A/N: I don't know about you, but I NEED Season 2 to start BAHHH I'm going crazy!
Day Two finally up!
Just a warning if you've missed it earlier, this is/will be Sherlock/John SLASH.
Thank you SO much for your kind reviews, and as always replies to each are at the bottom of this chapter. :)
I'm having enormous fun with this little story, and I hope you are too.
"I'm not going. I'm not going," John shrieked.
He had managed to avoid Sherlock the entire day, up until then. His alarm had gone off earlier than needed, he'd dressed quickly and had even managed to tiptoe past the lounge and out the front door without being noticed.
His day at work had been long. Exhausting. Excruciating.
It wasn't that he had been overwhelmed by the number of patients, though the clinic was perennially understaffed. The problems presented to him were mundane, nothing he couldn't solve in his sleep or standing upside down on his head. Sarah had been wonderful, popping into the office every now and then to offer lunch, coffee, company. They had even organized a Thursday date, two days from now, when both of their schedules would allow for a free evening.
Everything had gone smoothly. According to plan. Things were normal.
But every five bloody minutes throughout the day, John Watson had found himself glancing nervously at his wristwatch, at the clock on the wall, at the little digits at the corner of his computer screen which persistently kept moving forward.
At one point he had even tapped at his watch and telepathically commanded it to stop, or better yet, reverse. But despite his best efforts time kept moving in one direction and, seemingly, faster than ever.
John had dreaded the end of the day, when he would have no choice but to return to the horrors of 221B Baker Street.
Sherlock's childlike oblivion to society's structure was... unsettling. Aggravating. Or was it endearing?
Whatever it was, at the back of John's mind he had begun to realize that something inside of him was melting. A crack had begun to develop in his defenses. A weak spot that threatened the entire infrastructure of his being.
And John didn't have the slightest idea of what could be on the other side, should his walls ever crumble. He wasn't so sure he would like to witness it. And, more frighteningly, he wasn't at all sure if Sherlock would, either. He wondered if his friend's attempts at showing him an alternative way of existing would yield completely unexpected, and possibly repelling, results.
So now, back at their shared flat, John was stubbornly resisting Sherlock's attempts at coaxing him out to a "nice meal," as the detective had ominously promised.
"I'm not going and that's final," John shouted, simultaneously trying to twist out of Sherlock's grasp. The detective had his arms hooked around his waist and was trying to physically pull him to the front door.
"I'm taking you to dinner, not to your execution!"
John momentarily succeeded in slipping out of his grasp, only to trip over himself and land face-down on the floor. Sherlock wasted no time in immediately gripped his ankles and beginning to pull the doctor across the floor, feet first, grunting with the effort. John frantically clawed at the carpet beneath him, beyond caring whether he was acting like a five year old or not.
"John," Sherlock said, voice straining with the physical effort of maneuvering him, "resistance is futile."
"Your face is futile," John barked, mentally promising himself to brush up on his comebacks. His flailing arms managed to grab a couch leg, and he held on for dear life.
Suddenly the full weight of Sherlock was upon him, pinning his body to the ground. Before John realized what was happening, the other man had managed to pull his arms away from the couch leg and secure them behind his back with... handcuffs?
"Sherlock, where the bloody hell did you get handcuffs?" John demanded, voice slightly muffled on account of his face being buried in the carpet.
"A little 'souvenir' from Lestrade," Sherlock said, standing up and lifting the handcuffed doctor to his feet. "But that's a tale for another time." He shoved John into the nearest chair and loomed over him, ice cold eyes shining with adrenaline.
"So," John said, trying to catch his breath, craning his neck upward. "Remind me again: which one of us supposedly has a military history? Why are you stronger than me?"
The detective's mouth curved up at the corners.
"Oh my," a voice came from the lounge entrance.
"God," John groaned, catching sight of a vaguely flustered Mrs. Hudson. There he was, breathing heavily, slightly sweating, in handcuffs, the detective adopting an unmistakably dominant posture before him. "This isn't what it looks like," he insisted in her direction.
"Don't you worry, dears," Mrs. Hudson assured, having already regained her composure. "It's your cup of tea, and it's none of my business. I just wanted to drop off a few essentials," she said, ambling toward the kitchen with a couple of small grocery bags. "If you need any new ideas," she continued pleasantly from the other room, "just ask the lovely boys from next door. Apparently they get up to all sorts of things in the night... Sometimes during the day, too."
John glared silent daggers up at his friend. Sherlock grinned.
"Thank you for stopping by, Mrs. Hudson," the detective said pleasantly, not taking his eyes off John as the woman emerged and made her way back toward the door.
"My pleasure, dears; I'll leave you to it then, shall I?" she said, smiling kindly. Soon the two men were alone again.
"John, what are you doing," Sherlock asked softly, clearly struggling to keep a straight face.
"You look constipated."
"This has been utterly humiliating."
"I think the word you're looking for is 'entertaining.'" Sherlock's shoulders started to shake with silent laughter.
John stared at his friend for a moment longer and then, despite his best efforts, began to giggle. It came upon him out of nowhere and then quickly snowballed out of control, his body now contorting with laughter, Sherlock helplessly crumbling to his knees in stitches beside him.
"Sherlock," John breathed, his sides aching. "Please, for the love of God, I'm handcuffed and in pain, release me already."
"On one condition," Sherlock wheezed.
"And that is?"
Sherlock grabbed John's face in his hands and held him still. John tried to appear less shocked than he felt but only succeeded in making himself dizzy.
"You must begin to hold up your end of the bargain," Sherlock said, serious now. His blue eyes bore down on the doctor with such intensity that John wondered if he could perhaps be in danger of spontaneous combustion.
The blasted man was right, however. John had hardly been playing along. In fact the only thing he had been doing was resisting with everything he had. He sighed.
"Fine. Fine, I'm sorry," John said, sincere now. Sherlock's eyes didn't leave his face, eventually forcing him to look away. He cleared his throat, becoming dimly self-conscious. "I'll do better."
"Good." Sherlock rose and rummaged around the drawers of his desk until he found what he was looking for.
"Sherlock, don't tell me you don't have a key to these bloody things," John berated. "Honestly. Seriously. Really?"
"You," Sherlock said, pointing a finger in his direction. "Behave."
John shut up.
Sherlock ambled over and fumbled for a moment behind John's back. To his surprise, soon the handcuffs were loosened and slipped off his wrists.
"You should have more faith in me, doctor." Sherlock came back around to stand in front of his friend. "What are you doing?"
"Rubbing my wrists," John said.
"Erm." He paused for a moment. "Well, they do it in movies, don't they?"
"Are your wrists sore?" Sherlock asked pointedly.
John considered this for a moment and then promptly felt like a fool. Movie ideas. Wow.
"No," he conceded, glancing from his wrists back up to Sherlock. "They're not." He smiled. "I'm an idiot."
"First accurate conclusion of the day, my friend." The detective offered his arm.
John took a deep breath, stood, and hooked his arm through the other man's.
"Off we go, then," he said, though he suddenly found he couldn't look Sherlock directly in the eyes. Please don't deduce. Please don't deduce.
Ostensibly Sherlock took pity and kept quiet, instead leading them on through the lounge, past the front door, and to the street where the detective utilized his favorite method of catching a cab: by walking into it and forcing the car to screech to a halt.
He held John's hand in the cab ride. The very, very long cab ride. A full seven minutes passed before they arrived, and John wondered if in that time he had managed to lose half his body weight in perspiration. Why was he so damn nervous?
"Here we are," Sherlock exclaimed as the cab slowed to a halt, shattering the silence. John jumped. Sherlock noticed. "Christ," he muttered with a disapproving glare at the doctor before leaping out, as usual leaving the other to pay.
"Hey," John started intelligibly a moment later once he caught up with his friend. "You!"
"Me!" They were making their way across the street; almost at the restaurant now, a quaint-looking place that John had likely passed many times before without noticing, a place that probably preferred to stay hidden.
"Do you think cabbies drive us around because they like us, is that it?" They had stopped at the front door now, facing each other.
"I'm not an idiot, John." A smirk. "You must know I keep you around for a reason."
"Brilliant. I feel like you're really making strides in helping me realize my full potential as a human being." John let Sherlock open the door, a hand on his back nudging him inside.
A kind waiter greeted them as John took in his surroundings. The restaurant was small, with minimal decorations. It was warm, a welcome contrast to the cooling evening outside. The place was very softy lit. Nearly every table was taken with patrons, though voices were kept low, adding to the overall pleasant atmosphere.
Romantic, John thought. Must remember to take Sher-Sarah here. Must remember to take Sarah here. A sudden urge to bang his head against the wall overtook him. He barely resisted.
The waiter led them to a small corner table, offering them menus as they took their seats opposite each other.
"And of course all wine is on the house for Mr. Holmes and his guest," the waiter said. "Would you like me to select you a bottle of our finest?"
"-Yes, please!" John insisted, talking over Sherlock. "Wine would be very, very good."
The waiter blinked.
"Yes, of course. Straight away, sirs. And I'll bring you a nice candle as well," he added, smiling warmly.
Sherlock's look halted John's fledgling protest as the waiter turned to walk away. The situation quickly escalated into a staring contest.
Do Not Resist the Candle, John, Sherlock glared.
I'll do what I want, John glowered.
If you know what's good for you, you will do as I say.
Is that so? John's left eye twitched. Well... twat!
"Damnit!" he yelped out loud, foot aching from a sudden kick under the table.
The waiter returned as if on cue, producing a tray with a bottle of wine, two gleaming glasses, and a candle. He placed the glasses on the table and poured a small amount of wine into each, waiting for the men to taste and approve.
Sherlock swirled his expertly before taking a small sip, nodding to the waiter who filled the glasses the rest of the way, leaving the bottle. John was impressed, never having taken Sherlock for a wine connoisseur. Just as well; John would have probably spilled half the liquid onto his lap, were the swirling business up to him.
The waiter promised to be back shortly, giving them time to look through the menus. And he placed the God forsaken candle onto the center of the table, a hair or two closer to the doctor.
"Cheers," John squeaked. He glanced around; they were the only two men sharing a table. He picked up his menu and tried to browse through it. It may as well have been written in Chinese.
Mercifully it was shortly ripped out of his fingers, followed by a silky "I'll order." John took a large swallow of his wine.
"So, you know the waiter?"
"Of course." Blue eyes, eerily dark in the candlelight, scanned the menu. "Years ago he was recruited into a small, well-hidden, and very dangerous gang. Run by his father's brother, in fact. Impossible to back out of."
"So what happened?" John asked, taking another gulp of his wine and eyeing the bottle possessively.
"They were murdered," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "Not by me, of course," he added, his expression unchanging. "However I did ensure they crossed paths with a rival gang, and in the end our lovely waiter was freed through blood and death."
John stared at his friend, who for a moment seemed more like a vengeful angel than human. Could this really be the same man who childishly hopped about the room yesterday and defiantly sprawled on top of him on the couch the day before?
"What is it?" Sherlock asked, noticing the change in the doctor's expression. "You're unhappy with something I've said?"
"It's just," John began, trying to find the words. "You can seem... I feel like I don't know you at all, sometimes."
"Then get to know me," Sherlock murmured, leaning in, eyes bright. "You're already doing well. You know me better than anyone."
John took another sip of wine. He nodded, earning a small smile from his friend.
"Are you reassured?" Sherlock asked.
"I may need more reassurance later." John immediately regretted those words, thinking that he had somehow managed to make them oddly suggestive. He prayed to the God of Consulting Detectives that the other man was too socially inept to notice.
Luck was not with him that night.
"You're turning a striking red, John, and now you won't look at me," Sherlock observed. "Why are you blushing? You're blushing even deeper as I'm speaking. Your forehead is glistening with perspiration now, why?"
"Sherlock!" John hissed, trying to keep his voice down. "Was handling the full attack of your bluntness part of the deal this week, too?"
"What is 'blunt'?" Sherlock demanded, throwing his hands up. "Blunt compared with what? With the word-vomit drivel that normally pours out of people's mouths? The circular speech-dancing that our Apes engage in solely because they've somehow decided they should, rather than save everybody the time, trouble, confusion, and boredom by simply speaking their minds from the beginning? By being blunt, as you coined it, from the start?"
"Bluntness can embarrass people," John said urgently. "Or hurt them. There has to be somewhat of a filter between a person's mind and mouth, Sherlock."
"Why?" the detective demanded, unblinking. "Don't you think it's more embarrassing and hurtful to use words to weave pointless mazes for others, so a person has to spend time deciphering and circumnavigating to find the blasted exit? Don't you think it would be better to create a straight line, from start to finish?"
"Bluntness is not embarrassing. Bluntness is merciful. You are embarrassed now, I can see that. And I'd gander it's for a completely separate reason." Sherlock ended by finishing the wine in his glass in one go.
A moment later the waiter returned, and Sherlock ordered easily as if their conversation hadn't just happened. All John could do was stare. And drink his wine. He poured himself another glass, filling it to the brim.
They resumed glowering at each other as soon as the waiter left. John was forced to look away first, of course, after a few moments. There was something about Sherlock's merciless glare that was impossible to compete with. He hoped the food would come quickly so he'd have something else to focus on.
Sherlock poured himself another glass, sipping delicately this time.
"I didn't think you knew much about wine," John grumbled.
"Eh?" John was momentarily surprised out of his tense mood. "But the tasting, swirling... thing..."
"Saw it on telly once. Thought I'd give it a go."
"Pffft," John snorted, thankful the wine he was drinking didn't come out of his nose. "So, you're selective about which Ape behaviors you do and do not copy, then?"
"Yes, for practice, and experimental purposes." Sherlock said, as if it were perfectly obvious. "And it seems as though this time I've pulled it off. You never know when wine swirling skills may come in handy."
John thought about this. It was true that every now and then Sherlock would purposefully don a brief mask of normality, usually to persuade an unsuspecting victim into unknowingly assisting him with some case. It was scary, knowing Sherlock's true personality, how easily he could sometimes mimic a regular human being.
"Why don't you act like that with me?" John asked.
"You're not an experiment." Short and to the point. Voice soft, eyes intense.
Not quite sure where this was going, John again downed his wine and poured himself another glass. Shortly he saw Sherlock do the same and quickly realized that their drinking had somehow managed to become competitive. He was already feeling a slight buzz and was certain it wouldn't be long before he embarrassed himself further.
Short minutes later their food arrived, steak and various side dishes that John couldn't name, and he immediately dug in.
They ate in silence for some time, John every now and then stealing glances at the other man. He quite rarely witnessed Sherlock eating. It almost seemed like a very odd thing for him to be doing.
However, what was stranger was seeing him drink all that wine.
"Sherlock," John said in between mouthfuls. "I don't think I have ever seen you touch one drop of alcohol. Doesn't it dull the senses, or something like that?"
"It does indeed," Sherlock agreed. With a very full mouth he added, "Tonight you're making me want to dull my senses."
Was that an accusatory glare?
John took another swig, and so did Sherlock.
"Waiter!" Sherlock suddenly called with a raised arm, causing the patrons nearby to turn their heads. "More wine!"
"Shhh," John hissed. "You're not hailing a cab, for God's sake."
"I'll do what I want, if it's all the same to you." A defiant glare.
"Fine, fine," John muttered. And when the new bottle arrived, he was the first to open it.
Before he knew it the better part of an hour had passed in that restaurant, the food quickly gobbled up but no end of wine in immediate sight. He felt a tension between them that didn't quite go away. In fact, it seemed to intensify with each glass of wine. And John was starting to feel reckless.
"Please essplain to me," he slurred after a time, leaning in and becoming very reliant on the table for support.
"Please essplain to me why you brought me here in the firss place."
Sherlock threw his head back and nearly toppled off his chair.
"I wanted to have a nice meal," he said, spreading his arms, "nice wine, nice conversa-hiccup-tion with my friend, whom I love."
"You love me?"
"Of course!" Sherlock exclaimed, his volume catching the attention of a couple of waiters who had been eyeing the pair for a while.
"Sherlock." John attempted to reach across the table for a hug. When it was clear his arms weren't quite long enough, he naturally assumed the best course of action would be to clamber over the table.
"Sir. Sir," their old waiter intoned, rapidly making his way toward John. "I'm afraid our restaurant is now closing, and I must kindly ask you two gentlemen to leave."
"Ha," Sherlock snorted. "This place is not closing." He crossed his arms in an intelligent sort of way.
"And how have you deduced that?" John asked eagerly, trying his best to sit relatively perpendicular to the floor. He loved hearing Sherlock explain his brilliance.
"I have deduced this" - dramatic pause - "by observing the fact that there are still patrons here, and in fact new ones are coming through the door presently."
"See? Isn't he brilliant?" John smiled up at the waiter in full sincerity. Then he toppled over.
"Right. A little help here?" the waiter called. John felt arms lift him and vaguely registered being carried out the door, Sherlock putting up a half-hearted fight behind him.
Soon they were shoved in a taxi, and he heard the waiter mention something or other about owing Sherlock a favor and to not worry about the fare. Just as well. John wasn't quite sure where his wallet was, and in fact he couldn't bring himself to care.
The cab ride was strangely bumpy. Or so it seemed to John, who couldn't manage to sit anywhere close to still. Sherlock appeared to be having just as much trouble, sharp angles constantly colliding with him until finally the larger man just slumped onto his lap.
"Oi!" the driver yelled, glaring through the rear view mirror. "Relax back there!"
"Yes, sir," Sherlock mumbled, swinging his arm forward in an attempted mock-salute from the doctor's legs.
John had a brief moment to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair before they arrived at 221B Baker Street. The cab screeched to a halt, nearly throwing the two limp men through the front windshield.
Somehow John managed to open his door and tumble out of it, dragging his friend by the lapels behind him. By the time they found their footing and stood vertically again, the cab was long gone.
"Thanks for noffing!" Sherlock shouted, his voice echoing in the empty street.
"No no, don't do that." John's head was beginning to ache. He wasn't sure where the keys to the front door were. "Sherlock, where are the kess?"
"The kess to the front doorss." A moment of blank stares passed. "Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!" Surely the woman was still awake. At... whatever the time was.
"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock joined in. "Mrs. Hudson let us in issemergency!"
Very quickly the front door swung open, a startled landlady stepping aside for them to enter.
"How many times today must you shock me?" she scolded as the two tenants stumbled past. "It's not decent, look at you!"
"Some tea, please," Sherlock requested, taking the stairs on all fours with John following closely behind.
"I'm not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson called after them in vein.
"I need a bed," Sherlock soon concluded, halfway up the stairs.
"Almost there," John encouraged, nudging the other man's rear to keep him moving. "Onward, my friend."
Just when John was beginning to think that someone had come in and extended the staircase to thrice its length while they were away at dinner, they finally reached the top. A short crawl later and they were at the detective's door, where they used the walls and each other to get to their feet.
After some effort Sherlock managed to locate the knob and swing the door open.
"This is where I bid thee goodnight," he said, with what was probably supposed to be a charming bow but ended up looking more like a seizure. "Sleep tights. Tight. Tomorrow is Day Three, you know."
For a split second John forgot who was standing in front of him, but he did notice that there was a pair of very pink lips not terribly far from his own.
John leaned in and kissed Sherlock, very briefly.
Then abruptly withdrew as if struck, wide-eyed. What was happening? Yet he continued staring at the other man's mouth and madly considered doing it again.
"Wait," Sherlock whispered, at once seeming peculiarly sober. "You're not in a stable state of mind right now, John."
"I'm drunk," the doctor admitted helpfully.
"Yes, you are." Sherlock smiled. John's knees weakened. "I'll see you tomorrow. Get some rest. You'll need it."
And with that the bedroom door was slammed in John's face, leaving him to make his own way up to his room. Leaving him to his own thoughts.
Oh. I'm going to regret this tomorrow.
A/N: Again please do let me know what you think, we're all in this story together... I have a mad vision of all of us crowding around a window like peeping toms, watching Sherlock and John and giggling. :-p
Cannon Corruptor: Ooh just you wait, it won't be too innocent for much longer, I don't think! ;) In any case Sherlock's motives are definitely cause for confusion for poor John. Thanks so much for another lovely review, I hope you keep enjoying it.
Jane: Thank you ma'am!
Thecakeisalive: Okay I shall write more but I strangely want cake now.
Elendil Snape: I'm curious as well teehee. XD Thanks very much!
Moyima: With any luck it'll be a week they'll never forget!
Lumoa: Should be interesting, considering how easily poor John gets flustered! Lol
Arrow'Nash: That. Is LOVELY. Reminds me of an experience I had... I was so close to my best friend in high school (both girls) that, despite being extremely and undeniably straight, I often had mad thoughts of forsaking all men, getting a nice little apartment with her, and living out the rest of our days together. I loved her so much I thought maybe, if I had to, I could possibly even learn to be sexually attracted to her. Anyway, long story short, we eventually had an odd falling out and have rarely spoken since. To this day I have no idea what happened. One of my biggest regrets. Okay so that's not quite the same as your story. ;-) Just reminded me I guess.
Fanficwriter101feedback: Glad you're enjoying it thus far!
Tellyounolies: Thanks very much, hope you like it the rest of the way as well! :)
OnTheWinterSolstice: Lovely way of putting it, I like it, and I agree! Sherlock knows everything. Just not... how it works. :-p
Hitachiin Shibo: Don't worry, I think John will wake up and smell the coffee sooner rather than later. ;-) Thanks for reviewing!
Lau: Thanks Lau. I hope the characterization stays true throughout.
Livia-bj: Hehe. Good, at least someone here is committing to something!
LemonLoverXD: Hmm I think neither, but we shall see! XD Thanks much!
OryonUK: Thanks very much, I too hope it's sooner rather than later. ;-) But then if it ends how will I distract myself from the fact that there is still no season 2, hmmmm...
Sepei: Your wish is my command! -runs off-
Zainab: Woohoo! XD
anotherscreamingfangirl: You're going to live... on a mountain. Okay, not many people can say that! ;-) I envy you and hope you return soon. With any luck there will be multiple chapters for you to read!
Caighlee: Hmm, I must say those are quite good suggestions. ;-) If they appear in the story we can just call you psychic, how about that.
AliRae: Oh I love how you said that, that it's like they're whispering in your ear. I would also die happy if that ever actually happened to me in real life.
Juniperwing: Thanks! :-) I hope it continues to be so!
MadaraFanGirl: Yes ma'am, shall do my utmost. :)
I hope that's everyone, so sorry if I've missed you... it's late and I've had a few glasses of wine myself. :-p