(no subject)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG
Genre: Fluff
Sumary/A.N.: John helps Sherlock get ready for a date. Sherlock, in the fullness of time, lets him know that the date is with him. A huge thank you to errantcomment for her eleventh hour beta and all around lifesaving. Originally written as a Secret Santa present for kittysorceress at 221b_slash_fest
Warnings: None
He knew something was up as soon as he walked in the door. It wasn’t the banging and swearing coming from the kitchen that gave it away, or the smell of smoke. All of these could be explained by Sherlock falling out with whatever experiment he was doing at the time, but what really tipped him off was the fact that someone, someone who wasn’t Mrs.Hudson because he knew for a fact that she was still at her sister’s, had straightened up the flat. Well, a bit. It had certainly left the realms of ‘bio-hazard’ and become merely very messy. Some of the worst of the clutter was even covered by a throw that John definitely didn’t remember them owning that morning.
“Sherlock?” he edged round the throw cautiously. The swearing stopped mid-flow and was replaced by some frenzied scrabbling.
He poked his head around the kitchen door and was greeted by the sight of the world’s only consulting detective on his hands and knees cleaning up long tendrils of slimy overcooked pasta from the floor, his face screwed up in disgust and irritation.
“We don’t have any more spaghetti do we?” Sherlock asked distractedly as he dumped the unsalvageable mess into the bin with a wet splat. “No, you haven’t gone shopping since before Christmas, dammit. Rice? Surely rice would be an acceptable substitute...”
John watched him rifling around desperately and complaining about misplaced lab equipment at the front of the cupboard blocking off the dry foods for about fifteen surreal seconds, before he figured he could talk without giggling, and said:
“Sherlock, your-”
“Yes I’m cooking, brilliant deduction, now do you or do you not know where the rice is?” Sherlock snapped back at him irritably.
“No, Sherlock, your bolognaise is burning,” he replied, helpfully pointing towards the smoking pot.
Sherlock spun around to take it off the heat, pushing John out of the way in his haste.
It looked like it might have been a very nice bolognaise really, had it been given a better start in life and been cooked by someone who hadn’t thought ‘boiling is like simmering but faster’. As it was... well, it certainly wasn’t the worst thing that had been prepared in this kitchen, not by a long shot. Unfortunately that was only if you counted various experiments involving mould cultures.
“Oh, cock!” Sherlock said as he looked into the congealed smoking mess that was his ill fated attempt at cuisine.
“Swearing’s the sign of a limited vocabulary,” John said mildly, and tasted the sauce with the spatula. There was a moment of introspection for them both. “Look, it’s not... it’s not... that bad. You could.... Well...” He laid the spatula down like it might explode. It was a distinct possibility.
“Yes, quite,” Sherlock sighed and poked one of the myriad small blobs on the hob. “I knew there was a reason I left the general domestic duties to you.”
“Yes, about that, was there any particular reason you decided to have a go at some general domesticity?” John grinned. Sherlock coughed awkwardly and prodded a stray lump of sauce. John felt a strange twist in his stomach.
Sherlock cooking, the tidy flat, Mrs Hudson gone and now that he was actually paying attention, an honest-to-god candle (in a conical beaker, but otherwise a pretty good effort) on the kitchen table. Oh.
“Sherlock, do you have a date?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Sherlock muttered towards the floor, “Well... Angelo did say when he gave me the recipe that he could get me a table at short notice if I... decided against preparing something myself.”
“Handy,” John replied, still slightly thrown by the news, “Angelo’s is a nice place for a first date. Nice of him to-”
“Right, get your coat.” Sherlock was standing and walking towards the door.
“Do you want me to go down the pub? In case it goes well?” John asked, the strange twisting feeling in his stomach redoubling as he imagined Sherlock and what generally happened after dates that went so well you needed your flatmate to clear off for a few hours.
“What are you talking about? Here, wear my gloves, it’s cold out. We have to hurry though, it’s already seven, he can’t keep a table all evening.”
“Sherlock what am I... What are you talking about? I can’t go on your date with you, you do know that’s not normal right?”
“Well I can’t very well go alone, can I?”
Sherlock was tying his scarf with quick, nervous movements, making sure his coat was done up, checking and rechecking his phone, not meeting John’s eye, a slight flush in his usually pale face. John’s automatic response died and stuck in his throat and he had to swallow several times before it shifted.
“Sherlock... am I your date?”
God that was one of the more embarrassing things he’d ever said. Up to and including calling his home ec. teacher ‘Mum’. Sherlock looked up, a wide grin spread across his face.
“Knew you’d get there in the end.”
***
They didn’t go out. At least not to Angelo’s, because if he was having a surprise date sprung on him, complete with inexplicable butterflies in his stomach, he’d rather not have an audience. The spag bol was clearly a bit of a wash, so they raided the freezer for fish fingers and oven chips, while the pots were drowned into submission in the sink.
It was bizarre, watching Sherlock cook. Well, reheat anyway. Under careful supervision.
“This is taking ages, just turn it up to full heat.”
“No! No, remember what you did to my good pot, just leave it. Go... Go lay the table.”
“What was that crash?”
“Nothing John! It’s... Fine... Probably.”
Despite Sherlock’s best efforts, soon they were eating off of Mrs. Hudson’s good china (which would be back in 221A none the worse for it’s adventures the next morning) and Sherlock was measuring all of his chips against each other to find the longest, for reasons known only to himself. John watched him carefully and noticed idly that this wasn’t their table-cloth either.
Apparently satisfied, Sherlock pushed the chosen chip onto John’s plate, and then stole three of his to make up for it. John smiled and swatted his hand away, but for a brief second he felt long fingers snag against his palm and the strong urge to close his own shorter fingers around them and keep them there. But he and Sherlock’s ideas of what constituted a date didn’t always align perfectly, and besides, this was only a date ‘in a manner of speaking’. Trying to make dinner for your flatmate in a spontaneous nice gesture (which was probably a preemptive apology for something he was planning on putting in the fridge) was one thing, candles and haphazard tidying up aside, but holding hands over a candlelit dinner table might be something else entirely. A whole bizarre spectrum of possibilities that John didn’t usually allow himself to consider.
Instead, he let his hand drop back beside his plate and smiled at Sherlock.
“This is really nice... Eating at the table, nothing corrosive to avoid...”
“Well, it’s not- I mean I wanted-” Sherlock broke off and smiled back awkwardly, tracing loose figures of eight over and over in the salt. (“It’s fine, salt brushes off.” “Yes, but I’m still putting the ketchup away.”) “We have fish and chips every other night,” he finished weakly.
“Look, shut up, it’s fine. Traditional, and all that,” John poked his last few beans and put his fork down. He knew what Sherlock meant; romance, or whatever it was this that was supposed to be, didn’t usually involve the phrase ‘red sauce or brown? I bought both.’ Still though, it was nice.
“Right, remember those pots we put on to soak?”
“Ugh, must we?” Sherlock sighed gustily and picked up the plates and did his best impression of a man walking to his death. John smirked and wondered why he hadn’t tried pretend-dating Sherlock months ago if it got him cleaning up after himself, this was the first evidence he’d seen that Sherlock even knew the primary function of the sink (the secondary function being a sort of catch-all for body-parts and the less corrosive chemicals).
“Come on, you wash, I’ll dry,” he said and swatted Sherlock’s bottom with a dish towel, earning himself a glare and a faint blush from the detective, who was now navigating the complicated technology of hot soapy water. John wondered if he should point out that you really didn’t need that much Fairy liquid, but decided to leave him at it and made a mental note to buy more the next day.
They worked in companionable silence for a while, but then John caught sight of Sherlock in his peripheral vision and let out a quiet laugh. He was up to his elbows in suds, soaking the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. Some of them had even somehow made their way into his hair, sticking to the ends of his curls. Without thinking, John reached towards him to brush it away.
Sherlock turned his head and John’s hand ended up brushing his cheek. Suddenly Sherlock was leaning in and closing his eyes and- Oh god, he’d got the wrong end of the stick, when did Sherlock ever get the wrong end of the stick? He could tell if someone was cheating on their wife by the state of their shoes and he didn’t know the difference between ‘I’m going to kiss you now’ and ‘mate, you’ve got something in your hair’? John flinched and Sherlock jumped back about a foot.
“I wasn’t-”
“Oh... I’m sorry.”
They went back to their respective tasks, Sherlock scrubbing the burned bottom of a pot industriously, two pink spots high up on his cheek-bones. John picked up a plate and ran the calloused tip of his thumb against the faded gold edge. This required careful negotiation.
“If you liked,” he said, nervously and seemingly to the plate, “I mean, I didn’t- I wasn’t, but... if you wanted to... kiss me....”
He never did get to the end of that sentence, it just sort of got away from him as they turned to face each other. Suds dripped from the end of the scrubbing brush onto the floor. In the crystalline quiet of the flat it was the only sound.
“You should probably put that down, I think it holds considerable sentimental value for Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said softly.
“Huh? Oh, right...” John put the plate down carefully and turned back again. “Well-”
“Well,” Sherlock took one long step into his personal space. “This is definitely okay?” he asked, rubbing along John’s cheekbones with his still-damp thumbs. Soap-suds trickled down his cheeks and into his collar.
“Mm, yeah, it’s... it’s fine,” John mumbled before his mouth was covered softly by Sherlock’s. “It’s... fine.”
“That’s good,” Sherlock whispered against his lips and pulled him closer. Behind them the candle guttered and went out.
Rating: PG
Genre: Fluff
Sumary/A.N.: John helps Sherlock get ready for a date. Sherlock, in the fullness of time, lets him know that the date is with him. A huge thank you to errantcomment for her eleventh hour beta and all around lifesaving. Originally written as a Secret Santa present for kittysorceress at 221b_slash_fest
Warnings: None
He knew something was up as soon as he walked in the door. It wasn’t the banging and swearing coming from the kitchen that gave it away, or the smell of smoke. All of these could be explained by Sherlock falling out with whatever experiment he was doing at the time, but what really tipped him off was the fact that someone, someone who wasn’t Mrs.Hudson because he knew for a fact that she was still at her sister’s, had straightened up the flat. Well, a bit. It had certainly left the realms of ‘bio-hazard’ and become merely very messy. Some of the worst of the clutter was even covered by a throw that John definitely didn’t remember them owning that morning.
“Sherlock?” he edged round the throw cautiously. The swearing stopped mid-flow and was replaced by some frenzied scrabbling.
He poked his head around the kitchen door and was greeted by the sight of the world’s only consulting detective on his hands and knees cleaning up long tendrils of slimy overcooked pasta from the floor, his face screwed up in disgust and irritation.
“We don’t have any more spaghetti do we?” Sherlock asked distractedly as he dumped the unsalvageable mess into the bin with a wet splat. “No, you haven’t gone shopping since before Christmas, dammit. Rice? Surely rice would be an acceptable substitute...”
John watched him rifling around desperately and complaining about misplaced lab equipment at the front of the cupboard blocking off the dry foods for about fifteen surreal seconds, before he figured he could talk without giggling, and said:
“Sherlock, your-”
“Yes I’m cooking, brilliant deduction, now do you or do you not know where the rice is?” Sherlock snapped back at him irritably.
“No, Sherlock, your bolognaise is burning,” he replied, helpfully pointing towards the smoking pot.
Sherlock spun around to take it off the heat, pushing John out of the way in his haste.
It looked like it might have been a very nice bolognaise really, had it been given a better start in life and been cooked by someone who hadn’t thought ‘boiling is like simmering but faster’. As it was... well, it certainly wasn’t the worst thing that had been prepared in this kitchen, not by a long shot. Unfortunately that was only if you counted various experiments involving mould cultures.
“Oh, cock!” Sherlock said as he looked into the congealed smoking mess that was his ill fated attempt at cuisine.
“Swearing’s the sign of a limited vocabulary,” John said mildly, and tasted the sauce with the spatula. There was a moment of introspection for them both. “Look, it’s not... it’s not... that bad. You could.... Well...” He laid the spatula down like it might explode. It was a distinct possibility.
“Yes, quite,” Sherlock sighed and poked one of the myriad small blobs on the hob. “I knew there was a reason I left the general domestic duties to you.”
“Yes, about that, was there any particular reason you decided to have a go at some general domesticity?” John grinned. Sherlock coughed awkwardly and prodded a stray lump of sauce. John felt a strange twist in his stomach.
Sherlock cooking, the tidy flat, Mrs Hudson gone and now that he was actually paying attention, an honest-to-god candle (in a conical beaker, but otherwise a pretty good effort) on the kitchen table. Oh.
“Sherlock, do you have a date?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Sherlock muttered towards the floor, “Well... Angelo did say when he gave me the recipe that he could get me a table at short notice if I... decided against preparing something myself.”
“Handy,” John replied, still slightly thrown by the news, “Angelo’s is a nice place for a first date. Nice of him to-”
“Right, get your coat.” Sherlock was standing and walking towards the door.
“Do you want me to go down the pub? In case it goes well?” John asked, the strange twisting feeling in his stomach redoubling as he imagined Sherlock and what generally happened after dates that went so well you needed your flatmate to clear off for a few hours.
“What are you talking about? Here, wear my gloves, it’s cold out. We have to hurry though, it’s already seven, he can’t keep a table all evening.”
“Sherlock what am I... What are you talking about? I can’t go on your date with you, you do know that’s not normal right?”
“Well I can’t very well go alone, can I?”
Sherlock was tying his scarf with quick, nervous movements, making sure his coat was done up, checking and rechecking his phone, not meeting John’s eye, a slight flush in his usually pale face. John’s automatic response died and stuck in his throat and he had to swallow several times before it shifted.
“Sherlock... am I your date?”
God that was one of the more embarrassing things he’d ever said. Up to and including calling his home ec. teacher ‘Mum’. Sherlock looked up, a wide grin spread across his face.
“Knew you’d get there in the end.”
***
They didn’t go out. At least not to Angelo’s, because if he was having a surprise date sprung on him, complete with inexplicable butterflies in his stomach, he’d rather not have an audience. The spag bol was clearly a bit of a wash, so they raided the freezer for fish fingers and oven chips, while the pots were drowned into submission in the sink.
It was bizarre, watching Sherlock cook. Well, reheat anyway. Under careful supervision.
“This is taking ages, just turn it up to full heat.”
“No! No, remember what you did to my good pot, just leave it. Go... Go lay the table.”
“What was that crash?”
“Nothing John! It’s... Fine... Probably.”
Despite Sherlock’s best efforts, soon they were eating off of Mrs. Hudson’s good china (which would be back in 221A none the worse for it’s adventures the next morning) and Sherlock was measuring all of his chips against each other to find the longest, for reasons known only to himself. John watched him carefully and noticed idly that this wasn’t their table-cloth either.
Apparently satisfied, Sherlock pushed the chosen chip onto John’s plate, and then stole three of his to make up for it. John smiled and swatted his hand away, but for a brief second he felt long fingers snag against his palm and the strong urge to close his own shorter fingers around them and keep them there. But he and Sherlock’s ideas of what constituted a date didn’t always align perfectly, and besides, this was only a date ‘in a manner of speaking’. Trying to make dinner for your flatmate in a spontaneous nice gesture (which was probably a preemptive apology for something he was planning on putting in the fridge) was one thing, candles and haphazard tidying up aside, but holding hands over a candlelit dinner table might be something else entirely. A whole bizarre spectrum of possibilities that John didn’t usually allow himself to consider.
Instead, he let his hand drop back beside his plate and smiled at Sherlock.
“This is really nice... Eating at the table, nothing corrosive to avoid...”
“Well, it’s not- I mean I wanted-” Sherlock broke off and smiled back awkwardly, tracing loose figures of eight over and over in the salt. (“It’s fine, salt brushes off.” “Yes, but I’m still putting the ketchup away.”) “We have fish and chips every other night,” he finished weakly.
“Look, shut up, it’s fine. Traditional, and all that,” John poked his last few beans and put his fork down. He knew what Sherlock meant; romance, or whatever it was this that was supposed to be, didn’t usually involve the phrase ‘red sauce or brown? I bought both.’ Still though, it was nice.
“Right, remember those pots we put on to soak?”
“Ugh, must we?” Sherlock sighed gustily and picked up the plates and did his best impression of a man walking to his death. John smirked and wondered why he hadn’t tried pretend-dating Sherlock months ago if it got him cleaning up after himself, this was the first evidence he’d seen that Sherlock even knew the primary function of the sink (the secondary function being a sort of catch-all for body-parts and the less corrosive chemicals).
“Come on, you wash, I’ll dry,” he said and swatted Sherlock’s bottom with a dish towel, earning himself a glare and a faint blush from the detective, who was now navigating the complicated technology of hot soapy water. John wondered if he should point out that you really didn’t need that much Fairy liquid, but decided to leave him at it and made a mental note to buy more the next day.
They worked in companionable silence for a while, but then John caught sight of Sherlock in his peripheral vision and let out a quiet laugh. He was up to his elbows in suds, soaking the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt. Some of them had even somehow made their way into his hair, sticking to the ends of his curls. Without thinking, John reached towards him to brush it away.
Sherlock turned his head and John’s hand ended up brushing his cheek. Suddenly Sherlock was leaning in and closing his eyes and- Oh god, he’d got the wrong end of the stick, when did Sherlock ever get the wrong end of the stick? He could tell if someone was cheating on their wife by the state of their shoes and he didn’t know the difference between ‘I’m going to kiss you now’ and ‘mate, you’ve got something in your hair’? John flinched and Sherlock jumped back about a foot.
“I wasn’t-”
“Oh... I’m sorry.”
They went back to their respective tasks, Sherlock scrubbing the burned bottom of a pot industriously, two pink spots high up on his cheek-bones. John picked up a plate and ran the calloused tip of his thumb against the faded gold edge. This required careful negotiation.
“If you liked,” he said, nervously and seemingly to the plate, “I mean, I didn’t- I wasn’t, but... if you wanted to... kiss me....”
He never did get to the end of that sentence, it just sort of got away from him as they turned to face each other. Suds dripped from the end of the scrubbing brush onto the floor. In the crystalline quiet of the flat it was the only sound.
“You should probably put that down, I think it holds considerable sentimental value for Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said softly.
“Huh? Oh, right...” John put the plate down carefully and turned back again. “Well-”
“Well,” Sherlock took one long step into his personal space. “This is definitely okay?” he asked, rubbing along John’s cheekbones with his still-damp thumbs. Soap-suds trickled down his cheeks and into his collar.
“Mm, yeah, it’s... it’s fine,” John mumbled before his mouth was covered softly by Sherlock’s. “It’s... fine.”
“That’s good,” Sherlock whispered against his lips and pulled him closer. Behind them the candle guttered and went out.