Fic: Dinner and...
[A/N: Inspired by a bit of roleplaying, and my growing love for this odd-yet-oddly-perfect pairing. Many thanks to geneticgifts for continually inspiring.]
Doctor Cameron arrives promptly at half past seven, and Sherlock answers the door wearing coat and scarf, as though prepared to go out.
She doesn’t sigh, but she doesn’t look amused. “I expected dinner in. You said bring wine.”
“A cultural difference between America and England,” he answers, turning her around in the doorway and leading her down the stairs. “Besides, the refrigerator is filled with petri dishes. I don’t cook.”
“Do you even eat?”
Sherlock thinks about it for a moment. “When necessary.”
Cameron looks over her shoulder. “So this is a necessary engagement.”
“With a cherry on top.”
It’s an odd enough thing for Sherlock to say that Cameron actually misses a step. He grabs her by the arm to steady her, and pulls her close, one eyebrow raised. “Something wrong, Allison?”
She’s pretty sure he did that all on purpose, so she hands him the wine as if that had been her intent the entire time, steadies herself, takes a step back and shakes her head. “No.”
He smiles knowingly. “Of course. Well, we aren’t going far.”
They aren’t. It’s the same place he always goes, though the owner is surprised enough to see him with someone that isn’t John. Sherlock doesn’t look at the menu. He asks for two wine glasses, lets Allison make her order, and then waves his hands dismissively.
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
“Naturally. But I get the same thing every time.”
“Why?”
He considers how best to phrase the answer, which is a compliment to her. With other people he wouldn’t bother putting thought into making it sound less derisive. “I’ve tried everything on the menu. It’s the only thing that remains interesting.”
Allison looks at him. She’s smiling. “I’d ask if you go through women like you go through pasta, but you don’t go through women, do you?”
“No.”
“Or men.”
Sherlock shakes his head. “Food is vastly more interesting than the average human. It’s only the above average -”
“That can bring the wine.” She pours out two glasses. “Why American?”
“A new appreciation for the region.”
“You know, Sherlock,” she takes a sip of her wine and leans forward, elbows on the table. “You’re doing really well at this. I’m surprised.”
He knows she’s looking for a particular answer, so he chooses not to answer at all. She provides one for him.
“You pass well.”
Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. “I did say high-functioning.” He pauses. “You can’t decide if you want this to be a date.”
“That’s right.” Her continued refusal to lie or hide things from him remains intriguing. And annoying. If she doesn’t hide things, there’s nothing for him to discover. Yet Doctor Allison Cameron seems to be the exception to Sherlock’s rule, in a far less exasperated way than Doctor John Watson. Watson insists on some semblance, illusory as it may be, of an outside life even while being drawn into Sherlock’s. Cameron implies, by her behavior, that Sherlock is her outside life. He’s her hobby.
Infuriatingly fascinating in its newness. That is how he thinks of his relationship with Allison, at this moment in time. “Does my opinion matter?”
She laughs and sits back as their food is delivered. “Actually, I don’t think it does. I think I already know what your opinion is.”
He narrows his eyes. “Maybe I’ll surprise you.”
“If I thought that would happen,” her fork is half-lifted to her mouth, and she stares at him very seriously. “I wouldn’t be here.”
Infuriatingly fascinating. Sherlock eats his meal in comfortable silence. Allison talks, but only of medical mysteries she’s solved, and he knows she knows he’s not listening. It’s filler, to help him pass. To help them pass.
At the door to his flat, he looks down at her. “I would invite you in, but -”
“There are petri dishes in the bed?”
Sherlock answers as if it had been a serious question. “They wouldn’t keep in the climate. I have no intention of having sex with you, and it would be remiss of me to -”
Allison cuts him off with a raised hand. “I have no intention of having sex with you, either. I’d rather have coffee.”
He looks at her. She crosses her arms over her chest. They remain that way for a minute, and then she leans up and kisses him on the cheek.
“I think that this wasn’t a date. Thank you, Sherlock.”
“I would agree.” If only because he refuses to believe that he dates. That would be highly unlike him, and Sherlock prefers to remain in the comfort zone of his own patterns of behavior. Bad enough living with Watson. Now Cameron. “You’re welcome.”
He watches as she calls a taxi, and watches the taxis until it’s a spot in the distance. Then he goes upstairs.
Doctor Cameron arrives promptly at half past seven, and Sherlock answers the door wearing coat and scarf, as though prepared to go out.
She doesn’t sigh, but she doesn’t look amused. “I expected dinner in. You said bring wine.”
“A cultural difference between America and England,” he answers, turning her around in the doorway and leading her down the stairs. “Besides, the refrigerator is filled with petri dishes. I don’t cook.”
“Do you even eat?”
Sherlock thinks about it for a moment. “When necessary.”
Cameron looks over her shoulder. “So this is a necessary engagement.”
“With a cherry on top.”
It’s an odd enough thing for Sherlock to say that Cameron actually misses a step. He grabs her by the arm to steady her, and pulls her close, one eyebrow raised. “Something wrong, Allison?”
She’s pretty sure he did that all on purpose, so she hands him the wine as if that had been her intent the entire time, steadies herself, takes a step back and shakes her head. “No.”
He smiles knowingly. “Of course. Well, we aren’t going far.”
They aren’t. It’s the same place he always goes, though the owner is surprised enough to see him with someone that isn’t John. Sherlock doesn’t look at the menu. He asks for two wine glasses, lets Allison make her order, and then waves his hands dismissively.
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
“Naturally. But I get the same thing every time.”
“Why?”
He considers how best to phrase the answer, which is a compliment to her. With other people he wouldn’t bother putting thought into making it sound less derisive. “I’ve tried everything on the menu. It’s the only thing that remains interesting.”
Allison looks at him. She’s smiling. “I’d ask if you go through women like you go through pasta, but you don’t go through women, do you?”
“No.”
“Or men.”
Sherlock shakes his head. “Food is vastly more interesting than the average human. It’s only the above average -”
“That can bring the wine.” She pours out two glasses. “Why American?”
“A new appreciation for the region.”
“You know, Sherlock,” she takes a sip of her wine and leans forward, elbows on the table. “You’re doing really well at this. I’m surprised.”
He knows she’s looking for a particular answer, so he chooses not to answer at all. She provides one for him.
“You pass well.”
Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. “I did say high-functioning.” He pauses. “You can’t decide if you want this to be a date.”
“That’s right.” Her continued refusal to lie or hide things from him remains intriguing. And annoying. If she doesn’t hide things, there’s nothing for him to discover. Yet Doctor Allison Cameron seems to be the exception to Sherlock’s rule, in a far less exasperated way than Doctor John Watson. Watson insists on some semblance, illusory as it may be, of an outside life even while being drawn into Sherlock’s. Cameron implies, by her behavior, that Sherlock is her outside life. He’s her hobby.
Infuriatingly fascinating in its newness. That is how he thinks of his relationship with Allison, at this moment in time. “Does my opinion matter?”
She laughs and sits back as their food is delivered. “Actually, I don’t think it does. I think I already know what your opinion is.”
He narrows his eyes. “Maybe I’ll surprise you.”
“If I thought that would happen,” her fork is half-lifted to her mouth, and she stares at him very seriously. “I wouldn’t be here.”
Infuriatingly fascinating. Sherlock eats his meal in comfortable silence. Allison talks, but only of medical mysteries she’s solved, and he knows she knows he’s not listening. It’s filler, to help him pass. To help them pass.
At the door to his flat, he looks down at her. “I would invite you in, but -”
“There are petri dishes in the bed?”
Sherlock answers as if it had been a serious question. “They wouldn’t keep in the climate. I have no intention of having sex with you, and it would be remiss of me to -”
Allison cuts him off with a raised hand. “I have no intention of having sex with you, either. I’d rather have coffee.”
He looks at her. She crosses her arms over her chest. They remain that way for a minute, and then she leans up and kisses him on the cheek.
“I think that this wasn’t a date. Thank you, Sherlock.”
“I would agree.” If only because he refuses to believe that he dates. That would be highly unlike him, and Sherlock prefers to remain in the comfort zone of his own patterns of behavior. Bad enough living with Watson. Now Cameron. “You’re welcome.”
He watches as she calls a taxi, and watches the taxis until it’s a spot in the distance. Then he goes upstairs.