Ginger with a Chance of Freckles - Part 4
Chapter 4: The Good Doctor and His Boyfriend
The Ivy upheld its reputation with both grace and splendour. Iridescent splashes of multi-coloured light spilled across the delicate cream carpet. Neat rows of tables covered with ornate linen and elaborately decorated with tasteful floral arrays spanned the entire length of the main dining floor. Although it was still early in the evening, the restaurant was almost at full capacity. Guests sat quietly chatting, laughing and enjoying the ambient atmosphere of luxury and privilege.
Mycroft Holmes was immediately greeted by maître d’hôtel who led their small party directly to the private function room that had been especially reserved for this occasion. Though they exchanged few words, John could tell from the swift smiles and nods of recognition that Mycroft was an old and valued patron of this particular establishment.
“Do you remember when we used to come here?” Martin asked, looking wistfully around the room. “I used to always sit by the window so I could look out onto the street below. I used to think I could see all the great West End stars...”
“It’s been a while,” Mycroft agreed, seating himself in the nearest chair [remove comma] whilst Sherlock obstinately took the seat diagonally opposite. The detective sat glaring at his older brother in sullen silence as John was forced to take the only remaining chair in the room and found himself positioned uncomfortably between Sherlock and Mycroft.
“Have you ever been here with Sherlock before?” Martin asked curiously as he fumbled with his napkin.
“No,” John said, grinning at the thought of Sherlock voluntarily setting foot in such a conventional establishment. "We usually get Chinese or a free meal at Angelo’s.”
“I love Angelo’s!” Martin exclaimed excitedly, tilting the drink in front of him at a dangerous angle. Thankfully, as if by magic - but more likely years of experience and practice - Mycroft gently nudged the glass back into equilibrium, its contents still very much contained. “Sherlock and I used to go there when I was between trips. Do they still do that beef lasagne and Angelo always brings it to the table and says ‘extra beef for Mr Holmes’s special friend’?”
At first John was rather amused by the idea of Angelo mistaking Martin for Sherlock’s date. It would obviously lead to some very awkward babbling on Martin’s part and a contemptuous explanation from Sherlock. However, as he fully grasped the idea of Martin sitting in his usual place at Angelo’s, John’s heart inexplicably sank. Although he was far from sentimental, John had always considered Angelo’s as an unique part of his relationship with Sherlock. They had chased their first suspect from that very restaurant - a hair triggering, adrenaline fuelled chase that started their whole relationship - their whole platonic relationship.
Angelo’s had become more than just a free place to eat a long time ago. It was the place where John had met his best friend and the one man who made life worth living. If there was any more to their intense connection than a bond between brothers, John could not acknowledge it because Sherlock would simply not be interested in something so ordinary.
He shouldn’t be surprised that Sherlock would take his favourite brother to his favourite restaurant. However, though John genuinely liked the indecisive, clumsy, and rambling Martin Crieff, a small part of him was suddenly sorely disappointed that such a man even existed because up until two hours ago John had thought he was Sherlock’s only companion. Being Sherlock’s closest confidant was at least a small form of compensation for the unrequited and confused feelings the John had been harbouring for so long.
“Do try the hot smoked salmon, John,” recommended Mycroft as he delicately dissected a duck’s breast stuffed with black truffles.
Martin was haphazardly slurping down an oyster, whilst Sherlock surveyed the table like a judge before the sentencing.
“The broth has no shrimp in,” Sherlock stated coldly without even being within smelling distance of the small tureen of fragrant soup.
“Brother dear, do stop being so cynical, it’s terribly uncouth,” Mycroft replied, sounding almost bored by his own remand but John knew that despite appearances, the man was clearly enjoying his little coup d’état. Mycroft had smoothly hijacked the evening with Martin and forced his other dissident brother to endure polite society.
“You really should eat something,” John commented as the detective sat stiffly with his hands steepled in front of his face, contemplating the food as if to discern which dishes contained poison. “Look at it this way, Mycroft is paying for this - or at least I hope he is because I cannot afford caviar on my salary.”
Martin grinned widely from across the table and started on the smoked salmon.
“You’re really good at looking after Sherlock,” Martin said out of the blue. "He's looking so much better since you moved in and there was actually food in his fridge - edible food! You’ve been brilliant - I mean you’ve been just wonderful - I mean...”
Martin tailed off uncertainly when he belatedly noticed that Sherlock was glaring at him with murderous intent.
“Thanks?” said John tentatively. “I guess I do impose some hint of normality,”
“You're going to stay with him, right?” Martin blurted out, wincing in pain a moment later when Sherlock none too subtly kicked his brother in the shin.
“Martin, I really don’t think John’s future plans are appropriate conversation for this dinner table,” Mycroft said. "Let the man enjoy his dinner.”
"Your brother and I don’t usually end up anywhere this nice," John replied with a sardonic smile.
“Really?” Martin asked, blue eyes wide with surprise. "Where has Sherlock been taking you on dates then?”
Unfortunately for John, he had just started to take a large mouthful of the delicious but shrimp-free broth. Half of the tepid broth ended up splattered over the table and Mycroft’s right leg, whilst the other half went straight into John’s lungs.
During the ensuing coughing fit, John didn’t notice that Sherlock had quietly exited the room.
“What?” he managed to finally splutter gracelessly. “What did you just say?”
“Um” Martin was looking terribly guilty and extremely anxious. His usually pale complexion had turned an embarrassing shade of tomato and he was wringing his napkin between long slender fingers. “I’m sorry - I didn’t mean to -”
Throughout their awkward half-conversation, Mycroft was steadfastly dabbing his thigh with a thick cream napkin. John didn’t want to contemplate the magnitude of a dry cleaning bill for one of Mycroft’s bespoke suits.
“I’m not going out with Sherlock! For that matter, I am also definitely not gay!” John clarified in a strangled voice.
“No - no, of course not - I didn’t mean to imply - it was terribly rude of me - complete misunderstanding,” Martin babbled, looking for all the world like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.
Sherlock’s stomping footsteps echoed up the bronze staircase and made the silence that followed suffocating. The detective had apparently decided to listen to their remaining conversation out of sight on the staircase before making the rest of his exit as dramatic as possible.
“Well -" John muttered, looking ruefully down at his half finished lobster fishcake, “I’d better go after him.”
Mycroft did not comment on his abrupt departure; instead the insufferably calm man had turned back to his steaming truffles as if nothing untoward had happened.
By the time John had clambered down the spiral staircase, Sherlock had completely disappeared. The main dining room was crowded with the elite of the West End and their well-heeled supporters. The maitre d’ hurried towards him with unflustered efficiency and gestured for John to stop blocking the narrow staircase to the upper floors.
To John’s astonishment, walking just paces behind the short, balding maitre d’ were Doctor Who and Amy Pond. The Doctor was dressed in his usual tweed suit and red bow tie, in one hand he carried his trademark sonic screwdriver and in the other he was tightly clutching a brightly coloured cocktail. Amy Pond, the good Doctor’s companion, looked as excited as ever to be following him on another adventure and she too was holding an exotic looking drink.
Shaking his head in disbelief, John took a few shuddery breaths and allowed logic to win through. He wasn’t staring at Doctor Who but rather Matt Smith, the actor. Why the poor man had been forced to dress up in costume to come to a restaurant was beyond John. However the actor looked like he was greatly enjoying himself with Amy - no - Karen Gillian.
The maître d’ smiled vaguely at John, having already forgotten who he was, and the army doctor swiftly stepped aside to make room for the two celebrities. Matt Smith paused to give him a friendly and slightly apologetic smile before climbing the stairs two at a time.
The first moment that John realised something was about to go terribly wrong was when he heard the clattering of uneven hurried footsteps coming down the stairs. It was impossible to see who was making the unholy racket but given the narrow width of the staircase and its tight turns, John could envisage what might happen if neither party slowed down.
It was as if fate did not want to disappoint John’s prediction and intended to give him a good show of it to boot because Martin came hurtling around the bend into view and promptly slammed chest first into Matt Smith’s astonished face. Karen Gillian, who was following only a few steps behind, took the brunt of the collapse as all six foot of the Doctor tumbled down upon her. The smart girl at least partially dodged that impact by hugging the banister and poor Matt Smith rolled down the spiral staircase hitting every step on the way down. The sound of body against metal and breaking glass caused a sudden rippling hush to descend upon the diners.
In the confused and uncomfortable silence that followed, one voice cut through the tense atmosphere:
“Oh my god, I killed Doctor Who!”
AN: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I really appreciate your support. Additionally I have decided to open this story up to "scenes you'd like to see" unfortunately the plot has a very strict direction it has to go in but I can accommodate small scenes that do not adversely affect the plot.
Martin (sort of ) meets Karen Gillan is dedicated to labellecreation :)
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