•Teenlock•Parentlock• If All Else Fails

3• A Disasterous Dinner

John got off his train. It was thundering loudly outside the station with rain that seemed to be everlasting and strong. He clutched his laptop under his arm, despite the horrific weather, and the fact no taxi seemed to stop for him, he smiled. He smiled because Sherlock loved him. Loved.

He got into the nearest taxi he could find, and told the driver to take him to the airport. The driver huffed lazily and squirmed in his seat. "Crappy weather huh?" He asked, starting the taxi.

"Yeah." John answered, barely looking at him. He looked out the window at a girl in a pink coat trying to get in a taxi, and failing. She fell to the floor, in a puddle, making her light pink coat a muddy brown.

"Poor girl." The driver laughed huskily. A smoker, John decided. He hummed a little in agreement. "Not much of a talker, are you mate?" He said, still laughing a little. John nodded his head in agreement, realising the driver couldn't see him mumbled an agreement. "Oh well," the driver sighed. "Not many people are now a days. What's your name mate?"

"John. John Watson." John said, taking out his earphones with an annoyed expression.

"I'm Paul Dawson." The taxi driver said with a broad and genuine grin. "I've been a taxi driver for eight years now. Regret it horribly. What are you doing with your life John? Not being a taxi driver I hope!" He joked.

John laughed politely. "Not quite. Joining the Armed Forces. Regretting it horribly."

"Ah, your girl not liking it?" Paul Dawson asked, a sympathetic look upon his round face. He was really just a very round man, Paul Dawson. He had a round, but thin, brown haircut and big round blue eyes with round eyebrows, round chins (emphasis on the s) round body, round beer belly, round legs. Most of him was fairly round.

"Not quite." John said again. "I've fallen desperately in love, and it's too late to back out."

"Awh, what's their name?" Paul Dawson smiled, looking at the motorway ahead. John was happy Paul Dawson didn't specify a gender.

"Sherlock." John simply said. The name filled him with butterflies that flew wildly around in his stomach bringing a large smile to his face.

"Oh! I read his blog. 'The science of deduction.' Smart lad." Paul Dawson smiled. John breathed a sigh of relief. At least he didn't kick me out his cab or anything. John thought with optimism, even though Paul Dawson said it with a tone of slight disapproval. "Why didn't he want you to join, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I guess he just... Didn't want me to get hurt. Or deaded."

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Sherlock lay on his bed staring into the ceiling. John would be getting off his train now. He smiled up at the ceiling and realised how happy John made him. Sure, he had his doubts. What if it was all a big joke? What if it was his brother being an idiot again? No. It was John. It was his John. Sherlock could hear his grandparents arriving, greeting his parents. "Oh great, everyone saying hello to each other how lovely." He mumbled to himself. He wore a sky blue shirt and black trousers. He refused to wear the silk black tie his parents had requested he wear. Thinking about it, Sherlocks parents requested (or rather enforced) most aspects of his life. His clothes (shirts and trousers. No jeans. Ever.) his music taste (classical, though My Chemical Romance and Fall Out Boy were slowly becoming his favourites.) his friends, (well, the ones he brought home) and eventually they'd pick him out a wife.

Ugh.

Sherlock had no desire for a wife. Up until meeting John, he had had no desire for any company at all. His skull, that sat on his chest of drawers, was company enough. It didn't talk back or tell him to do anything. And it kept secrets. Sherlock didn't want a wife. Sherlock didn't want babies. Nasty noisy things. Sherlock wanted John. And that was all. He heard Mycroft open his door and knock on his. "What do you want?" Sherlock asked, annoyance clear in his tone.