelo. Table, candle, dinner for two - how had those instructions become…this?
But then, since meeting Sherlock, he had never had anything close to a normal date. After all, there was Sarah and the infamous circus-kidnapping fiasco, so maybe he should have just been thankful that the band wasn't currently planning on lunging at them, guns blazing. But then again, considering the current status of his life, maybe he shouldn't rule it out as a possibility.
John eyed the band, deliberating on the probability of their being secretly armed, when Sherlock spoke, "The cellist is three months pregnant."
John's attention returned to Sherlock, "Sorry?"
"With the guitarist's child, which is a shame," Sherlock gave John a small smile, "Considering he is married and not to her."
He looked at them, then back at Sherlock, "Which guitarist?"
Sherlock's smile grew, "The one to the left. He also has a severe gambling problem. He's deeply in debt to the violinist, who only lends him the money in the hopes that someday he will return his affections. He should be looking more closely at the only remaining guitarist who is available and interested."
"That's…they're," John just chuckled and shook his head as everything Sherlock detailed sank in, "Bit melodramatic, are they?"
"They're a band, John." Sherlock said as if this was explanation enough and John found himself laughing again, the edge of his disquiet melting away as Sherlock continued his observations, sitting up and leaning close, whispering this and that, picking apart each member of the band with but a glance. By the time they had finished playing; John knew their life stories without ever having even spoken to them.
With the band gone and their meals before them, Sherlock sipped his wine (an exclusive vintage, Angelo had informed them, winking at John who had barely avoiding burying his face into his hands again) and cast John a speculative look, "Are most proper dates-?"
"No," John cut in cleanly, "Whatever you're about to ask, no. Most first dates are not…this. This has all been…more than extravagant."
Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, "I see. What are we missing?"
John shrugged, "Dunno. I guess…well, most first dates are all about getting to know one another. Likes, dislikes…that sort of thing. But you and I already know one another, so there's no need for that. You can also talk about your day but that's-"
"Dull."
"Exactly," John confirmed, "Besides, you picked apart that band well enough, sure one look at me and you know exactly what I've done today before coming here."
Sherlock looked him over, "You took over an hour to prepare for this evening, most of that time wasted on your attire and appearance. Before that you were at the clinic, the majority of patients' whinging about their concerns over the possibility of a flu epidemic and, more directly, whether or not they would be affected by it."
John nodded, "Correct. Also gave Sarah a hand. She had a little boy who needed to be distracted while she administered a shot. He was about six or so and I," he stopped suddenly, chewing the inside of one cheek reflectively, "Ah, never mind. You probably don't want to hear about it. 'S pretty uninteresting."
"That is patently false," Sherlock confirmed, "Otherwise you would not have even started telling me about it."
"Okay, right, well, I mean it might be interesting to some people but to you-"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed; "Don't be deliberately vague to stir up my curiosity, John. Just tell me how you distracted him."
"I'm not. I just…I remembered how and to you it will seem thoroughly ridiculous."
"Undoubtedly. However, I still wish to know."
"Magic," John grumbled under his breath and at the look Sherlock shot him John cringed, "It was…just a stupid, little magic trick. Oldest one in the book. But it worked, so-"
"Which trick?"
Rolling his eyes, John reached into his pocket and drew out a button. Sherlock recognized it immediately, "I gave you that."
"Do you want to see the trick or not?"
Sherlock nodded and John moved the button about the knuckles of his hand before cupping it in his palm and then opening it to reveal it was gone. Sherlock deadpanned, "And now I suppose it's behind my ear."
"Not exactly," John said and leaned back, sipping his wine before saying, "It's in your coat pocket."
Sherlock reached into his pocket and drew the button out; he appraised it then looked at John, who appeared wistful, "Intermittent tremor. Life's funny that way, I can't operate anymore but I can still do a slight of hand."
"You're good with your hands."
"I used to be."
Sherlock cleared his throat before returning the button, his fingers lingering over John's, "You still are."
+
Considering its rocky start, the dinner at Angelo's actually went a lot more smoothly than John had initially thought it would. The meal had been excellent and the conversation more so. Sherlock had regaled him with tales of previous cases and John, for his part, had been surprised when Sherlock had actually shown (what appeared to be) legitimate interest in his reminiscing about his time spent at Bart's.
Which was entirely fitting considering that is exactly where their date took them next.
Mike Stamford was waiting for them and when he saw them approach he chuckled, "Right on time! Good, good - I've got you the best seats in the house."
John frowned, "Mike, you didn't have to save us seats. I told you, Sherlock and I can blend in, sit with the students-"
If anything, Mike's chuckles grew more enthusiastic, "The students? Lord, no, John, I would never put you both through that! It's bad enough I have to keep time with them! No, no, I've got you both set up in a private little room right off from where we'll be. Now, I best get you two settled so I can go and address my class before the operation starts."
Mike signaled that they should follow him and as they did so he chattered on excitedly, "This should be a real treat! Getting to see a lead heart surgeon like Welby in action! We were extremely fortunate that he agreed to let us witness this all via live streaming! But then, from what I understand, they'll also be broadcasting it on Channel 4. It will be extremely educational. My students may be little blighters half the time but even they should have some appreciation for how difficult this procedure is. Open heart surgery is no mere feat …"
"'Open heart surgery?'" Sherlock repeated and John gave him a little smile, "Thought you would like to see this more than anything a cinema could offer."
Mike nodded, "Oh, it'll be a sight to see! The patient has a leaky mitral valve in his heart and what Welby'll do is…well, you'll see soon enough."
John merely nodded, "Where is the surgery being performed?"
"Papworth Hospital, Cambridge," Mike stopped in front of a classroom door and jiggled the handle, "As I said, he's agreed to let us witness everything and even let some of my students ask questions. Matter of fact, you think of one, you text me and I'll ask him. He's been extremely-"
"What's all this?" John asked; his tone slightly exasperated as they entered the classroom to find two plush armchairs in front of a television as well as to see that the room had also been decorated (yet again!) with candles and flowers.
As if to answer, Molly appeared from behind the desk that the television rested on, a fancy plate of biscuits in one hand, "Hello!"
"Molly? What're you-?"
"It was all my idea! When Mike told me you two were coming here for a date, I thought it would be best to, you know, dress it up a bit. Biscuit?"
Sherlock, much to John's surprise, took one off the plate offered and took a seat. John, however, looked from Molly to Mike and then back again, "You two worked together on this?"
"Molly felt the evening should have a little touch of…what was that word you used?" Mike asked timidly.
"Whimsy," Molly giggled, as she set the plate to one side before playfully batting at one of John's arms, "Strange spot you've picked for a first date but not a bad one, I'd wager, considering Sherlock. Once upon a time I would've dreamt about me being the one in here with him but, you know," her gaze moved to Mike, "That's changed."
John looked between the two of them quizzically as Mike coughed, cheeks turning red, "Yes, well, um, I should get going, not much time left. The television is all programmed, all you should have to do is click it on, so…" he shrugged and held out an arm to Molly, "Milady."
Molly giggled and looped her arm with his. He led her out and John watched them go with a veritable grab-bag of emotions. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to Sherlock, who had already turned the television on and was waiting. John took the seat next to him, still a little stunned when Sherlock remarked, "Candles and flowers appear to be a prevalent theme this evening."
"That was not my idea," John grumbled, "I was trying to make the night simple. Not something ripped from the pages of my Mum's overly trite romance novels. However," he moved about his seat, "I must admit…I can't complain about the chairs too much. Rather comfy."
Sherlock eyed the television, "Mike said that Channel 4 is broadcasting this operation, which means we could have watched from the flat."
"Ah, yes, fair enough, but when Mike told me about this I thought, well, I thought it might make a nice date. See, that's what got me thinking about this in the first place. He told me about tonight and I figured here was something that…suited you. Suited us, really. More so than the cinema or-or…anything else I could think of for a date and, see, the whole point of a date is going out, doing something special together and I…I wanted to do that. Together. With you." The last words came out quieter as John's embarrassment mounted and he avoided looking at Sherlock, his face hot.
It was silent for several minutes and John licked his lips apprehensively, "Do-do you, um…do you like-? That is, it's about that point in the date where I ask if you're enjoying yourself. So, are you, um, enjoying yourself?"
"The surgery is starting," Sherlock answered and John looked to see that, yes, the television screen had flickered to life and was starting to show the beginnings of the operation. John found himself easily being drawn into the proceedings. So much so, that it took him a few moments to even notice that Sherlock had reached out a hand for one of his own; covering it lightly.
He blinked, looked at their hands then at Sherlock, but the other man's eyes remained riveted to the television. John felt his lips twitch up into a smile, one that became purely blissful when Sherlock's thumb gently ran up and down his own before he fully intertwined their fingers, giving the lightest of squeezes.
John squeezed back.
+
"Mike didn't ask all of my questions," Sherlock groused as he and John walked closer and closer to the front door of their building.
Their hand holding had ended a lot sooner than John would have liked once Sherlock began to really get into the events of the operation. He had sat up in his chair and dictated several questions that John had had to hurriedly text to Mike. Welby had answered the first two but after that he had focused solely on the surgery and the other questions asked by Mike's students, ones that Sherlock found to be 'stupid and irrelevant'.
However, John found himself to be in an exceedingly good mood, "Mike's students deserved their fair share. Besides, I don't believe Mike paid too much attention to his texts after a while. Everything considered."
"Oh?"
"Mm, I suspect we weren't the only ones on a first date tonight," John returned with a grin, thinking back on Mike and Molly's interaction with one another. He would have never thought of them together, but now that they had been presented to him it made perfect sense. They had similar temperaments; he hoped it worked out. As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock said, "They are well suited."
"As are we?" John asked teasingly but Sherlock didn't rise to the bait. Instead he approached the door, prepared to open it when suddenly John released an odd little laugh. Sherlock frowned and turned to him and seeing his face John waved a hand, "Sorry, sorry, it's…nothing, 's just…this is…"
He shook his head and shrugged, "We're on our first date, right? You know, all proper and formal and - we've had dinner, good conversations, taken in a show and this…see, this is the part where we would normally part ways. Go to our respective homes or whatever and instead, mean, we already live together so we'll just…go up to our flat and it's…it struck me as a little funny because, mean, usually if you go home with your date that means, um…it…means…"
John's words started to trail off as Sherlock came closer and closer to him. John often forgot about their height difference until a moment like this, Sherlock now towering over him, all cool and collected and imposing and John knew he should be annoyed. Annoyed that Sherlock was taller, annoyed that he was being looked down on; annoyed that the man was so bloody hard to read…he knew he should be annoyed and not, by any stretch of the imagination, aroused. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever. He had never thought being in a relationship with someone taller than him would be so, well, appealing.
Yet here was Sherlock, looking at him, completely inscrutable, and John was finding it harder and harder to breathe. Sherlock's voice seemed to hit new levels of deep as he asked softly , "Are you suggesting that we're going to 'get off' with one another?"
"I…"
"That was what you had wanted from Sarah. On your first date with her, you said-"
"I know what I said."
"Do you often 'get off' with your dates?"
"Um…" John swallowed, his eyes searching Sherlock's, "I…no, no, I'm not saying…mean, 's just…some-some dates…good dates…they, um, they end with-"
"Sex?"
"-kissing." John finished as if he had not been interrupted, his eyes on Sherlock's lips.
"I see."
"But, uh, well…we-we already are an item-"
"An 'item'?"
"Yes. So, well, mean we-we can kiss when-whenever we want…"
"Would you like me to kiss you now?"
"God, yes, please," John breathed and Sherlock's lips finally descended on his, warm and tender. John responded in kind, his fingers carding through Sherlock's dark curls, head angling to one side to make the kiss deeper. Just as the kisses grew more heated and John was reaching a point where he wished he had said that good dates end with sex, Sherlock's mobile sounded.
Sherlock drew away and checked it, his eyes gleaming brightly, and John knew immediately, "Let me guess, Lestrade and a case?"
Sherlock started scanning the street for a cab and John couldn't help but laugh, "Perfect timing. Couldn't have ended this date better if I had committed the crime myself."
A cab pulled to a stop before them and Sherlock shot John an impatient look. John sighed and climbed inside the vehicle, recognizing that their date had reached its end.
+
"This has to be some sort of joke," John muttered, "And a cosmic one at that."
"Sorry?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock hovered over the body. John looked around and took in the crime scene. A dead gardener at his feet, shears embedded deep in his back and, had this evening gone any other way, he might have been focused on that and that alone. But this particular evening, the only thing that stood out to him was the fact that they were surrounded by flowers and candles. Again.
Granted, these were rather common staples in a greenhouse - well, maybe not the candles - but regardless, the fact that these two things were present once more struck John as beyond superfluous. He let out a deep sigh, "Nothing, 's just…sort of a theme tonight."
"What is?"
"Candles. Flowers." John turned his head to one side as he inspected the victim, "Heart's being sliced open."
Lestrade frowned, "You've seen this before?"
John cleared his throat, "In a manner of speaking," then, looking around he asked, "Who moved the body?"
"Moved the body?"
"Yes."
"No one."
John blinked, confused, "But…hang on, no. Someone must have moved the body…"
Sherlock, having overheard this, strode over to them, his attention focused on John, "Why would you say that?"
Lestrade crossed his arms and also turned expectantly to John, who looked a little uncomfortable as he shifted his weight about, "Well, um…there's…a scuff mark, over there near the body and over there, on the doorframe, both brown like the victim's shoes. Mean, might've come from one of you lot but seems rather unlikely as I've noticed most of you have on black shoes and then there's the fact he wears glasses…"
"Who?" Lestrade asked and John let out a huff, "The victim, he wears glasses! Or, that is to say, he did wear them. Probably an awful lot, prescription more than likely. See, he's got those indents on either side of his nose, the kind you get from wearing glasses all the time but I don't see any glasses around here and I doubt he came without them, so that must mean someone-"
John's words cut off abruptly as Sherlock cupped his face in his hands and dragged him over for a hungry kiss. When he released him John blinked, stunned, and Lestrade looked even more so. Sherlock made up for their loss of words as he bellowed, "Glasses? Has anyone found a pair of glasses?"
Someone cried out, "Back in the manager's office!"
"Excellent," Sherlock turned his attention to Lestrade, "I suggest you investigate that room thoroughly. It will yield the evidence you need to convict the murderer, who, in this case, is actually this man's fiancée."
Lestrade began to sputter, "What? How do you-?"
"Ordinarily I would delight in explaining to you and your idiotic cohorts in great detail the very obvious and telltale signs that led me to my conclusions and your closed case but at this particular moment I find myself more focused on returning to my flat wherein I plan on getting off with Doctor Watson. So, without further ado, John, if you would please…" And with that Sherlock was off, most likely set on securing them a cab ride home.
John offered Lestrade a sheepish look but Lestrade just shook his head, "Go on then, you silly sods. I'll take it from here."
Some would have considered it a might ghoulish that John was glowing so much as he exited the crime scene and caught up with Sherlock, who had indeed succeeded in getting them a cab. As they sat next to one another in the back seat on the ride home Sherlock, eyes out the window, said quietly, "In answer to your earlier question, yes."
"Yes?" John parroted, confused.
"To our date, yes, I am enjoying myself."
"Our…our date? But that's…over?" John said the last word uncertainly as Sherlock turned to him, eyes smoky as he whispered against his lips, "Not quite yet."
Author: red_carrigan
Pairing: Sherlock/John, a little bit of Mike/Molly
Length: 6,305
Genre: romance, fluff, humor
Warnings: Some sensuality, very, very light mentions of gore
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing!
Summary: John wants to take Sherlock on what he considers to be a 'proper' date. He then discovers that it's Sherlock's first. Ever.
Notes: A companion piece to ' Once More With Feeling' but you don't have to have read that to enjoy this. Also, the event I described actually took place here at the Wellcome Collection. I did a wee bit of tinkering for fictional purposes, but you can watch the actual video online and it is amazing!
"I've been thinking," John said conversationally from the kitchen as he poured himself a cup of tea.
"Have you?" Sherlock asked in a tone that suggested that he did not care in the slightest. He rested on the sofa, long legs spread out before him, his nose buried in a thick textbook about forensic science. John sipped his tea and then leaned against the nearby doorframe. His eyes ghosted over Sherlock thoughtfully before he took in a deep breath and licked his lips, "Yes. I think…we should go on a date."
Sherlock's brows knitted together and he lowered his book, finally looking interested, "Oh?"
John took another sip of his tea, this one longer and deeper, before humming an affirmative, "A proper one."
Sherlock said nothing but his face spoke volumes so John hastened to explain, "You and I have been, ah, out before. Naturally. We've gone out for food, the occasional bit of shopping, and certainly for crimes. As colleagues and as friends, but we've never…not-not properly been out as…as…us."
"'Us' as in you and I in our now advanced intimate relationship."
John used the cup of tea to shield his face, "Yes."
There was a resounding silence wherein John mentally tried to convince himself that he could not hear his heartbeat in his ears as he waited for Sherlock's response. Sherlock put his book to one side, sat up straight and steepled his fingers. He looked at John cagily, "What would you say constitutes as a 'proper' date?"
John blinked, "Ah, um, well…I suppose…" he rubbed at the back of his neck and Sherlock's lips twitched, "You said you had given this some thought."
"I have, yes."
"Yet it would appear you're baffled by its very nature."
"I have given it thought!" John muttered, "You've just put me on the spot!"
"Then you do have some idea of what we would do on your so called 'proper' date."
"Yes. Of course." John snapped, "But I don't want to tell you. That would spoil the fun of it."
"I see." Sherlock returned dryly, "I take it the element of surprise plays an important role in a 'proper' date."
"It does. Though, god help me, you probably already know what we're going to do."
Sherlock gave John a patronizing smirk, "That would be impossible, seeing as neither do you."
John rocked on his heels and finished off his tea, "If you say so."
Sherlock's smirk faded.
John temporarily disappeared into the kitchen to rinse out his cup and place it in the sink before returning to speak to Sherlock again, "I was thinking this Friday. I don't have work. You don't have a case. We're both free and Friday nights are a typical date night."
"There are typical date nights?"
John shrugged, "In a manner of speaking. Friday and Saturday evenings. Dinner, cinema...."
Sherlock wrinkled his nose, "That's what you have planned?"
John chuckled, "I don't know, you're the consulting detective, you tell me?" followed shortly by, "I take it Friday is good, then?"
Sherlock sighed, "I suppose. Though I hardly see the point in it."
"You wouldn't," John replied easily, "But I would like to take you out. Properly. On a date. Like regular, real people."
Sherlock rose to his feet, "You and your 'real' people. The vague, dull, mindless masses that make up the vast majority of the populace…"
"Looking down our nose again, are we?"
"Still, it could be considered a good case study."
John frowned, "How so?"
Sherlock shot him that look that suggested that he should have known better, "I've never been out on a date. Obviously."
That took John by surprise, "You've never…seriously? You've never been on a date?"
Again with the 'how-can-you-even-ask' look, "I pride myself on not being counted amongst the earlier mentioned mindless masses. However, I will concede that, considering my line of work, learning about what transpires on a 'proper' date could prove to be beneficial in the future."
"Yes, okay, yes, but…I'll be your…this will be your first date. Ever. You're not just having me on?"
"Problem?"
"No," John returned swiftly, trying to ignore the fact that actually, yes, it was a problem. A very big problem, indeed. An unexpected sense of pressure was now added to the event as the realization of what Sherlock was saying began to sink in. Now not only would the date be heavily scrutinized but so would John, seeing as he was being perceived as some sort of expert when it came to dates.
John had initially thought his plans for said date to be ingenious but now his mind began feverishly working over each and every detail, wondering if they would truly be up to snuff. Sherlock, unaware of his internal turmoil, rose to his feet and donned his coat and scarf, "It's a quarter past three. Molly will be starting her shift at the morgue soon. She promised to resupply me on some…particular specimens. I look forward to this Friday."
And with that Sherlock was gone and John was left with his mounting apprehensions about their date.
+
"No."
A salt and pepper colored jumper was tossed to one side. A butter yellow one was raised to John's eye line, inspected, and then met with another, 'no', before joining the first. The 'no' pile of jumpers grew higher and higher - the colors and patterns mixed and varied. Each rejected for a variety of reasons - too worn, too unattractive, too…
John shook his head and started tossing them more quickly, "No, no, no, no!"
He let out a groan and rubbed at his eyes. Friday had come far quicker than he would have liked and now, with the date mere moments away, John found himself still questioning everything he had planned and was beginning to wonder if all the hassle was really worth it.
Sherlock had said it himself; he didn't see the point, so why should John bother? It would be easy enough to cancel; Sherlock certainly wouldn't care -for all John knew he'd be relieved. But the problem was that John wouldn't be. He wanted to take Sherlock out and he had already made all the arrangements, so he couldn't let something as simple as picking out an outfit stop him.
It was rather funny, actually- he hadn't had this much trouble getting ready for a date since, well, since he had first started dating. He could still recall that glorious day in his boyhood when Natalie Fenwick had actually agreed to go out with him. He had had very much the same trouble in picking out something to wear even back then. He remembered the anxiety, the butterflies in his stomach as he tried to think of what to do, what to say, wondering if she would be his first kiss (and possibly more). That date, his first ever, had gone smoothly enough despite the fact that he had been completely unprepared. Now here he was, this entire evening meticulously mapped out save this one, tiny issue.
"What to wear, what to wear..." he murmured under his breath and he reassessed some of the clothing in the pile. For a while he had even been tempted to buy something new but that would have been extremely obvious, not to mention embarrassing. He and Sherlock were already…whatever exactly it was that they were now…so there was no reason for a lot of flash. Technically the hardest part was over - he already knew Sherlock was interested and they were already an established item (ah, item….that was a good explanation for what they were - he could use that, 'item') so anything that happened this evening really couldn't hurt.
He could wear the butter colored jumper if he wanted - Sherlock had seen him in it before and accepted him so there was no reason not to sport that again…save for the fact that it was hideous and honestly, John wondered why he even owned it, why he had ever even worn it…
John had never considered himself one of those blokes obsessed with appearance, picky about clothing, but he supposed it could be considered acceptable under the circumstances. Tonight was special. He finally settled on a nice pair of tan trousers, a crimson jumper, and a long sleeved checkered shirt beneath. He checked himself over in a mirror, ran a hand self-consciously through his hair, then nodded at his reflection. Not bad. Not bad at all.
He dashed into the restroom, dabbed on some cologne, brushed his teeth, and then headed down the stairs to meet Sherlock, doing his best to remain casual. Sherlock was once more on the sofa, this time using John's laptop, which immediately made John grimace. Damn. He had hoped his latest password would be harder to crack.
Sherlock, as if reading John's thoughts, didn't take his eyes from the screen as he scowled, "Good brother Mycroft', John?"
"I did replace some O's with zeroes."
If it was possible, Sherlock's tone became sourer, "That's not my objection."
John grinned, "Ready to go?"
Sherlock hummed an affirmative as he powered down the laptop and set it aside. He looked John over, "You're dressed up."
John felt his face heat and hoped the tips of his ears weren't turning the same color as his jumper, "Ah, yes."
"Why?"
"It's…just something you do. For dates. You present the best version of yourself."
"Yet you chose red," Sherlock replied thoughtfully, "Not your best color."
John's head reared back, "Wow. Well. Thanks for that. I see we're off to a brilliant start."
In a surprising show of emotional comprehension, Sherlock replied, "I've upset you."
"A bit. Yes."
Sherlock's head tipped to one side, "You said that you were supposed to present the best version of yourself. Blue better brings out your eyes."
John opened his mouth, but no words came as he was not quite sure how to respond to that. Luckily Sherlock continued, "However, this shade of red is far more flattering on you than that yellow monstrosity you wore two weeks ago."
"Are you…trying to say I look nice and just failing spectacularly?" John asked with narrowed eyes.
Sherlock looked him up and down again before offering a placating, "You look nice, John."
Bastard, John thought ruefully but found he was unable to keep himself from smiling, "Thank you."
"Should I change as well?"
John waved a hand, "No. You always look like you've just wandered away from some posh photo shoot. Besides, we should get going, running a little behind…"
Sherlock's eyebrows rose, "There's a schedule to keep?"
"Sort of," John returned cautiously, "I told you I had this planned. Have your vast skills of observation revealed to you yet where we're going? What we're doing?"
Sherlock didn't answer, instead pulling on his coat and scarf when suddenly John snapped his fingers, "Oh! Right! Wait! Forgot something!"
John quickly darted upstairs to his room only to return with a small bag which he held out, clearing his throat as he did so, "This is for you."
Sherlock eyed the bag, "Ah, yes, I see. My research did indicate that gift giving is often viewed as a requisite on dates. It apparently speak volumes about your intentions, represents your feelings, and yet apparently the most popular gift given is flowers, regardless of the fact that they wither and die within the span of a week."
"I didn't buy you flowers," John assured him before frowning, "Wait, you did research? On dates?"
"Better to arm myself," Sherlock returned as he took the bag and began to dig inside, "Prepare myself for whatever you planned on subjecting me to."
"Mmm. Right," John murmured, wondering whether or not he should be vaguely insulted, when Sherlock withdrew his gift, a handful of test tubes that had been bundled together, a black ribbon tied around them in a bow. John crossed his arms and, considering how things had been going so far, decided to go ahead and be on the defense, "See? No flowers. Still, I thought I should get you something so why not a bouquet of test tubes? After all, your current set is-"
"Thank you," Sherlock cut him off and John swallowed at the way his voice sounded when he spoke. If John didn't know any better, he would almost swear that Sherlock had sounded more than a little pleased, that he sounded, in fact, actually surprisingly delighted.
Sherlock carefully set the test tubes in the kitchen with his other equipment before returning to John's side and waving at the door, "After you."
John licked his lips and nodded, heading out of the apartment, with Sherlock close behind, preparing himself for what was sure to be an interesting evening.
+
"Hang on…this can't be right."
"'Closed for private party'." Sherlock read aloud, "It's rather straight forward, John."
He scowled, "I can read, Sherlock. But still…this must be some sort of mistake…"
"We can eat elsewhere," Sherlock offered, then under his breath, "Or more accurately you can eat elsewhere."
John heard that, "Oh, no. We're both going to eat if you want to experience this date properly, which, by the way, you do. Nothing worse than a half-finished experiment."
"Case study."
"Whatever," John returned impatiently as he cupped his hands together and pressed them against the glass of the windows, peering into the restaurant. There appeared to be no one inside but there were certainly a lot of lit candles scattered throughout the restaurant and he shook his head in confusion as he drew back and looked at Sherlock, "I don't get it! I told Angelo ahead of time to expect us and I don't see why he would…" his words cut off abruptly as something occurred to him and a gibbering sort of panic began to take him, "…unless…oh no…"
Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together and just as he opened his mouth the door was thrust open, Angelo standing in the doorway, positively beaming, "Sherlock! John! Come in, come in…I have everything prepared for tonight!"
He ushered them both inside, still talking as he closed and locked the door behind them, "Hope you gents are well," he gestured to the small table near the window, which not only had several candles but a small cup with fresh flowers, "Your table."
Sherlock sat down but John leaned close to Angelo, voice low, "Can I have a word?"
Angelo looked bemused but nodded and followed John towards the back of the restaurant and, what John hoped, was far enough away from Sherlock's range of hearing as he asked, "What are you doing?"
Angelo frowned, head tipping to one side, "I don't know what you mean."
John's eyes darted wildly about the entirety of the restaurant, "I mean this, all of this. You closed the restaurant? The candles? The flowers?"
Angelo puffed up proudly, "Thought it would be a nice touch. There are a few things I am exceptionally skilled at - I can tell when a soufflé is absolutely perfect and ready to come out of the oven, I can tell when a house is optimal for breaking, and I can tell when two people are destined for romance. I knew the night you came in with him and that you two were going to be-"
John cut him off, hissing, "Yes, I get it, you're a jack of all trades, this is still too much! Far too much!"
"You said a candle would be appropriate this go round," Angelo nearly pouted and to see Angelo of all people pout was quite a sight to see. John rubbed at his face, "No, yes, I said a candle. A candle. Singular. Not several! This is a bleeding fire hazard!"
Angelo shook his head, grinning as he patted John's back roughly, "You worry too much! I had this same set up for Billy and his girlfriend, Denise, when he proposed last month and there was nary a problem."
John closed his eyes tightly, not believing his ears, "You…you've done this before? For proposals?"
"As I said, I know romance."
"This is our first date!" John nearly roared and Angelo balked, "Thought you said you two have been together for-?"
John quickly interrupted again, "Okay, yes, technically we are already…established. But this was supposed to be our first, formal date and I told you then, I said I wanted the table near the window, a candle, and that's it! That's all I wanted! Not-not…"
"So…I should get rid of the band, then?"
John felt his eyes bug, "There's a band?"
As if on cue, four people bustled from the back room, instruments in hand and went towards the table. Sherlock looked at each of them in turn as they walked up with polite greetings, then waved at John and Angelo before going to what John now noticed to be a cleared out section of the restaurant to set up.
John's mouth flapped in silent horror, stunned as the first musician started playing a violin, followed by the second on a cello, and then the last two accompanying them on guitars. The music was low, sweet, and most likely the theme song of John's impending nervous breakdown. His gaze whipped back to Angelo, "Did you see that film with the cartoon dogs one too many times?"
Angelo blinked, "I did make spaghetti."
"With meatballs?" John retorted peevishly and Angelo didn't answer, instead shooting him an extremely guilty expression before disappearing into the kitchen. John buried his face into his hands to muffle a scream, his imagination naturally stirring up an image of a single noodle strand connecting his mouth to Sherlock's, followed by John pushing a meatball about his plate with his nose. Bloody Walt Disney.
As if in a haze, John went to the table and sat down, waiting for Sherlock's no doubt sarcastic remarks. But to his surprise, none came, Sherlock instead remarking blithely, "The violinist should tune his instrument."
"Huh?" John responded dumbly and when Sherlock indicated the band he merely mumbled, "Oh right," as he continued to try and wrap his mind around what was happening. He thought he had been very clear with Angelo. Table, candle, dinner for two - how had those instructions become…this?
But then, since meeting Sherlock, he had never had anything close to a normal date. After all, there was Sarah and the infamous circus-kidnapping fiasco, so maybe he should have just been thankful that the band wasn't currently planning on lunging at them, guns blazing. But then again, considering the current status of his life, maybe he shouldn't rule it out as a possibility.
John eyed the band, deliberating on the probability of their being secretly armed, when Sherlock spoke, "The cellist is three months pregnant."
John's attention returned to Sherlock, "Sorry?"
"With the guitarist's child, which is a shame," Sherlock gave John a small smile, "Considering he is married and not to her."
He looked at them, then back at Sherlock, "Which guitarist?"
Sherlock's smile grew, "The one to the left. He also has a severe gambling problem. He's deeply in debt to the violinist, who only lends him the money in the hopes that someday he will return his affections. He should be looking more closely at the only remaining guitarist who is available and interested."
"That's…they're," John just chuckled and shook his head as everything Sherlock detailed sank in, "Bit melodramatic, are they?"
"They're a band, John." Sherlock said as if this was explanation enough and John found himself laughing again, the edge of his disquiet melting away as Sherlock continued his observations, sitting up and leaning close, whispering this and that, picking apart each member of the band with but a glance. By the time they had finished playing; John knew their life stories without ever having even spoken to them.
With the band gone and their meals before them, Sherlock sipped his wine (an exclusive vintage, Angelo had informed them, winking at John who had barely avoiding burying his face into his hands again) and cast John a speculative look, "Are most proper dates-?"
"No," John cut in cleanly, "Whatever you're about to ask, no. Most first dates are not…this. This has all been…more than extravagant."
Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, "I see. What are we missing?"
John shrugged, "Dunno. I guess…well, most first dates are all about getting to know one another. Likes, dislikes…that sort of thing. But you and I already know one another, so there's no need for that. You can also talk about your day but that's-"
"Dull."
"Exactly," John confirmed, "Besides, you picked apart that band well enough, sure one look at me and you know exactly what I've done today before coming here."
Sherlock looked him over, "You took over an hour to prepare for this evening, most of that time wasted on your attire and appearance. Before that you were at the clinic, the majority of patients' whinging about their concerns over the possibility of a flu epidemic and, more directly, whether or not they would be affected by it."
John nodded, "Correct. Also gave Sarah a hand. She had a little boy who needed to be distracted while she administered a shot. He was about six or so and I," he stopped suddenly, chewing the inside of one cheek reflectively, "Ah, never mind. You probably don't want to hear about it. 'S pretty uninteresting."
"That is patently false," Sherlock confirmed, "Otherwise you would not have even started telling me about it."
"Okay, right, well, I mean it might be interesting to some people but to you-"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed; "Don't be deliberately vague to stir up my curiosity, John. Just tell me how you distracted him."
"I'm not. I just…I remembered how and to you it will seem thoroughly ridiculous."
"Undoubtedly. However, I still wish to know."
"Magic," John grumbled under his breath and at the look Sherlock shot him John cringed, "It was…just a stupid, little magic trick. Oldest one in the book. But it worked, so-"
"Which trick?"
Rolling his eyes, John reached into his pocket and drew out a button. Sherlock recognized it immediately, "I gave you that."
"Do you want to see the trick or not?"
Sherlock nodded and John moved the button about the knuckles of his hand before cupping it in his palm and then opening it to reveal it was gone. Sherlock deadpanned, "And now I suppose it's behind my ear."
"Not exactly," John said and leaned back, sipping his wine before saying, "It's in your coat pocket."
Sherlock reached into his pocket and drew the button out; he appraised it then looked at John, who appeared wistful, "Intermittent tremor. Life's funny that way, I can't operate anymore but I can still do a slight of hand."
"You're good with your hands."
"I used to be."
Sherlock cleared his throat before returning the button, his fingers lingering over John's, "You still are."
+
Considering its rocky start, the dinner at Angelo's actually went a lot more smoothly than John had initially thought it would. The meal had been excellent and the conversation more so. Sherlock had regaled him with tales of previous cases and John, for his part, had been surprised when Sherlock had actually shown (what appeared to be) legitimate interest in his reminiscing about his time spent at Bart's.
Which was entirely fitting considering that is exactly where their date took them next.
Mike Stamford was waiting for them and when he saw them approach he chuckled, "Right on time! Good, good - I've got you the best seats in the house."
John frowned, "Mike, you didn't have to save us seats. I told you, Sherlock and I can blend in, sit with the students-"
If anything, Mike's chuckles grew more enthusiastic, "The students? Lord, no, John, I would never put you both through that! It's bad enough I have to keep time with them! No, no, I've got you both set up in a private little room right off from where we'll be. Now, I best get you two settled so I can go and address my class before the operation starts."
Mike signaled that they should follow him and as they did so he chattered on excitedly, "This should be a real treat! Getting to see a lead heart surgeon like Welby in action! We were extremely fortunate that he agreed to let us witness this all via live streaming! But then, from what I understand, they'll also be broadcasting it on Channel 4. It will be extremely educational. My students may be little blighters half the time but even they should have some appreciation for how difficult this procedure is. Open heart surgery is no mere feat …"
"'Open heart surgery?'" Sherlock repeated and John gave him a little smile, "Thought you would like to see this more than anything a cinema could offer."
Mike nodded, "Oh, it'll be a sight to see! The patient has a leaky mitral valve in his heart and what Welby'll do is…well, you'll see soon enough."
John merely nodded, "Where is the surgery being performed?"
"Papworth Hospital, Cambridge," Mike stopped in front of a classroom door and jiggled the handle, "As I said, he's agreed to let us witness everything and even let some of my students ask questions. Matter of fact, you think of one, you text me and I'll ask him. He's been extremely-"
"What's all this?" John asked; his tone slightly exasperated as they entered the classroom to find two plush armchairs in front of a television as well as to see that the room had also been decorated (yet again!) with candles and flowers.
As if to answer, Molly appeared from behind the desk that the television rested on, a fancy plate of biscuits in one hand, "Hello!"
"Molly? What're you-?"
"It was all my idea! When Mike told me you two were coming here for a date, I thought it would be best to, you know, dress it up a bit. Biscuit?"
Sherlock, much to John's surprise, took one off the plate offered and took a seat. John, however, looked from Molly to Mike and then back again, "You two worked together on this?"
"Molly felt the evening should have a little touch of…what was that word you used?" Mike asked timidly.
"Whimsy," Molly giggled, as she set the plate to one side before playfully batting at one of John's arms, "Strange spot you've picked for a first date but not a bad one, I'd wager, considering Sherlock. Once upon a time I would've dreamt about me being the one in here with him but, you know," her gaze moved to Mike, "That's changed."
John looked between the two of them quizzically as Mike coughed, cheeks turning red, "Yes, well, um, I should get going, not much time left. The television is all programmed, all you should have to do is click it on, so…" he shrugged and held out an arm to Molly, "Milady."
Molly giggled and looped her arm with his. He led her out and John watched them go with a veritable grab-bag of emotions. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to Sherlock, who had already turned the television on and was waiting. John took the seat next to him, still a little stunned when Sherlock remarked, "Candles and flowers appear to be a prevalent theme this evening."
"That was not my idea," John grumbled, "I was trying to make the night simple. Not something ripped from the pages of my Mum's overly trite romance novels. However," he moved about his seat, "I must admit…I can't complain about the chairs too much. Rather comfy."
Sherlock eyed the television, "Mike said that Channel 4 is broadcasting this operation, which means we could have watched from the flat."
"Ah, yes, fair enough, but when Mike told me about this I thought, well, I thought it might make a nice date. See, that's what got me thinking about this in the first place. He told me about tonight and I figured here was something that…suited you. Suited us, really. More so than the cinema or-or…anything else I could think of for a date and, see, the whole point of a date is going out, doing something special together and I…I wanted to do that. Together. With you." The last words came out quieter as John's embarrassment mounted and he avoided looking at Sherlock, his face hot.
It was silent for several minutes and John licked his lips apprehensively, "Do-do you, um…do you like-? That is, it's about that point in the date where I ask if you're enjoying yourself. So, are you, um, enjoying yourself?"
"The surgery is starting," Sherlock answered and John looked to see that, yes, the television screen had flickered to life and was starting to show the beginnings of the operation. John found himself easily being drawn into the proceedings. So much so, that it took him a few moments to even notice that Sherlock had reached out a hand for one of his own; covering it lightly.
He blinked, looked at their hands then at Sherlock, but the other man's eyes remained riveted to the television. John felt his lips twitch up into a smile, one that became purely blissful when Sherlock's thumb gently ran up and down his own before he fully intertwined their fingers, giving the lightest of squeezes.
John squeezed back.
+
"Mike didn't ask all of my questions," Sherlock groused as he and John walked closer and closer to the front door of their building.
Their hand holding had ended a lot sooner than John would have liked once Sherlock began to really get into the events of the operation. He had sat up in his chair and dictated several questions that John had had to hurriedly text to Mike. Welby had answered the first two but after that he had focused solely on the surgery and the other questions asked by Mike's students, ones that Sherlock found to be 'stupid and irrelevant'.
However, John found himself to be in an exceedingly good mood, "Mike's students deserved their fair share. Besides, I don't believe Mike paid too much attention to his texts after a while. Everything considered."
"Oh?"
"Mm, I suspect we weren't the only ones on a first date tonight," John returned with a grin, thinking back on Mike and Molly's interaction with one another. He would have never thought of them together, but now that they had been presented to him it made perfect sense. They had similar temperaments; he hoped it worked out. As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock said, "They are well suited."
"As are we?" John asked teasingly but Sherlock didn't rise to the bait. Instead he approached the door, prepared to open it when suddenly John released an odd little laugh. Sherlock frowned and turned to him and seeing his face John waved a hand, "Sorry, sorry, it's…nothing, 's just…this is…"
He shook his head and shrugged, "We're on our first date, right? You know, all proper and formal and - we've had dinner, good conversations, taken in a show and this…see, this is the part where we would normally part ways. Go to our respective homes or whatever and instead, mean, we already live together so we'll just…go up to our flat and it's…it struck me as a little funny because, mean, usually if you go home with your date that means, um…it…means…"
John's words started to trail off as Sherlock came closer and closer to him. John often forgot about their height difference until a moment like this, Sherlock now towering over him, all cool and collected and imposing and John knew he should be annoyed. Annoyed that Sherlock was taller, annoyed that he was being looked down on; annoyed that the man was so bloody hard to read…he knew he should be annoyed and not, by any stretch of the imagination, aroused. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever. He had never thought being in a relationship with someone taller than him would be so, well, appealing.
Yet here was Sherlock, looking at him, completely inscrutable, and John was finding it harder and harder to breathe. Sherlock's voice seemed to hit new levels of deep as he asked softly , "Are you suggesting that we're going to 'get off' with one another?"
"I…"
"That was what you had wanted from Sarah. On your first date with her, you said-"
"I know what I said."
"Do you often 'get off' with your dates?"
"Um…" John swallowed, his eyes searching Sherlock's, "I…no, no, I'm not saying…mean, 's just…some-some dates…good dates…they, um, they end with-"
"Sex?"
"-kissing." John finished as if he had not been interrupted, his eyes on Sherlock's lips.
"I see."
"But, uh, well…we-we already are an item-"
"An 'item'?"
"Yes. So, well, mean we-we can kiss when-whenever we want…"
"Would you like me to kiss you now?"
"God, yes, please," John breathed and Sherlock's lips finally descended on his, warm and tender. John responded in kind, his fingers carding through Sherlock's dark curls, head angling to one side to make the kiss deeper. Just as the kisses grew more heated and John was reaching a point where he wished he had said that good dates end with sex, Sherlock's mobile sounded.
Sherlock drew away and checked it, his eyes gleaming brightly, and John knew immediately, "Let me guess, Lestrade and a case?"
Sherlock started scanning the street for a cab and John couldn't help but laugh, "Perfect timing. Couldn't have ended this date better if I had committed the crime myself."
A cab pulled to a stop before them and Sherlock shot John an impatient look. John sighed and climbed inside the vehicle, recognizing that their date had reached its end.
+
"This has to be some sort of joke," John muttered, "And a cosmic one at that."
"Sorry?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock hovered over the body. John looked around and took in the crime scene. A dead gardener at his feet, shears embedded deep in his back and, had this evening gone any other way, he might have been focused on that and that alone. But this particular evening, the only thing that stood out to him was the fact that they were surrounded by flowers and candles. Again.
Granted, these were rather common staples in a greenhouse - well, maybe not the candles - but regardless, the fact that these two things were present once more struck John as beyond superfluous. He let out a deep sigh, "Nothing, 's just…sort of a theme tonight."
"What is?"
"Candles. Flowers." John turned his head to one side as he inspected the victim, "Heart's being sliced open."
Lestrade frowned, "You've seen this before?"
John cleared his throat, "In a manner of speaking," then, looking around he asked, "Who moved the body?"
"Moved the body?"
"Yes."
"No one."
John blinked, confused, "But…hang on, no. Someone must have moved the body…"
Sherlock, having overheard this, strode over to them, his attention focused on John, "Why would you say that?"
Lestrade crossed his arms and also turned expectantly to John, who looked a little uncomfortable as he shifted his weight about, "Well, um…there's…a scuff mark, over there near the body and over there, on the doorframe, both brown like the victim's shoes. Mean, might've come from one of you lot but seems rather unlikely as I've noticed most of you have on black shoes and then there's the fact he wears glasses…"
"Who?" Lestrade asked and John let out a huff, "The victim, he wears glasses! Or, that is to say, he did wear them. Probably an awful lot, prescription more than likely. See, he's got those indents on either side of his nose, the kind you get from wearing glasses all the time but I don't see any glasses around here and I doubt he came without them, so that must mean someone-"
John's words cut off abruptly as Sherlock cupped his face in his hands and dragged him over for a hungry kiss. When he released him John blinked, stunned, and Lestrade looked even more so. Sherlock made up for their loss of words as he bellowed, "Glasses? Has anyone found a pair of glasses?"
Someone cried out, "Back in the manager's office!"
"Excellent," Sherlock turned his attention to Lestrade, "I suggest you investigate that room thoroughly. It will yield the evidence you need to convict the murderer, who, in this case, is actually this man's fiancée."
Lestrade began to sputter, "What? How do you-?"
"Ordinarily I would delight in explaining to you and your idiotic cohorts in great detail the very obvious and telltale signs that led me to my conclusions and your closed case but at this particular moment I find myself more focused on returning to my flat wherein I plan on getting off with Doctor Watson. So, without further ado, John, if you would please…" And with that Sherlock was off, most likely set on securing them a cab ride home.
John offered Lestrade a sheepish look but Lestrade just shook his head, "Go on then, you silly sods. I'll take it from here."
Some would have considered it a might ghoulish that John was glowing so much as he exited the crime scene and caught up with Sherlock, who had indeed succeeded in getting them a cab. As they sat next to one another in the back seat on the ride home Sherlock, eyes out the window, said quietly, "In answer to your earlier question, yes."
"Yes?" John parroted, confused.
"To our date, yes, I am enjoying myself."
"Our…our date? But that's…over?" John said the last word uncertainly as Sherlock turned to him, eyes smoky as he whispered against his lips, "Not quite yet."