Chapter Text
You're needed at the flat please. SH
Sherlock hit Send and desperately tried to think of the reason he'd give when John came rushing home, irritated at having yet another date interrupted. Of course, Sherlock assured himself, most of the mid-date requests he'd sent had perfectly reasonable motivations behind them. But this time Sherlock realised that the only reason he was sending the text is because he wanted John home with him.
This, he knew, was entirely selfish. However, being selfish was not new or surprising. Sherlock had pretty much been selfish all his life. At the same time, though, ever since John had come into his world, Sherlock had been trying to treat him . . . well, like a friend, rather than a person whose sole purpose was to do whatever Sherlock needed. Sherlock had been trying not to be so selfish.
And that was new and surprising. There was clearly something special about John, though Sherlock made an effort not to overthink it. Feelings were so confusing to him, and being confused was stressful. He could be thinking about why it was so important to have John here right now or about why he was jealous of the women that John went out with or why he liked just being able to look up and see John's handsome face across the room. He could be thinking about those things, but those things involved feelings, so instead he stood up and put on the kettle, thinking only about what reason he'd give when John stormed into the flat.
John felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and he felt two things at once -- annoyance and excitement. He felt the annoyance first, a split second of wondering why Sherlock insisted on bothering him every time he went on a date. But then, if he were being really honest, he had been waiting for it. He had sat down at this dinner with his phone in a noticeable pocket so that when Sherlock texted, he would feel it. Lately he had found himself missing Sherlock even just when he was at work. He'd gone on dates a bit reluctantly, wondering what Sherlock was doing at home alone. But that was . . . well, he couldn't exactly let on. So as much as he wanted to ditch his date and hurry home, he texted back, putting up a bit of a fight.
I'm on a date, Sherlock. What is it? -JW
I know you're on a date, John. I watched you mess with your hair in the mirror, something you only seem to do before you go on dates. If you're not going to come back, that's one thing, but please do not insult my powers of observation and deduction. I've cleaned the wound anyway, so I guess you can just forget about the request. SH
A very selfish reply, Sherlock thought as he hit Send, but at the moment, he was unconcerned: he just wanted John to come home.
John read the message twice. "Wound?" he murmured, making his date stop talking and look at him curiously. John looked up at her and apologised, asking for a moment.
What wound? What happened? -JW
Sherlock smiled a little.
It's nothing. I'm fine. Enjoy your date. Since she's so incredibly important to you. SH
He got out two mugs and waited.
John sighed. Deep down he knew that Sherlock wasn't hurt. But there was enough doubt that John didn't feel comfortable staying. He made a lame excuse and, after a small argument, he was headed home. He didn't even bother texting back -- he had nothing to say. He knew he was falling right into whatever plan Sherlock had concocted to get him away from his date. Again. He should be more upset about this, but he was used to this now. He could tell himself one day he'd stand up for himself and refuse to come home, but even he knew that was an empty promise. When he walked into the flat, he sighed as he hung his jacket. "I hope you're proud of yourself," he said.
Sherlock carried over a mug of tea to John. "I usually am," he said. "I'm glad you're home," he added awkwardly and sat down on his chair, crossing his legs and taking a sip of tea. He stared down into his mug.
John watched him for a moment before moving to sit in his own chair. "So, imaginary wound, then?"
"Yes," Sherlock said, holding up his hand. "All better now, it appears." He looked up. "So what should we do this evening?"
"You can't be serious," John said, looking over at him. For some reason Sherlock's casual attitude was now making him a bit angry. "Why did you call me home from another date?" he asked.
"Because I was bored," Sherlock said, taking another sip of tea. "And because I missed you." He stared down at his mug again.
John opened his mouth, but the only thing that came out was an exasperated sigh. "Well, you have me home now. So what do you want to do?"
"Something fun, please," Sherlock said. "The hour you were gone was almost intolerably dull. Let's do something fun." He set his mug down. "We could dissect something," he offered.
"Do you have something to dissect?" John asked, sipping at his tea.
"We could go find a cat or something," Sherlock said. "Or you could make a suggestion instead."
"We're not going to dissect a cat from outside!" John said. "I thought you had something here. Why don't we just go for a walk?"
"That's a brilliant idea, John," Sherlock said. He stood up and put his mug in the sink, before moving to his coat and scarf. "Perhaps we could stop at a cafe since you left me with no dinner to eat."
"Oh please. Now you want to eat something?" John rolled his eyes. He smiled softly and shook his head as he got up.
"Where'd you go for dinner? You never take me to nice places. It's always Chinese takeaway or leftovers. . ." Sherlock said as they walked down the stairs.
"We went to a nice little Italian place. And I never take you there because we don't date." John glanced back at him before going out to the pavement.
"You have to be dating someone to care about their health?" Sherlock asked. "Actually, that makes me feel even worse -- you don't even seem to like half of the women you date, yet their nutritional needs are more important than mine? You're horrible."
"Sorry, but I try to feed you all the time and you refuse. That's not my fault."
"Fine, it's my fault. Everything's my fault. Are you happy now?" Sherlock asked.
"Don't be cross. That's the truth. You know that I care about you," John said. He nudged his arm lightly and smiled.
"You do take care of me, John," Sherlock said, looking forward. "I wonder why I let you do that."
John looked over at him. "Let me? Imagine if you put up a struggle," he teased.
"If you think I struggle against you, ask my mother how I react when she tries to look after me," Sherlock said. "There must be some reason I tolerate you . . ." John had no idea probably, but this may have been the sweetest thing that Sherlock had ever said to anyone.
John raised his brows a bit before looking ahead. "Well, I suppose I should thank you for tolerating me." He knew that was odd -- he should be offended -- but as it had come from Sherlock, he knew that it meant something, different than if an ordinary person had said the same thing.
Sherlock motioned with his head towards the corner. "Can we stop in and get a drink? It's colder out here than I was expecting." He moved to the cafe and opened the door for John.
"Yeah," John nodded. "They have good food here, if you want to eat."
Sherlock waited for a table and once they'd sat down, he flicked through the menu. "When you go out on dates, do you order for the woman? That seems like the kind of thing you might do, which may explain why you rarely get second dates," he said, staring down at his options.
"I don't get second dates because I can hardly stick around long enough for the first one," he said pointedly. "And no, I don't order for anyone but myself." He lifted the menu up to cover his face, looking through the options.
Sherlock closed his menu, ignoring the comment about his interruptions. "Well, will you order for me, please?" he asked.
"I don't know what you want. And with my luck I will pick something you hate and have to hear about how I am out to starve you or something." He peeked out over his menu and raised his brows lightly, smiling before disappearing again.
"What are you ordering?" Sherlock asked. "For yourself, I mean?"
"The club sandwich," John said, finally putting his menu down. "What would you like?"
"I'll have that as well," Sherlock said. "And to drink?"
"Just some tea -- it'll be a nice warm up for the walk back," John said.
"That's what I want also," Sherlock said, closing his menu and pushing it aside. "So what should we talk about?"
"Well, if you're really sure, I will order for you when she comes back. And let's talk about what you did all day," he said.
"Okay, you can order," Sherlock said. "I spent most of the day at the library and then I went into speak to Lestrade and then I came home right as you were fussing with your hair and heading out for your date. I went down and had a cup of tea with Mrs Hudson since you'd abandoned me and then I got that imaginary wound. That's pretty much how I spent my day."
John sighed softly. "Why didn't you just tell me not to leave? I mean . . .why let me go all the way out just to call me back?"
"I don't have any right to tell you not to go on dates, John. If that's what you want to do, why should I stop you?" Sherlock asked.
"But you do stop me --" He broke off to order for the both of them before looking at Sherlock again. "You do stop me, and it's a bigger ordeal than it has to be."
"I don't stop you," Sherlock said, looking at him. "I never force you to end a date."
"Oh no -- do not turn this around on me, Sherlock. It's always something -- a case, an injury -- always!" Of course, this was only eighty percent true, but Sherlock didn't have to know that.
"A case is not my fault, John," Sherlock said calmly. "If you don't want me to call you for cases, I won't." He didn't bother acknowledging the whole injury point, since yes, truthfully, imaginary injuries shouldn't really count. "I just like to keep you abreast of what's going on with work or with the flat. Excuse me if that's a problem for you."
"It's not -- never mind. I don't want to talk about that anymore," he said. "Did Lestrade give you a case when you went to speak with him?"
"No, I was just checking in with him because something he said the other day had been bothering me and I wanted to correct him. It was ultimately irrelevant, but it was annoying me and I wanted to clear it up," Sherlock said. "Did you have a good day at work, by the way?"
"It was all right -- nothing unusual," John said. The food came and he pulled his plate closer, digging in. "I suppose it's not fair to blame you completely. You know, for my coming home . . ."
"No, it's probably not fair, but I won't make a big deal about it as I'm too good of a person," Sherlock said. He smiled. "I won't bother you on your dates anymore . . . I'll try not to."
"What I mean is . . . I don't really mind it so much," John said, busying himself with eating so he wouldn't have to look at Sherlock. Married to his work -- that's what he had said. This was a dangerous road, but maybe they would just move on now.
"So am I supposed to stop or not? Why don't you just stop going out and cut out the middleman? Or woman, in this case?" Sherlock asked, biting into his sandwich. "This is kind of disgusting, John."
"For the same reason you don't just tell me not to go in the first place," John said. "And I think it's delicious -- you can pick something else if you want."
"Stop going out with women, John," Sherlock said, trying another bite.
John stared at Sherlock for what seemed like an eternity of a minute. "Okay," he said simply.
"Good, that's sorted," Sherlock said. He opened the sandwich and took out the cheese and ate it.
John continued eating. "Does that mean I can go out with you?" he asked bravely.
"What do you mean? I've not gone out a date once since you moved in the flat," Sherlock said.
"I know. I mean . . .I want to go out with you instead of women."
"Are you saying this is more fun than your date earlier? If that's the case, I no longer feel any guilt about texting you. It sounds like I was actually doing you a favour," Sherlock said.
John sighed, waiting for Sherlock to understand what he meant. "I mean romantically, Sherlock."
"What?" Sherlock said awkwardly. "I mean, I heard the words you said . . . I just am not sure what you mean."
"I want to go out with you. On a romantic date."
"Right," Sherlock said. "And what precisely would that entail?"
"Us dating -- being in a relationship," John said. He was watching Sherlock closely, waiting for the moment he was going to remind John that he was married to his work and that he didn't do this sort of thing.
"Again, John, could you explain a little more precisely? Dating to you seems like going out to dinner. We're out to dinner right now -- so is that what you mean?" Sherlock said. "I need you to be more precise. Please." His face was a bit embarrassed by just how sincere he was being.
"Well, it's more than just eating dinner," John said, looking down at his tea now. "Flirting, sentiment . . .physical things . . ."
"There's already sentiment, isn't there? I mean, it's not something I'm very comfortable or confident with so I mainly try not to think about it, but it's there, isn't it?"
"Not like -- I mean, there's some sentiment because we're friends but I'm talking about . . .romantic stuff."
"Is that how you see us? Just friends?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes but . . .I'm asking for more," John said. He looked up, wondering if he wasn't being clear enough.
"I don't feel like we're just friends, John," Sherlock said. "I don't really do friends, but I do know that whatever is between us isn't normal. For friends, I mean."
"I -- what?" John asked, a bit confused. He felt like he lost control of the conversation. Had Sherlock thought they were dating this whole time? "I want to be . . . boyfriends," he said.
"Can we continue this conversation at home?" Sherlock said very suddenly and very awkwardly. He pushed his plate away from him a little.
John flushed lightly and nodded. "Yeah, sorry. Of course." He pulled out his wallet and put money on the table for the both of them.