A Case of Identity - Chapter nineteen (19/23)

[jkay1980]

Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5  Chapter 6  Chapter 7  Chapter 8  Chapter 9  Chapter 10 Chapter 11  Chapter 12  Chapter 13  Chapter 14  Chapter 15 part one  Chapter 15 part two  Chapter 16  Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23
On the way back to London, Sherlock was silent. Through the whole journey he was entirely immersed in his thoughts, not saying a single word. As soon as the train reached traveling speed, Sherlock leaned back in his seat, immediately put his hands together under his chin and closed his eyes, assuming one of his thinking poses and had not moved since, probably turning the case over and over again in his mind. Since Sherlock remained silent, and John knew better than to disturb him his thinking, he sat down opposite Sherlock and made himself comfortable.



John could tell that Sherlock's temporary defeat was hard for him, and the sight of him, distressed, aroused his compassion. Although he felt sorry for him and wanted to comfort his friend, he took care not to voice his commiseration. Sherlock had to do this on his own. He'd stay in the background, serving as a counterbalance and a safety net.

Soon, John began to dwell on his own thoughts and mull over the events of the past several days, staring blankly out of the window, not really noticing anything outside. His concern about his friend led to reflections on their life together, and their very not normal relationship. He already happily devoted his entire life to him, answering all his needs. Less than forty-eight hours ago his romantic interest in the man had aroused - or at least he finally accepted his romantic interest in him at that time. Who knew how long that had been seething under the surface. Finally, he had decided to give him this too, giving all of himself, not knowing what he would get in return. But he knew and trusted Sherlock, and he was fully aware of what he was committing himself to. He was at peace with himself. Both of them were strange in their own way and their mutual strangeness complemented and united them… John longed for clarification, and, inevitably, for Sherlock himself. He needed to know what Sherlock wanted; whether "us" was an actual possibility. Sighing inwardly, he decided to force himself to be patient and to proceed with courting his friend in the meantime - and courting Sherlock was as much a challenge as writing a love story into the fifth postulate of Euclid. And although John was afraid of and uncertain about his own as well as Sherlock's feelings and about how best to proceed, he wasn't lacking in courage. For the most part, he behaved as usual, being himself: looking after his friend, making him eat and sleep, helping him understand social interactions, backing him up in his work. To this he added subtle touching and refined flirting. So far, his friend fortunately was responding well.

Now and then his eyes flickered towards the ring on Sherlock's finger, which stated for whoever saw it that the man in question was taken by him. Property of John Watson.

He wondered if the rings were actually engraved and what the engraving might be. He didn't dare to take his off and look, since he promised not to take it off, ever, and Sherlock could easily deduce if he had. Why he was so insistent about it, he didn't know, but John didn't feel like looking for trouble by not conforming to Sherlock's wishes in a case. Surprisingly he found that he liked the sight of the ring on his finger more and more. Even though there were no other imminent candidates interested in a romantic relationship with Sherlock, and Sherlock himself didn't show any particular interest in anybody else except John, the ring certainly made a statement and kept potential candidates away from him. His newfound feelings for his friend uncovered hidden sides of John; he wasn't used to feeling so possessive about anybody... John had to admit this might be due to the fact that, somewhere in the back of his mind, Victor Trevor, no matter how nice and charming, remained a sore spot and stirred feelings of jealousy and possessiveness. He cast another glance at the ring and comforted himself with the thought that, after all, all was fair in love and war…

On arrival in London, Sherlock immediately strode off to hail a cab, leaving John to carry both their bags, and John asked himself again why it was that he loved the man, sighing silently. The cab ride home was spent in silence.

When they arrived at Baker Street, John had not only to carry the bags again but also to search for the keys in his pockets and fiddle with the door lock, since Sherlock was absorbed in thought.

John's dark thoughts vanished however when they entered the house. He suppressed the urge to fall down on his knees and kiss the ground out of pure relief. He had never been happier in his life to come home although his joy was naturally somewhat clouded by the fact that they had not yet settled the case, even if his own reasons were a bit different than his friend's.

Entering their flat however, put a damper on his joy. They found themselves practically smothered by congratulation cards and bunches of flowers.

He had a sense of foreboding. "What the hell?" John dropped the bags in shock.

"MRS HUDSON!" Sherlock automatically bellowed downstairs when he looked over John's shoulder, taking in the "disaster".

John still was thunderstruck. "Scotland," he said, reminding Sherlock that their landlady was with her sister.

"Mrs. Turner," Sherlock sighed.

Mrs. Turner apparently had thought it best to arrange the congratulation cards on garlands, which were hanging criss-cross from the ceiling of the living room.

The number of cards unsettled John. Something had happened in their absence. He just didn't know what. "Where the hell do these all come from?" he asked disbelievingly.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, scowling. He ignored the mass of cards, his eyes settling on a huge bouquet in the British national colours that was placed on their dining table in the living room. "It seems Queen and Country send their good wishes as well."

"Glorious," John remarked. "I'm kind of more worried about the rest…," he trailed off.

"It will soon be over, John," Sherlock replied, looking squarely at him. "Everything will be back to normal."

John was about to answer that he would be fine if other people would go back to normal, when Mrs. Turner came up the wooden stairs. Both men turned around, still standing in their own doorway.

"So good to see you again, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. It was completely crazy here while you were gone. The elder Mr. Holmes was here with some officials, bringing in that beautiful bouquet and either cards or flowers arrived for you every day," she said, smiling warmly.

"How lovely," Sherlock answered with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, grimacing.

"You've been busy," John dropped a hint at her.

Mrs. Turner started to giggle like a teenage girl. "Yes, Doctor. Well, papers are lying everywhere and I know that Mr. Holmes' papers are not to be touched. Therefore I thought it best to bring the cards into the forefront," she said. "By the way…," she added, pointing upwards.

Both men followed her movement and froze, making a face simultaneously.

Argh … Somebody also hung up another, well hidden, sprig of mistletoe just behind their doorway.

John sighed.

"Oh, don't be shy!" she exclaimed, motioning them to give each other a kiss. "A friendly kiss can do no harm."

Sherlock cast a questioning look at John who was undecided what to do.

Humouring Mrs. Turner probably would be the quickest way to get rid of her again. Kissing Sherlock however would create a difficult situation as he tried not to give away his feelings by responding too eagerly. On the other hand it gave him another opportunity to proceed with his plans.

While John still was in two minds about the matter, Sherlock made up his mind. He turned around, facing John, and pulled him closer by his jacket.

"Let's face it. The odds are stacked against us, John," he said with an unreadable expression on his face, slowly bending forward.

John's breath caught for a moment. Sherlock had caught him off guard. He was so riveted by Sherlock's sudden action that he submitted to his will without a struggle. There was something undeniable sexy in his dominant manner. Dominance certainly suited him. John decided to let him take the lead for the moment. He'd take it back later. Love was a matter of give and take after all.
When Sherlock finally pressed his lips against John's softly, John forced himself not to move, not to pull him closer, just standing there. He did allow himself to mirror his lips' movements, kissing him back. It was a slow and tender kiss, no tongues involved. He felt Sherlock tightening his grip on his jacket.

Maybe it cost his friend as much self-control as it cost him to take it slow, considering their last kiss, which was hard to forget.
"How sweet you are together…," Mrs. Turner exclaimed and smiled, contented.

Sherlock stopped kissing John's mouth and started kissing his jawline instead, in that achingly slow way he knew to employ so well.

Not that John minded. Involuntarily he cocked his head slightly to give Sherlock better access.

"You certainly don't disapprove of it," Sherlock finally whispered flirtatiously in his ear, when he was kissing his earlobe, still not letting go of his jacket, as if making sure that John wouldn't break away.

Slowly, John snapped back into reality. A matter of give and take, he thought.

Self-confident, John took hold of Sherlock's coat, pulling him even closer. Their torsos were pressed to each other. Then, he stretched for Sherlock's head and imitated Sherlock's way of kissing along the jawline. "Neither do you," he finally breathed.
Things finally got a little too hot and uncomfortable for Mrs. Turner, who mumbled something about "not wanting to be in the way" and hurried away. She probably wouldn't force them to kiss again. With Mrs. Turner gone, their alibi for kissing was gone, too, but both men chose to overlook this tiny detail.

John was ready to take this game a little further. He slowly placed teasing kisses along Sherlock's neck, paying a great deal of attention to a spot behind his ear. He catalogued how Sherlock reacted and what he liked. The detective submitted himself surprisingly willingly to John's lead. When he finally sucked at his neck just below the collar line, Sherlock drew a deep breath.
"Looks like we've found some of your hot spots," John whispered. "I'm going to keep them in mind."

Pleased with himself, he broke away and ran his finger across his love bite on Sherlock's neck. The detective took some time to recover from John's attack on his neck and let go automatically of John's jacket when he broke away.

"You'd better keep your shirts buttoned up completely for the next days. People might talk…," John said, winking.

The last time he indulged in this naughty, adolescent kissing technique had been in his early twenties. It was certainly a step back from refined flirting and mostly meant as a payback for Sherlock's smugness, but John enjoyed it nevertheless. For now, his chief concern was building a higher level of emotional intimacy. Physical contact was the bonus of a relationship with Sherlock, not the purpose after all.

Sherlock watched him with a curious expression on his face.

John couldn't suppress a smirk. "Oh, and take care of the mistletoe, luv, will you?" he said as innocently as possible, picking up the bags, and making a move for his bedroom.

"John?" Sherlock summoned him back.

"Yes?" John looked at him questioningly.

"Next time I'll return the favour," he said, winking, and radiating self-confidence.

"I can hardly wait," John returned, raising an eyebrow. "Believe me," he added and headed upstairs, shaking his head. He was impressed by Sherlock's ability to learn and adjust quickly in new situations.

When he came back downstairs, Sherlock was taking a closer look at the cards they had received. Now and then he snorted at the inscription. He lifted his head and looked at John. "My family," he said as an answer to John's unspoken question, grimacing.

"Your family?" John asked.

"Aunts and uncles and cousins and other unimportant and very tedious relatives, if I may say so. No one expected this little development in my life and, now, everybody is naturally over the moon," he said sarcastically. "Fame is a fickle friend."

John shrugged. "Can't choose your family, Sherlock. Mine is pretty much as impossible as yours," he replied, when a card caught his eye.

The card was simple but delicately tasteful. The inscription was in a woman's handwriting and simply said "Congratulations, Mr. Holmes. I told you he likes you more than I do". There was no signature. His stomach twisted. John had an idea about the author, however improbable and mad it seemed, but suddenly several pieces of the puzzle named Irene Adler fell into place. He remembered Mycroft's remark, "It would take Sherlock to fool me", and his own conversation with the woman. "You're flirting with Sherlock Holmes?" he had asked her astonished. "At him. He never replies. Jealous?" she had replied. "We're not a couple," John had stated, angrily. "Of course you are," she had returned. "I'm not actually gay," he had said - in vain. "I am. Look at us both," she had finally exclaimed. Although part of him was angry at Sherlock for his attitude and betrayal, another part understood. Sherlock wasn't in love with Irene Adler. He only admired her wits and maybe her beauty too. She had the face of an angel, but she was merciless. By now he knew that his friend was quite sentimental about the potential or real loss of any person with a sparkling wit resembling his own. By the time of Adler's "death" he already knew that he would lose his witty archenemy. Maybe he didn't want to lose this bright antagonist too. Maybe he thought she deserved another try for beating him. In the end, this was not John's business, even if he didn't like it - at all.

Sherlock saw that John's eyes lingered on this specific card and he tensed. John looked at him, but said nothing. Sherlock probably deduced that John had guessed his secret. Sherlock knew that John knew, and John knew that Sherlock knew that he knew. There was a silent understanding.

"I'm having a cuppa. Want some tea too?" John asked him and deliberately kept any hint of accusation from his voice. He didn't inquire, he didn't need to know, and Sherlock heaved a barely noticeable sigh of relief.

"I'd love to!" Sherlock replied in a slightly husky voice.

John went to the kitchen, put the kettle on, took two cups out of the cupboard and waited for the water to boil.

He felt tired and worn out from the weekend's work, and he was glad to be home again. Sometimes he forgot how much he liked home when he was away. Silently he wondered when exactly Baker Street had ceased to be their flat, and become "home". He filled the cups with the freshly boiled water, put teabags in them and returned to the living room, where Sherlock had flopped down on the sofa and patted the space next to him, motioning John to sit down.

John decided to play along. It seemed that wooing Sherlock somehow had turned into wooing each other.

He set the tea cups down in front of them, took his laptop out of the drawer and made himself comfortable on the sofa. For several minutes they sat next to each other in silence, Sherlock sipping his tea and John checking his e-mail. Then, the detective suddenly decided to have a lie-down, wriggling himself under John's arms so he had to put the laptop on the armrest and then lean into see it, sitting in an awkward angle. Finally Sherlock's head rested in John's lap.

Taken aback, John stared at his friend. A new flash of adrenaline rushed through his veins and he struggled slightly to regain his composure. "Are you comfortable, luv?" John asked with a hint of sarcasm and disbelief in his voice.

"Perfectly fine, dear," Sherlock returned smugly. He snuggled closer to John, eyes closed, relaxing. "I need to think."

Why he suddenly needed to think while "cuddling" with John remained unclear, but John thought it was certainly better than Sherlock giving himself over to boredom. The following days would be a real test for everybody's nerves either way, dark moods being inevitable.

He took a deep breath and tried to turn his attention back to his laptop. He opened his blog to check on newly received inquiries from potential clients, and he froze in place. Under the latest case entry were an incredible number of comments which had nearly caused the blog to crash. He immediately started searching for the reason behind this sudden rise in comments, when his eyes fell on a posting from the Friday before. Surprisingly, it came from Mrs. Hudson, who wanted to let them know that she arrived safely, wished them a Merry Christmas, and told them that her sister wanted to congratulate them on their engagement. It immediately dawned upon him that all their acquaintances, friends, foes, and clients probably read about their engagement on his blog, and soon enough, he found entries from Mike Stamford, his Rugby lads, fellow soldiers and others, all exclaiming over their surprise and joy.

Now, John thought, it was all over town. The Internet and Sherlock's brother was all one needed to spread news around the world.
"I think I know why we're swamped with cards and flowers, Sherlock."

"Why?" the detective asked, not bothering to change his position, nor looking up.

"Mrs. Hudson posted about our engagement on my blog."

"Let that be a lesson to you to disable the comments when we're leaving. If anyone wants to contact us, they can send e-mail," Sherlock replied, smart-alecky. Apparently, all the attention didn't bother him at all.

"You certainly know how to lift my spirits, Sherlock," he remarked, sarcastically.

Then, he closed his laptop. It was useless to try to work on it, sitting uncomfortably like this. He searched for the remote control between the cushions, turned on the television, and settled for a documentary report. After a moment, he started to relax into his current position, playing absently-minded with Sherlock's curls.

An hour later, Sherlock stirred and rolled onto his back, looking up at John. He reached for John's cheek and touched it slightly with his fingertips.

The sudden touch sent an electric shock through John's body.

"Look here, John, you look done in. Lie down here on the sofa, and see if I can put you to sleep," Sherlock said with a hint of concern in his voice. He quickly stood up and took up his violin from the corner.

John considered protesting, but he really was exhausted.

As John stretched himself out, Sherlock sat down in his chair and began to play some low, dreamy melodious air - his own composition undoubtedly, for John had never heard it before. John vaguely remembered his elegantly moving arms, his earnest face, and the tender rise and fall of his bow. Then, John's eyelids grew heavy, and he seemed to be floated peacefully away on a soft sea of sound, until he found himself in dreamland, with the sweet face of Sherlock looking down upon him.

It was early in the evening before John woke, strengthened and refreshed.

Sherlock still sat exactly as he had left him, save that he had laid aside his violin and was deep in a book. He looked across at him as John stirred.

"You slept soundly," he said.

"Do you have news?" John asked hopefully, stifling a yawn.

"Aside from the fact that David Jones was released from prison during the afternoon, no," he said, looking disappointed. "We must wait. I've contacted the Homeless Network. They will be my eyes and my ears on the streets, shadowing our suspects. Their pursuit will go unnoticed. They will look as though they are meant to be there."

"Right," John said, casting a look at the clock sleepily.

"Don't worry, I've ordered takeaway," Sherlock replied to John's thoughts, smiling faintly.

John returned his smile, thankfully. He remembered why he loved him again. Sherlock might be an arrogant so-and-so ninety per cent of the time, but the remaining ten per cent certainly made the entire time worthwhile.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

On Tuesday, John unfortunately had to work at the surgery the whole day. It was already dark when he reached home. He didn't like to leave Sherlock alone when he was in one of his dark moods; especially with Mrs. Hudson gone, too. In the hall he met Mrs. Turner who asked if everything was in order. "I'm worried about him," she whispered, casting concerned looks towards the ceiling.

Her words froze the blood in John's veins. "Why so, Mrs. Turner?" he asked alarmed. "What happened?"

"Well, after you was gone, he was striding up and down nervously. I heard him muttering to himself, and every time the bell rang, he emerged on the landing, asking "Who is that, Mrs. Turner?" And now, he is gone to his room. He slammed the door behind him, but I can hear him pacing again."

John was a little concerned himself when he heard the dull sound of his tread. He knew how Sherlock's keen mind rebelled against this involuntary inaction. Sherlock hadn't come to their bed the night before and busied himself all night with one of his abstruse chemical analyses. At breakfast time he had still been engaged in his experiment, which had created a terrible smell during the night, and John was glad that he could leave the flat. However, it hadn't escaped his notice that Sherlock looked haggard and worn.
"There is no need to worry, Mrs. Turner, I assure you. This is very much Sherlock. He just has a matter on his mind which makes him restless," John said in a deliberately light voice, calming her down.

He quickly got rid of Mrs. Turner with a friendly but determined manner. Then, he rushed up the stairs - seventeen, he involuntarily thought - and entered the living room. He swiftly glanced around.

Relieved, he noticed that Sherlock had abandoned his chemical experiment. The kitchen table was tidied up again and the scent of Sherlock's experiment had fortunately dissipated by this time. A quick look to his right, however, told him that the wall had had it coming again.

He heaved a sigh as he walked over to Sherlock's room. He knocked carefully. The footsteps inside had stopped.

John could hear the uneven pounding of his heart. He didn't often enter his friend's bedroom. It always felt as if he were violating some sort of sanctuary, doubtless because Sherlock was very private about his own business. "Sherlock?" he asked.

John didn't expect any response, and entered without waiting for one. He found Sherlock on his bed, lying on his back, hands steepled under his chin. He had rolled up his sleeves and one of his lean, muscular underarms exposed three nicotine patches.
Sherlock's state of despair concerned John. "You're wearing yourself out, Sherlock," John said softly and sat down on the edge of the bed beside him.

Sherlock slightly cocked his head. He supported himself on one elbow and reached for John's wrist with one hand. "This infernal problem is consuming me. My mind rebels at stagnation! I know we are close to the solution, and yet I can get no news, John," he exclaimed gloomily.

Instinctively John twitched under the sudden touch. It sent shivers down his spine. The fact that he was forced to pretend for another whole week that they were together, without being together for real, frustrated him immensely. "Come with me, Sherlock. You're worn out and upset. I know this is torture and I can't even imagine how difficult this really is for you, but you need to take your mind off the case for the night. Let me distract you."

Although Sherlock was able to take his mind off a case easily when he could no longer work to advantage, he loathed involuntary inaction.

Reluctantly, the detective rose so he and John were sitting practically parallel to each other. Sherlock was, in fact, so close that their upper bodies nearly touched.

John's breath caught when he realized that his friend was studying him intently.

Sherlock was looking at him in the way he looked at a crime scene, or at a client, or suspect. He examined John's face; not the tiniest detail escaped his notice. Quickly and swiftly he processed the gathered data, constructing his theories.

John felt self-conscious now that Sherlock's undivided attention was upon him, scrutinizing him so closely. He blushed slightly but held Sherlock's gaze.

"What would I do without you?" Sherlock finally said thoughtfully.

"Get into trouble," John breathed, shuddering slightly.

"Probably," Sherlock answered, leaning towards John instinctively. His gaze flickered between John's eyes and his lips.

Involuntarily John licked his lips in anticipation. He forced himself to maintain self-control, suppressing the urge to lunge forward.
They were merely inches away from each other, when Sherlock's phone rang.

Oh for heaven's sake!

John's sense of frustration reached new heights with the experience of this fresh, unsuccessful attempt at kissing. He clearly remembered the blissful contact from the day before, which seemed a lifetime ago now.

Sherlock snapped back into reality and tumbled up quickly, clutching at his phone.

"Yes?" he simply asked eagerly, not bothering to mention his name.

Judging by the look on his face, it was his brother.

"When can I have a look?" he said and listened.

The answer clearly wasn't what he hoped for. He made an annoyed face. "Tomorrow morning?" he called out loud. "You're getting slow! Our time is running out, Mycroft!"

Then, he sighed. "No, I haven't forgotten about that," he said with a dark face. "Of course, brother dear, I'd be very much obliged. Ten o'clock. No, that's fine." Sherlock hung up the phone with a feigned sweet "Thank you" and rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft will have my information by tomorrow morning," he told John, clearly displeased.

"Well, Sherlock, you can't do anything until tomorrow, then. You'll come with me," John said in a determined voice.

"Where to?" Sherlock asked reluctantly, bending his thoughts grudgingly from his conversation with his brother.

John tried to regain Sherlock's attention. "There's a new restaurant I want to try. Mancini's. The food is said to be excellent and you'll have an opportunity to deduce some new surroundings," he explained, carefully offering an enticement. At times, Sherlock led an ascetic life but when he did eat, he had exquisite taste and valued good food. Since John wanted to pursue his plans of courtship in some way, he might as well mix business with pleasure.

"Sounds expensive," Sherlock remarked, but his interest was definitely triggered; if not by the food than certainly by John's demeanour.

A roguish smile flitted across John's face. 'It's definitely what you'd call a serious "date spot", Sherlock,' he replied.

"Ah," Sherlock said, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, "we're going on a date, then."

Flirtatious tone, John registered. He had definitely caught his attention. Sherlock's disappointment about the current developments in the case seemed to be forgotten for the moment. John felt the flicker of attraction between them flaring up again; and a knot, growing in his throat. "Right," John managed, slightly nervous. "It's a date."

Sherlock liked playing games after all, and, hell, playing they were.
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Mancini's proved to be an excellent choice. The food was delicious, the service friendly and the atmosphere romantic. During the first course Sherlock would talk about nothing but violins, narrating in an elevated mood how he had purchased his own Stradivarius, which was worth a fortune, for less than two hundred pounds in Tottenham Court Road, from a dealer who didn't know it’s true value. This led him to Paganini, and they sat for an hour over a bottle of wine while he told John anecdote after anecdote about that extraordinary man. And although the violin virtuoso was by no means a boring subject, he might just as well have told him the best way to make mulligatawny soup, and John would have listened with equal interest. He could listen to the sound of his deep voice for hours, no matter of the subject. Sherlock liked his attention and John liked to be his audience.

Sherlock had just finished his monologue when a particularly interesting male in his thirties with an elderly woman took a seat at a table nearby. John watched how Sherlock scrutinized them with piercing eyes, drinking in every detail of their appearances.
"Interesting," he said low-voiced, studying them.

"Do you know them?" John whispered.

"Not personally," Sherlock answered. "He's one of the violinists from the British National Orchestra. A very good one," he added with enthusiasm. "You should have heard him play Vivaldi."

"Apart from his musical talents, what's so interesting?" John asked, trying to make some sense of his explanations.

"He's here with his mother. The papers reported his absence from performing, wondering about the reasons. It's completely clear now, of course," he replied.

John sighed. "Sherlock, can you just not do that, please? Although I am convinced that all of it is indeed plainly obvious and painfully easy to deduce, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about. Why did he leave the orchestra and how did you deduce it?"

Sherlock watched John intently. If there was a hint of disappointment at John's ignorance, he didn't let it show. "He fell in love with a fellow musician and, not being able to face his feelings, he took a… what would you call it…a sabbatical."

"And he returned now because his love is no longer a problem?" John asked, confused.

"The couple apparently came to terms."

John had still no idea what the story was about. "What was the problem then? Didn't she love him back? Was she married?"

"No, when he fell in love, he realized he was gay."

"He fell in love with a man?"

"Bravo, John," Sherlock said impatiently, shaking his head at John's slowness. "Of course, he fell in love with a man. He's here to tell his mother! I told you."

Not really, John thought. "Okay, err… how did you deduce that?"

"Because aside from his nervousness - the way he looks from his ring towards his mother and back to the ring - I actually noticed his ring, John. When I got our rings, there was another guy buying a pair, and he told the jeweler what name was to be engraved. It was his!" he said, pleased with himself. "Apparently he was confronted with some sort of identity crisis and had to sort things out."

John could understand the poor bloke perfectly, knowing about it from personal experience. He had his fullest sympathy. He only hoped that his boyfriend was a more sensitive person than Sherlock who didn't bring up the subject as a matter of "sink or swim". At least he knew now that Sherlock had indeed bought the rings himself. He made a mental note to discuss the matter further at a future date.

"He is afraid to tell his mother. Therefore he chose a public spot. Maybe she had been wanting to try the restaurant for a while now. Hence, his choice of location. You can see that he is nervous, because he bites his nails regularly. Besides, his eyes betray the slightest shade of Mascara and his eyebrows are perfectly plucked," he said. "And he puts product in his hair."

John was not going to have that discussion again. "You know that is so cliché."

Sherlock took a deep breath, obviously counting three inwardly. "John, I am just deducing. I am not responsible for people making use of clichés."

"You're right," John finally said. It was easier to get along than to force Sherlock to say he was right.

Fortunately, the waitress came with the next course and prevented another discussion of the matter.

"I've taken the liberty of choosing a select wine for the saddle of venison, Mr. Holmes," she said and poured the wine in to a glass, offering it to him to taste.

There was no doubt at least who was supposed to be the one with the balls in this relationship, John thought disgruntled. People only turned to John first when it came to social subjects like emotional support or therapy questions.

"It's excellent," Sherlock answered and turned to John, offering him his glass. "John? Do you want a taste?" he asked, the corner of his mouth quirking slightly.

Apparently, he had read his mind again.

"Thank you," John said, surprised at Sherlock's thoughtfulness, and took a sip. "It's excellent," he repeated.

"We'll take it," Sherlock said, smiling politely at the waitress.

"Very well, Sir," she said, pouring the wine in their glasses.

She wished them a good meal and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen once more.

They started to eat in comfortable silence, listening to the classical background music - Mozart as Sherlock would later tell him.
"By the way, is yours any good?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

"Why don't you have a taste?" John offered him a forkful, and Sherlock looked at him with a flash of surprise. "Come on, Sherlock. We've already exchanged a considerable amount of saliva; you're not suddenly becoming anxious about that, are you?" he said bluntly, but with a flirtatious tone to his voice.

For a moment, Sherlock was taken aback by John's bluntness. As usual, he quickly recovered and took the food slowly off John's fork, smirking, and never breaking eye contact. Somehow feeding Sherlock this way was one of the most sensual things John had ever done. Then again, sensual seemed to be equivalent to Sherlock's name lately.

"Want to try mine?" Sherlock asked with feigned innocence and held his own fork out for John who watched Sherlock intently as he took the offered food slowly off his fork.

Between the case and the therapy assignments, their concern about publicly displaying affection seemed to have decreased by the day. John still settled for the verbal expression of his admiration at crime scenes and at work in general, but everywhere else, he didn't mind expressing his affection nonverbally at all. He only had eyes for Sherlock; for his incredible intelligence and brilliant deductions and for the man himself, his pleasant and good-looking features, his tall and lean figure, his gentlemanly expression, his energetic character, his sense of humour, his vulnerability, his occasional uncertainty… In short, he found him smoking hot.
When the waitress returned to take away the dinner plates, Sherlock let his eyes wander through the restaurant, taking in the people, and John leaned back in his chair, following Sherlock's eyes and getting lost in his own thoughts.

"You should take your mind off the case, too, John," Sherlock suddenly remarked. "And you should order the Christmas pudding."
Sherlock's remark astonished John. "How do you know what I was thinking? That's bloody creepy, Sherlock," he said low-voiced, looking closely at his friend.

Sherlock smiled. "I deduced it. Remember, we discussed my essay on the science of deduction this weekend."

John shook his head. He was still far from satisfied. "In the example which you read to me," he said, "the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of the man whom he observed. If I remember correctly, he stumbled over a heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on. But I sat quietly in my chair. What gave me away?"

"You underestimate yourself, John. Every man expresses his emotions by his features, and yours are faithful servants."
"So you read my train of thought from my features?" John asked.

"Your features, and especially your eyes. You cannot recall how your thoughts began?" Sherlock asked, smiling.

"No, I cannot," John admitted.

"Then I will tell you. You put down your napkin, which drew my attention away from my current deductions and back to you. Then, you sat for half a minute with a vacant expression. After a moment your eyes flickered towards neighbours to the left, who are having the banoffee pie, and I saw by the change in your facial expression that a train of thought had started. Then, your eyes flashed across to the table on your right side, where Christmas pudding was served. Then you glanced up at the waitress who was passing by, and of course your meaning was obvious. You were thinking that when the waitress comes to our table to take our order for dessert, you're going to order the Christmas pudding rather than the banoffee pie because your eyes rested two seconds longer on the Christmas pudding than on the banoffee pie."

"Excellent!" John exclaimed.

"So far I could hardly have been mistaken. But now your thoughts went back to the weekend in Aldershot, and you looked hard across at a spot on the opposite wall. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but you continued to look across, and your face was thoughtful. You were recalling the events of the weekend. I was well aware that you could not do this without thinking of the first murders, which are especially gruesome in your opinion, for I remember you expressing your passionate indignation at the way in which the murderer proceeded. You felt so strongly about it that I knew you could not think of the weekend without thinking of that also. When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the imaginary spot you had chosen, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the deaths of the other victims, and when I observed that your lips set and your hands clenched, I was positive that you were indeed thinking that the latest victims thankfully hadn't been mutilated. But then, again, your face grew sadder, you shook your head. You were dwelling upon the sadness and horror and useless waste of life. Your hands clenched even more, you frowned and you pressed your lips together, which showed me that you were wondering about how much more time we will need to lay our hands on the murderer. At this point I advised you to take your mind off the case and think about the pudding, and was glad to find that all my deductions had been correct."

A smile flitted across John's face. "Fantastic!" he said, still looking astonished. "And now that you have explained it, I am willing to admit that I am as amazed as before."

"Elementary," Sherlock replied, but nevertheless his face showed his satisfaction at being right, as well as at John's admiration.

While they were waiting for the dessert, they passed their time with Sherlock deducing every single person in the restaurant to John, giving John plenty of time to admire him even more. The Christmas pudding proved to be the right choice of dessert and John mentally added Mancini's to his top five favourite restaurants. At least until the moment they wanted to pay and the waitress returned together with the manager, emphasizing the staff's hope that they would honour them with further visits in the future and expressing the wish that they would consider the restaurant for their wedding feast. In the end he took comfort from the thought that they found another nice restaurant where they got special offers, which was one of the few advantages that came with their mainstream fame.

The evening was far advanced before they found themselves home again, and John was secretly proud of having been able to distract Sherlock for the evening. He even managed to persuade Sherlock to actually sleep that night. When he lay beside him in bed later that evening, pondering the events of the past weeks, he knew for sure that it was love.

Hesitating, John turned around, facing Sherlock's back, and slowly put his arm around Sherlock's waist. The detective's breath caught and he tensed for a moment.

John held his breath, being uncertain whether he had made the right move.

However, Sherlock did not draw back and when John moved a little closer to him, he let out a deep breath and relaxed into the intimate embrace.

John heaved a silent sigh of relief himself and snuggled closer to his friend.

Until he found the courage to tell him about his feelings for him, he could at least continue to show him what he felt, John thought before falling asleep, feeling perfectly comfortable with this new, and consciously experienced, intimacy and closeness between them.