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Walking down the street on his way back from Tesco’s, John paused uncertainly as he noticed the heart motif that the girl was stringing up in the café. If that was being strung up in shop windows, it could only mean one thing - Valentines Day was just around the corner, and John chewed at his lip as he thought about it.
For the last couple of years, John had been in a relationship for the holiday, which meant that he’d felt obligated to buy flowers and chocolates, and endure a night of absolutely horrible cheesy movies – He still shuddered when he recalled the time he’d been forced into watching Twilight.
This year, however … John wasn’t entirely sure what he had. An ‘Infuriating Detective who threw a tantrum any time he went on a date, or hung out with friends,’ didn’t quite have the same meaning as ‘Partner’ or ‘Boyfriend’ did. And yet, he didn’t feel like ‘Best friends’ was an adequate term to describe them anymore – Not only because he’d finally accepted that he was completely and hopelessly in love with the frustrating man, but also because there was some subtle thing about Sherlock that had changed since his return from ‘Death’ ten months prior. John couldn’t put his finger on what it was exactly, but it was a change nonetheless, and John had spent several nights lying awake in bed, pondering about the change, what it was, and what it meant.
These late night sessions seldom gave him any answers though, which simply brought him back to his current dilemma – Whatever he and Sherlock were … Did it mean that he ought to be getting Sherlock something for Valentines Day, or not?
John was still grimacing with uncertainty when he walked in the door of 221B a short while later, and if Sherlock noticed this confusion – And John was sure that he had. There was very little that Sherlock didn’t notice – he didn’t say anything.
Two days later, Valentines Day was upon them, and John still hadn’t decided what he was going to do – To buy, or not to buy? He just didn’t know – Which was precisely why he was irrationally nervous as he walked down the stairs. If Sherlock hadn’t got him anything – And he was fairly sure he hadn’t, it was Sherlock after all – It would mean that he’d spent the last two days worrying over nothing. But, if Sherlock had bought him something, and John had nothing to reciprocate with … He couldn’t stop himself from shuddering as he considered the resulting tantrum-experiment that would be sure to follow.
A furtive glance around the living area and kitchen, though, revealed that everything was as John had left it the night before, and he forced himself to swallow the irrational surge of disappointment he felt at the realisation. Sighing as he flicked on the kettle, John sternly reminded himself that he had no reason to be disappointed, that it would have been stranger if Sherlock had gotten him anything - They weren’t together after all, despite what the tabloid magazines speculated. Reminding himself of that did nothing to ease the disappointment in his gut, however.
That disappointment was replaced with surprise a second later, though, as he opened the fridge and found a bright yellow post it note stuck to the milk, and John cursed the sudden flutter in his stomach at the sight.
Should it get to the afternoon before you start to wonder where I might be ... I am NOT still asleep. I’m at the morgue. Molly said that she had something interesting to show me. Considering the difference between my idea of ‘Interesting’ and Molly’s though … I imagine I’ll be back before midday. - S
John scowled as he crumpled the post it note up irritably. Sherlock was going to be spending Valentines Day with the woman who had not only helped him fake his death, but also had a long standing crush on him? John liked Molly well enough, but the very thought of the two of them, alone in the lab while she showed him something 'interesting' ... The images that came to mind were enough to make John gnash his teeth together with frustration. ‘Something interesting’ could be far too many things, and quite a few of those things made John want to rush down to the morgue himself.
Instead, he took a sip of his tea, and reminded himself that Sherlock hadn’t shown even an ounce of interest in Molly in all the time that John had known them. He then told himself, once more, that it wasn’t as though he and Sherlock were together, so he had no reason to care about what they could be doing. That didn’t stop him from muttering under his breath irritably as he found his Transporter 3 DVD though, suddenly in the mood to watch an excessive amount of explosions and absurd stunts.
An hour later, John looked up with surprise at the knock at the door, and paused the movie with confusion. If it were Mrs. Hudson, she’d have just opened the door, Greg would have texted to let him know he was coming over, and Mycroft … Mycroft would have just sent Anthea – Or Rachael as she was now known – to wait out the front to usher him into a car. Who, then, could be at the door?
Frowning as he opened it, John froze with surprise at the sight of a girl in her early twenties standing there, her cheeks flushed a deep red as she fiddled with the letter in her hands. The very second that John opened his mouth to ask her what she was doing there, the girl blurted, “This is where Sherlock Holmes lives, right?” and it felt, for just a moment, as if the floor beneath John’s feet had vanished, and all he knew were those words and the implication of the letter in the girl's hands.
Of all the things that he’d anticipated for this Valentines Day … The possibility of Sherlock receiving anything hadn’t even crossed his mind. In part, it amused him that the Sherlock Holmes was getting Valentine’s letters – He wondered if he’d still be getting this letter if the young girl knew how frustrating he was to live with, if she knew that he loathed sentiment and considered emotions to be a weakness. For the most part though, John’s stomach clenched uncomfortably as he looked at the girl before him – Sherlock was going to be getting something on Valentines Day … It just wasn't going to be from John.
Mildly incredulous, John raised his eyes up to look past the young girl, and saw Mrs. Hudson standing in the doorway of her own apartment, looking up at John with a bemused expression on her face. With a mental grimace, John forced himself to smile as he gently told the young girl, “It is. But, he’s not here right now.”
“That’s … That’s fine. Could you pass this on to him, please?” the girl asked in a rush, and held the letter out to him with a trembling hand. John felt a stab of pity for her at the sight - It must have taken a lot of courage for her to bring herself to stop by. So, sighing internally, John assured her that he’d make sure Sherlock got it, and watched her leave with mixed thoughts flickering through his mind.
Just as she jumped off the lowest step, she looked back up at John, bit her lip and asked, “It’s not true what the papers say, is it? That … You and he are …”
He felt himself stiffen at the question, and was mildly surprised at how cold his voice was as he replied, “No…” The girl didn’t seem to pick up on John’s suddenly icy demeanour, however, if the relieved smile that her lips curled into was any indication. She simply yelled out a “Thankyou Doctor Watson” and darted back outside, waving as she went, a positive spring to her step.
Making a point to ignore the curious arch of Mrs. Hudson’s eyebrow, and the smirk she wore, John closed the front door again, and looked at the letter in his hands with narrowed eyes. For the tiniest second, he was half inclined to just rip it up, the girl’s question echoing in his mind. But then, with a heavy sigh, John put the letter atop the kitchen table and chewed at his lip instead, wondering if hesitating to get Sherlock anything had been wise after all.
By the time that midday finally rolled around, John had opened the door another four times. The first, was to find another admirer with a letter, again asking for Sherlock. John simply sighed, took the letter and the small box from their hands, and closed the door on their bewildered expression.
The second time he opened it, was to find the post man dropping off a bag full of parcels and letters, with an amused, knowing smile on his face. John simply groaned as he took the bag from him, and went through it meticulously. By the end, he was rather disgruntled to realise that Sherlock now had a pile of twenty letters, six parcels, and three heart shaped boxes waiting for him. The fact that he’d also received five letters did little to pacify his frustration at Sherlock’s growing pile of Valentines gifts.
The third time he answered the door, he had quickly slammed it shut again as the man outside began to sing and play his violin – With nowhere near as much skill as Sherlock – crooning about how much some woman by the name of Jezabelle wanted to lose herself in Sherlock’s ‘Deep as the sea’ eyes. If it hadn’t been so unsettling, and if the sing-a-gram hadn’t been quite so bad, John might have laughed. As it was, all he could do was cover his ears and hope they went away soon. He was still trying to finish his Jason Statham marathon.
By the fourth time someone knocked at the door, John's eyebrow was twitching with frustration and he very nearly told whoever was outside to kindly fuck off. He was glad he managed to hold his tongue, however, when he saw that it was one of the newer police from Scotland Yard.
“Sorry John,” the officer said with an apologetic grimace as he jerked his thumb over his back, towards the front door. “But, you’ll have to bring them inside. They’re starting to spill out onto the street.”
John’s eyebrows pulled together with a mix of confusion and trepidation as he asked, “What are?” and made his way down the stairs. Only to freeze with horror as he realised that people had been leaving boxes and parcels and all sorts of Valentines Day paraphernalia on the steps out the front of 221B. When he got over his shock at the sheer amount that had been piled on his front steps, he did let loose a few choice words that the officer behind him snorted at.
“The problem of living with a celebrity, right?”
John simply sighed heavily, put his hands on his hips and asked, “Help me bring it into the foyer at least?” and then added as an irritated, under-the-breath grumble, “He can sort through it all when he gets back.”
A few minutes later, John was apologising profusely to Mrs. Hudson about the mess, considering the floor of the hallway, and one side of the stairs leading up to 221B, had disappeared beneath the multitude of things that people had left outside. As he looked at it all, John couldn’t help but shake his head and wonder what was going to happen to the boxes of chocolate he could see since Sherlock loathed chocolate. He supposed they could send a good portion of it to Mycroft, it just might stop him from pestering them for a while.
He looked back at Mrs. Hudson curiously, though, as she giggled. “I wonder,” she said softly, “All these presents and cards, but does he actually want a single one of them?”
“Probably not,” John sighed as he began to edge his way up the stairs, “You know he hates candy and sentiment alike - Sorry again Mrs. Hudson!”
There were another three knocks at the door after that, but John made a point to turn the movie up loud enough that he couldn’t hear them anymore. Let them leave their additions to the absurd pile outside.
At two forty seven, the door opened of it's own accord, and John’s eyes narrowed at the perplexed look on Sherlock’s face as he regarded the pile of gifts on the stairs. He quickly shifted his attention back to whichever movie he was watching – He couldn’t even remember which Statham movie it was anymore - as Sherlock closed the door with a bewildered shake of his head.
“Really John, I didn’t realise that you were so popular,” Sherlock remarked as he slipped the scarf from around his neck and fixed John with a smirk. John simply pursed his lips and made a point to keep his attention focused on the TV, trying to look like he knew exactly what was going on.
He'd had every intention of ignoring Sherlock’s comment, but, as Sherlock walked over to the pile on the kitchen table – That had become a small pile on the table, and floor – John wasn’t able to stop himself from muttering, “They’re not mine," irritably. At the sound of unknown objects suddenly crashing to the floor, John couldn’t stop himself from looking over with concern, only to almost, almost snort at the disgusted look on Sherlock’s face as he took in the parcel’s he’d just knocked over.
“They’re for me?” he asked, his nose wrinkling as he noticed the heart shaped boxes that, in all likelihood, held chocolate. In fact, John was certain that Sherlock would be able to tell exactly what shop they came from. “Why would they even bother,” Sherlock grumbled, carelessly kicking the packages aside as he walked back over to the living area.
“Oh, I don’t know,” John scoffed, “Why would anyone send the great Sherlock Holmes letters, and parcels, and chocolates, and sing-a-grams, and teddies that declared their love and-” John stopped himself at the smirk and quirked eyebrow that Sherlock wore as he looked at him, his pale eyes flashing with something that John couldn’t place. “… What?”
“You’re jealous,” Sherlock stated, his smirk increasing at the words.
“No! No … No.” John snarled defiantly, glaring at Sherlock as his smirk simply stretched into an amused grin. “Why would I be jealous of a literal flood of –”
Sherlock cut across him with an impatient tut, “Oh, don’t be stupid. It’s obvious you’re not jealous they’re for me – Though why I can’t even begin to fathom,” he added with a mutter, his eyes flicking back to the packages at the kitchen table incredulously.
Folding his arms over his chest, John clucked his tongue with irritation and asked, “Really? So, why am I jealous then?”
Sherlock simply rolled his eyes at the question and tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Because I’m getting Valentines gifts, obviously.”
Snorting derisively at the statement, John returned his attention to the movie with a disbelieving shake of his head, and willed his heart to stop pounding. “You’re wrong,” he muttered, only to scowl as Sherlock stood in front of the television, completely blocking it from view as he looked down at John with narrowed eyes, his lips pulling together with a hint of irritation.
“You’re watching Statham,” he announced after a moment.
“… And?”
“You only ever watch Statham if you’re mad about something.”
“That doesn’t have to mean that I’m jealous,” John hissed as he fixed Sherlock with a glare. “Maybe accepting all of this,” John jabbed an angry finger in the direction of the stairwell, “on your behalf was irritating.”
Sherlock simply arched an eyebrow, making it clear he didn’t believe John’s words for a second, then he cocked his head and asked, “So you won’t care if I tell you Molly kissed me then?”
For just a moment, it felt as if someone had punched a hole through his lung, leaving John unable to breathe, and his eyes widened of their own accord at the unwelcome mental image of Molly pushing Sherlock up against the lab desk, of Sherlock’s hands sliding around her waist as he -
Gritting his teeth as he willed the image away, John said “No,” with a forced calm, even as he fought against the sudden ache in his chest. In a way, he’d always suspected this day would come – Certainly not with Molly, but, it had been precisely why he’d tried to get back into the dating game. In the last couple of months though, he'd foolishly allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security, allowed himself to wonder if there had been something more behind Sherlock’s tantrums. Jesus. He’d started to allow himself to hope that Sherlock might actually …
Forcing himself to remember what it meant to swallow under Sherlock’s watchful gaze, John realised with growing dread that Sherlock knew - Fuck it all, Sherlock knew. From the way that his eyes widened the smallest amount, and his brows pulled together, it was alarmingly obvious that he’d understood everything that had just raced through John’s mind, and – Fuck. Fuck. Damn. What was John going to do? Would Sherlock want him to leave? Could he still work, could he still live with someone, knowing they were ridiculously in love with him?
“Oh John,” Sherlock sighed, and the tone the Consulting Detective used just made the ache in John’s chest throb.
As Sherlock took a step forward, and then another, John tensed in an attempt to prepare himself for the words that he was sure would come; I can’t. You know how I feel about sentiment John, about feelings. You’re aware that I’ve done all I can to delete them.
What John didn’t expect though, was for Sherlock to look at him with a strange, almost hollow look to his eyes and an equally strange twist to his lips as he silently pulled his hand out of his pocket, and held it out to John. Clutched in his fingers, was a box. A rather intricate looking box with a ribbon and … A name tag. And, on that name tag, in ridiculously fancy cursive writing, was his name, John.
Uncertainly, John’s eyes flicked from the box, up to Sherlock, and then back down at the box. “What ... ?”
“Just open it,” Sherlock said with a hint of a growl to his voice, and, unless John’s ears were deceiving him, Sherlock actually sounded almost … Embarrassed.
Licking his lips nervously, John took the box from Sherlock’s grasp, and the very second that he had hold of it, Sherlock all but retreated to the kitchen. John could only watch on curiously as he removed his coat, and purposely turned his back to John's curious gaze as he leafed through pile of letters he'd received, muttering under his breath as he did so. He couldn't decide what it was exactly, but there was something in the way that Sherlock was holding himself that made John realise, for whatever reason, Sherlock was suddenly, unbelievably, anxious. Whatever was in the box, whatever it signified, it clearly mattered.
The realisation was enough to make him bite at his lip as he looked back down at the box. Then, John drew in a steadying breath through the nose, and tugged at the end of the ribbon - The shifting of the letters stopped at the gentle rustle of the material - Curiosity managing to outweigh his apprehension, John picked up the lid and found what looked like … Little balls of chocolate. His eyebrows pulled together with confusion at the smell of chocolate that wafted up from the box, at the question that came with their presence – Was this what John thought it was?
Before he could even think of how to put what he wanted to ask into words though, Sherlock said, a touch defensively, “You stopped going on dates, and then you stopped correcting people. I thought you’d understood.”
Setting aside the box, John took a deep breath, and, ignoring the way his heart raced, softly asked, “What, exactly, did you think I’d understood?” He cocked his head over his shoulder to look at Sherlock's back at the silence that met his question though. “Sherlock, please. I’m not going to understand if you don’t-”
Abruptly, Sherlock spun around, and John was momentarily taken aback by the displeased pout on his lips, and the way that his eyes were flaring as he looked over at John. “That the tabloids are right!” he growled as he flung the letters back on the table. “That they’ve always been right!”
Licking at his lips, John rose to his feet, and came to stand before Sherlock. “Right about what?” he pushed, and Sherlock gave him the same look he gave Anderson whenever he opened his mouth at the words.
“Are you really going to make me say it?”
“Yes,” John replied simply and raised his eyebrows expectantly.
Snarling beneath his breath, Sherlock stalked forward until John was forced to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact, his mouth pulling into a determined frown as he refused to be intimidated by the growing frustration in Sherlock’s eyes.
Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock hissed, “That you, despite my best efforts to delete sentiment, are special to me, and that we - to use Molly’s lacking term – are dating.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” John asked, and Sherlock visibly bristled at the question, “Cos, I was under the impression both parties had to agree to that.”
“Minor detail,” Sherlock scoffed, “It was obvious you were in love with me.”
“And how could you have possibly known that?” John growled irritably at the statement, pointedly ignoring the truth behind it.
Cocking an eyebrow, Sherlock raised the wrist that John hadn’t even felt him take hold of, and flinched when he realised that Sherlock’s thumb was pressed to the underside, obviously taking his – currently racing - pulse. At John’s stunned silence, and the sudden spike of his heartbeat, Sherlock simply smirked victoriously. Then, he leant forward until his lips were at John’s ear and practically purred, “Don’t try to trick me John, you know it doesn’t work.”
“You are such a dick,” John muttered. Sherlock simply chuckled at the half hearted insult, and John tried to subdue the shiver that raced down his spine at the feel of Sherlock’s breath fanning out over his ear. “So … Valentines Chocolate then?” he ventured, tentatively raising a hand take hold of Sherlock’s hip, still unsure about what he was allowed to do exactly – To say they were dating sounded simple enough, but, when Sherlock was involved, things were seldom simple.
“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, not saying a word about the grip John had on his hip, and John began to breathe again at the lack of comment. “I was informed that’s what people usually give their partner today, after all. Though – I highly doubt anyone else was owed a favour by a certain chocolatier, and was able to convince him to make a new confectionary,” he added, and John rolled his eyes at the obvious way that Sherlock was preening.
“What did you do?” he sighed, and Sherlock stiffened at the accusation in John’s tone, only to pull back so that he could give John an affronted look.
“I didn’t do anything,” the Consulting Detective snapped, “I simply told him that you were nigh obsessed with jam, and now … You have jam drops, and a promise of a new batch every month.”
John snorted with bewilderment, and bit his lip as he grinned at the thought, “Jam and chocolate? That does sound amazing Sherlock, thank you,” and then, John couldn’t stop himself from sighing. With a frustrated frown, he muttered “Now I wish I had bought you something after all.”
Sherlock’s head tilted to the side just a little with thought, and then John froze with surprise as Sherlock’s hands rose to cup both of his cheeks. Almost uncertainly, and with the barest hint of a blush, Sherlock inched forward, and John tilted his head back in anticipation. Then, there was the pressure of Sherlock’s mouth against his own, and John was completely unable to prevent the small, pleased sigh that slipped from his lips as they parted seconds later to enthusiastically meet Sherlock’s as he shifted to deepen the kiss.
Far too soon for John’s liking, Sherlock pulled back enough that he could say, “Yes you did,” and it took John a moment to remember what Sherlock was even talking about.
When he did remember, John simply took hold of the back of Sherlock’s neck and growled, “And I hadn’t finished giving it to you yet,” as he pulled him back down into a kiss.
If either of them heard the hesitant knock at the door, they both made a point to ignore it.