Love of the Loveless, Part 5
Love of the Loveless
Pairing: [Sherlock/John]
Rating: T (as of right now)
Time frame: Takes place during a case lull somewhere between episodes 1.2 and 1.3, more or less AU from there.
Summary: Sometimes, the most obvious conclusions are the ones right in front of your face.... or just the one living in your flat. Love won't come easy for Sherlock, but John's used to fighting for the things he wants.
Not Mine!
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Sherlock stared at the cup of coffee sitting in front of him, the paper cup irritating in its normalcy. Really, the thing was just mocking him, sitting there, all content, and coffee like. Sherlock sighed. It was a dull day indeed that forced Sherlock Holmes from his flat like some sort of war refuge. And now, here he was, sitting in a Starbucks of all places, trying to figure out what to do next.
He’d screwed up, his more relaxed behavior around John causing him to forget what he was doing. Namely, attempting to be manipulative, something at which Sherlock was very good. He’d had years of practice, but suddenly in his desperation to solve a problem, he’d failed, like some sort of inexperienced idiot. In fact, he failed in exactly the same way John would have. By being obvious.
Sherlock had seen John attempt to be clever before, and the entire exercise was laughable at best. John tended to blunder about wildly, his quiet and polite behavior saving him from complete social disgrace. It was rather interesting when Sherlock needed something to occupy his time, which was always.
It was this lack of emotional pretense that allowed Sherlock to maintain a relationship with John. Overly complex emotions and manipulative games were not something he could stand in other people. He had trouble enough figuring out what was going on in their tiny little brains, without all that mess. Give him a serial killer and he could deduce every thought and movement, but present him with a crying female for example, and he was at a loss.
Sherlock let out another irritated sigh before abandoning his cup of coffee on the small table and stalking toward the door. John had already texted twice and Sherlock could sense another one on its way. John really could fuss like a mother hen when he put his mind to it.
A grumble interrupted his thoughts. Damn. Sherlock was starving. It had been about a week since his last full meal, and Sherlock was beginning to feel a bit run down. Without the adrenaline rush from case solving, the so-called ‘necessities’ of life kept creeping up on him. Ever since he’d started strategically attempting to trigger John’s limps the man had been reminding him when to eat less and less. It was rather selfish of him, really.
“Sir? Are you done? Sir!” Sherlock ignored the woman and walked out of the shop. Better to face the situation now, while there was still a chance of getting John to fix him dinner.
Although Sherlock tried his best not to ‘slink’ into his apartment, he still ended up skulking around like a common criminal. Sherlock had no desire to deal with John and his endless questions. If he could sneak into his room without being seen he would have more time to think. Unfortunately, John put an end to that plan rather quickly, his short form standing in the center of the living room, holding Sherlock’s crumpled invitation.
Damn.
“You celebrate birthdays?” John asked as if attempting to be casual and for one horrible second, Sherlock didn’t know what to do. Tell Watson? Ignore the question? Kill him?
Finally, after a very long second of thinking, Sherlock decided his best choice would be the forth option: deflect. Acting as if everything was perfectly normal, Sherlock calmly hung up his coat and took a seat on the sofa.
“Well, obviously, John. I mean, you are holding the evidence in your hands.”
“So, is this what’s got you so riled up?” John asked, holding up the crumpled invitation and for the third time that day Sherlock let out an irritated sigh. Leave it to John to get to the heart of the matter.
“I am not, as you say, ‘riled up’. I’m just…annoyed.”
“Running out of the flat like a little kid is a bit more then annoyed, don’t you think?”
“Now John, don’t be insulting. It doesn’t suit you.”
“I’m not being insulting. I just want to know what’s going on.” John said in that worried tone of voice and Sherlock raised a brow at him. So. This is what it felt like to be worried about? Well, to Sherlock it didn’t actually feel like much of anything, but it was interesting to observe.
“Very well.” Sherlock replied and John limped ever so slightly to his favorite chair. “I hate this sort of things. They’re more unpleasant then an afternoon trapped in an elevator with Anderson and I almost killed him that time.
“Why?” Ah. Such a seemingly simple question from such a seemingly simple man, but there were hidden depths to both, and Sherlock knew he would have to tread carefully.
“Because it’s another one of Mycroft’s attempts to bring me to heel. Show the world his crime solving brother as a form of entertainment.”
“But it’s your mother’s birthday.” John said, as if that fixed the whole situation. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“You really are one for stating the obvious.”
“It’s just… well, I’ve never actually seen you go out and actually ‘do’ anything. I mean, besides solving cases. Maybe it’d be good for you.”
“Now you sound like Mycroft.” Sherlock said, his anger at the situation building. But what could Sherlock do? If he asked Watson to come with him he’d tip his hand and John could lord it over him for weeks. Instead of reacting to Sherlock’s anger John chuckled low in his chest, the kind of laugh Sherlock was still trying to get used to.
“That’s probably true, but still.”
“But still what?” Sherlock replied furiously. “I am NOT being trapped in a room with Mycroft’s idiot friends and my mother. I’d rather be shot. At least dying is interesting.”
“No it isn’t.” John replied quietly, rubbing his shoulder as if on instinct and Sherlock forced himself to calm down. Apparently he’d said the wrong thing.
“Well,” Sherlock said, attempting to fill the silence “You understand what I meant.” John nodded slowly, but then frowned and shook his head.
“Actually, no. No I don’t. Everyone has family obligations they want nothing to do with but it’s your mother’s birthday, Sherlock. You could at least go and pretend to care.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes again and sprawled out on the sofa. If he was going to be miserable, he might as well be comfortable at the same time. Sherlock reached tired hands upwards and began massaging his temples. Damn. He never had headaches during cases.
“Well, if it matters that much to you, why don’t you go. I’m sure Mycroft would love that.” There. He’d said it. If John didn’t take the bait Sherlock would be standing one week from now, in the center of some rented restaurant making a woman cry while his mother stared on disapprovingly.
“I don’t own a tux.” John replied and Sherlock froze, his fingers stopping mid motion.
“I’ll make Mycroft buy you one.” Sherlock replied, trying his best to keep his voice even. “It’s the least the bastard could do.”
“What about you?” John asked.
“Of course I own a tuxedo. I just don’t know where it is at the moment, but that’s hardly a problem.”
“No, I meant the party. You’ll go now? If I go with you?”
“Why would you think that?” Sherlock replied evenly. John was coming dangerously close and he needed to be pushed back a few metaphorical steps.
“Because if I go and you don’t, Mycroft will have Anthea kill me.” John said with a smile and Sherlock nodded, attempting to seem resigned and weary as opposed to relieved.
“Yes, I’ll go. We’ll go. Just don’t expect me to have a good time.” Sherlock grumbled.
“Then that’s settled. I’ll call Sarah. I’m sure she’d love this kind of thing.” John got up rather suddenly, the limp gone.
“No.” Sherlock said without thinking. Not Sarah. Anyone but Sarah.
“What?” John laughed nervously. “I can’t just go with you. And a fancy evening might make up for the time she almost got killed. Well…. Almost.” Sherlock thought quickly, his mind whizzing a mile a minute. He needed a lie. A normal person lie. The sort of thing John wouldn’t suspect- AH!
“I can only bring one guest. Mycroft’s little slave texted me. It’s something to do with overcrowding at the restaurant and the cost of free liquor.” Sherlock replied with a shrug, quiet impressed with his fast thinking. He may not know people, but he knew John and a lie like that was sure to work.
“But, we can’t just go. You and I.”
“What, exactly, is wrong with you and I?” Sherlock asked, confused and therefore frustrated. What was Watson getting at? They’d never had a problem before. Well, never a serious problem.
“It’s just… people…. and… everyone already thinks…” Something was suddenly wrong and Sherlock
watched as John shifted his weight to the right rather dramatically.
“Are you going with me or not?” Sherlock said, noticing the rise of color in John’s cheeks. Was his leg really hurting him that badly?
AN: Ahhh, sexual tension? Awkwardness? Want to find out? You know what to do, leave a review. (Rhyme intended) Also, spread the word.
Pairing: [Sherlock/John]
Rating: T (as of right now)
Time frame: Takes place during a case lull somewhere between episodes 1.2 and 1.3, more or less AU from there.
Summary: Sometimes, the most obvious conclusions are the ones right in front of your face.... or just the one living in your flat. Love won't come easy for Sherlock, but John's used to fighting for the things he wants.
Not Mine!
Previous Chapter Next Chapter
Sherlock stared at the cup of coffee sitting in front of him, the paper cup irritating in its normalcy. Really, the thing was just mocking him, sitting there, all content, and coffee like. Sherlock sighed. It was a dull day indeed that forced Sherlock Holmes from his flat like some sort of war refuge. And now, here he was, sitting in a Starbucks of all places, trying to figure out what to do next.
He’d screwed up, his more relaxed behavior around John causing him to forget what he was doing. Namely, attempting to be manipulative, something at which Sherlock was very good. He’d had years of practice, but suddenly in his desperation to solve a problem, he’d failed, like some sort of inexperienced idiot. In fact, he failed in exactly the same way John would have. By being obvious.
Sherlock had seen John attempt to be clever before, and the entire exercise was laughable at best. John tended to blunder about wildly, his quiet and polite behavior saving him from complete social disgrace. It was rather interesting when Sherlock needed something to occupy his time, which was always.
It was this lack of emotional pretense that allowed Sherlock to maintain a relationship with John. Overly complex emotions and manipulative games were not something he could stand in other people. He had trouble enough figuring out what was going on in their tiny little brains, without all that mess. Give him a serial killer and he could deduce every thought and movement, but present him with a crying female for example, and he was at a loss.
Sherlock let out another irritated sigh before abandoning his cup of coffee on the small table and stalking toward the door. John had already texted twice and Sherlock could sense another one on its way. John really could fuss like a mother hen when he put his mind to it.
A grumble interrupted his thoughts. Damn. Sherlock was starving. It had been about a week since his last full meal, and Sherlock was beginning to feel a bit run down. Without the adrenaline rush from case solving, the so-called ‘necessities’ of life kept creeping up on him. Ever since he’d started strategically attempting to trigger John’s limps the man had been reminding him when to eat less and less. It was rather selfish of him, really.
“Sir? Are you done? Sir!” Sherlock ignored the woman and walked out of the shop. Better to face the situation now, while there was still a chance of getting John to fix him dinner.
Although Sherlock tried his best not to ‘slink’ into his apartment, he still ended up skulking around like a common criminal. Sherlock had no desire to deal with John and his endless questions. If he could sneak into his room without being seen he would have more time to think. Unfortunately, John put an end to that plan rather quickly, his short form standing in the center of the living room, holding Sherlock’s crumpled invitation.
Damn.
“You celebrate birthdays?” John asked as if attempting to be casual and for one horrible second, Sherlock didn’t know what to do. Tell Watson? Ignore the question? Kill him?
Finally, after a very long second of thinking, Sherlock decided his best choice would be the forth option: deflect. Acting as if everything was perfectly normal, Sherlock calmly hung up his coat and took a seat on the sofa.
“Well, obviously, John. I mean, you are holding the evidence in your hands.”
“So, is this what’s got you so riled up?” John asked, holding up the crumpled invitation and for the third time that day Sherlock let out an irritated sigh. Leave it to John to get to the heart of the matter.
“I am not, as you say, ‘riled up’. I’m just…annoyed.”
“Running out of the flat like a little kid is a bit more then annoyed, don’t you think?”
“Now John, don’t be insulting. It doesn’t suit you.”
“I’m not being insulting. I just want to know what’s going on.” John said in that worried tone of voice and Sherlock raised a brow at him. So. This is what it felt like to be worried about? Well, to Sherlock it didn’t actually feel like much of anything, but it was interesting to observe.
“Very well.” Sherlock replied and John limped ever so slightly to his favorite chair. “I hate this sort of things. They’re more unpleasant then an afternoon trapped in an elevator with Anderson and I almost killed him that time.
“Why?” Ah. Such a seemingly simple question from such a seemingly simple man, but there were hidden depths to both, and Sherlock knew he would have to tread carefully.
“Because it’s another one of Mycroft’s attempts to bring me to heel. Show the world his crime solving brother as a form of entertainment.”
“But it’s your mother’s birthday.” John said, as if that fixed the whole situation. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“You really are one for stating the obvious.”
“It’s just… well, I’ve never actually seen you go out and actually ‘do’ anything. I mean, besides solving cases. Maybe it’d be good for you.”
“Now you sound like Mycroft.” Sherlock said, his anger at the situation building. But what could Sherlock do? If he asked Watson to come with him he’d tip his hand and John could lord it over him for weeks. Instead of reacting to Sherlock’s anger John chuckled low in his chest, the kind of laugh Sherlock was still trying to get used to.
“That’s probably true, but still.”
“But still what?” Sherlock replied furiously. “I am NOT being trapped in a room with Mycroft’s idiot friends and my mother. I’d rather be shot. At least dying is interesting.”
“No it isn’t.” John replied quietly, rubbing his shoulder as if on instinct and Sherlock forced himself to calm down. Apparently he’d said the wrong thing.
“Well,” Sherlock said, attempting to fill the silence “You understand what I meant.” John nodded slowly, but then frowned and shook his head.
“Actually, no. No I don’t. Everyone has family obligations they want nothing to do with but it’s your mother’s birthday, Sherlock. You could at least go and pretend to care.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes again and sprawled out on the sofa. If he was going to be miserable, he might as well be comfortable at the same time. Sherlock reached tired hands upwards and began massaging his temples. Damn. He never had headaches during cases.
“Well, if it matters that much to you, why don’t you go. I’m sure Mycroft would love that.” There. He’d said it. If John didn’t take the bait Sherlock would be standing one week from now, in the center of some rented restaurant making a woman cry while his mother stared on disapprovingly.
“I don’t own a tux.” John replied and Sherlock froze, his fingers stopping mid motion.
“I’ll make Mycroft buy you one.” Sherlock replied, trying his best to keep his voice even. “It’s the least the bastard could do.”
“What about you?” John asked.
“Of course I own a tuxedo. I just don’t know where it is at the moment, but that’s hardly a problem.”
“No, I meant the party. You’ll go now? If I go with you?”
“Why would you think that?” Sherlock replied evenly. John was coming dangerously close and he needed to be pushed back a few metaphorical steps.
“Because if I go and you don’t, Mycroft will have Anthea kill me.” John said with a smile and Sherlock nodded, attempting to seem resigned and weary as opposed to relieved.
“Yes, I’ll go. We’ll go. Just don’t expect me to have a good time.” Sherlock grumbled.
“Then that’s settled. I’ll call Sarah. I’m sure she’d love this kind of thing.” John got up rather suddenly, the limp gone.
“No.” Sherlock said without thinking. Not Sarah. Anyone but Sarah.
“What?” John laughed nervously. “I can’t just go with you. And a fancy evening might make up for the time she almost got killed. Well…. Almost.” Sherlock thought quickly, his mind whizzing a mile a minute. He needed a lie. A normal person lie. The sort of thing John wouldn’t suspect- AH!
“I can only bring one guest. Mycroft’s little slave texted me. It’s something to do with overcrowding at the restaurant and the cost of free liquor.” Sherlock replied with a shrug, quiet impressed with his fast thinking. He may not know people, but he knew John and a lie like that was sure to work.
“But, we can’t just go. You and I.”
“What, exactly, is wrong with you and I?” Sherlock asked, confused and therefore frustrated. What was Watson getting at? They’d never had a problem before. Well, never a serious problem.
“It’s just… people…. and… everyone already thinks…” Something was suddenly wrong and Sherlock
watched as John shifted his weight to the right rather dramatically.
“Are you going with me or not?” Sherlock said, noticing the rise of color in John’s cheeks. Was his leg really hurting him that badly?
AN: Ahhh, sexual tension? Awkwardness? Want to find out? You know what to do, leave a review. (Rhyme intended) Also, spread the word.