To Be Happy

To Be Honest

It wasn't Friday quite yet. Thursday, 23:21. Almost.

No one was counting, of course, save the quiet clock in the kitchen. No one was counting down to the day that John Watson would make one of the stupidest decisions of his life, the day that Sherlock Holmes would try to find some way to justify the breaking of his barely repaired heart (besides simple heartbreak, that is, because he was getting over that, of course).

I was, though. I was sitting on the old couch my parents put in my room (even though it doesn't match the curtains) and I was staring at my watch, at my phone, at the four dollar clock on the wall. I was watching the time tick before John would royally screw up everything. I felt a little bad, to be honest, because I could stop it. If I stopped it, though, would the rest of the story work out as it's supposed to? Could John realize his feelings for Sherlock without having someone else that shows him the difference? Could Sherlock stop to realize that he isn't a complete and utter waste of John's time? Could any of this really work out, without John's date in less that twenty-hours hours?

None of that matters to you, of course. You're the reader. To you, Rosamund is an unwanted obstacle between the pair you spend too much time reading fanfiction about. I should probably let you think that, considering the fact that this is a story, and you are not supposed to talk to me directly. You do; small little comments about how stupid they are, mostly. But I'm not supposed to tell you exactly what I'm thinking, because that ruins the surprise. Maybe though, if I make you think I'm telling you exactly what I'm thinking, then you actually will be surprised when you discover I've been lying all along. Maybe John won't end up with Sherlock. Maybe I'll use the classic Johnlock fanfiction approach and have one of them attempt suicide, followed by a dramatic love confession, followed by heated kissing. Maybe I'll send one of them to Guatemala for some reason, just to surprise you. Maybe I won't. Maybe you just want me to get back to the story, because "I don't give a fuck about any of this bad excuse for interesting writing, you've broken the fourth wall so many times I'm just bored by this point." You'd be right; I'm a shitty author who's only fourteen sitting at his desk, writing about some middle-aged fictional characters. So maybe I'll listen to you; maybe I'll get back to the story.

It was Friday now. Everyone was asleep at 221B Baker Street, because it was 12:23 in the morning, and that is, it would seem, a time most people are asleep. John would wake up soon, and carry on business as normal, but his date later would still be in the back of his head during all of his tasks. He'd do chores, because Sherlock wouldn't do chores. He'd start picking outfits an hour before the date, because he knew Sherlock would tell him things that are wrong with them so many times before he'd find one his flatmate deemed suitable. He'd try to avoid the awkwardness of having the man that's in love with him tell him what looks good on him, and he'd try to avoid the awkwardness of caring so much what Sherlock thought looked good on him. He'd try not to think about the fact that he knew whatever outfit Sherlock found the best, he'd wear soon after just for his flatmate. He tried not to think about this, because he was trying not to think about what he felt for Sherlock, because he had a date with a woman that actually liked him soon.

He'd go on his date, which would go wonderfully, and he would kiss her goodnight as they left the restaurant where he'd ordered the most commonly ordered entree. He'd walk home with a smile on his face. He wouldn't take a cab, because he'd be anxious about seeing Sherlock after his first date since the confession. He'd walk slowly, thinking about what he'd say. About what Sherlock would say. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't say anything. Maybe he would. Maybe he would act like nothing happened. Maybe he would act like everything's changed.

It's five in the afternoon when John begins looking through his closet for his date. He puts on his favorite jumper, because even though it's not the best first date impression, it's honest. He puts on a nicer pair of shoes, to make up for the scrappy top. He walks out of his room, down to where Sherlock is sitting on his chair.

Sherlock Holmes looks up at John Watson and sees that he's waiting for Sherlock's criticism. And Sherlock Holmes takes a minute before offering it.

"John, it's a first date."

Our doctor coughed. "Yes."

"And you're wearing that jumper." The detective stared at his flatmate disbelievingly.

"Yes."

"John."

"Sherlock."

"Why on earth are you wearing that jumper on a first date?" the detective asked, in shock.

John was embarrassed, he figured. He stared at his shoes, which he thought were very nice. They were a simple brown, with nice little designs on the sides. He was embarrassed because if he did wear the jumper, Rose might notice that he didn't dress to impress on the first. But he doesn't really want to blow her away. He wants to be honest. Maybe he'd been trying too hard to impress on dates. Maybe he needed to be with someone who knew him through and through.

"Because," he finally spoke, lifting his gaze to Sherlock Holmes, "I think it'd be best to be honest and simple with her. I like this jumper. It's me. I just think it's time to be with someone who knows the real me, and accepts it. That's all I really want, I think."

The doctor didn't think there was anything wrong with his words, but Sherlock immediately averted his gaze. "I like the jumper. You look good in it. She'll love it," the detective mumbled quickly, walking to his room and shutting the door. John just stood, replaying what he'd said to figure out what was wrong. All he'd said was that he wanted someone he was his real self with.

He just didn't want to put on a mask every time he went on dates. He'd done far too much of that in his lifetime.

But Sherlock knew him. Sherlock knew him through everything. Sherlock knew him as well as anyone ever could. Sherlock probably loved John in that ugly jumper and tacky shoes. And John knew Sherlock, of course. He knew Sherlock just as well as Sherlock knew him. That jumper and those shoes really were John Watson. And Sherlock probably the only person who could see that so perfectly.

John's date was in 20 minutes. He changed into simple black dress shoes and a nice button-up and called a cab. He didn't make a move to say goodbye to Sherlock, or to try to talk to him. He arrived at the date five minute late, and Rose was already seated. And he ordered the most commonly ordered entree. They had a wonderful time. When they went to leave, Rosamund stood ready for a kiss, but the doctor pretended not to notice. John kissed her cheek, smiled, and walked into the night.

On his walk home, he didn't walk slowly. He thought about Sherlock, not Rose. He thought about what Sherlock did while the doctor was on his date. Maybe he played his violin. Maybe he read. Maybe, most likely, he did nothing at all.