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“John!” shouts Sherlock, door slamming open loudly.
“Jesus Christ!” yells John, nearly spilling his hot mug of tea over his lap. He glares as Sherlock bursts into the room. “What is it now?”
“It’s Valentine's day,” hisses Sherlock, stabbing the mantlepiece, face scrunched up in disdain.
“… yes?” says John, and settles back into his chair. Not a case, then. His eyes wander back to the newspaper, eager to see the scores for last night’s footie match.
“Of all the insipid holiday—“ starts Sherlock, pacing rapidly back and forth.
“Mmhmm,” says John, tuning Sherlock’s rant out. Looks like Manchester scored big yesterday. He’s looking forward to gloating at Greg about it.
“Lestrade’s not the problem of course,” says Sherlock, and John blinks. Every time he’s convinced Sherlock can’t read minds... glancing up, he can see Sherlock rubbing his hands together.
John’s heart rate picks up.
“Not the problem, but possibly the solution,” mutters Sherlock, and then—
“John! We’re going out!”
“We are?” asks John, even though he’s already set the newspaper aside. He has no idea what’s going on, but he does know Sherlock.
Something’s afoot.
“Quickly! We have to hurry, before that buffoon works up his nerve.”
“Are we still talking about Greg?” asks John. Buffoon seems rather harsh. Sherlock has certainly called the inspector worse while in a strop, but Sherlock had been in a good mood after last-week’s burglary-and-surprise-drug-ring.
John pauses for a second. Now that he thinks about it, the weirdest thing about the last two minutes is that Sherlock just called Greg Lestrade by his name. His actual name.
“Hurry!” yells Sherlock, and John finishes jerking on his coat and dives out the door after that ridiculously flapping Belstaff.
~
“Brief me,” demands Sherlock, as he sets a rapid pace down the sidewalk.
“Uh,” says John, half jogging to keep up. Blast Sherlock and his long legs.
“Valentine’s day!” says Sherlock impatiently. “Everything you’ve got, come on!”
You are such a twat, thinks John, rolling his eyes.
“Right. Valentine’s day, romantic holiday every February 14th, couples exchange cards and gifts as a sign of their romantic intent and go out for a meal together.” He shoots Sherlock a look. “An actually nice place, like at a sit-down restaurant, with a tablecloth and a candle.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” says Sherlock. “We’ve done that. What about the gifts?”
“What?” says John. “Oh, uh. Any sweet is fine for kids, but for adults, chocolate boxes are traditional. Flowers—usually roses. Teddy bears with hearts on their tummies, that sort of thing.”
Sherlock makes a pained noise.
“They’re absolutely awful,” agrees John, grinning and making a mental note for next year—buy Sherlock a stuffed bear clutching a heart. One with angel wings, if possible, and with a pre-recorded love song at the press of a paw. God, that’d be a laugh. He gives it less than two hours before Sherlock beheads it.
“Flowers first,” says Sherlock, making an abrupt right turn.
“We’re buying flowers?” asks John, incredulous. “Why? If this is for a case, you realize they’ll be half the price tomorrow-”
“It’s about making a statement, John,” insists Sherlock, stomping through the doorway of a charming shop called ‘Botanical Dreams’. Humidity fogs the windows, blurring the riot of bouquets on display into a smear of color.
“I want your most obnoxious bouquet,” Sherlock announces to the clerk, who looks unimpressed.
“Just grab whatever you want, mate,” they say, and John moves quickly to interject as Sherlock opens his mouth to argue.
“This one!” he says, grabbing a large, ribbon-tied explosion out of the display. It’s got nearly every color of the rainbow in it, and the paper wrapped around the stems crinkles loudly.
There is a brief, breathless moment as Sherlock judges it.
“Good,” he pronounces, with a curt nod that makes John stand a little straighter. The bouquet crinkles again. “We’ll take that one.”
~
“Now what?” asks John, feeling like a ninny with the giant bouquet in his arms.
“We need a reservation,” says Sherlock. “What’s an expensive restaurant you can’t afford?”
“Why would I know of any?” John retorts, stung. “Are you being an ass on purpose?”
“I’m including you,” says Sherlock absently, tapping at his phone. “You said you wanted to be included.”
John gapes at him. “Yeah, but… I mean. I did. I do.” And then, circling back to the question, suggests, “What about that place in Covent Garden?”
But Sherlock is already tucking away his phone. “I’ve made a reservation at Launceston Place for lunch.”
John sighs. The bouquet crinkles loudly as it droops downwards in his hand, and John realizes one of the ribbons has come undone and has been dragging on the ground. When John shifts it across his chest to clumsily retie the bow, it leaves behind streaks of pollen across his jacket.
“What’s next?” John asks, resigned.
“Yes!” cries Sherlock, snapping his fingers. “The key component. Our date!”
Our date, mouths John blankly, as Sherlock practically pirouettes on the sidewalk. What the fuck.
~
The restaurant is… well. It’s beautiful, with white walls and crisp tablecloths that remind John of Buckingham Palace.
John smothers a sudden chuckle. He’s still got the ashtray at home.
Next to him, Sherlock has dismantled his elegantly folded cloth napkin and is twisting it in his hands like a garotte, a considering look on his face.
“John,” says Greg, across the table, voice remarkably even. “Why am I having a romantic Valentine's lunch with you and Sherlock?”
“Mate, I have no idea,” says John honestly.
A waiter interrupts them, a blandly polite expression on his face, as if three men in varying scales of nice dress are absolutely normal customers for a couple’s holiday.
John ranks at the bottom, of course, gawking at the tall glass vases full of orchids in an oatmeal jumper with an acid burn on the sleeve. Only one guess needed on who’s fault that is. Sherlock, of course, looks perfectly home in his fancy purple button-up and haughty expression. And Greg, kidnapped directly from his office and still wearing a tie, sits somewhere in between them.
Well, opposite them, if you want to get technical.
At least Sherlock had allowed Greg to leave the bouquet on his desk, smirking as all the blood drained out of Donovan’s face when he’d shoved it into Lestrade’s arms.
There’s the popping of a cork, and then the waiter slides a ruby-red glass of wine in front of each of them, before bowing and fading away.
Both Greg and John immediately reach out to take a gulp.
“Holy sh-“ starts John, pulling back to look at the glass. He catches Sherlock’s smirk at his reaction out of the corner of his eye. “This is really good wine.”
“Sherlock,” says Greg, setting his glass down firmly. “Who is paying for this meal?”
“Gabe!” says Sherlock in a scandalized tone. “I am, of course! How rude.”
“We are?” asks John, frowning. “We can’t afford this.”
Sherlock kicks him under the table. “The diamond,” he mutters, and oh, right.
“I swear to God if this is some sort of stakeout,” begins Greg, leaning forward-
He’s interrupted by another eerily pleasant waiter, who sets the fanciest looking egg and soldiers John has ever seen before them. John looks down at his egg cup on a lacy doily and the perfectly cracked-off tip of the eggshell, and tries to fight the grin on his face. He’s out of place, he has no idea what’s going on, and he’s going to eat this ridiculous egg with a golden spoon.
“The Valentine’s tasting menu is seven courses, including dessert,” says Sherlock, briskly laying his napkin across his lap with an elegant snap of his wrist. “We’ll have paired wines with each one, of course.”
“I don’t want to know how much this egg costs,” Greg is muttering. “Much less the rest of it. Never, do you hear me?”
~
“Well, that was… very tasty,” admits Greg reluctantly, as they step out of the restaurant. John nods, eyes closed, still chasing the taste of chocolate and rum.
“You didn’t like it?” asks Sherlock, in the innocent tone that both of them know to be entirely false.
“You know that sort of place is too posh for me,” mutters Greg.
“But the wine was good,” offers John, in consolation. He has just realized, uncomfortably, that this may be the first time Greg’s celebrated Valentine’s day since his divorce.
“The wine was very good,” agrees Greg, shoving his hands into his pockets. It’s their standard song and dance—Sherlock agitates, Greg protests, John attempts to smooth things over, and Greg relents. Sherlock really ought to be nicer to the man. “Thanks for… whatever this was. I’ll see you around the station the next time something ‘interesting’ comes up.”
“Oh,” says Sherlock, grabbing Greg’s elbow and ignoring his look of dismay. “We’re not done yet. Taxi!”
~
“And this,” announces Sherlock dramatically, “Is the Waterloo bridge, which crosses over the Thames! It was from this very spot, in fact, that—“
“That Sherlock Holmes did a bloody swan dive,” interrupts Greg. “We know. John and I both saw you do it.”
“A swan dive, really? I’d always wondered,” says Sherlock. “I was just so focused—anyways, we can move on to the next–”
“I refused to trespass on another condemned property so we can admire an abandoned criminal hideout,” says Greg.
It’s telling, John thinks, that Greg is specifying himself, having clearly given up on hope that Sherlock and John will stop the trespassing.
“If I get a vote,” adds John, “I’d like to nix all entries into the sewers. I haven’t got the right shoes on,” he adds, when Sherlock shoots him a look of betrayal.
“The sewers?” says Greg. “Really?”
“There are lots of excellent hidden tunnels throughout London,” says Sherlock haughtily, as they follow him off the bridge. “It’s no wonder criminals use them if the police can’t even be bothered to— ugh.”
A sleek black car has pulled up to the sidewalk in front of them, engine purring, windows tinted with impenetrable shadow.
One spotless door cracks open, and Mycroft Holmes emerges.
“Apologies for interrupting your… tour of nostalgia,” says Mycroft, adjusting the cuffs of his impeccable suit before producing—a single red rose, which he holds out to Greg. “Gregory. If I may, allow me to invite you to a relaxing dinner at my private home. I am told I make an excellent carbonara, and we can watch the latest football match.”
Greg’s mouth falls open, as if poleaxed.
John knows the feeling, because his mouth has dropped open too, until Sherlock nudges him. Mycroft holds his offering out patiently.
Greg gives himself a little shake.
“You know what,” he says, plucking the rose from Mycroft’s fingers. “Yeah. That sounds really excellent.”
Mycroft gives a little half bow, like a gentleman in a movie, waving Lestrade into the limo. “After you… Gregory.”
“Thank you,” says Greg. “Mycroft.” As he steps into the car, Greg pauses a moment to throw John a look over the door that says many things:
What the fuck and holy shit and -
John blinks.
Excitement?
Bewildered but supportive, John gives him a thumbs up.
“Don’t encourage him,” hisses Sherlock, nudging him again with one shoulder. “It’s already bad enough as it is.”
“A moment,” murmurs Mycroft to Greg, and then steps towards John and Sherlock.
“Mycroft,” sneers Sherlock.
“Brother,” Mycroft responds, with quiet disdain. “Were these… dramatics really necessary?”
Sherlock huffs, turning up his nose. “I think you know the answer to that.”
Mycroft taps his perfectly shined shoes on the ground, twice, before frowning. “I suppose I owe you one,” he says grudgingly.
“Excuse me?” says John, incredulous. “Sherlock, what’s happening? Did we have a case?”
Mycroft raises his chin to glare down his nose at Sherlock. “I don’t appreciate my hand being forced. Do not meddle further, brother mine.” And with that, he takes a step back, tipping his head. “John. Until next time.”
And then Mycroft ducks into the dark of the limo, and he and Lestrade speed away.
John stares after the rear lights until the car turns a corner and disappears behind the dark silhouette of a building.
“Did… we just wingman for your brother?” asks John.
“Don’t be crass, John,” says Sherlock immediately, scowling. “My plans were very romantic.”
John smothers a laugh as Sherlock’s frown deepens.
“Dull. I have no idea why he didn’t like it,” Sherlock mutters, almost to himself, and for a moment, he almost seems… sad. John’s laughter drains away.
Sherlock really is alone, sometimes.
“… I liked it,” says John.
Sherlock’s head snaps up, eyes gleaming, curls framed in a chaotic halo in the street light. The silence between them suddenly feels charged as they stare at one another.
John really did like it, is the thing. In fact, John has been having a fantastic day ever since Sherlock hurried him out the door this morning. They’ve gone places he has no business being, he got to eat weird rich people food, and never for one second has he been bored. He’s even enjoyed the last hour and a half, tromping across half of London, the activity warming his cheeks and loosening his muscles. Revisiting crime scenes is like looking through a photo album, only exciting. And John recognizes every single snapshot, because he was there.
Oh, thinks John, a bubble of revelation popping inside his head as Sherlock’s eyes search his own. John Hamish Watson, how have you been this bloody, bleedingly oblivious?
“We can break into Gary’s office and steal back the bouquet,” Sherlock says intently.
“No thanks,” says John, shaking his head with a chuckle. “I think we got our money's-worth with Donovan’s face.”
“The flowers were very ugly,” agrees Sherlock. He takes a step towards John, and then another. “You chose well.”
John grins, lips pulling back over his teeth. Too many teeth for a first date, probably, but Sherlock only looms in closer. “I like to think I have discerning taste in some things.”
“Some people would disagree with your choices.”
“Well,” says John brightly, as Sherlock steps right in front of him, so close they’re practically chest to chest. “Fuck ‘em.”
“John,” breathes Sherlock, and then they’re kissing, clumsy and awkward until John pulls Sherlock closer. For once Sherlock follows his lead, tilting his head and slowing down into something softer, smoother.
Something perfect.
When they part, each breathing a little harder, Sherlock presses something into John’s hands.
It’s a perfectly white napkin.
“Did you steal this from the restaurant?” demands John, torn between berating Sherlock and kissing him again.
“A gift,” says Sherlock. “Happy Valentine’s day, John.”