Did he have somewhere in mind? God, no. No, John had no idea. He was considering the places he'd taken Sarah, Jeanette and... Anne? Anna?... but none of those would do. He just knew he'd want to touch Lucien somehow, place his hand over Lucien's, hold his eyes a moment too long, and to do all that in a public setting, seeing the man again for the first time after that night... it all felt more than a little intimidating. Moreover, John sort of wanted Lucien to himself. They had done the public setting - very public setting - and while John had very obviously enjoyed the thrill of that, he wanted to see what it would be like to be around Lucien in a more... personal setting. And Sherlock would be away for another twenty-four hours, at least...
"How about you pop 'round mine? I can fix us something to eat, you bring a bottle of wine?" Simple, casual, and John would be on safe and familiar ground. Except, shit, did he have anything in the house? Tea, milk, toast, but anything else? Anything dinner-worthy? John supposed he could ask Mrs Hudson for help... and otherwise there was always the cafe downstairs, or the Chinese place around the corner. If he left now, he might be able to make it before Lucien got to the flat...
"The address is 221B Baker Street, shouldn't be hard to find. Sound good?" He knew this could be considered too much, too fast, but Lucien would return to Leeds in less than a week, and frankly, John did not have the patience to play out a nice and proper courtship; there simply wasn't any time, and they'd already lost a week. He wanted to see him now, and he wanted him to himself.
The waiting and anticipation, the frustration and occasional self cursing that he hadn't asked for John's number, it was all worth it now. Popping around to John's house? Yes, that sounded good, that sounded perfect. No beating around the bush, wondering if he was going to be invited back to his, no worries about if this was supposed to be a platonic thing after all. The message was clear: Lucien was almost certain that John wouldn't invite him into his home unless he wanted some sort of continuation of the previous week.
"221B Baker Street," he pulled out a Biro, cradled his phone to his ear with his shoulder a moment while he scribbled that on the back of his hand. He'd have to get out his map of the city, probably have to figure out the route to get to the nearest Underground station. "That sounds great. I'll get us some wine and see you soon."
After he hung up, he couldn't do much to stop the surge of euphoria that rushed through him. Yes! He brought a fist up in a small air punch... A passing cyclist looked a little worried, like Lucien was about to pounce on him and steal his bike. Lucien didn't care, he'd done more embarrassing things before and it was better to get it out now, try and get a little bit of sophistication together before he reached John's...
... Who really wasn't doing any better, truth be told. John's thoughts were going a million miles an hour, never settling on anything concrete, anything helpful, other than the memory of Lucien's lips on his, his hands touching him and alrighty then, going down that road wasn't going to do any good at all. Getting up out of his office chair, he got his coat off the rack and headed out. He quickly decided to get a cab instead of heading down to the nearest Tube station - traffic would be alright by this hour of the day (it was never good, John had quickly accepted that after moving back to London), and he really wanted to make sure he was home and all prepared before Lucien made it over.
Reaching Baker Street, John took the stairs two steps at a time and raced into the kitchen... and perhaps he had simply lived too long with Sherlock and had gotten used to the chaos that was their kitchen, but now that he had somebody coming over, somebody he actually liked, all he could see was... well, chaos. Definitely not having dinner in the kitchen tonight, nope. Their fridge, to John's horror, was empty save for some jars containing questionable liquids. Not even any milk. God's sake, Sherlock! Right, then. Plan B. Mrs Hudson. Running down the stairs and knocking on her door, he tried to explain his situation to her as calm and collected as possible, throwing in a pleading smile or two (having a friend over, no time to do the groceries, could really use your help, and you're such a wonderful cook, Mrs Hudson--). The feeling of victory was enormous when he returned upstairs with an oven dish of homemade lasagna, ready to be popped into the oven (Just this once, dear! Mrs Hudson, you're a saint!). He should probably feel bad about accepting the dish, but he was in a hurry, hadn't properly planned things out, and he would make it up to her. Take her out to dinner, maybe. She'd like that.
Right, then. Lasagna was in the oven. John spent the next few minutes tidying up the flat as best he could, making sure the sofa could be used for sitting and the coffee table for putting their glasses, plates and cutlery on. It wasn't elegant in the slightest, but it would be cozy? He looked over the sitting room one more time, satisfied with the result, and headed into the bathroom, followed by his bedroom. Not much to be done there, bit of cologne, change of shirt, making sure he looked at least somewhat presentable. He was in the middle of returning to the sitting room when he heard the doorbell, and his heart jumped in his chest. He was here. Lucien was here.
"I'll get it, Mrs Hudson!" John called as he made his way down the stairs yet again, and opened the door, leaning into the doorway a little with a huff of breath and bright eyes. "Hi. Evening." Too much? Hardly. If he'd really had his way he'd have grabbed Lucien by the collar, dragged him inside and kissed him silly. Christ, but he hadn't expected this much of a reaction at seeing the other man again. "Please, come in. I hope it wasn't too hard to find...?"
Riding on the Underground, bottle of wine in the flimsy blue plastic bag that the off licence had given him, Lucien had been sure that he was pretty much telegraphing his anticipations for the night to all the other commuters around him. Despite having several stops to go, he was hanging on to a post near to the doors and refusing to budge when people got on and off. Yeah, he was being one of those dicks that refused to move down the carriage and make everyone's lives a bit easier, but he didn't want to get stuck in the middle and miss his stop. It might have been easy enough to get off at the next station and double back, but that took up time, precious time, and he didn't want to lose any of it when he could be spending it with John already.
He'd thought about picking up something else besides wine to take for John, but flowers were a ridiculous idea, they didn't seem to be John's kind of thing and what kind of message was Lucien trying to put across here? It was coming on a bit too strong for the second time he's even seeing the guy. What the hell was wrong with him, even entertaining the idea? He may as well be seventeen again and fumbling around cluelessly. How about he makes a mixtape for John while he's at it? Apart from that, the only other things that off licence had was more booze, chocolate bars and fags. So that at least saved him from doing something completely foolish.
It turned out that the Tube station for Baker Street was only a short walk to the address John had given him. He took the wine out of the bag as he crossed the road and shoved the bag into his pocket. His chest was tight and he tried not to think too much about just how nervous and excited he was. It was only a guy, it was only.... dinner. It's not a big thing and he normally had more confidence than this, where was his confidence? Don't start shaking, for fuck's sake... Fuck.
"Hey!" He smiled broadly at John and held the wine up by the neck in greeting. What are you now? An alcoholic? I brought wine! "No, it was easy to find, no problem at all." He slid into the building rambling awkwardly about the Underground.
Oh, he looked good. Did he look this good at the bar last week? Definitely. Alright, so he looked better, if that was even possible. John indulged for a moment, taking Lucien in as he stepped inside. Mm, yeah. He looked really, really good. And the way he was going on and on about the Underground was perfectly endearing. Seems John wasn't the only one who felt nervous, which, strangely, made him feel less nervous.
"Yeah, I know, it's a bit of a rubbish stop, not a lot of people get off, so I always end up pushing my way out." He took the bottle of wine from Lucien with a smile and led him up the stairs, going first - and if that meant Lucien got a nice eye-full of John's jeans-clad behind, well, John wasn't exactly used to thinking that way... yet. "Please, sit down," he gestured toward the sofa. "I'll pour us a glass." He made quick work of uncorking the bottle in the kitchen - John wasn't a wine connaisseur by any standards, but it looked nice, and the label was spinning him all sorts of culinary fairy tales - wait, were you supposed to let these kinds breathe before you poured? To hell with it, he was already pouring. Returning to the sitting room, his heart jumped a little again at seeing Lucien. Lucien, in his flat. It was one thing to go somewhere public, neutral, but this was his home, and he was about to wine and dine a man for the first time in his life, and then what? God, but he wanted to kiss him...
"Lasagna's in the over, should be another fifteen minutes," he said as he sat down on the sofa, handing over a glass of wine as he looked at the other man. "It's... really good to see you, Lucien." There. He'd said it. A part of him had honest-to-god missed the other man for the past few days, which was absolutely ridiculous and amazing at the same time. All worth it, seeing him again now. "I've been thinking about you. A lot, actually." Oh, now he'd done it. Why couldn't he ever just leave it at that nice, civilised point? No, he had to go and be honest. Idiot.
Have no doubt about it, Lucien had a good look at John's arse as he followed him up the stairs. He'd not actually had much chance at all to check it out yet, as most of his attention so far had been directed at the front of the man. It was very nice, actually. Lucien wasn't all about the butt, but he could tell that it was nicely toned, which in turn told him that John wasn't a lazy man. Maybe not a gym fanatic, but he wasn't going to be disappointed when he finally got to see his body.
Slipping out of his coat, he put it over the back of the chair before sitting down on the couch. In the semi quiet moments that followed while John clattered around in the kitchen, Lucien took in his surroundings. It was an eclectic kind of room, definitely not minimal, and a little old fashioned, with the boldly patterned wallpaper and the worn print carpet. No sturdy oak desk, he was sad to note; the desk that the laptop sat on probably wouldn't survive the activities Lucien had in mind. He was pleased to see plenty of other things around the room that fitted in with the fantasy image he'd been playing with in his mind though, images that fitted with the studious, avante-garde professor idea. The skull on the mantle piece didn't disturb him much, John was a doctor after all, and the preserved bat next to it was an interesting oddity. Lots of books, oh yes, of course. Lucien twisted in his seat to look behind himself. The graffiti smiley face on the wall was more eccentric... Was there holes in the wall...?
He turned his attention back to John as he came back in. So, so much here that he wanted to ask about. More layers to the man to explore. It intrigued and excited Lucien so much and he didn't even know where to start. "Lasagna's one of my favourites," he told him as he took the wine. At John's comment, he felt that lovely little skip in his chest, his confidence swelling. He sipped his wine, eyes not leaving the other's face. "Have you? What have you been thinking?" That was better, more bold, more confident, more himself.
John had been living with Sherlock long enough, he rarely even noticed anymore that their flat might be a little... different than the average London household. He had gotten used to the quirky and sometimes rather questionable items around the place, the bullet holes in the wall, the entire feel of the place... It was home. It was a reflection of the two men who lived there - which really was quite the overstatement, most of the time they were out, trying to solve yet another case. But when they were home, it felt like them, somewhere to withdraw from the outside world. Had he thought about it, John would realize people might come into the flat and feel... rather the way he felt, when he first walked in. But back then it had been a mess, as well. Now it was... organized chaos.
John took a moment to mentally thank and bless Mrs Hudson's little cotton socks once more when Lucien said lasagna was one of his favourites (England would indeed fall without her!), but felt himself caught off-guard by Lucien's question. Which he really shouldn't be, it was a perfectly sensible follow-up question after his little confession. What had he been thinking about? Well, plenty, but anything that was proper conversation material and not completely x-rated? God knew there was enough of that...
"Uh," he replied eloquently, stalling for time as he tried to come up with an answer that didn't involve the words kiss, hands, mouth, lips, tongue, touch, smooth, stroke, suck, more, please and fuck. It was going to be challenging. "Us, together," he finally settled on, looking into the other's eyes. That much he could do, at least. God, but he loved Lucien's eyes, so much. "Talking, spending time together, laughing..." Bending me over a desk, any desk, maybe the one in the clinic... He shrugged, smiling a little to try and hide the obvious distraction his thoughts were providing. "Just... more of you and me. You know?"
"Yeah, I know." He nodded, his smile reaching his eyes. He knew exactly and as much of an ego stroke the idea that John had been thinking about him all the time he'd been too busy to call him was, it was also a relief to think that while he was wandering around London with his thoughts straying to this virtual stranger, the same was happening on the other end as well. "I was doing a lot of the same. Wondering about you, really. I had such a good night the other night, talking, I mean, as well as... the rest."
He raised the wine glass to toast and clink against John's. "To us, together."
"It's an interesting place you've got here. Who's the guy on the mantle piece? An old patient?" He gestured to the skull, sitting back a little on the sofa and trying to look relaxed and confident with it.
"Who, The Skull?" John asked as he looked towards the mantle piece and the still nameless item, smile turning a little wry. Since John has moved in, Sherlock seemed to have changed his habit from speaking to it to speaking to John... whether he was actually in the flat, or not. Didn't matter, apparently. The idea of John would do. "It's a medical replica, actually. Belongs to my flatmate. Most things in here do, actually. He likes... having things a certain way. Calms him down. Helps him think."
John took a sip from his wine and made an appreciative sound - oh, really good, well done, Lucien! "He tends to make life interesting, down to the interior decorating." Again, that wry little smile. "But enough about him." Truly, most of John's days and nights seemed to be about Sherlock, amazing Sherlock, brilliant Sherlock, and while that gig had been exciting in the beginning, John was beginning to feel somewhat... left behind. Not under-appreciated, exactly, but he was starting to grow weary of the continuous sidekick assumptions. He had talents of his own, thanks much, and contributed to the work just as much. With Lucien, though, John felt the center of attention. It was nice. It was really, really nice. "Tell me what you've been up to." Did you think of me, too?
A doctor too, then, Lucien assumes. It makes sense that a couple of professionals in the same field would club together to be housemates in central London. It was a nice location, worth sharing with another person for. It'd be polite to ask after the housemate, but John gives more than a slight hint that he's not here to talk about a third wheel that isn't even present. Much more than a slight hint, and Lucien doesn't think any more of it, because honestly, he's far more interested in John anyway.
"Not that much really. It turns out my friend is incredibly rude and too busy trying to earn a living to babysit me. So, I've just been a cheapskate tourist and seeing the sights, staying in bed far too late..." He stretches his arm along the back of the sofa. So casual. So leaning into John's space like he's a friend that he knows well. "I went to a couple of clubs; Heaven, G-A-Y, but I didn't meet anyone that interested me. You're the only interesting person I've met the whole time I've been here, John. I would be disappointed, but I'm not so much."
John didn't know whether he was supposed to feel flattered, aroused or amused... all of the above, maybe? He was highly aware of that arm along the back of the sofa, and Lucien's sudden close proximity. This close, John thought he could pick up a whiff of Lucien's own cologne, which stirred certain... memories. Ah, but that gaze; John felt like Lucien would eat him alive, given half the chance. You're the only interesting person I've met the whole time I've been here, John. How was it this man knew exactly what to say to make John feel appreciated, seen, and warm all over? It wasn't as though the words themselves were anything special; but the way in which they were said, and the look that accompanied them... John could feel the sincerity behind them. Someone like Lucien probably held the interest of dozens of suitors in just one club. But he'd thought of him. Him, unassuming, ordinary John Watson. The thought was heady, to say the least. He knew he probably looked far too pleased, though he was trying not to give too much away.
"Sounds like a rubbish friend," he murmured, before a distinctive ding all but ruined the moment. "Ah, that'll be the lasagna." John sounded almost apologetic as he got up and headed into the kitchen. Who needed dinner? All John wanted to do was sit back down next to Lucien and talk about everything and nothing and stare into those horribly distracting brown eyes, and could he possibly be more pathetic? "I have a confession to make," he said as he sat back down, carefully placing the very hot oven dish on the table before he began plating for the both of them. "I didn't actually make this." He glanced sideways at the other man, smiling again and looking just a little embarrassed. Mostly, he looked quietly amused at his own incorrigible honest streak. "My landlady, bless her, saved the evening. I've got absolutely nothing in the house. I'm sure it's delicious, though. She's a really good cook." He shrugged, holding Lucien's eyes. "I'll cook you something next time, promise." Yes, he did just say next time, Lucien. Promised it, in fact. Without so much as a blink or pause.
"It smells good," Lucien commented as John brought the food through. It was the truth that it was one of his favourites and the fact that it arrived in a cooking dish and was clearly homemade, not a frozen readymeal, made it all the better. John's confession, his need to be honest about the origin of the lasagna, made him want to laugh, though he kept it to a polite, amused smile. No, you're not a normal guy, are you John? Any normal man, or woman for that matter, would have kept that to themselves. Omitting the truth isn't lying by most people's standards, just don't say that you made it yourself and there's nothing to have to come clean about. But John was too honest to do that, it seemed. It was refreshing and endearing, kind of... cute. But in a way that didn't at all knock him down in Lucien's esteem. And apparently he could cook at least something. When would next time be? This week, before he goes back to Leeds? Suddenly the thought of going home, back to his brother, back to his cat, that seemed like a wrench that was coming too soon. "Your landlady must be lovely to do this for you."
The sofa creaked as he pulled himself forwards again and sat on the edge so he could balance the plate on his lap. No salad or chips or any other unnecessary garnishes. Simple, just the meat and pasta, exactly how he liked it. There was no pretension in John, and Lucien could believe that when he said that there was nothing in the house, there literally was nothing. He ate a mouthful of the lasagna and made a genuine appreciative noise. "Tell her from me that it's really good."
He reached for his glass for a sip of wine, his gaze falling back on John for a minute. He didn't feel a desperate urge to fill the silence with conversation, it was surprisingly easy to just be in the other's company without that oppressive weight that sometimes hung over a lull in conversation. If he didn't actually want to talk to John out of the desire to learn more about him, he'd have been comfortable just in his company. That was a good sign, he imagined, and it made him reluctant to break that spell. "Have you always lived in London?"
"Not always, no." John took a few more bites of his own lasagna (it was really was very good) and sipped from his wine before he continued. It seemed the right time to share more about himself with Lucien, lift up the veil a little higher and show him there was a little more to the good doctor than met the eye. "After my college years at St. Bart's, I was also trained at the hospital as an Army doctor." He tensed a little, smiling with an effort as he did so; he never was very keen on this part, and wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. "I then went on to training and serving as a Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Got deployed to Afghanistan a few years ago, where I served until I got shot in the shoulder."
He knew he was throwing some fairly intense information out there, but honestly, it didn't matter anymore; it was in the past, and he'd recounted the events so often in the past year it had all become somewhat distant and irrelevant. He had a good life now, was more settled and felt more alive than ever before. It was fine. It was all fine. "Moved back to London about a year ago. Met my flatmate, moved into this place, and found a job as GP at a local surgery." He looked at Lucien again, his smile turning a little more sincere. "Sorry, that was a lot of information, wasn't it? Story's a bit worn down from the amount of times I've shared it. It's really nothing special."
Army doctor. Lucien's eyebrows went up, finding that surprised him. Not so much because that didn't fit what he knew of John, because it did, but because it was one of those careers that he'd never really took into account himself. He had no quarrel with the army, and he deeply understood the urge to defend and protect, but there were plenty of aspects related to that kind of job that went against his instincts and beliefs as well. Still, it wasn't something he held against John; there was nothing in the matter to hold against him and it showed just what strength of character the other man had. His eyes automatically flicked to John's shoulder at the mention of being shot. He wondered which shoulder it was, if there was a scar to find under the material of his shirt, and if he would mind Lucien paying it any attention later.
"No, it's fine. Succinct, really." He smiled and looked at his plate, then back up at the strange collection of items over on the mantlepiece. He didn't want to pry too much, especially if the story has gotten so worn and boring for John to tell over and over, but he was curious. "Do you think you would still be out there if you hadn't been shot?"
John fell silent for a little while. Surprisingly, it was the first time anyone had ever asked him that since his return from Afghanistan. He certainly hadn't lingered on that possibility himself; he got shot. He was sent home. That had been his reality when he'd returned to London. No point in thinking otherwise. And once he had met Sherlock, well, there had barely been any time or space to breathe, let alone look back.
"Probably," he eventually settled on as he placed his plate on the table and sat back into the sofa, crossing his legs and looking thoughtful as he watched the other man, momentarily lost in memories. "Difficult to say, though. It was getting increasingly dangerous during the time I was there. If I had stayed, my regimen would have probably been sent back to England shortly after, anyway. But... yeah. I think so. It was my life, back then, you know? All I had." It spoke to just how committed a man John was... and how lonely, if he truly believed his duty in Afghanistan was all he had going for him in his life at that point. He smiled at Lucien, trying to break through the sudden serious and introspective turn of the conversation. "But I'm here, with you, and I like that a fair bit better, let me tell you."
Nodding, Lucien scrapped the last of his meal on to his fork. He'd really cleaned the plate; it had turned out he was much more hungry than he expected. He hadn't really eaten that well this last week, junk food mostly, cheap junk food. MacDonalds weren't really the greatest source of meat on the planet, and the lasagna had really hit the spot. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm glad you got shot." A smirk turning up the corners of his mouth, he ate the last forkful and put the plate down on the coffee table.
Wiping around his mouth with his thumb, he leaned back in the seat as well. His body turned towards John, his shoulder pressed against the sofa cushion. He slid back, relaxing back into the corner of the chair, though it wasn't exactly a comfortable position to be in. Lets see what John makes of this - he's facing him, definitely interested, but if he wants to do anything about it, he's going to have to make a move. It was a bit of a game, and to be honest, if John failed to react within a space of time, Lucien would move again, to get more comfortable, of course. He lay one arm over the back cushions again, the other on the armrest. Wide open body language.
"How about you pop 'round mine? I can fix us something to eat, you bring a bottle of wine?" Simple, casual, and John would be on safe and familiar ground. Except, shit, did he have anything in the house? Tea, milk, toast, but anything else? Anything dinner-worthy? John supposed he could ask Mrs Hudson for help... and otherwise there was always the cafe downstairs, or the Chinese place around the corner. If he left now, he might be able to make it before Lucien got to the flat...
"The address is 221B Baker Street, shouldn't be hard to find. Sound good?" He knew this could be considered too much, too fast, but Lucien would return to Leeds in less than a week, and frankly, John did not have the patience to play out a nice and proper courtship; there simply wasn't any time, and they'd already lost a week. He wanted to see him now, and he wanted him to himself.
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"221B Baker Street," he pulled out a Biro, cradled his phone to his ear with his shoulder a moment while he scribbled that on the back of his hand. He'd have to get out his map of the city, probably have to figure out the route to get to the nearest Underground station. "That sounds great. I'll get us some wine and see you soon."
After he hung up, he couldn't do much to stop the surge of euphoria that rushed through him. Yes! He brought a fist up in a small air punch... A passing cyclist looked a little worried, like Lucien was about to pounce on him and steal his bike. Lucien didn't care, he'd done more embarrassing things before and it was better to get it out now, try and get a little bit of sophistication together before he reached John's...
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Reaching Baker Street, John took the stairs two steps at a time and raced into the kitchen... and perhaps he had simply lived too long with Sherlock and had gotten used to the chaos that was their kitchen, but now that he had somebody coming over, somebody he actually liked, all he could see was... well, chaos. Definitely not having dinner in the kitchen tonight, nope. Their fridge, to John's horror, was empty save for some jars containing questionable liquids. Not even any milk. God's sake, Sherlock! Right, then. Plan B. Mrs Hudson. Running down the stairs and knocking on her door, he tried to explain his situation to her as calm and collected as possible, throwing in a pleading smile or two (having a friend over, no time to do the groceries, could really use your help, and you're such a wonderful cook, Mrs Hudson--). The feeling of victory was enormous when he returned upstairs with an oven dish of homemade lasagna, ready to be popped into the oven (Just this once, dear! Mrs Hudson, you're a saint!). He should probably feel bad about accepting the dish, but he was in a hurry, hadn't properly planned things out, and he would make it up to her. Take her out to dinner, maybe. She'd like that.
Right, then. Lasagna was in the oven. John spent the next few minutes tidying up the flat as best he could, making sure the sofa could be used for sitting and the coffee table for putting their glasses, plates and cutlery on. It wasn't elegant in the slightest, but it would be cozy? He looked over the sitting room one more time, satisfied with the result, and headed into the bathroom, followed by his bedroom. Not much to be done there, bit of cologne, change of shirt, making sure he looked at least somewhat presentable. He was in the middle of returning to the sitting room when he heard the doorbell, and his heart jumped in his chest. He was here. Lucien was here.
"I'll get it, Mrs Hudson!" John called as he made his way down the stairs yet again, and opened the door, leaning into the doorway a little with a huff of breath and bright eyes. "Hi. Evening." Too much? Hardly. If he'd really had his way he'd have grabbed Lucien by the collar, dragged him inside and kissed him silly. Christ, but he hadn't expected this much of a reaction at seeing the other man again. "Please, come in. I hope it wasn't too hard to find...?"
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He'd thought about picking up something else besides wine to take for John, but flowers were a ridiculous idea, they didn't seem to be John's kind of thing and what kind of message was Lucien trying to put across here? It was coming on a bit too strong for the second time he's even seeing the guy. What the hell was wrong with him, even entertaining the idea? He may as well be seventeen again and fumbling around cluelessly. How about he makes a mixtape for John while he's at it? Apart from that, the only other things that off licence had was more booze, chocolate bars and fags. So that at least saved him from doing something completely foolish.
It turned out that the Tube station for Baker Street was only a short walk to the address John had given him. He took the wine out of the bag as he crossed the road and shoved the bag into his pocket. His chest was tight and he tried not to think too much about just how nervous and excited he was. It was only a guy, it was only.... dinner. It's not a big thing and he normally had more confidence than this, where was his confidence? Don't start shaking, for fuck's sake... Fuck.
"Hey!" He smiled broadly at John and held the wine up by the neck in greeting. What are you now? An alcoholic? I brought wine! "No, it was easy to find, no problem at all." He slid into the building rambling awkwardly about the Underground.
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"Yeah, I know, it's a bit of a rubbish stop, not a lot of people get off, so I always end up pushing my way out." He took the bottle of wine from Lucien with a smile and led him up the stairs, going first - and if that meant Lucien got a nice eye-full of John's jeans-clad behind, well, John wasn't exactly used to thinking that way... yet. "Please, sit down," he gestured toward the sofa. "I'll pour us a glass." He made quick work of uncorking the bottle in the kitchen - John wasn't a wine connaisseur by any standards, but it looked nice, and the label was spinning him all sorts of culinary fairy tales - wait, were you supposed to let these kinds breathe before you poured? To hell with it, he was already pouring. Returning to the sitting room, his heart jumped a little again at seeing Lucien. Lucien, in his flat. It was one thing to go somewhere public, neutral, but this was his home, and he was about to wine and dine a man for the first time in his life, and then what? God, but he wanted to kiss him...
"Lasagna's in the over, should be another fifteen minutes," he said as he sat down on the sofa, handing over a glass of wine as he looked at the other man. "It's... really good to see you, Lucien." There. He'd said it. A part of him had honest-to-god missed the other man for the past few days, which was absolutely ridiculous and amazing at the same time. All worth it, seeing him again now. "I've been thinking about you. A lot, actually." Oh, now he'd done it. Why couldn't he ever just leave it at that nice, civilised point? No, he had to go and be honest. Idiot.
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Slipping out of his coat, he put it over the back of the chair before sitting down on the couch. In the semi quiet moments that followed while John clattered around in the kitchen, Lucien took in his surroundings. It was an eclectic kind of room, definitely not minimal, and a little old fashioned, with the boldly patterned wallpaper and the worn print carpet. No sturdy oak desk, he was sad to note; the desk that the laptop sat on probably wouldn't survive the activities Lucien had in mind. He was pleased to see plenty of other things around the room that fitted in with the fantasy image he'd been playing with in his mind though, images that fitted with the studious, avante-garde professor idea. The skull on the mantle piece didn't disturb him much, John was a doctor after all, and the preserved bat next to it was an interesting oddity. Lots of books, oh yes, of course. Lucien twisted in his seat to look behind himself. The graffiti smiley face on the wall was more eccentric... Was there holes in the wall...?
He turned his attention back to John as he came back in. So, so much here that he wanted to ask about. More layers to the man to explore. It intrigued and excited Lucien so much and he didn't even know where to start. "Lasagna's one of my favourites," he told him as he took the wine. At John's comment, he felt that lovely little skip in his chest, his confidence swelling. He sipped his wine, eyes not leaving the other's face. "Have you? What have you been thinking?" That was better, more bold, more confident, more himself.
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John took a moment to mentally thank and bless Mrs Hudson's little cotton socks once more when Lucien said lasagna was one of his favourites (England would indeed fall without her!), but felt himself caught off-guard by Lucien's question. Which he really shouldn't be, it was a perfectly sensible follow-up question after his little confession. What had he been thinking about? Well, plenty, but anything that was proper conversation material and not completely x-rated? God knew there was enough of that...
"Uh," he replied eloquently, stalling for time as he tried to come up with an answer that didn't involve the words kiss, hands, mouth, lips, tongue, touch, smooth, stroke, suck, more, please and fuck. It was going to be challenging. "Us, together," he finally settled on, looking into the other's eyes. That much he could do, at least. God, but he loved Lucien's eyes, so much. "Talking, spending time together, laughing..." Bending me over a desk, any desk, maybe the one in the clinic... He shrugged, smiling a little to try and hide the obvious distraction his thoughts were providing. "Just... more of you and me. You know?"
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He raised the wine glass to toast and clink against John's. "To us, together."
"It's an interesting place you've got here. Who's the guy on the mantle piece? An old patient?" He gestured to the skull, sitting back a little on the sofa and trying to look relaxed and confident with it.
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John took a sip from his wine and made an appreciative sound - oh, really good, well done, Lucien! "He tends to make life interesting, down to the interior decorating." Again, that wry little smile. "But enough about him." Truly, most of John's days and nights seemed to be about Sherlock, amazing Sherlock, brilliant Sherlock, and while that gig had been exciting in the beginning, John was beginning to feel somewhat... left behind. Not under-appreciated, exactly, but he was starting to grow weary of the continuous sidekick assumptions. He had talents of his own, thanks much, and contributed to the work just as much. With Lucien, though, John felt the center of attention. It was nice. It was really, really nice. "Tell me what you've been up to." Did you think of me, too?
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"Not that much really. It turns out my friend is incredibly rude and too busy trying to earn a living to babysit me. So, I've just been a cheapskate tourist and seeing the sights, staying in bed far too late..." He stretches his arm along the back of the sofa. So casual. So leaning into John's space like he's a friend that he knows well. "I went to a couple of clubs; Heaven, G-A-Y, but I didn't meet anyone that interested me. You're the only interesting person I've met the whole time I've been here, John. I would be disappointed, but I'm not so much."
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"Sounds like a rubbish friend," he murmured, before a distinctive ding all but ruined the moment. "Ah, that'll be the lasagna." John sounded almost apologetic as he got up and headed into the kitchen. Who needed dinner? All John wanted to do was sit back down next to Lucien and talk about everything and nothing and stare into those horribly distracting brown eyes, and could he possibly be more pathetic? "I have a confession to make," he said as he sat back down, carefully placing the very hot oven dish on the table before he began plating for the both of them. "I didn't actually make this." He glanced sideways at the other man, smiling again and looking just a little embarrassed. Mostly, he looked quietly amused at his own incorrigible honest streak. "My landlady, bless her, saved the evening. I've got absolutely nothing in the house. I'm sure it's delicious, though. She's a really good cook." He shrugged, holding Lucien's eyes. "I'll cook you something next time, promise." Yes, he did just say next time, Lucien. Promised it, in fact. Without so much as a blink or pause.
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The sofa creaked as he pulled himself forwards again and sat on the edge so he could balance the plate on his lap. No salad or chips or any other unnecessary garnishes. Simple, just the meat and pasta, exactly how he liked it. There was no pretension in John, and Lucien could believe that when he said that there was nothing in the house, there literally was nothing. He ate a mouthful of the lasagna and made a genuine appreciative noise. "Tell her from me that it's really good."
He reached for his glass for a sip of wine, his gaze falling back on John for a minute. He didn't feel a desperate urge to fill the silence with conversation, it was surprisingly easy to just be in the other's company without that oppressive weight that sometimes hung over a lull in conversation. If he didn't actually want to talk to John out of the desire to learn more about him, he'd have been comfortable just in his company. That was a good sign, he imagined, and it made him reluctant to break that spell. "Have you always lived in London?"
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He knew he was throwing some fairly intense information out there, but honestly, it didn't matter anymore; it was in the past, and he'd recounted the events so often in the past year it had all become somewhat distant and irrelevant. He had a good life now, was more settled and felt more alive than ever before. It was fine. It was all fine. "Moved back to London about a year ago. Met my flatmate, moved into this place, and found a job as GP at a local surgery." He looked at Lucien again, his smile turning a little more sincere. "Sorry, that was a lot of information, wasn't it? Story's a bit worn down from the amount of times I've shared it. It's really nothing special."
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"No, it's fine. Succinct, really." He smiled and looked at his plate, then back up at the strange collection of items over on the mantlepiece. He didn't want to pry too much, especially if the story has gotten so worn and boring for John to tell over and over, but he was curious. "Do you think you would still be out there if you hadn't been shot?"
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"Probably," he eventually settled on as he placed his plate on the table and sat back into the sofa, crossing his legs and looking thoughtful as he watched the other man, momentarily lost in memories. "Difficult to say, though. It was getting increasingly dangerous during the time I was there. If I had stayed, my regimen would have probably been sent back to England shortly after, anyway. But... yeah. I think so. It was my life, back then, you know? All I had." It spoke to just how committed a man John was... and how lonely, if he truly believed his duty in Afghanistan was all he had going for him in his life at that point. He smiled at Lucien, trying to break through the sudden serious and introspective turn of the conversation. "But I'm here, with you, and I like that a fair bit better, let me tell you."
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Wiping around his mouth with his thumb, he leaned back in the seat as well. His body turned towards John, his shoulder pressed against the sofa cushion. He slid back, relaxing back into the corner of the chair, though it wasn't exactly a comfortable position to be in. Lets see what John makes of this - he's facing him, definitely interested, but if he wants to do anything about it, he's going to have to make a move. It was a bit of a game, and to be honest, if John failed to react within a space of time, Lucien would move again, to get more comfortable, of course. He lay one arm over the back cushions again, the other on the armrest. Wide open body language.
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