Welcome! (Prompting: part i)
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This is a fic prompting meme based around the BBC series Sherlock, written by Stephen Moffat & Mark Gattis.
( Read more... )
Prompts from this post can be filled on the Overflow Post
This is a fic prompting meme based around the BBC series Sherlock, written by Stephen Moffat & Mark Gattis.
( Read more... )
They go out for dinner that night because Sherlock, in a rare display of human emotions, feels like a cad. The guilty turn of his mouth and flickering frown are not uncommon for him - he’s done plenty wrong for the cause of, not justice but, the gamefor him to be familiar to these - but the slight pull to his heart, like fine invisible hands were pulling it downwards with great weight, is. He finds it rather unsettling.
John looks sceptical when Sherlock makes the offer for no real reason, and Sherlock can’t really blame him, but they wind-up at an expensive restaurant that Sherlock knows will serve food unworthy of their ludicrous prices. He allows it, though, because this is what and where John wants to eat and in the end, this entire night is for John.
This notion strikes Sherlock as soon as he’s thought it and if he’s a little overwhelmed by it, he doesn’t have time to respond because John’s already chatting and for some absurd reason, Sherlock finds he can’t, doesn’t want, to miss anything.
When the waiter eventually brings their order, he does so with apologies for the wait and with subtle compliment, “I hope you and you’re partner enjoy the meal as much as you seem to be enjoying each other,” and generous smile.
Sherlock’s passive to the statement, neither smiling nor acknowledging or correcting. He lets John thank the waiter with a gentle crimson blush and instead stares at his steaming meal with deep contemplation. For all purposes he supposes this must look a lot like a date - it only occurs now what this restaurant is notoriously known for celebrating - but it’s not what bothers him. People talk and he lets them. What bothers him is the feeling he felt, that sudden sharp elation, like his heart had sprouted wings and took first flight at the word partner and, even more so, the way he’s smiling just crookedly at the knowledge that John is obviously enjoying his company as much as Sherlock is of his.
It sends a funny bolt of thrill which deafens him with rushing, electric blood that he only just hears John say, “...all the time. I mean if they knew you... Sherlock Holmes in a relationship,” John chuckles fondly, spiralling his fork into the pasta, “If I live to see the day.”
Sherlock smiles tightly and stabs his meat with less etiquette and more sociopathic serial killer than is entirely warranted. Then he stabs it again for letting a comment that once would have floated by him offend him so much.
John, for all his graces, ignores this and directs the conversation into a line that has the detective smiling. It’s small and slightly slanted, but it’s one of honesty and makes his entire face glow and warmth seeps into the cold grey of his eyes to melt the ice there. It stays for the hour they are there until the waiter returns with cakes and coffee.
“But we,” starts John.
“On the house,” he offers a friendly wink and is gone before questioning can be done.
Not that it needs be. They both understand the implication of the gesture and the self questioning of why everyone thinks they are a couple leaves an uneasy shroud above them.
John shifts. “Maybe we should go home then?”
“Why,” he tries to quell the bubble of hurt but can’t quite, “Are you uncomfortable?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good.”
“No reason for me, us, not to be; this isn’t a date.”
Sherlock’s answer is too slow to be corrected, “No, no it’s not.”
“Okay then, well,” John purses, “glad we got that cleared.”
“Indeed."
It takes them only ten minutes to leave, their cakes uneaten and drinks still warm and barely empty. Sherlock trails behind John on the walk home, hands thrust deep in pockets full of notes and papers and secrets and remembers why he’s never let himself love another. The emotion is too unstable, too unpredictable and he can’t foresee what’s to happen - can’t control it or direct it or stop it. He doesn’t appreciate the fact that he’s fallen for John - and God help him, let it be mistaken love, infatuation, please - because he doesn’t know what he’s truly getting himself into.
His fingers clench in soft fabric and destroy the crinkled papers of secrets that have all the answers but the ones he most desires.
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JOHN. FOCUS. COME ON. THE MAN HAS A RAGING... LOVE FOR YOU.
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This is absolutely wonderful.
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/brb, crying a thousand rivers
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