Human (Johnlock)

Table for Two

My Christmas gift to you lovely readers is this extra long chapter. As always, any mistakes made are my own and I apologize in advance for them.

Feel free to vote or leave a comment, and thanks for reading!
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The smell of Parmesan cheese and garlic bread permeated the air of John's flat, and it was absolutely delightful. John hummed happily to himself as he put the finishing touches on his dish, and Sherlock watched with a look of mild interest on his face from where he was sitting on the island. He pulled his knees up to rest his chin upon, and John tried not to smile at how winsome he looked sitting like that. He did look quite comfortable though, as he reached down to grab the glass of wine he'd poured for himself and took a sip. Sherlock Holmes seemed to have a knack for making himself at home; In addition to pouring himself a glass of wine he had already taken off his coat and scarf and discarded them on John's couch, and he seemed to have no qualms about climbing all over John's furniture.

"How much longer?" he asked impatiently with his eyes narrowed. John glanced over his shoulder at him and rolled his eyes. He turned back around, and seconds later heard the sound of feet landing on linoleum. Then Sherlock was standing close behind him, peering over his shoulder at the two plates he was preparing. John reached down to grab two forks from a drawer and accidentally elbowed Sherlock in the ribs, causing him to grunt and glare at John when he turned around.

"It's your fault for standing so close." John reached up and poked the centre of Sherlock's chest, and he took a small step backwards. He folded his arms across his chest and stared angrily at the floor.

"Why have you made two plates? I thought you weren't hungry."

"I'm not," John said as he grabbed one plate and pushed past Sherlock. "I'm still going to have dinner with you though." He gestured towards the other plate sitting on the counter, which Sherlock took and began examining.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you having dinner again?" John rolled his eyes but smiled as he sat down at his small, round dinner table and placed his plate in front of him.

"Because I want to have dinner with you." Sherlock appeared moments later holding his own plate, and sat down across from John. He stared curiously at him, cold eyes raking over very single part of his face and what was visible above the tabletop.

"Why?" John simply shrugged and bit off a piece of his garlic bread. His eyes met Sherlock's as he chewed.

"Because... I want to talk." Sherlock, who had just picked up his fork, placed it back on the table and folded his hands in his lap.

"What about?" Once again John shrugged, and took a bite of his food to give himself some time to think.

"I don't know," he finally said. "I feel like we should...talk about ourselves. Maybe get to know each other a little bit?" Sherlock gave a derisive snort and picked his fork up. He hastily cut a piece of his lasagna and shoved it into his mouth, chewing quickly and swallowing with a vengeance. John sighed and rolled his eyes, then stood and went to pour himself a glass of wine. He was eyeing Sherlock's abandoned glass when a large hand reached into view and grabbed it. John looked up at Sherlock, who was standing incredibly close, and glared at him. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and put the glass back down on the counter.

"You're upset."

"Well, sort of." Sherlock, who obviously could not grasp the concept of 'personal space', took a step closer to John and he could feel his cool breath on his cheek when he spoke.

"Why?" John pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek for a moment, wondering just how he should answer Sherlock's question. He swept his tongue across his bottom lip and turned his head towards Sherlock's, not caring that their noses were mere centimeters apart.

"Well, Sherlock, this is the second time you've been in my home and though you broke into my flat I just made you dinner, and yet we know absolutely nothing about each other." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and his eyes took on a challenging look, and John braced himself for whatever was to come.

"Well, John Watson, I know you're a doctor, you have been working at St. Bart's for the past few years and you've been a paramedic for only this year. I know you've had this particular flat since your employment at the hospital began, and I know your cooking obsession began over a year ago following your sister's return to rehab. It served as an adequate distraction from your concern for her and your otherwise mundane life, because you had no real friends or a significant other back then. I know your situation has changed somewhat recently, seeing as how you're good friends with Molly and in a rather serious relationship. About time, I must say. I remember thinking what a shame it was for such a handsome young man to be so alone."

"Hold on a minute-" John countered, eyes narrowing and nostrils flaring as he held a hand up. "I don't even know how you know all that, but..." John trailed off as the last of Sherlock's words sunk in. "Handsome?" The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched and he nodded his head.

"Of course. You're quite attractive, John. I'm sure you're aware of that." John could feel a surplus of blood rushing to his cheeks, so he looked down to hide his blush.

"Um, thanks," John murmured, turning away. He retrieved his bottle of red wine from where Sherlock had left it on the counter and cleared his throat while he poured. "You're uh, not so bad yourself."

When John dared to look up at Sherlock, he saw a coy smile on the man's full lips, and he could feel his face heating up once again. He took a long sip of his wine and leaned against the counter. Sherlock refilled his glass, then returned to the dinner table and began eating again.

"I'm a consulting detective," he said after a long silence. John, who was still standing in the kitchen, almost didn't realize Sherlock had spoken.

"Pardon?" he asked as he sat back down across from Sherlock.

"That's my job." John tilted his head and stared confused at Sherlock, who ignored him and took several bites of his lasagna. John watched him eat, and after several minutes Sherlock looked up and caught his eye. "What?"

"I've never heard of a consulting detective before."

"That's because I made it up. I'm the only one in the world." Sherlock said this with a smug sort of smile on his face and John couldn't help but to smile as well. Sherlock took a quick sip of his wine before speaking again. "I've lived in London for the past ten years, I like to play the violin when I think, and I have a tendency to go mute for several days at a time."

"That's all very interesting," John said before taking a bite of his now cool lasagna. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Didn't you say you wanted us to talk about ourselves? Obviously you want to know more about me. It's the least I can do after everything you've done for me." There was a smile on John's face, and he didn't bother trying not to let it show. He glanced up at Sherlock, who held his gaze for several seconds before looking back down at his food. John yawned, then checked the time on his watch. It was late, and he was tired, but rather than excuse himself from the table and end their dinner John asked Sherlock to tell him more about himself, and for the next hour or so they had a rapid-fire cross examination of each other. John told Sherlock about how he'd gotten a scar on his left shoulder blade several years ago at boot camp, which was why he was no longer on the military career track, and various other facts about himself, and in turn Sherlock told John about the summers he spent in France when he was younger.

Even after both men had finished their meals, Sherlock and John remained at the table and talked, only getting up to refill their wine glass or use the restroom. Eventually it got to the point where John was yawning nearly constantly, but he still said nothing and even offered to wash Sherlock's dirtied dinner plate while he freshened up in the bathroom.

John was in the process of washing his own plate when he heard footsteps behind him, and he turned to see Sherlock standing before him, looking rather sheepish as he scratched at his forearm.

"What is it Sherlock?"

"You're tired." John stifled a yawn and smiled up at Sherlock.

"A bit, yeah." Sherlock sighed and held his hands behind his back. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, just..." he sighed again. "I suppose you'll be going to bed soon, which means you'll want me to leave, correct?"

"Erm, not correct." Sherlock's eyebrows shot up and disappeared behind his curly fringe, and John tried not to laugh at his facial expression. "If you don't want to leave yet you don't have to. I'll even stay up with you if you'd like."

"No, no, I couldn't let you do that," Sherlock said, waving a hand in the air. He turned and walked out of the kitchen, and John followed after him. He sat on John's couch and removed his shoes, tossing them to the side. "I do think I'll stay here a bit longer though if you don't mind." He removed his suit jacket and tossed it onto the floor beside his shoes. He was wearing a crisp, white, button up underneath, though with the way he threw himself back onto John's couch he guessed it wouldn't stay wrinkle-free for much longer. He walked over and sat on the arm of the couch where Sherlock's feet were.

"Is everything alright?" he asked quietly. "Is there some reason you don't want to go home?" Sherlock's eyes were now closed, but John could tell he wasn't sleeping.

"There is," he finally said, "though none of the things you're thinking."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not having family troubles, I did not get kicked out of my flat by my girlfriend or partner, nor am I just plain homeless."

"I never thought you were homeless," John said. "How could I when you dress like that?" Sherlock's head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes at John.

"Dress like what?"

"Nothing. I mean, your suit-"

"What about it?"

"It looks like it costs more than my rent." Sherlock chuckled and John could feel the deep rumbling in his own chest. "So um, why is it that you don't want to go home?"

"If you must know," Sherlock said on the exhale of a dramatic sigh, "One of the most powerful drug dealers in London was put in jail last night thanks to me. Because of it I've had several groups of pissed off thugs tracking me down all day. I don't want them to follow me to my home." John let out a snort of a laugh and crossed his arms, glaring at Sherlock.

"Oh, so you've led them to mine?" Sherlock pushed up his shirt sleeve and scratched his forearm.

"Relax John, I'm positive they know this isn't where I live or a place I frequently visit." John conjured a mental image of Sherlock breaking into his flat and smiled. The smile vanished when he remembered that Sherlock had in fact broken into his flat, and he went to the door to check for signs of forced entry or some other damage. "John don't be silly. I didn't break down your door or anything. Everything's as it was and as it should be. Now, go to sleep. You've work in the morning." John turned around, mouth ready to respond, but Sherlock shushed him. "Bed. Now."

With a sigh and a smile, John turned and went to his room. He changed into his bedclothes and climbed beneath the covers, and was probably asleep before his head hit the pillow.

When John awoke the next morning Sherlock was gone. For some reason his coffee tasted more bitter than usual, despite the excessive amount of creamer he used.

He decided to walk to work that morning, and when he was halfway to his destination it began to rain. He was able to hail a cab though and ended up at the hospital quite a bit earlier than he needed to be. He decided to head to the break room, and was pleased to find Molly already there. Well, he was pleased until he remembered that she'd spoken to Sherlock, and he was even less pleased when he thought about what she'd told him.

"Hi Doctor Watson," she said cheerily, perking up when she saw him. He gave her a tight lipped smile when he entered the room, but it was gone by the time he was standing in front of her.

"I didn't say I missed him." Molly's eyes grew to twice their size and she began stuttering out some sort of apology.

"I- I didn't mean to say- he just.. it-"

"Molly," John said, reaching out and grabbing her shoulders. "I'm not mad at you." He shrugged and his mouth twisted into a weird sort of smile. "Not very."

"Good. I'm sorry but I just happened to see him when you left and-" Molly stopped talking suddenly and John noticed she was staring past his head. He turned around to see Sherlock casually leaning against the doorframe.

"Hello there," he said. "Sorry for disappearing but I had a sort of early morning appointment with Molly here."

"Oh, that's quite alright," John said, trying not to think about why anyone would make an appointment with a pathologist. Sherlock pushed himself off of the doorframe and walked over to stand beside John, and he smiled up at him. "Did you sleep well?"

"Of course." A moment of silence passed, and suddenly John remembered Molly was still inside the room. He turned to her, ready to offer some sort of explanation, but she probably wouldn't have heard him if he'd told her he was giving her a million pounds. Her eyes were fixed solely on Sherlock, as if he was the only person in the world who existed. He didn't understand why but the look Molly was giving Sherlock made John extremely uncomfortable.

"I uh, I think I'm gonna go now-"

"Wait," Sherlock said, placing a hand on John's shoulder. "Would you like to join me for lunch? I'd like to make it up to you for last night." John cleared his throat and glanced at Molly, who now looked more confused than ever, then back at Sherlock.

"There's no need for-"

"I'll take you anywhere you want," Sherlock said in a sing-song voice, which made John chuckle.

"Anywhere?" Sherlock smiled and nodded his head.

"Anywhere." With a smile now on his face, John turned and began backing out of the room.

"I'll see you at twelve. Here." John pointed at the ground beneath his feet and Sherlock nodded. After one more glance at a rather flustered-looking Molly, John turned and was out he door.