circle7 | a lovely date for a murder, don't you agree

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a lovely date for a murder, don't you agree

Neither of them called it a date. Sherlock may not have been the most socially up-to-speed person, but he knew what this was; what John was asking. He humored him and agreed, not pressing the matter. It wasn't unusual for them to to be together anyway, even before this. In fact, catching them without the other was even more odd.

It wasn't too fancy, anyway. The Chinese place down the street was good, and authentic (according to Sherlock's verification), and reasonably priced for two men sharing money. The atmosphere wasn't romantic, at least. Sherlock imagined the pressure on John would be lessened if just for that reason, even if he didn't understand the big deal.

"Eating in today for once, eh, Sherlock?" the host asked with a polite smile as they entered. "Two, then?"

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock said, looking at John. "Any plans after this, by the way?"

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"You've had worse than a cleaving to the shoulder?" he asked, with a deep and impressed laugh.

"Well, no," John said. "But there was that time that Sarah almost got speared through the chest with that Chinese dart. That didn't end very well."

"Ah, right," Sherlock said. "That was fun, wasn't it?"

It was almost worrisome how honest he sounded.

"No, not really," John replied. "In fact I might actually still have that job if not for that case."

"Still been looking, speaking of?"

"A bit, yeah," John sighed. "I should get more serious about it. I know I'm not ready to see the hospital bill."

"Worry about it later," he said, waving a hand, clearly not concerned with monetary matters. At least, not at the moment - Sherlock seemed to be more concerned with John's ear, having curiously trailed his mouth up to it, his lips lightly clamping on the lobe.

Not expecting the contact, John twitched back from the tickling sensation on his ear, a hint of color rising to his cheeks. He cupped his hand over his hear. "Sherlock, movie," he directed, his glance leveling with Sherlock's for a moment before going back to the screen.

Sherlock did look back to the TV, a slight smirk on his mouth. Exploring John's buttons and limits had become a habit of his lately, when things got quiet or boring. (He could enjoy the occasional sci-fi, but he had to be in the right mood for it.)

The movie held his attention for a good few minutes, before he was idly mouthing along John's neck and ear again. He seemed pretty content with this lap arrangement, despite how ridiculous he claimed it to be. The reach was much more convenient.

"Stop it," John hissed as the kisses continued up his neck and around his ear. He was completely baffled that Sherlock, from what it seemed a man without much of a libido of his own, could be such a persistent tease. It was as if he just riled John up for the sake of it, which John wouldn't have actually been surprised by, but it could still get annoying.

Unfortunately for John, that was usually the reason why. Sherlock did relent again, but not without an experimental, parting nip to his ear. Perhaps at the moment, it was just an unspoken appreciation that John was even here. It was an odd feeling to cope with for Sherlock, but communicating it was simply not something that crossed his mind to do.

He was listening to the television in the background, despite how distracted he might've seemed. He liked Spock, if just for the fact that he was to-the-point about everything, and the least emotional of the cast. Sherlock turned his head to watch it, keeping his head tucked against John's good shoulder, his arms overlapping on his stomach.

With Sherlock finally settled, John fell content. Using the support of the armrest, his good arm curled around the arc of Sherlock's back. He bowed his chin into Sherlock's curls, his eyes still fixed on the movie. While Sherlock's new-found propensity to eat his ears wasn't exactly telling of Sherlock's relief to John, he had clued onto how Sherlock felt with his uncharacteristic fretting and general closeness. John found it a relief too, really, not that he'd escaped with his life-- well that too --but more in the revelation that Sherlock could actually did care. There was sentiment there, even if he wasn't exactly eloquent enough to express it. He felt privileged to be able to see that side of Sherlock.

About that time during the movie, Lestrade came through the door with a paper bag in tow from a deli near the hospital John had stayed at. "John, sorry, I couldn't get to the hospital until today, and they told me you'd come back here so I..."

John's stomach sank, and he suddenly had developed a great dislike for Sherlock and his culture of keeping the door unlocked, and an even greater dislike of Lestrade's habit of coming in without knocking (which honestly wasn't really fair, Lestrade never had a reason to knock before, except for the odd chance that he'd catch Sherlock running around the flat in a sheet). For a long while, Lestrade just stared.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Sherlock stared blankly back over John's shoulder, not alarmed in the slightest.

"No."

"Will you get off?!" John gnashed out, shoving Sherlock with his good arm. Unfortunately, Sherlock was so rooted in his seat that he didn't really budge. John was quickly turning red again, his blush flaring up to his ears.

"Right, well um, I got you some sandwiches, though I suppose it was kind of a moot point since you're off the hospital food now anyway," Lestrade said, depositing the bag on the desk, he then extended his reach over Sherlock to offer John and envelope. "And this is from the rest of the police department."

It was a get well soon card with a graphic of a cartoon dog in bed with a water bag on its head and a thermometer hanging out of its mouth. It wasn't exactly appropriate for the specific injury, but the sentiment was there all the same. Even Sally and Donovan had signed it.

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock rolled off of John, straightening his button-up as he got to his feet. Lestrade was giving the two of them glances back and forth, unsure if he should say something about what he walked in on.

"Apologies, Lestrade. I was testing something," he said matter-of-factly. "There's some of Mrs. Hudson's cakes left, if you'd like as well."

"Thanks Greg," John said with a sigh, propping the card up on the side stand behind his chair. He was still a miserable shade of red, his glance evasive. "Thoughtful."

"Yeah, no problem," said Lestrade, helping himself to one of the cakes. He seemed to go on as if there had never been any tension in the room at all. He was talking again before he even swallowed the snack cake: "That Star Trek? I love that movie. That Captain Kirk is something else."

Sherlock was watching Lestrade for any sign of disbelief in his excuse. He wasn't concerned at all, but John always had a fit about people knowing. It was troublesome.

He made his way to the kitchen, where he wrote some fake notes on legs falling asleep, and how long recovery took, and how long it was possible to anchor an angry small man with a damaged shoulder with your own body weight. May as well make it convincing just in case.

"Much prefer Spock," Sherlock piped in.

"Can't say I'm surprised," Lestrade said. "You might as well be half-alien yourself. I can't stay for long, today's going to be a long day at Bart's with all you two digged up. Thanks, by the way. That guy was sick."

"I don't think I'll be able to eat meat for a week," John added with a groan.

"Exactly why those sandwiches are caprese," Lestrade shook his head. "The team feels the same."

Sherlock shot a glare at the back of Lestrade's head, before making his way to his own seat across from John. It wasn't as comfy, he thought with a frown.

"Ring us if you get anything interesting."

"I will," Lestrade returned, grabbing another cake before heading for the door. "You two should bring yourselves down to the pub once John's feeling better."

"Mm," he hummed distractedly, checking his phone idly.

John waved him off, waiting until he was long out the door to get up of from his chair. "Alright, that's it. We're locking the door from now own."

Sherlock watched him get up, raising an eyebrow. This was one of those few things that were beyond Sherlock's social understanding.

"Why are you so concerned with it, anyway?"

Click.

John didn't answer Sherlock at first, letting the question sit in his head for awhile. He slumped back down in his chair, adjusting his bad arm in the brace. "I don't know," he admitted finally, pursing his lips into a subtle frown. "I'm really not gay, you know... I don't really want people talking. I don't want to be thought about that way."

John turned his glance up to Sherlock.

"And," he began. "It just so happens that the person I like's a bloke. It's really all sort of a fluke, this."

Sherlock's index finger rested on his mouth in thought, the others curled over his chin. John Watson was simply a subtle man, he supposed, having caught himself up with the least subtle person he could possibly find. It was all right, really; Sherlock didn't see the big deal in hiding it, even if he also didn't see the big deal in their arrangement even existing. He was used to embarrassment that accompanied the people that knew him when he was around. (Mycroft being a splendid example.)

"They're going to realize eventually, John," he said. "And people will talk. I've said it before.

"But all right."

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