Chapter Text
Sherlock flopped onto the couch, his features settled into the not-quite-sulk that appeared when he'd gone too long without a puzzle to occupy his mind.
It'd been three weeks since the last case of any substance. The dark haired man had stubbornly waved away the posts on the website for the past few days, dismissing them as unsatisfying trivialities that weren't worth his time.
Footfalls approached from the entryway, progressively louder until the door of 221B banged open and the flat’s second inhabitant shimmied awkwardly inside, carrying four large paper bags of groceries. It was a pathetic sight indeed that John came upon. He thought the flat was empty until he spotted Sherlock blending into the couch. He cleared his throat and began putting things away.
Sherlock pressed his hands together in front of his mouth as he continued to stare up at the ceiling, not even sparing a glance for the shorter man; he'd known it was John from the cadence and weight of his footsteps before he'd even opened the door.
Only hesitantly did John approach the refrigerator. "So. Do you think it's about time we moved the eyeballs to the freezer?"
"No good. That'd stop the progression instead of slowing it. They're nearly done."
Really, he'd never understand why John seemed so put off by his experiments. Pursuing knowledge was a noble endeavor, and besides, the containers and utensils were always washed before being used for edibles. He'd concede that it was John who washed them, but there it was. It wasn't his fault that people got the illogical notion that objects were tainted by association, even after being sterilized.
John grimaced and pushed the container of perfectly round, absolutely unnerving, human eyeballs to the far side of the refrigerator. "They're starting to smell…," he muttered, knowing Sherlock's sensitive hearing would catch his protests. He reminded himself not to complain too much. As far as Sherlock being bored usually went, this quiet, pensive state was a blessing.
When he'd finished with the groceries, he put on a pot of coffee, and went to sit in his armchair. He made himself comfortable, enjoying the quiet while it lasted, and opened the newspaper. His pleasant expression fell flat. He was now staring through a hole that took up half the current events section. On the other side of the hole was Sherlock, lying innocent and undisturbed, still staring at the ceiling, not paying any notice.
"And what, may I ask, did the current events section do to you this morning?"
"An irredeemable braggart's pontifications took up the majority of it." While this could have held true with any number of politicians or celebrities, Sherlock's tone left no question as to the identity of the offender. He usually ignored such things as the banal, pedestrian interests of the public, but was roused to spite whenever his brother's endeavors were in the spotlight. "I did you a favor by burning it, really."
Sherlock turned slightly and eyed his violin case, weighing whether the effort of rising to play would pay off sufficiently in counteracting the doldrums he was immersed in.
John sighed. He doubted he would ever know the intricacies of the rivalry Sherlock felt for his brother. He let the newspaper flop down into his lap.
There were days he would swear up and down that Sherlock was one of the most brilliant men on the planet, bursting with energy and eager to take on the world. Then there were the other days…when his flatmate was shamelessly lazy. Hearing the coffee brewing in the kitchen, he stood to get a cup. He didn't think he'd ever ask this, but…. "I don't suppose you'd want to visit the pub with me later tonight then? You know…if you've got nothing else on."
"What would be the point of that?"
It wasn't that Sherlock didn't enjoy John's company - quite the opposite, really. Pubs, however, were usually not his ‘thing’. Not unless he was using the location to mine information from the local populace.
Part of it was simply that he just didn't care to go out and meet strangers. Most human beings didn't meet his threshold of "worth having a conversation with", much less offering an enjoyable conversation. Usually people put him off social activities as much as Sherlock himself seemed to put them off. There was a barrier that couldn't be passed, and Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted to get past it.
"I'll have a cup," he added as he watched John move towards the kitchen, doubtless heading for the coffee.
"Yes, yes, yes…." John took two cups out of the cupboard. It was probably for the best. Sherlock accompanying him on a night out was likely not to end well, or at least not end with the two of them making any friends. He only went himself when they weren't on a case. Really, the thought of Sherlock going out with him, for only a drink, was just silly. He almost felt embarrassed for asking.
"Well," John cleared his throat and sat down with the laptop, handing one cup of coffee to Sherlock. "Let's see anything interesting has popped up overnight."
Sherlock accepted the cup wordlessly, changing to a sitting position on the couch. He gave his violin case another glance and then rose the rest of the way. He took a sip of the coffee, burning his tongue in the process, then set it down on the table and turned his attention to the instrument.
Opening the case and taking rosin to the bow, Sherlock flicked a sideways glance to John. The man's brow slightly furrowed and his tongue occasionally, briefly darted forward between his lips when he was diverting all of his attention to a subject. It was one of the man's small quirks Sherlock enjoyed observing.
It took a moment for John to notice he was being watched, but once he had, he decided to remain as he was. Sherlock occasionally did a…motionless, staring…thing. Ever the observer, he was. Strangely, John didn't mind. He even sometimes found himself doing it to Sherlock in return. So, without discomfort, he opened his email and began to slog through his messages.
Ever since they had been getting more publicity, the volume had been steadily multiplying. Soon John would be forced to find another way to sort it all. He would have considered hiring a secretary, but that was a Bad Idea. If Sherlock managed to run off his girlfriends, a personal assistant wouldn't last a day.
There was, however, one message that caught his eye.
Sitting innocuously halfway down John's inbox was one which, judging from the address @cbbc.com, proclaimed itself to have come from the Children's BBC network. He opened it with a raised brow.
"Dear Dr. John H. Watson,
Good morning! I have a proposition for you. A very good one, I do believe.
First of all, let me introduce myself. I am one of the many, many people who have stumbled upon this wonder of a blog of yours. No doubt you get emails like this all the time from fans, like myself, but I would like to bring a different sort of discussion to your table.
You see, I'm a television actor. I work out of a small, but growing (hopefully growing, I'm crossing my fingers) studio for children's programmes. We'll be wrapping up the season of our current show in the next few weeks, and well, this is what I've come to ask you:…
Imagine: Sherlock Holmes and yourself, Dr. John Watson, finding clues, solving mysteries, and fighting crime on telly. I would like to turn your work into our next television series.
Children would love it! The ingenuity, the carefully crafted deductive work, and the spontaneity behind your adventures would become a priceless learning experience for young people around the globe.
I come to you myself because I have been reading your blog for some time, and I would like to extend the invitation to you personally. Our producers are already on board with the idea and would be happy to speak to you as well.
If you are even the slightest bit interested, I would be overjoyed to meet with you in person to explain myself further.
Below is my number. You can reach me at any time.
Sincerely,
Richard Brook
The Storyteller
B. Street Irregulars Ent., CBBC
Mobile: 0207 458 4138 Fax: 0207 458 4139"
Sherlock put the bow to the strings and tested a few notes, pausing to tune. His eyes had stayed on John, so he didn't miss the small flicker of curiosity that lit up his colleague's face - something had caught his interest.
"More than the usual pleas for assistance in finding lost pets and proving extramarital affairs, I take it?"
"Oh? Um, well….sort of." John wasn't sure that this would be up Sherlock's alley of interest, but his own attention was certainly piqued. "Not a case, an offer. Here, take a look." He turned the computer around on his lap for Sherlock to read.
Sherlock stepped forward and leaned down until he was eye-level with the screen, scanning over the words quickly. His almond eyes narrowed predictably at "children's programmes" and his mouth tightened in disapproval.
Sherlock straightened and abruptly turned the laptop back towards John, completely disinterested. He brought his attention back to his tuning, obviously expecting that to be the end of the matter.
"Uh huh….I take it that's a 'no', then?" John looked over the email once again. He pursed his lips together, considering. "Why not?" He looked up at Sherlock, then back down to the monitor. "I mean, we could meet with him at least…. And you know, all this attention we're getting lately, all this media hubbub? It's not exactly making us any money, now is it?"
"Children's programme, John," Sherlock said, as if that should explain everything succinctly. When John continued to look at him, he sighed, setting the violin down on the table and picking up his coffee mug.
"The money is irrelevant. This Richard Brook is looking to capitalize on what he perceives to be an upcoming celebrity by manipulating the usual emotions people have in these circumstances - that is, to seek further fame and cement themselves in the minds of the common populace. If the drive for the spotlight is there, individuals will stoop to participate in situations that they'd normally avoid - in this case, children's telly."
"While this would be less objectionable if the programme were actually held to a decent educational standard and if I were the sort of person who didn't mind prattling complete drivel with children in order to bolster my sense of self-worth, neither of these are true. It will undoubtedly be full of tedious musical numbers, attempts at lessons that destroy brain cells rather than improving them, and stipulations to act unduly cheerful and lie continuously to a camera because sensitive parents would rather not know they're encouraging their offspring to watch the Sociopath's Daily Criminal Digest."
John let out a long breath of air.
"Oookay then…." He paused, wetted his lips, and collected his next argument. "But Sherlock, I seriously doubt that they will expect you to perform on the show. That is, after they've met you in person." John winced at the thought. "It'll probably be one of those license-to-use our names and ideas, sorts of things. They'd probably pay us just for that. And, well, who's to say it would be all that bad in the end? Maybe you could give them suggestions…?"
"So you're saying we should go submit to social niceties for the sake of business, then accept money so they can make an idiotic, slapstick mockery of us on the telly for the delight of brain dead youth and the marketing companies that target them? Yes, that will certainly advance our reputation," Sherlock muttered. "Away from the days of Pet Rescue. Onwards to the days of performing at birthday parties. No, John," he added, uncertain whether his sarcasm was perfectly clear to the other man. With John, sometimes it paid to be blunt.
John's brows knit together and his jaw set firmly. He glared up at Sherlock.
For a long moment they were locked in a contest of gazes, and then, without moving another muscle, John's fingers began typing. So accustomed was he to the flow of writing that he did not need to break their stare until he reached the very end of his message. Once finished, he glanced over it quickly….
Dear Mr. Brook,
I would be delighted to meet with you and further discuss your offer. Please let me know when you are available and we can schedule something.
Sincerely,
John Watson"
…and then clicked ‘send’.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his ennui slipping into irritation. However much John tried to keep his expression from giving things away, he was often an easy read.
"John, I believe social norms dictate that when someone voices objections to another person involving them in an endeavor they don't care for, the sentiment is respected."
"Yes, this is true," John conceded, but without missing a beat continued, "but, if you hadn't noticed, the message was directed to me, regarding my blog, and not to you." He closed the laptop. "I, for one, think this could be something worth looking into. Maybe even a bit of fun."
Sherlock set his mug down on the table, his expression vaguely sour. "If you think business meetings are fun, John," he said as he picked up his violin, "you clearly haven't experienced enough of them to know better."
Tucking the violin into place, Sherlock decided to express his displeasure with strings instead of voice, letting the jarring sounds of Bartok's "Melodia" Sonata resonate through the flat and assault the ears of John and anyone else close enough to hear it.
"Oh for crying out loud." John rose from the chair with a roll of his eyes, not intending to put up with the shrill noise. "I should get a trombone to accompany you whenever you're in a mood." As the sound of the music rose in pitch, so did John's voice. "Wah-wah-waaahhhhhh," he mimicked the clichéd sound of a lone, sad trombone, playing on nothing but air.
Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye as he let the real composition flow into impromptu phrases of his own, enjoying the way the truly shrill notes seemed to raise John's hackles - the way he'd take a sharp breath through his teeth and focus his gaze on him, the subtle twitches in his hands.
Sherlock liked pushing people after he figured out what made them tick. The impulse hadn't won him many friends, but he hadn't been much preoccupied with that fact for many years. Even so, he found himself being a bit more careful around John, always watching for his companion's border line to ensure he didn't cross it.
John, to his credit, put up with it as long as he could. He went to the kitchen to fiddle with some things…rearrange the pots, maybe clean something, but in the end there was nothing for it.
"Alright, that's it. I'm going out!" He threw up his hands and reached for his jacket. He was aware that it was still well before noon, but he would find something to do. He knew Sherlock was running out of hair cream and decent towels, and he would probably end up getting some . He stopped. The thought that he was leaving to get away from Sherlock's petulance only to pick up toiletries for Sherlock was suddenly aggravating. "And when I come back, I'll still be planning to meet this Mr. Brook, and that's that." He pulled on his jacket, grabbed his keys, and headed out the door.
Sherlock continued playing until John was out of view, watching him beat an angry retreat down the sidewalk outside. Lowering the bow once he could no longer see his acquired shadow, he sighed.
As much as human interactions and emotions were easily graspable from a distance, Sherlock had always found it difficult to negotiate those currents. Manipulating or driving people away was accomplished easily enough. Everything else was a tangle where anything he said or did struck others as cold, freakish, or downright insulting.
That wasn't much of a problem with most people he encountered; they were locked outside, becoming almost more intangible than ideas, and they couldn't touch him at all. John was closer somehow, and in a very different way than Mycroft. He didn't know what it meant, but the fact that he was close enough to have an effect was vaguely disturbing.
Sherlock stared at the steady flow of traffic outside the window for a long moment, his gaze finally sliding sideways to settle upon John's laptop. He couldn't recall when it was that he'd started bending, started accommodating the other man in small ways, sometimes without thinking. He'd never made these sorts of adjustments for anyone else that wandered near the edges of his life.
Sherlock pondered, then set his violin down and moved to the kitchen. He paused for a moment before grabbing the dustbin.
Sherlock Holmes didn't apologize, but perhaps an experiment cut short would mollify John. Just a bit.
Sherlock actually took the rubbish out for once, determining that John's main point of contention with the eyes had been the smell. It would hardly do any good to simply move the odor from the fridge to the bin, he reasoned, so he had tied up the plastic bag and made his way down the stairs, dumping his burden into the holding bin out back.
-
John felt slightly more comfortable when he was heading away from Baker Street.
Sherlock could set him off like no one else in the world. No one could hold a candle to the time it took for Sherlock to take him from a state of serenity and send him into one of utter aggravation. John supposed that was just one of his flatmate's many talents.
On the other hand, frustrating as Sherlock was, their arguments always tended to be on the petty side. John could handle them that way. It was probably healthy for him, even. Just so long as he didn't allow himself to become too focused on Sherlock, too engrossed in the man himself, which was hard to avoid. Sherlock was intense. And, sometimes, when John found himself with his head full of Sherlock and only Sherlock, he had to force himself to stop or he wouldn’t have a life of his own.
Like now.
He took deep breaths and cast his eyes to the world around him, letting lungfuls of the nippy London air fill him. It was good to be out in the busy world. It was good to remind himself that other people existed besides Sherlock.
Eventually, he spotted Tesco.
John ate his lunch in the park a while later, deciding he didn't mind the chill so much as long as he could be amidst the hustle and bustle of the sidewalk shoppers. Picking up necessities at the shop, even though John had already been there once this morning, wasn't so bad. The clerks were getting to know him. He wasn't sure if the fact that he was also getting to know them, and on a first name basis, complete with odd details about their lives and families, was nice or just a bit off-putting.
He was aware that he was avoiding Sherlock, and he was okay with that. Usually when he avoided Sherlock, Sherlock let him without comment until something of interest came up. Then, Sherlock seemed to forget that he was being avoided, and dragged John along with him wherever he went.
By the time John finished his meal, he was still determined to see this meeting with Mr. Brook through, but he felt well enough to face Sherlock again. He tossed his things in the dustbin, picked up his two new Tesco bags, and made his way back to Baker Street.
Upon re-entering the flat after dumping the rubbish, Sherlock felt moderately better. After turning the bowl that had contained the eyeballs upside-down in the sink, "do not use", John would certainly take care of it later, he returned to the window. Basking in the weak sunlight that barely managed to pierce the cloud cover, Sherlock picked up his violin again and began to play - nothing formally composed, just emotions and thoughts translated into waves of sound.
It could be heard all the way down the quiet street if one was keeping an ear out.
As John approached, he noticed a marked difference in the music when he had left to that of the music when he returned. He paused outside the window of their apartment. For a moment, unexpectedly, the chords of the violin took him away. He stood there, fixed to the spot, shopping in hand, and closed his eyes. In a word, the tune was melancholic, but it was the kind of music that transported a listener somewhere else. For John, he could have imagined himself walking along the rocky shore of the sea as he had done once as a child. That moment had left an impression in his memory.
It begged him to wonder what kind of places Sherlock went to when producing music like this.
At last, he knew that he could only stand motionless on the street like that for so long. Reluctantly, John entered the flat, hoping that his arrival would not interrupt Sherlock from his reverie.
Sherlock was in one of those trances John had observed only very rarely. Half of the time it was to go to his "mind palace", as he'd termed it, wandering the corridors of his psyche looking for memories. During other half he'd sink into music, riding through emotions he wasn't able to articulate in his normal, waking life.
It might be possible for a true sociopath to perform music like this, but it was highly doubtful.
John could have sworn Sherlock hadn't moved from where he'd left him that morning. He went about quietly putting away the things he'd bought. It seemed to him that Sherlock was in a mental state that should be respected and left undisturbed. John was, after all, the one who had pushed him over the edge of boredom into…well, into a mood that could produce breathtaking music.
It was funny how Sherlock could be so expressive of feelings such as annoyance, boredom, even glee if he were faced with a particularly fascinating puzzle, but anything deeper and John suspected that he was out of his depth.
When John was finished, he returned to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Sherlock probably hadn't eaten today if John's suspicions about his reluctance to put down his violin were true. He was about to remedy the situation when he opened the refrigerator and noticed something odd. He opened his mouth and turned, about to comment on his findings when he noticed something odder still.
"Sherlock? Did you…….take out the rubbish?"
A voice. Someone was speaking. The presence that had entered the flat a few moments ago, which his subconscious had filed away as.... ah, John. Sherlock finished the last phrase and let the bow leave the strings. "Hmmm?"
Sherlock turned slightly. He'd gotten caught up to the point that he'd missed exactly what John had asked him. A quick glance told him what he needed. "Oh. Yes, they're gone."
"Wha?" John stood there with the refrigerator door hanging open, staring at Sherlock. He closed it when he realized he must have looked like an idiot. "You threw out the smelly eyeballs? …along with the rest of the rubbish?" Obviously. John probably didn't seem like he was faring well in the intelligence department right now, but he was mildly shocked.
It wasn't the first time Sherlock had ever disposed of rubbish before. However, with the disagreement this morning in mind, it would seem as though he had done it for John's sake.
"They're out back, if you find that yours are failing you, but I think they're in worse condition than the ones you have," Sherlock replied, deadpan but for the smallest curve upwards on one side of his mouth. Teasing, not taunting.
Suitably amused by John's startled expression, Sherlock turned his attention back to his violin and prepared it to be put away.
"Um…. No thanks." John gave a little laugh and tried to relax a bit. He wondered if Sherlock really had just both complimented his eyes and also suggested that they could be replaced in rather morbid fashion. He plopped himself down in the armchair, deciding it was best not thought about. "Anything on the telly?"
"I'm certain that there are several things on the telly, but I have severe doubts that any of them are worth paying attention to." With everything cared for properly, Sherlock shut the case and dropped back onto the sofa. The next few moments were spent scrutinizing his colleague, following the visual clues to see exactly what he'd done while he was gone. It was much as he'd expected; John tended to slip into routines if given the chance.
John's fingers hesitated over the remote. At this point, he wasn't sure if he wanted to turn it on if it could possibly aggravate Sherlock. He was keenly aware that he had forced them into an argument, that they had both made gestures of restoring the peace, and he had to continue on that path.
He cast about for a safe subject. "So. ….don't suppose you've had any potential clients while I was out?"
"No, no new texts I'm afraid." Every once in a while there was a complete dearth of suitably intriguing material to work with. Unfortunately, as Lestrade had put it when he'd voiced his laments, there can’t be a murder every day. The population would move elsewhere if there were. "Something will turn up eventually." Soon. Hopefully.
"Hmm, alright then. Talk shows it is." John turned on the telly and settled in. He could use a good laugh, and Sherlock in the background of talk show television never failed to be a winning combination. The programme was half finished already. Looked like a segment on concerned parents, judging from the tearful woman being interviewed. Luckily, Britain's Got Talent was scheduled next.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. John truly had awful taste in certain areas, and telly was unmistakably one of those.
Between the boredom, the nonsense playing on the screen, and John's inevitable insistence on him attending the meeting with Richard Brook, it was shaping up to be a long night indeed.
John smiled up at him from the chair, trying to keep the peace, and then went back to watching. "Let me know when the kettle’s boiled, would you?"
Sherlock probably wouldn't, but sometimes John said things like that just to have normal communication. And something as mundane as tea would give Sherlock an excuse to sit down next to John later. If he wanted to.
Sherlock didn't reply, but he didn't need to. They'd begun to learn each other's quirks after spending so much time around each other, and John was now able to pick up some of nonverbal cues that encompassed Sherlock's way of communicating. A flicker of a glance was proof that the dark haired man had heard him.
John needed no prompting in the end; he rose and went to the kitchen as soon as the whistle sounded. Sherlock shadowed along behind him, waiting patiently to be handed his mug.
Neither commented when they sat back down together, enjoying each other's company from opposite ends of the sofa.
--
The next day, John went about his daily routine. There was still no word of a case from Sherlock, and the hospital had been unusually well staffed and hadn't called.
In spite of all this, John felt much better. He was pleasantly surprised when the weather turned out warmer than the day prior. He enjoyed the rays of the sun shining down on him, reflecting his mood, as he walked down the streets that morning.
Sherlock had accepted the unspoken apologies that had passed between them the previous night. The flat had been quiet since then, no audible evidence of boredom piercing the calm and disturbing the sleep of the building's inhabitants.
The detective had already been busy in his half of the kitchen when John woke, safety goggles down for once as he tampered with something caustic. He'd accepted the mug of tea John had offered him before his colleague had gone out the door, but it was doubtful he'd remembered to eat anything. Neglect of his body's needs in favor of indulging his current fascination was a bad habit that was entrenched from years of repetition, and it would take more than polite reminders from his flatmate to break the pattern.
John had let him go on for most of the day like this, but now he was glancing at his watch and subtly looking out the window toward the sun hanging low in the sky. He closed his laptop and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, preparing himself for a battle of wills if it came to that.
After he’d replied to the actor from the small CBBC station, the man had been enthusiastic to schedule their meeting for that very evening, after business hours. He'd cordially invited them out to dinner, even finding a restaurant just shy of walking distance from Baker Street. Sherlock's warnings hadn't been forgotten, and it was more than likely that nothing would come of it, but John had to say that he was curious over the possibility of a children's programme dedicated to their work. The idea must have been pulling on the softer side of him.
Only an hour remained until the meeting, and he had yet to find a way to bring it up to Sherlock.
Perhaps the simplest was the best.
"So," he began, loudly enough for his evasive flatmate to hear, "Will you be coming to dinner tonight? Richard has invited us out."
"I suppose I must, or you'll be tempted to sign me up for more engagements in my absence," Sherlock replied, taking a set of tongs and quickly rushing a flask to the sink, where it promptly began to overflow. Leaving the concoction in the basin, he stripped off the goggles and tossed them carelessly onto the countertop.
"If," he began quickly, having seen John open his mouth to comment. "If I am to come with you tonight, there will be some ground rules."
John's eyebrows rose. He sat still in the chair, on the edge of both relief and uncertainty. Sherlock, dressed in his usual experimenting attire, looked like a cross between a mad scientist and a man who'd just rolled out of bed. The curls on his head were sticking up in an unruly fashion since he'd removed the goggles, and John found the curious sight somewhat distracting.
John blinked, unmoving. "Such as?"
Sherlock stalked closer. It was difficult to spot the signs if you didn't know him well, as he didn't display emotions in a normal manner, but small clues were there - a tightness in his features, slight hesitation in normally fluid movement. John didn't have as much practice in reading people, but he'd seen this before. Sherlock was irritated at being in this situation, and the man's peculiar social anxiety was rearing its head.
"First, I am not required to be polite and charming. If he wanted to meet us, he gets his wish. I am under no obligation to make him approve of me. Second, you will not agree to anything that includes me by extension, either directly or indirectly, without discussing it with me first and securing my agreement." Sherlock fixed John with his gaze, exhaled sharply. "Third... if this is as boring and unpleasant as I am expecting, you will have to make amends somehow. We will discuss adequate compensation afterwards."
John could feel the tendrils of a blush rise to his cheeks and wished to God and Heaven that it would go away. Because really? Blushing at Sherlock's probably unintentionally leading words "adequate compensation" was not an appropriate response to his demands.
He wetted his dry lips and tried to ignore the discomfort Sherlock was rousing in him. "Alright…. Understandable," he conceded. "But, you've got to promise not to be unreasonable just because you don't like it. That sound fair enough?"
Sherlock was distracted by John's unusual reaction; not only did he not make a fuss about the implication that he was going to treat Mr. Brook very poorly, his skin had flushed and his pulse had appeared to quicken. Anticipated embarrassment? No, John wasn't afraid of a fight; he wouldn't have backed down if he thought he was going to endure a mortifying social situation.
....oh. Dilated pupils.
"Fair enough," Sherlock concurred, at a loss for once. What was the appropriate response for these sorts of situations? Sherlock barely understood exactly what category John fit into, aside from the obvious: flatmate, colleague, friend. If John was feeling more than admiration and companionable affection, what then? Sherlock certainly didn't want to do or say the wrong thing and drive away the only person in his life who seemed to like him for himself, despite all odds.
This was not his area of expertise.
"...well. I suppose I'll clean up," he added awkwardly, beating a hasty retreat to the bathroom before he was asked questions he couldn't answer.
John, still rooted to his chair, felt his color flush at Sherlock's turned back. He released a breath that he'd probably been holding ever since he'd spoken, and composed himself. He'd let that confrontation get far more awkward than it needed to be, and he suspected that Sherlock had noticed. Sherlock noticing, in and of itself, made it even more awkward for John.
He and Sherlock weren't like that. Not really. He doubted that Sherlock could be "like that" with anyone. Of all times to contemplate the unusual arrangement they shared, this really wasn't the best. John mentally kicked himself and rolled his eyes. They had a dinner to go to, and, all social tension aside, he was a bit nervous as to what Sherlock's ideas could be on "making amends" for a night that he surely would not approve of.
As much as Sherlock purported not to care what others thought about him, he was a vain man. He derived a large portion of his self-esteem from the awed reactions of the people around him; it had been this very quality, among others, that had caused him to instantly take to John Watson, who indulged his need for an audience full of praise and wonder. Regardless of the fact that he had no intention of accepting the proposal for a television programme, his pride dictated that he show up dressed to impress.
Stripping down and stepping into the shower stall, Sherlock found himself mulling over his situation with John far more than the impending dinner meeting.
John, on the other hand, wandered up to his room and began tossing one pair of trousers, then shirts, after another, mulling over what he could put together to look at least moderately presentable for a business-dining occasion. He hadn't much experience in the area at all. Yes, he'd been in the press multiple times since Sherlock's work had started getting noticed, and yes, he was no stranger to taking a new girlfriend out for an evening supper, but he was a naturally casual sort. Girls liked that. The press didn't seem to mind. They mostly focused on Sherlock anyway. All of Mr. Brook's letters had been directed to him, however, and John felt that he might have somehow gotten himself an image that he now had to live up to.
What did professional writers wear to dinner? For that matter, what did professional bloggers wear?
After Sherlock had successfully scoured away any residue from the day's experiments, he wrapped a towel around his waist and ducked into his room. The autumn chill hadn't been too terrible lately, still too early for the true bitter cold of winter, so he had some options to choose from.
If he was going to make an impression, he might as well do it all the way. The human psyche responded predictably to colors - dark ones giving an impression of authority and power, with a touch of being unapproachable. Aubergine offset the rigid formality of blacks and greys, suiting him well and making him appear slightly more calm and friendly. A balance between imposing and open had the possibility of subtly throwing people off balance, uncertain what approach to make.
Pulling on a dark jacket over the deep purple dress shirt, Sherlock went back into the den to wait for John.
When John finally appeared, it was in a pair of dark trousers and probably the only collared shirt he owned. It was a leafy green and on the large side. He stood straighter for a moment, taking in Sherlock's change in dress.
Sherlock was usually very well put-together if he hadn't been lazing about the flat all day, so it wasn't anything John hadn't seen before. Still, the taller man struck quite an image with his dark hair and figure, eyes bright and skin smooth and creamy from the shower.
"Right. All set then?" John said quickly, pulling on his usual jacket and not doing his best not to care.
Sherlock shrugged into his coat and looped his scarf around his neck before giving John an approving nod. Perhaps the other man was starting to apply what he observed - he'd also gone for darker colors, and the shirt complimented his hair and eyes. If they stood together, John would certainly be determined to be the more approachable of the two of them.
"As ready as I can be. Where have you booked us, then?"
"I haven't booked us anywhere, actually. Richard said it was his treat." Whether John would let the actor pay for his meal remained to be seen, however. He wasn't entirely sure what proper form called for in this situation. "Anyway, it's not too far down the street. Zizzi, it's called. He said there would even be live music later tonight." John was smiling now. He'd passed the place once or twice. He'd even thought about taking Jeanette, one of his former girlfriends, once. Sherlock had dismissed her as boring, but it looked like her type of place: young, artsy, fun. Unfortunately, their relationship hadn't ended well. "Ah, if we're interested that is.”
Sherlock looked dubious at the mention of live music, but he let it pass without comment, for once. He didn't mind letting another person pay for an evening that was certain to tax his patience, so long as it was understood that such generosity would have no bearing on his decision. "Well, it'll spare us the cab fare, then."
John looked a little relieved at that.
They headed down the street in silence but for other pedestrians passing. The sun was nearing the horizon, and soon the night crowd would emerge on this end of the street. John guessed they had several hours before it became busy.
Zizzi was a small restaurant, situated under a long black awning with a few couple's chairs outside. It looked simple from the outside, with its name printed in small, clear letters on the awning's edge, and a small group of patrons gathered inside.
John led the way to the door.
It was odd for Sherlock, trailing behind the shorter man for once instead of dragging him along in a whirlwind of excitement and danger. The detective was used to leading, not following.
Quirking an eyebrow at John as the other man opened the door for him, Sherlock ducked inside and quickly took in their surroundings. No surprise, the restaurant looked like it catered to the young, artistic, and moderately eccentric crowd. Odd doodles sprawled across the walls in tangles of bold lines and bright colors, setting off the stark tones and crisp silhouettes of the "modern" furniture.
It reminded Sherlock of those offbeat youths he occasionally spotted in the street - the ones with the decrepit bicycles and ragged, dumpy clothing. He informed John as much.
"I don't know, I think it has a certain…charm to it?" Secretly, John knew the crowd Sherlock was referring to. He looked around, scanning the patrons, relieved that they were on time.
There, in one of the tables near the back, someone had spotted them and was rising to his feet. He was a small man, casually dressed in jeans, a t-shirt with a light vest, dark hair, and large, expressive eyes that met John's immediately.
Richard Brook.
He waved them over, grinning like they were idols from the telly already and he was a fan. Even John could tell that he was an actor from the uninhibited expression in his movement.
Sherlock's attention was instantly drawn by said movement. The detective quickly scanned over the man they were striding towards, taking in the small details - impeccably groomed, overly so. Casual dress, but quality. Pride in his appearance, exaggerated expressions and gestures, that particular stance, nails trimmed and filed to avoid catching on things...
Gay, he concluded silently after reviewing an extensive list of visual clues. He knew better than to say it aloud; John had bruised his arm the last time he'd unwittingly ‘outed’ someone in public to their peer group. Really, the man had done such a poor job of obfuscation that he'd assumed everyone had already known.
"At last," Brook exclaimed, his smile stretching across his face. "John Watson!" He took John's hand in both of his, giving him a firm handshake. He lingered for the briefest of moments, clearly enjoying the moment, and then turned to Sherlock. "And you must be Sherlock Holmes. Please, please, sit. Order whatever you'd like, it's on me. The calzones are delicious." He gestured to the two chairs across his own eagerly.
John found the excitement contagious and took the seat closest to the wall.
Sherlock was somewhat relieved that he wasn't expected to let the man wrench his arm in an overly vigorous handshake. "Richard Brook, I presume?" he asked with as much politeness as he could muster, even though he knew full well that he had to be the very same.
Taking the seat beside John, Sherlock ignored their surroundings and fixed his full attention on the man across from them. He knew from personal experience that it had a tendency to unnerve people, and nervous people often betrayed clues to ulterior motives. Not that he suspected that this was anything other than an attempt to steal a bit of celebrity stardom to further a personal career, but one never knew.
Brook's unwavering grin and bright eyes turned to Sherlock. "Please, call me Rich."
John made a pleased hum at Sherlock's side, glad things were starting out okay.
The actor folded his hands together in his lap under the table as he held Sherlock's gaze, the action making him look like an over excited child. "Really though, I want to thank you for coming with John to meet me." His smile widened a fraction. "Especially on such short notice. I imagine you must be very busy with your work."
"Quite," Sherlock replied promptly, making barely any effort at all to disguise his displeasure with the situation. He was here as a favor for John, to assuage their friendship, and that was the extent of it. "I must say, when you regularly work on murder cases, it's surprising to receive a proposition for a children's programme instead of an invitation to lecture at a forensics school. How did you manage to pitch it to your network?"
Blunt. To the point. Watch the reactions, what he doesn't say. Ignore kicked shin, chide John later.
Sherlock's blogger was sitting as still as possible in his chair. What had been a genuine look of enjoyment turned suddenly to one made of plastic.
To John's surprise, however, Rich gave a clap of his hands and leaned back in his chair, taking Sherlock's jab with obvious pleasure. "Exactly! But that's the brilliant part isn't it?" He didn't seem at all disturbed that he hadn't won Sherlock over with his pitch prior to now. "Everyone's seen Blues Clues, and to be honest, we're all bored of it. Even the five year olds it was meant for can see right through it." Here he leaned forward again, elbows rested on the table to allow his hands to gesticulate his words. "But you, the method in which you solve the cases you take, that is the sensation. The true art of problem-solving. That should be taught." With a wave of his hand, he relaxed. "Of course it doesn't have to involve murder. The cases themselves aren't the interesting bit."
Sherlock took in all the subtle changes in Rich's expressions and hand movements, the enthusiasm coupled with the odd, rigid stillness.
Something was off about the man. He didn't seem the least bit phased about the dark content of most of his cases, even going so far as to dismiss the cases entirely. He'd countered the offhand insult, the discarding of the crimes as uninteresting when Sherlock had taken them on out of interest, with a bit of personal flattery. Rich didn't want the stories, he wanted Sherlock himself. His talents, his manner of thinking.
Knowing that the overt flattery was a ploy should have negated the tactic, but it only dampened the effect slightly. "What makes you so certain my method is truly novel? Why involve me when people should be perfectly capable of both observation and deduction?"
John was looking between the two men back and forth. Some undercurrent to their conversation had changed almost imperceptibly, and John couldn't grasp what it was. He could tell that Sherlock was suddenly not pretending to be interested anymore. Richard had his full attention.
"Why? Because it's never taught." Rich remained relaxed outwardly. "Not in school, and certainly not at home. The scientific method is the closest thing our education system has come up with, and actively teaches, that can compare to the methods of deduction detailed in Dr. Watson's blog. Now, I won't pretend to be an expert at understanding your methods myself," he gave a shrug, sheepish for a moment, "but I do know how it compares to the methods of critical thinking that are employed in the schools our programmes reach. Simply put, they don't compare at all."
Clever. A subtle tension in the man's frame. There was something more to Richard Brook than what was readily apparent, but what?
Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of him and smiled ever so slightly as he watched Rich. "True, but what makes you convinced that you'll be able to sell it to a network? Get them to air it? You know very well that telly isn't in the educational business. Anything too heavy, anything that might endanger their viewership numbers or the money from the toy and sweets sponsors, and they'll refuse to greenlight it. Or they'll force you to water it down until it's no longer recognizable."
"Of course, balance is key here. What you have laid down in the science of deduction is not the only point in which your situation is special." Now, Richard glanced up to John. "You also have a story of character." He didn't move, but the enthusiasm radiating from him took on a unique softness. "You aren't alone in the world, Mr. Holmes. You've created a team. With yourself solving mysteries and Dr. Watson at your side, in character, in a story, that is a golden dynamic." He took a sip of water. "That's the network pitch. But I'll level with you, we have a small studio. We've been picked up by a big network once, so we've got a growing name for ourselves, but television isn't the only medium anymore. If we try a few episodes, and if they shoot us down, then we'll run them online, sell them to school districts themselves. In no time, the networks would be back on our heels."
A waitress arrived at their table. She had been hovering around them for some time, but was clearly hesitant to interrupt their fast-paced conversation. John was the only one who glanced up at her brightly. He ordered, as advised, a round of calzones.
Sherlock spared a quick glance in John's direction before turning his gaze back on Richard, an unexpected feeling of protectiveness flaring in him. He knew John was perfectly capable of taking care of himself in most situations; there was no reason to be concerned.
Still, he didn't like the way Rich had looked at John.
"You still haven't mentioned, what exactly is the format of the programme you'll be pitching? I can't imagine you’re attempting to recruit John and I to actually appear on your show."
"Oh no, of course not!" Rich laughed and held up his hands, "I wouldn't presume to try to steer you away from your real work, or take up that much of your time. We'd have a cast, live actors, children, playing yourself and Dr. Watson." He nodded to John with a quick, shy smile. "With your help and permission we can use quite a few of the cases outlined in your blog, changing the details as needed, as a starting point for each case in the show."
John, understanding that he was now being addressed in the answer to Sherlock's question, gave a nod of appreciation. Much as he wanted to jump in as Sherlock's interrogation eased off, he did remember that he'd promised Sherlock not to be too quick to go along with Rich's offers. Still…. "Well, doesn't sound like you'll have to do much work after all, does it Sherlock?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed briefly in suspicion before his expression smoothed over. There was something underneath all of this, but he didn't have enough data to pinpoint it. Whatever Rich's angle was, he was doing a bang-up job of hiding the specifics, if not the fact that the undercurrent was there.
"Not much work, no. But there's still the concern about reputation. Public image, you understand," he explained amiably, slipping abruptly into the friendlier persona he occasionally used to manipulate others into giving him access to restricted locations. He hoped John didn't ruin the effect by staring. "If you're going to be paying to license our names and likenesses, we'll want to see examples of your work before we give you approval."
John did, in fact, stare. Just a little bit. Mostly at the mention of Sherlock's concern for his "reputation".
Rich nodded readily. "Absolutely." He took out a single jewel case and disk, unmarked, and passed it across the table. "Never come to an audition without a portfolio," he laughed modestly at John's look of surprise. "The programme my studio is most known for is the B. Street Irregulars, B. for Beat Street." He did look quite fond of detailing his prior work. "The plot features a group of musically inclined children hoping to one day make it big on Broadway. But in the meantime, they perfect their craft on Beat Street, learning and teaching the foundation of music. This is the programme the CBBC picked up. I'll admit it has more than its share of musical numbers, but I'd say it's the closest to the format we have in mind for the story of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson." His grin turned decidedly goofy before he added, "I play their storyteller."
Sherlock accepted the case, turning it over using the tips of his fingers before tucking into his coat pocket. He smiled politely back at Rich, playing along with the charade for the moment. Perhaps John was lulled by his demeanor, but everything struck Sherlock as distinctly false, a veneer full of minute fractures.
"We'll certainly review your work and get back to you. If both of us are impressed, we'll take negotiations from there." Leaning forward slightly in his chair, the detective assumed an air of mild interest. "I'm curious. Why us? Surely we're not all that famous, but somehow we caught your eye. You seem to have the advantage, having the opportunity to do a little research. What are your interests, your acting career aside?"
Rich looked surprised to be asked. Now that the attention was on him instead of his work, he seemed somewhat self-conscious. "Well, I'd always wanted to be an actor, even growing up." The shyness John had caught once or twice from him during the conversation surfaced again. "But, I was a teacher for a few years before this. I don't know if I was a very good one," he laughed, "but sometimes, I guess…it's hard to tell if you've ever done any good as a teacher."
Rich sat still for a moment, as though he had just heard the truth in his own words and they had calmed him. It was then that John decided he quite liked this Richard Brook. His exuberance was refreshing, and he seemed honest without being blunt. In a word, he was nothing at all like Sherlock.
"I suppose that's what clicked for me after hearing about you, then after reading Dr. Watson's blog. Your work could reach so many people...," he went on. "You are definitely a unique case."
This man knew how to play. Well, so could Sherlock. He carefully kept himself from responding to the flattery; he wanted to keep the focus on Brook and see if any flaws would catch in the light.
"Yes, unique is one word for it." It was a little too close to the normal insults tossed his way: freak, lunatic, monster. Sherlock far preferred John's outbursts of praise. He also had to admit, if only to himself, that it smarted that his own blog was passed over so frequently for John's. "I suppose your interest makes sense, with a background in education. Out of curiosity, where did you teach?"
"Oh, America, actually," Rich waved a hand absently. "I had a multiple subject credential. It really was much easier to get started that way than try for one subject and expand later…." he trailed off as the waitress arrived with steaming hot calzones for the three of them.
"Thank you," Rich said, nearly in unison with John, who had out of habit expected to be the only one to show polite manners in the group.
That got John laughing immediately. Finally, he decided to break into the conversation, unknowingly interrupting Sherlock’s interrogation. "So you've traveled then? I can barely get Sherlock to step foot outside of Baker Street if it isn't for a case. But I've always wanted to travel abroad."
That got Richard matching John's laughter in return. "Well, what do you do for fun, then?" he asked, cutting two of the calzones in half so that John could have one of stromboli ones as well, and just like that, what had begun as an inquiry on John's part turned back around on him.
"I'm hardly that much of a shut-in, John," Sherlock protested, taking a fork and knife to his own calzone. "The circus wasn't all that long ago. And the museum. And the moors. We also have dined out frequently."
Point in fact, he actually had been getting out more since John had entered his life, cases aside.
"You can't count those, they were all cases!" John said around a mouthful of mozzarella, which was clearly burning his tongue judging by the pitch of his voice. "Or at least they turned out to be."
Rich perked up. "You find cases accidentally?" he asked in wonder.
"It's never cases when we go for Chinese," Sherlock pointed out. "And no, it's never by accident. Opportunities for gathering data simply coincide with pleasant locations at times."
This was not going the way Sherlock had planned. He was revealing more information than he was receiving, and still he felt... pressured, somehow, to maintain a positive impression with John. The impulse made no sense, considering he was currently between girlfriends and thus could not be distracted or tempted into leaving.
John nodded thoughtfully, conceding the point and moving on. "Hey, looks like they're getting set up for a show," he said, reaching for the sauce.
"Oh yes!" Richard exclaimed, looking like he'd nearly forgotten. "Stay for the set! You mentioned you liked jazz on your blog, didn't you? It was…something about…."
"My sister!" John was surprised Rich had noticed and remembered that anecdote. "She used to, well, try to play the sax. Listened to jazz all the time to get in the mood. I liked the jazz. Never could stomach her playing," he added with a grin.
Sherlock glanced over at John, an unusual emotion flickering in his eyes before it was quickly hidden.
Sherlock was not pleased with how this was going. It was becoming increasingly complicated to steer Rich into revealing more about himself, and the rapport he and John were developing was... something. Discomforting. Irritating. Unwelcome. While he didn't feel that John and he were in physical danger, the situation was conjuring a sense of threat.
"You never mentioned jazz before, John," Sherlock murmured quietly. Not to him, not directly.
"Hm?" John asked, watching as the drummer did a few warm up rolls and two other performers plugged in cords and a microphone. "That I like jazz? Oh...I don't know, I wrote it in the blog," he amended as if that counted.
Rich watched with just as much interest, having to turn in his seat to see the stage area. He sipped his water contentedly as the group finished. With a final roll of the drums for attention and a quick introduction, they began a slow rhythm. The house lights dimmed, and the singer, a plain looking woman but for her shining red lipstick and deep, smooth voice, slipped into the melody. The corners of Rich's lips tugged up into a small smile when he glanced back at John and Sherlock, John's attention rapt to the stage.
The small movement drew Sherlock's notice. Turning his gaze away from the back of John's head to their host, Sherlock gave him the flat, frightening smile that he normally reserved for Donovan.
For as much of a fool as Sally Donovan was, she was partially right on one count: his behavior couldn't be assumed to always fall within the acceptable social boundaries determined by the standard level of interpersonal empathy. The factor of unpredictability that that fact lent him had kept her and a few other distasteful acquaintances at bay, their fear enforcing a comfortable distance between them.
He wouldn't hurt Brook. Things like that often brought more trouble than it was worth, along with a lecture from Mycroft about the trials of family ties. There were other ways to dissuade people from wanting to be a presence in his life, and in John's life by extension. Mycroft wasn't the only one with strings he could pull.
Rich's eyes met Sherlock’s, but the soft smile he'd had for John didn't falter. Instead, it seemed to transfer onto Sherlock and become meant for him only. For the briefest of moments, the music, the spice of the kitchen, and the bustle of the restaurant faded into the background, and there only existed the two of them. Then it slid off his face, and Rich looked appropriately cowed by Sherlock's false intensity. The actor took a pull of his water to cover for his disturbed appearance and turned back to the show.
It was enough to catch John's attention, who looked from Sherlock's fake smile to Richard's newly uncomfortable posture. John frowned.
Sherlock leaned back in his chair, confident that the message had been received, even with the unusual reaction that it had provoked with Rich. If that was even his real name.
And a new piece of the puzzle had been revealed; whatever the man's game was, John wasn't the focus. It had better stay that way; Sherlock didn't tolerate threats against what was his.
They sat through the rest of the show in silence after that, attention on the performers. In spite of everything, Sherlock's prickliness most of all, John felt that it could be called a comfortable silence. They clapped with the small crowd at the end of every song and the banter from the singer and her instrumentalists. Between himself and Rich, their group was probably the most enthusiastic.
Sherlock was glad at least one of them was enjoying the experience. It was becoming increasingly unlikely that Rich would reveal anything else about himself during this meeting, and even with the challenge literally sitting right in front of him, defying his observational prowess, the detective found that he was bored out of his mind. Lacking any avenues to sink his energy into, all he was left with was the opportunity to mentally criticize every mistake the band made and to deduce the backgrounds of the mediocre minds surrounding them.
Or watch John while he wasn't paying attention. Normally, he would have jumped at the opportunity, but not now. Not with an observant opponent.
When the night drew to a close and the band wrapped up their final number, the crowd began to thin. Mostly young couples and college students made up their lot. Three sat in the opposite corner engrossed in their laptops. It was a weekday and plenty of people were making noises about having to be back at the daily grind in the morning.
John guessed that in spite of the relaxed and social atmosphere, or maybe because of it, the venue was not an unusual place for professional get-togethers.
Rich had turned his chair to lean back against the wall so that he didn't have to turn completely around, and he stretched casually, loosening his shoulders.
"Well Rich," John began, "whatever we decide, I want to thank you for a splendid evening."
"Quite." The clipped agreement was the best Sherlock could muster with his current mood, and more restrained than he felt like being. "We'll review the audition disc and get back to you in a few days."
A few days should give him enough time. Time to formulate a plan, analyze the content of the video for clues about Rich Brook. Sherlock wasn't one to back down from a challenge, but he wanted to have a good idea of what he was about to get involved in.
That said, Sherlock stood and pulled on his coat, watching Rich while he looped his scarf around his neck.
Rich nodded, standing with them as John followed Sherlock's lead and pushed back his chair. "Thank you. Thank you very much for coming out." He spoke nervously at first, but found his words after meeting John's gaze. "It was my pleasure. And, if you ever just feel like grabbing a bit to eat, work aside, Wednesdays are typically jazz nights."
"I'll remember that," John returned, amiably taking Rich's hand in a farewell shake.
Rich dug a couple notes from his pocket and left them at the table to cover their charge. He exchanged a wave with their waitress, who was busy stacking chairs. The lights were coming on one by one again as the restaurant prepared for closing.
Rich followed John and Sherlock out onto the street, walking backward and waving with a cheerful "Goodbye and thank you again!" one last time.
Sherlock spared a sideways glance for Rich, watching his retreating silhouette. His grip tightened on the jewel case in his pocket. He didn't have to ask John what his impressions of the man had been; he was well aware that John's observational skills were a bit lacking. His colleague had bought the facade completely.
"You should have told me about the jazz, John."
John turned back to Sherlock, startled. He suddenly noticed that Sherlock wasn't just angry at having to sit in a crowded restaurant listening to someone other than himself talk for an evening. He was upset with John.
"The jazz? Wha- what on earth for?" He searched Sherlock's face, knowing it was a fruitless endeavor. He could ever only get out of Sherlock what Sherlock told him.
Sherlock's gaze shifted over to John's face, but remained inscrutable. His expression was vaguely strained, which normally happened when he thought something was absurdly obvious and was frustrated John hadn't seen it. "...you've never asked," he finally responded, as if that should clarify everything.
John stopped walking, confused. The cool wind picked up and whipped at his face, but he stood there anyway, unwilling to try keeping up with Sherlock's long strides. "What did I not ask?"
Sherlock could have kept walking, but after the way the evening had gone, after yesterday's mild fight... he was reluctant to leave the shorter man behind. He stopped a few paces ahead and turned until he was facing his companion. "I dislike being interrupted when I'm thinking, but I'm perfectly capable of playing a variety of genres at other times."
It took a moment for John to get it. Then he blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, his brows rose almost to his hairline in surprise.
"You… you would play jazz, if I asked you to?" John's mouth hung open a bit. The thought had truly never crossed his mind. The very idea that he could make requests of Sherlock outside of his usual violin pieces was nearly unfathomable. That Sherlock might accept such a request, like a hokey old jazz tune, was even further beyond the realm of John's imagining.
Sherlock was slightly flushed, although whether from embarrassment or from the cold was impossible to tell. "Why would you think I'd be opposed to such things?" Was John really so uncomfortable around him that he would shy away from asking such a simple question? Sherlock was aware that he was difficult to live with, having been informed of this fact by numerous people over the years, but... surely he hadn't given the impression of being completely unapproachable?
Sherlock shifted in discomfort, wondering if there were other things he'd missed. Other things John was afraid to ask him.
"Well…." John drew out the sound, thinking back to why he hadn't ever thought of asking Sherlock to play something new for him. He had requested Sherlock to play pieces for him, pieces he liked, but only ones he’d heard Sherlock play before. He hadn't ever asked Sherlock to play something outside of his usual tastes. Truth be told, he'd assumed the answer if he had asked would be no, and that a tune John picked out, whatever it was, would be judged as beneath Sherlock's abilities. It would be like asking him to perform simple arithmetic. "I guess I just thought you didn't care for jazz. I've never heard you play any," he finished lamely. Sherlock was standing there on the sidewalk, lit from the shop windows behind him, looking like a mirror of John's own confusion. Something hopeful stirred in his stomach. "But, if you were willing…."
"I didn't know that you liked it," Sherlock admitted, slightly ashamed of the lapse. It was tantamount to admitting that he didn't pay attention to John's writings. The shorter man might mistakenly take it as a reflection of the esteem he was held in, rather than a simple avoidance of the meaningless chatter that filled the internet; Sherlock had quite enough of that from the press as it was.
"If you wish to make requests, you're more than welcome to do so. Within reason," he added. He hoped John didn't take it as a promise for a daily musical performance.
Slowly, ever so slowly, a smile twitched at the corners of John's open mouth. He laughed breathlessly, then again with more enthusiasm until he was downright chortling. "Well, if that's the case, it looks like I'll have to take you up on it." He shook his head at himself, at Sherlock, at the pair of them, really. Look at them, he thought, was this how other flatmates, friends, whatever they were, acted around each other? "Come on, let's get home and see you play some jazz." He picked up his step again.
Sherlock waited for John to catch up to him before turning and keeping pace, an uncharacteristically shy smile hovering over his lips. His flatmate's happiness at such a simple thing had quickly improved his mood.
Really, John was an anomaly. He was average in so many ways at the surface level - short, of average appearance, with common tastes in most things. He wasn't a match on a purely intellectual level, but he had some extraordinary, intangible qualities buried in him. It made his presence a pleasure rather than merely tolerable, and at the same time rendered Sherlock blind in a way he found mildly disturbing. For someone relatively guileless, John surprised him quite often.
John's smile turned up to Sherlock when he noticed the taller man watching him, then turned back to the path back to their flat while they made their way along the sidewalk, passing strangers as they went.
John would have the pleasure of seeing what Sherlock could do with the violin in an unconventional genre for the instrument. If they had time, he'd put in Richard's disk, but John was happy to leave it for tomorrow.
Until then, they would enjoy the music.