He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

Folding and Formalities

    It took John until he got inside to realize what he had just done. He realized that he invited Sherlock to dinner when he didn't even know where his forks were, and his house was a complete mess.
"Hamish!" John yelled up the stairs, desperately dragging one of the kitchen boxes into the kitchen with a very loud dragging sound.
"What's going on?" Hamish's voice asked from the top of the stairs as John started to pry the tape off of the box.
"Come help me unpack, I think I've made a grave mistake!" John yelled back, finally peeling away the tape and ripping open the flaps to find that it was just his mother's old china, nothing that would help him make a good first impression. Hamish appeared at the foot of the stairs as John dragged over another box, pulling off the tape and grabbing some large metal bowls and the pasta strainer, something that might be able to help.
"What did you do? Did you lose something? Is it back at the old house? Oh my gosh do we have to drive all the way back..."
"I didn't lose something, but I do need to find a great many things." John decided, digging through some more boxes and finally unearthing the silverware.
"What did you do?" Hamish wondered.
"I invited Sherlock to dinner." John admitted, going on stuffing the silverware into the drawer and going back to find plates.
"To dinner? Isn't that what couples do daddy? Do you love him yet?" Hamish wondered, a childish grin stretching across his face. John felt himself blushing with embarrassment, but he shook his head, finally unearthing the plates and groaning.
"Why are they all covered in dust, these will never do!" he insisted, stacking them up near the sink to wash off later.
"You're avoiding the question." Hamish decided, poking around the kitchen counter and staring at John.
"That's because it's a ridiculous question." John insisted, ignoring his son for the time being.
"Go look for the cookbook alright; it should be in one of these boxes, oh why did I invite him?" John groaned, shaking his head and running the water.
"Love makes us do crazy things." Hamish shrugged, and then walked off to find the cookbook. John rinsed off the plates, sending any dust or debris down the sink and left them to dry in the drying rack, thinking of the ingredients he had bought at the grocery store. Pasta would be an easy choice, but eating pasta makes you look like a sloppy mess, no, that wouldn't work. He had some chicken but he didn't know if the grill outside worked, and besides he would have to clean it and make a whole big ordeal, oh this was not going well.
"What are you going to cook for him?" Hamish wondered, waddling over with the cookbook tucked safely in his arms.
"Well I don't know, that's what I'm trying to figure out." John groaned, looking through the fridge desperately. They had potatoes, those were good, chicken...oh well, that would have to do. John grabbed the chicken, the potatoes, and some kale he had bought at the store in an attempt to be healthy.
"Alright Hamish, find some cooking utensils, I'm going to need a big mixing spoon, um...maybe a thermometer for the chicken, knives, but be careful with those, and the cutting board. Did we buy garlic?" John wondered, rushing over to his counter and groaning when he saw there was no garlic on hand. He had forgotten everything, olive oil, salt and pepper, oh this was a disaster. Hamish was going through the boxes, throwing around packing peanuts and bubble wrap as he unearthed a very fragile looking glass bowl.
"Careful with that!" John insisted, dropping the ingredients on the counter and rushing out to the porch to see if the grill was operational. The porch was nice, wooden with a railing, no furniture of course, but it had a nice view of the sloping backyard, ending with a natural wall of pine trees, separating their yard from their neighbors. When John opened the grill he had expected it to be dirty, but when he opened it to find what looked like a nest underneath the bars he dropped the top, letting it slam down in disgust. There was no way that thing was going to be used tonight. Oh god, he couldn't cancel now, but what to do?
"Daddy, the doorbell's ringing!" Hamish called from the house, and John groaned, running his fingers through his hair before stepping back inside.
"There are mice in the grill." John groaned, leaving Hamish to stand in the kitchen, disgusted, while he went and answered the door. John took a deep breath, trying to make sure he looked somewhat decent before opening the door. Of course he had spent his time trying to get his kitchen in order when he could've been showering, he probably smelled bad. Well, whatever, it is what it is. It's not like Sherlock was going to dress up, he's always in a tee shirt and jeans and besides, he probably didn't shower either. It was just casual, and completely 100% platonic. John swung open the door, and only then did he realize how wrong he was. Sherlock was standing on the doorstep, holding Redbeard on a leash with a large smile on his face, holding the dog so that he didn't run right into the house. Sherlock was wearing black slacks and a purple button down shirt, his hair looking freshly washed and brushed, not a speck of dirt on him. To be honest he looked like a completely different person, and for a moment John was absolutely speechless. He was sure that if he tried to open his mouth to say something that only blubbing sounds would come out, like a fish.
"Sherlock, you look...um...it's not a date or anything." John muttered, his face immediately turning bright red at the thought. Sherlock just laughed, almost guiltily, and shook his head.
"Don't worry Mr. Watson, this isn't just for you, you don't think I live in my tee shirts do you?" Sherlock wondered.
"You wear stuff like that...voluntarily?" John muttered. Sherlock nodded enthusiastically laughing at the dumbfounded look on John's face.
"Well yes I suppose I do. I like to dress nice, it makes me feel nice." Sherlock said with a smile, standing up very straight, looking very elegant.
"Oh well, alright." John muttered.
"May I add that you look nice as well?" Sherlock added, looking over John's tee shirt, just something he had changed into after the meeting with the school.
"This is the same thing I was wearing when we saw each other." John pointed out.
"Doesn't mean it doesn't look nice." Sherlock shrugged.
"You just pity me." John decided with a little frown.
"I don't pity you at all Mr. Watson, I highly respect you." Sherlock assured.
"Oh well, alright. You want to come in?" John wondered.
"Well I didn't expect us to be eating on the front stoop." Sherlock agreed, finally letting Redbeard off of his leash. Even the dog looked groomed as it ran inside, his nails clicking on the hardwood as he searched for Hamish. Sherlock stepped inside and John closed the door very awkwardly, tapping his fingers against his leg and wondering what to say next.
"Well, I guess I made a bit of an impulse decision because I was going to make dinner but the grill has a mouse nest in it and I don't have any garlic so I'm kind of stressing out right now." John admitted, and Sherlock just laughed, shaking his head.
"It's quite alright if you don't have any food, I would be happy to just help you unpack and let you be." Sherlock assured.
"Oh right, ya, unpacking. I actually forgot about that." John admitted, checking his watch to see that it was only four; they still had plenty of time to get work done before they ate.
"Hello Mr. Sherlock!" Hamish said happily, running up to where the two men were standing with a large smile on his face. Sherlock laughed, smiling to see Hamish's failed attempt at being formal.
"Look at you being all polite." John teased, ruffling Hamish's hair playfully.
"Hello Hamish, how are you?" Sherlock wondered. Hamish smiled up at him, glancing once at John as if trying to communicate something before answering.
"I'm great; we went to my new school today!" Hamish said excitedly.
"Really? How'd you like it?" Sherlock wondered, making polite conversation with an eight year old. Honestly he was too much.
"It was awesome, I go tomorrow, my teacher's really funny and the school looks nice." Hamish said.
"Well that's great, school is going to have the biggest impact on your future, so make sure you..."
"That stresses even me out." John interrupted, seeing the rather sick look on Hamish's face.
"Sorry." Sherlock muttered guiltily.
"It's fine, I know that grades are important." Hamish assured, walking over to play with Redbeard some more.
"Well, where is unpacking most necessary?" Sherlock wondered. John looked around, overwhelmed by all of the boxes that were stacked in the hallway, and shrugged.
"I think we can handle the kitchen, are you good at folding clothes?" John wondered, looking upstairs to where his room was.
"I'm excellent at folding clothes." Sherlock assured.
"You want to help me unpack all of my clothes? It would be a big help, and I'll pay you of course." John added rather hastily.
"Mr. Watson I don't need incentive, I love helping you out." Sherlock assured.
"That worries me a little bit." John decided, and Sherlock just laughed.
"Why does that worry you?" he wondered.
"Because usually people that are overly nice are hiding something. Have you killed someone?" John wondered, looking at Sherlock worriedly.
"That depends on how this evening goes." Sherlock decided, and John couldn't help but laugh.
"Alright then, to the bedroom we go." John decided, staring up the stairs and finally realizing how badly that sentence could've been interpreted. Thankfully though Sherlock didn't seem to notice, and Hamish was under ten years old, so he wouldn't understand it anyway. When they got up to John's room it looked rather depressing, there were boxes strewn everywhere and his bed was unmade, the blankets strewn around and dirty laundry littering the floor. John groaned, he wished he had thought to clean up, but alas here he was. What was it about Sherlock that made John feel so inferior? Why did he constantly want to appear perfect around Sherlock when God knows he was anything but? It was like Sherlock's judgment was somehow going to control his life, and if one thing goes wrong then his entire reputation would be ruined and he would have to live in exile. Alright, maybe that was a bit dramatic, but it bothered him how much Sherlock's opinion meant.
"Sorry I didn't clean up, I don't know where my laundry bag is." John muttered, kicking the clothes under the bed guiltily.
"You don't need to keep apologizing to me Mr. Watson, it's quite alright." He assured.
"Why do you keep calling me that?" John wondered.
"Force of habit I suppose, and it's also a lot more formal." Sherlock shrugged.
"You don't have to be formal with me Sherlock, it's alright." John assured.
"What if I want to be formal?" Sherlock wondered, and John paused, looking up into Sherlock's beautiful green eyes and getting a very odd feeling in his stomach. It felt like he was missing something, something important.
"Do what you want, Mr. Holmes." He decided, and a small smile appeared on Sherlock's lips. John tore his eyes away, going over to the stack of boxes that cluttered the corners of his room, grabbing a couple and setting them onto the ground.
"Alright then, dig in." he decided, pushing a couple in Sherlock's direction and opening up the drawers in his dresser. They were empty, of course, but not for long. Before the move John couldn't even close his drawers, but now with Mary gone he was sure he would have plenty of extra space.
"Do you have a knife or something to cut this tape with?" Sherlock wondered.
"I've got a pocket knife but I can't say I know where." John muttered, scanning the boxes in an attempt to remember where he had stashed it. No lightbulbs went off so he just shook his head, picking a box up off of the floor and putting it on the bed.
"I'm just ripping the tape off though, it's been working alright." John shrugged.
"I don't want to break a nail." Sherlock muttered, picking away at the tape. John just laughed, but Sherlock didn't join in so he honestly didn't know if it was a joke or not. Sherlock was a very confusing person overall, and John couldn't pretend to know half of his personality. When he finally got his box open John started to load out some shirts that were all packed into nice little balls, folding them the best he could and placing them on the bed to be put in the dresser later.
"Oh dear John, you call that folding?" Sherlock asked with a laugh, abandoning his box to help refold John's shirts into nicer little bundles.
"Did you work in a retail store?" john wondered, watching Sherlock gently fold and put away the shirts into the drawer.
"No, why do you ask?" Sherlock wondered as he tucked the sleeves around a long button down shirt and placed it on the other side of the dresser.
"No reason." John lied. Originally he had been under the impression that Sherlock was a tough landscaper who wore dirty tee shirts and could lift a dining table by himself, but now John was starting to see the real side of him, and it was almost feminine. He was a gardener who wore purple shirts, folded clothes and worried about breaking a nail. That made Hamish's theory even more plausible, even though Sherlock's sexuality was kind of a mystery at the moment. Not that John cared, of course not. He was just noticing, these were things friends notice.
"So how do you like the new house?" Sherlock wondered, taking his own box and finally peeling the tape off of the top himself.
"Oh it's nice, I'm sure that once we get moved in it will be better." John decided.
"It's very nice, much nicer than mine." Sherlock agreed, folding up a pair of pants and tucking them away into another drawer.
"Where do you live? I only ever see you at Mrs. Hudson's but I guess that wouldn't make much sense." John admitted with a little laugh, and Sherlock just shook his head with a smile.
"I live in a little apartment in town, not far." Sherlock admitted.
"You live alone, or do you have some sort of girlfriend or something?" John wondered.
"I thought we already discussed this?" Sherlock pointed out in a rather accusing tone.
"Maybe we did, just carrying the conversation." John admitted guiltily. Honestly he had no idea what he asked that question, maybe it was just his subconsciousness double checking, not that it meant anything, obviously. Even if Sherlock had a girlfriend, it didn't matter, and it was none of John's business.
"I live alone, unless you count Redbeard." Sherlock admitted.
"I think it's great that you have a dog, especially such a well-trained one." John decided.
"Oh yes, he makes great company." Sherlock agreed with a little smile, folding up some of John's dress pants and placing them in a drawer.
"I always wanted a dog, told myself I'd get one when I settled down a little bit, but you can see how that turned out. I guess I'm a rolling stone." John shrugged.
"You're not a rolling stone John, you've made it out, one move isn't enough to destroy your life. You've got a chance to start over, more than a lot of people in your situation could ever dream of." Sherlock assured. He paused, picking something out of the box and looking at it rather guiltily. John was too busy trying to find hangers to hang up his sweatshirt to notice what Sherlock was looking at, it was only until he noticed the glint of gold that he froze.
"Don't look at that." John insisted.
"I'm sorry, it was just sitting there." Sherlock said very quickly.
"Well ignore it. I should've gotten rid of it first thing." John snapped, grabbing the wedding ring from between Sherlock's fingers and stuffing it into his pocket. He didn't want to think of that ring, he didn't want to think of all the broken promises it held, of all the memories he thought he could keep forever.
"God, you just..." John took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down before continuing on with his sentence. "You think you know a person." He muttered, finally unearthing a hanger from the bottom of the box and placing the sweatshirt in the closet.
"I'm sorry, really I am, I didn't mean to..." Sherlock started, but John cut him off with a glance.
"I wasn't talking about you Sherlock, you've done nothing wrong." He assured, and Sherlock seemed to breathe much easier.
"Oh, thank god." Sherlock muttered, laughing in relief.
"It's her, it's that...that witch, she's made me doubt everything anymore." John admitted, ripping open a box rather aggressively while Sherlock watched with sorry eyes.
"It's not your fault John, I don't know why she would think she'd found someone better than you." Sherlock assured.
"I know it's not my fault, it's hers, it's all her fault but still, what...what made us come second? Who could she have possibly fallen in love with, and was she ever in love with me at all?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock, who looked completely lost. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm ranting to you."
"No it's fine, it's completely fine, you need to get it out." Sherlock assured, holding up a reassuring hand and looking very gentle.
"What am I even doing Sherlock? Moving away from my family, from my parents and friends, I know no one around here, I don't have a job, or a girlfriend, or any way to raise my son, I don't even know what town I'm in and there's...there's mice in the grill!" he exclaimed, as if that was the worst part about this whole adventure.
"It's alright John, there's good people here, there's Mrs. Hudson, and Molly, and our rather rambunctious neighbor Greg, and you always have me." Sherlock assured, sounding as if he wanted to give John a comforting hug or at least a pat on the back.
"I know, I know." John agreed. "I just feel like a total idiot." John groaned, his voice cracking as if he were about to cry. But he cleared his throat, continuing on with packing as if nothing had happened. Thankfully Sherlock followed his lead, and in no time they were back to folding and arranging John's clothes in a comfortable silence.