Date Night
Title: Date Night
Fandoms: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: G
Word Count: 876
Summary: Sherlock watches John prepare for his date and definitely doesn't get jealous. Nope. Not at all.
Sherlock hadn’t heard John come home from the clinic. He had been deeply engrossed in the effects of hard water on mold spores at the time, but when he heard the tea kettle whistle behind him he looked up from his work.
John was bustling around the kitchen, preparing his tea. Two cups were down on the counter, so tea for the both of them, good John. Sherlock didn’t bother speaking to his flat mate, choosing instead to watch the doctor from the corner of his eye as he pretended to keep working. He’d gathered enough data, so for the moment he was much more interested in the domestic motions John was going through.
He enjoyed it, there was no denying that. Sherlock liked the way John took care of him, dealt with the physical needs. Eating, drinking, sleeping and the like. It was endearing to say the least. Not to mention it left his mind for more useful things.
A cup was deposited next to him and Sherlock made a noncommittal sound of acknowledgment, as if he wasn’t diligently watching John’s every move.
John quickly swallowed down his own tea, hurrying off to shower. Sherlock used the reprieve to finish off his notes and put away the mold spores. As enticing as it was to work John up he wasn’t in the mood to fight over the misuse of kitchen. They had just finished a rather difficult case the day before, so Sherlock really wasn’t in the mood for anything. It was after difficult cases that the two of them seemed to spend the most amiable time together. Of course that did not necessarily mean that they didn’t argue, the infamous game of Cluedo on such a night being a prime example of that, but Sherlock enjoyed those evenings.
Sherlock was pulled from his reverie by the bathroom door opening and closing. John made his way back into the sitting room, no longer in his work clothes. No, Sherlock thought venomously, those were date clothes. He was wearing a nice button down shirt rather than a jumper, freshly shaven, and the leather shoes he normally saved for dates and special occasions.
With a bitter huff Sherlock strode across the room to throw himself down into his chair, grabbing the Stradivarius as he went. Yes, two could play at this game. If John wanted to ignore him he would do the same. He began dragging the bow across the strings in a harsh manner, playing a fast and rough tune, blatantly ignoring the way John’s eyebrows raised in surprise at his attitude.
John continued pattering about the flat, and then took a seat for the better part of half an hour to read his book. The longer John sat there, not attempting to talk to Sherlock, the more irritable the detective grew. The blonde checked his watch absentmindedly, obviously biding his time till his date. ‘He could have at least told me he was going to be out tonight’, Sherlock thought to himself bitterly. He didn’t mind that John paraded around the idiot women constantly, they were never around long anyways, but when those women encroached upon time that was rightfully his he became increasingly irritable.
Rising to his feet Sherlock tossed the instrument back into his seat and grabbed John’s laptop, even though his own was on the kitchen counter. John looked up from his book, but didn’t even bother to argue with him. Gritting his teeth Sherlock fell onto the sofa, breaking through the password in no time at all (study in pink? really John?). Once he was in he changed the password, making sure John would have to speak to him if he wanted to get back into his laptop again, and turned it off, setting the device down on the coffee table a little harder than entirely necessary.
“Are you quite finished?” John asked, setting his book on the side table as he stood. “We have reservations at half seven.”
“Reservations?” Sherlock spat, slamming his body back into the sofa abhorrently.
“Yes Sherlock. Reservations, at Angelos. I told you before I left for the surgery this morning.”
“Oh.” Sherlock brightened considerably; John didn’t have a date, not with one of those terrible women at least. “I wasn’t listening.”
“Obviously.” John chuckled. He seemed unbothered by the fit Sherlock had been throwing all evening. “Ready to go?”
Swinging to his feet Sherlock straightened out his suit jacket and nodded. “Shall we?”
Sherlock didn’t point out that John had prepared for their dinner the same way he prepared for his dates, and John didn’t point out that Sherlock had been incredibly jealous all evening because he thought John had made plans without him. It was a mutually accepted bar on the topic. They were not together, not in the most accepted form of the idea at least, but they did belong to each other in a platonically romantic way. If other people couldn’t understand what their relationship was, well frankly that didn’t matter.
After slipping on his billowing coat Sherlock grabbed John’s and held it out for him. He helped his flatmate into his coat and, with a hand in the small of his back, led him out to the street for their not-date.
Fandoms: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: G
Word Count: 876
Summary: Sherlock watches John prepare for his date and definitely doesn't get jealous. Nope. Not at all.
Sherlock hadn’t heard John come home from the clinic. He had been deeply engrossed in the effects of hard water on mold spores at the time, but when he heard the tea kettle whistle behind him he looked up from his work.
John was bustling around the kitchen, preparing his tea. Two cups were down on the counter, so tea for the both of them, good John. Sherlock didn’t bother speaking to his flat mate, choosing instead to watch the doctor from the corner of his eye as he pretended to keep working. He’d gathered enough data, so for the moment he was much more interested in the domestic motions John was going through.
He enjoyed it, there was no denying that. Sherlock liked the way John took care of him, dealt with the physical needs. Eating, drinking, sleeping and the like. It was endearing to say the least. Not to mention it left his mind for more useful things.
A cup was deposited next to him and Sherlock made a noncommittal sound of acknowledgment, as if he wasn’t diligently watching John’s every move.
John quickly swallowed down his own tea, hurrying off to shower. Sherlock used the reprieve to finish off his notes and put away the mold spores. As enticing as it was to work John up he wasn’t in the mood to fight over the misuse of kitchen. They had just finished a rather difficult case the day before, so Sherlock really wasn’t in the mood for anything. It was after difficult cases that the two of them seemed to spend the most amiable time together. Of course that did not necessarily mean that they didn’t argue, the infamous game of Cluedo on such a night being a prime example of that, but Sherlock enjoyed those evenings.
Sherlock was pulled from his reverie by the bathroom door opening and closing. John made his way back into the sitting room, no longer in his work clothes. No, Sherlock thought venomously, those were date clothes. He was wearing a nice button down shirt rather than a jumper, freshly shaven, and the leather shoes he normally saved for dates and special occasions.
With a bitter huff Sherlock strode across the room to throw himself down into his chair, grabbing the Stradivarius as he went. Yes, two could play at this game. If John wanted to ignore him he would do the same. He began dragging the bow across the strings in a harsh manner, playing a fast and rough tune, blatantly ignoring the way John’s eyebrows raised in surprise at his attitude.
John continued pattering about the flat, and then took a seat for the better part of half an hour to read his book. The longer John sat there, not attempting to talk to Sherlock, the more irritable the detective grew. The blonde checked his watch absentmindedly, obviously biding his time till his date. ‘He could have at least told me he was going to be out tonight’, Sherlock thought to himself bitterly. He didn’t mind that John paraded around the idiot women constantly, they were never around long anyways, but when those women encroached upon time that was rightfully his he became increasingly irritable.
Rising to his feet Sherlock tossed the instrument back into his seat and grabbed John’s laptop, even though his own was on the kitchen counter. John looked up from his book, but didn’t even bother to argue with him. Gritting his teeth Sherlock fell onto the sofa, breaking through the password in no time at all (study in pink? really John?). Once he was in he changed the password, making sure John would have to speak to him if he wanted to get back into his laptop again, and turned it off, setting the device down on the coffee table a little harder than entirely necessary.
“Are you quite finished?” John asked, setting his book on the side table as he stood. “We have reservations at half seven.”
“Reservations?” Sherlock spat, slamming his body back into the sofa abhorrently.
“Yes Sherlock. Reservations, at Angelos. I told you before I left for the surgery this morning.”
“Oh.” Sherlock brightened considerably; John didn’t have a date, not with one of those terrible women at least. “I wasn’t listening.”
“Obviously.” John chuckled. He seemed unbothered by the fit Sherlock had been throwing all evening. “Ready to go?”
Swinging to his feet Sherlock straightened out his suit jacket and nodded. “Shall we?”
Sherlock didn’t point out that John had prepared for their dinner the same way he prepared for his dates, and John didn’t point out that Sherlock had been incredibly jealous all evening because he thought John had made plans without him. It was a mutually accepted bar on the topic. They were not together, not in the most accepted form of the idea at least, but they did belong to each other in a platonically romantic way. If other people couldn’t understand what their relationship was, well frankly that didn’t matter.
After slipping on his billowing coat Sherlock grabbed John’s and held it out for him. He helped his flatmate into his coat and, with a hand in the small of his back, led him out to the street for their not-date.