What she wants to say:
I wanted to tell you one story. Uh. This is the story of the best meal I’ve ever had in my life, okay. Happened when I was eleven years old in Chicago, IL where I grew up. I went to a place called the Salt & Pepper Diner, uh, with my best friend John. We walk into the diner one day, and they had a jukebox there, okay? And the jukebox was three plays for a dollar. So we put in 7 dollars and selected 21 plays of of Tom Jones’s What’s New Pussycat. And then we ordered and waited.
Here’s the thing about when, uh, What’s New Pussycat plays over and over and over and over and over again. The second time it plays, your immediate thought is not ‘hey someone’s playing What’s New Pussycat again.’ It’s ‘hey, What’s New Pussycat is a lot longer than I first thought. The third time it plays you’re thinking maybe someone’s playing What’s New Pussycat again. The fourth time it plays you’re either thinking ‘whoa someone just played What’s New Pussycat FOUR TIMES or at least someone played it twice, and it’s a really long song.’ So the fifth time is the kicker, alright?
Now, John and I we’re watching the entire diner at this point, alright? Most people have gotten wind as to what’s going on. And we’re staring at this one guy and he’s sitting in like a booth with his stupid kids jumping around, and he’s like staring at his coffee cup like this, and he’s been onto us since the beginning. And he’s sitting there, and his hand is shaking, and he had this look on his face like, aw, like he had just gotten his thirty day chip from anger management. And he’s staring like this, and the fourth song fades out. It’s dead quiet. Then, I don’t know if you know this, but the song begins very quietly…
BWAAAH BWAAAAAH WHAT’S NEW PUSSYCAT and he goes GOD DAMN IT and pounds on the table, silverware flies everywhere, and it was fantastic. But a word about my best friend John and what a genius he was because when we first walked into the diner, okay? When we first got there and I’m punching in the What’s New Pussycats alright? I’ve punched in like 7 at this point then John says to me ‘hey hey hey before you punch in another What’s New Pussycat let’s drop in one It’s Not Unusual.’
Oh yes. That is when the afternoon went from good to great. After seven What’s New Pussycats. In a row - It played seven times. Suddenly - Dum da dum, IT’S NOT UNUSUAL and the sigh of relief that swept through the diner. People were so happy. It was like the liberation of France. You know for years scientists have wondered can you make grown men and women weep tears of joy by playing Tom Jones’s It’s Not Unusual and the answer is yes you can. Provided that it is preceded by seven What’s New Pussycats. It’s true. Dead honest.
And on the other hand. When we went back. Holy shit. It’s Not Unusual fade out. It’s dead quiet. BWAAAH BWAAAAH WHAT’S NEW PUSSYCAT people went insane. People went out of their minds. No one could handle it. No one could handle it. And they were surrounded by this seemingly indifferent staff that was just like ‘yup some crap as always.’
They unplugged the jukebox after eleven plays. And that was the best meal I ever had.
silver sitting on the very same spot where he and flint used to spar together, hair tied into a ponytail, his jacket off and crutch in hand… as if he’s waiting for a friend to arrive with two swords in hand and a smile on his face.. as if they never stopped doing it
The question is a simple one in theory, and it’s also one to which Sherlock has given quite a lot of thought in the past, most notably when he was in his depressed moods and wanted to torture himself with the more wonderful images of John that he had stored up in his Mind Palace. It’s no longer torture to remember those times, to picture those small smiles and shared giggles that were so frequent early on in their acquaintance, but there is still a dull ache that resonates within him at the thought they had wasted so much time.
He flicks through his favorite memories now, a quick perusal before settling on one that seems so very inconsequential but that he has never been able to shake away. John is watching him, that same impossibly soft look in his eyes, a look that Sherlock still can’t believe is directed towards him.
Sherlock pulls his bottom lip between his teeth briefly and then takes a deep breath, settling his hands on the arms of his chair again. “The first time I knew was the day we met with Sebastian.”
John frowns. “Sebastian?”
“Sebastian Wilkes from the bank, you remember.”
John’s eyes light up. “Oh, the Blink Banker case!”
Sherlock rolls his eyes and is on the verge of making a comment about how John really needs to work on his titles, but John’s expression suddenly shifts, the light in his eyes fading and his lips turning downward.
“That long ago?” he asks, and there’s something so unexpectedly sad in his voice, a quiet note that squeezes Sherlock’s heart.
He clears his throat. “Well. Yes. I was–it was quite early on in our…friendship that I realized I was…”
Falling in love with you. The words won’t form even though he’s thought them so many times that it’s become an integral part of who he is. But neither of them have said it out loud yet, a fact which hadn’t really seemed important until this moment.
There hadn’t been any dramatic declarations, no emotional outbursts. It had been simple, in the end; John had come home with the shopping, heavy bags hanging from each hand, and Sherlock had turned from his place by the window (where he’d been watching as John trudged down the street, head bent against the cold). And John had met his eyes and given him that smile, the one he frequently used to hide behind when he was feeling more emotionally tired than usual, and Sherlock had decided right then and there. In three strides he was across the room, and it turned out that deciding to kiss John Watson had been the simplest thing he’d ever done.
He remembers the way John’s mouth, so cold from the biting chill outside, had warmed beneath his lips, his tongue; the way John’s shock had melted almost immediately, fading into heartfelt reciprocation as the groceries spilled to the floor at their feet and his hands, free of their burden, slid into Sherlock’s hair. From there, the bedroom was only a few stumbling steps away, and neither of them had looked back since.
Saying the words simply hadn’t seemed necessary after everything they had told each other with their bodies. All of the longing and frustration and emotion had come pouring out of them in such a physical shape that they had never stopped to really define it with words. Or perhaps, Sherlock thinks now, they had both been too afraid to give them voice.
John’s hand touches his own where it’s curled on the armrest, and Sherlock is startled out of his memories. He realizes he must have been silent for some time because John has moved, is now perched on the very edge of his seat, his knees nearly knocking against Sherlock’s.
“There you are,” he says, smiling softly, his head tilting as he searches Sherlock’s face for clues as to where his mind might have taken him.
Sherlock lets out a breath and flips his hand over, catching John’s fingers in his own. “I’m sorry, I was…distracted.”
“You all right?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Where was I?”
John rests his elbows on his knees but keeps hold of Sherlock’s hand, folding it in between both of his own. “The day we went to see Sebastian.”
“Right. Yes. It was before that, though, before the case began.”
John’s thumb rubs a warm, smooth line back and forth across Sherlock’s palm, and it makes him want to close his eyes and just exist in this moment, a feeling he can’t ever remember having had before he’d let John Watson touch him.
“I don’t remember,” John says, sounding apologetic, which is ridiculous. Sherlock supposes he must think they’re talking about some significant moment in their lives, something that should stand out.
He shakes his head. “No, you wouldn’t. It was…you had just come back to the flat. You’d gone out to get the shopping.”
John’s confusion seems to increase, and he opens his mouth, but Sherlock goes on before he can say anything.
“You were in a bit of a state,” he says, and he can’t help the fondness that colors his tone. “Apparently the chip-and-pin machine had been giving you some trouble.”
Realization dawns slowly across the lines of John’s face, first in the widening of his eyes and then in the shaping of his lips into a small “oh.”
“You…that was when you knew?” he asks, and he sounds so disbelieving that Sherlock laughs.
“That was when I began to know, yes.”
John shakes his head slowly, seemingly bewildered. “But…why? I was such a grumpy arse that day–”
“It was cute,” Sherlock says before he can stop himself.
John’s eyebrows rise so high on his forehead that Sherlock almost can’t see them beneath his fringe, which is quite a feat considering the length of John’s hair. Sherlock’s cheeks flood with heat, and when John opens his mouth, presumably to give him the teasing of a lifetime, he glares as fiercely as he can.
“Not. A. Word,” he says through his teeth.
John’s mouth shuts with an audible click, but his eyes are wide, and he pulls his lips between his teeth in a clear effort to restrain his laughter. Sherlock continues to glare at him, but it doesn’t seem to be having any effect whatsoever, and only a few seconds pass before John can no longer contain himself. He breaks down into uncontrollable giggles, leaning forward to press his forehead to the back of Sherlock’s hand, which he still has a hold on.
Sherlock sighs and falls back against his chair in a dramatic fashion. “Oh, go on then.”
John shakes his head, still bent double. “Cute,” he gasps through his laughter. “I didn’t even know you knew that word!”
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but John’s giddiness is infectious, and, try as he might, he can’t quite keep his own face straight. “Well, you should’ve been recording it because I’m never saying it again,” he says, but the sour effect he’s going for is lost in the twist of his lips.
John straightens up, tugging at Sherlock’s hand insistently. “Oh, god, c’mere,” he says. His eyes are damp, and his smile is so huge he can hardly kiss properly, but Sherlock really doesn’t mind, not when John is climbing clumsily into his lap, his hands warm on either side of his face, tilting it back to get better access to his mouth.
“I can’t believe you think I’m cute,” John whispers, and Sherlock pinches his side in retaliation. John’s answering laugh bubbles up against Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock’s hand curls around the back of his skull, holding him there. John’s lips turn soft and pliant, his smile fading with a soft noise as Sherlock’s tongue slicks into his mouth.
He’s lost in it almost instantly, in the press of John’s body, the heat of his hands through the thin fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, the feeling of John’s hair between his fingers. His mind goes quiet except for the thought of more, and his hips push up, seeking blindly, wanting–
“Mm, wait,” John murmurs, and his hands curl around Sherlock’s shoulders, stilling him. “Not yet.”
“Hmm?” His brain is too weighted with lust to say anything more coherent, a fact that would have horrified him only a week ago, before he knew what it felt like to have John Watson in his arms.
John pulls away slightly, sitting back against Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock attempts to follow, but John catches his chin in one hand, his thumb sliding across his lower lip, causing tingles to erupt down Sherlock’s spine.
“We had a deal, remember?” John says. His eyes remain fixed on Sherlock’s mouth for another moment before he lifts them to meet Sherlock’s hooded gaze. “You tell me yours, and I tell you mine.” He smiles. “My turn.”
OKAY so that ended up being longer and a bit…more than I meant for it to, but there you have it. I’d like to go ahead and say that this was rather inspired by @thespiritualmultinerd‘s comment on this post here. After reading that I couldn’t get this idea out of my head, so you have them to thank for this. :D
I guess there will now be a part three because I can never seem to do anything easily lmao. Thanks for reading, friends, I hope it was worth the little wait. <3 Just tags below the cut. I apologize if I left anyone out. <3
Honestly actors need more appreciation. Sometimes they can make their characters so real it’s hard to imagine them as someone else. I have to remind myself that these people aren’t real, and their little quirks and movements aren’t their own.
Every time Dean and Castiel stared at each other for a little to long? Jensen and Misha.
Every time John Laurens looked at Hamilton with a bit to much affection? Anthony Ramos.
Every time the Doctor’s happy face slipped a little? Matt Smith, Chrisopher Eccleston, David Tennant, or Peter Capaldi.
Every time Sherlock seemed a little more human? Barginbin Cuddlesnot.
Every time Evan’s anxiety disorder became real to us? Ben Platt.
They’re so good at their job it’s amazing the thought that goes into their characters that might only show up for one episode.