![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kat_lair***
Title: Candlelit
Author:kat_lair
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Tags: Candles, Dinner, Getting Together
Rating: G
Word count: 1,191
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Summary: The candle thing keeps happening.
Author notes: Spooktober 2023, Day 28/31. Prompt/theme: candles.
Candlelit on AO3
It starts at Angelo’s, when they are still getting to know each other. Or, to be more accurate, when John is trying to get to know Sherlock. Sherlock, of course, already seems to know everything about him.
Except, that’s not quite true. But that’s something Sherlock will learn later, after a shot in a dark, and just before an almost goodbye that smells like chlorine.
But before all of that, there’s Angelo’s, and a lit candle on the table. Meant to be romantic. And John is, despite everything, at least a little flustered. Sherlock finds it amusing. Sherlock seems to find quite a bit about John amusing. John doesn’t mind. After all, that’s only one step removed from being interesting.
The candle thing, that keeps happening. By their third visit to Angelo’s, he more or less expects it. But it’s not isolated to just that establishment. In every restaurant, every even slightly upscale café or bar they end up in, typically for a case, sooner or later a member of the waiting staff will come by with a candle and a lighter. John stops protesting. For one, it makes no difference. For two, Sherlock keeps looking at him like he’s a particularly dim-witted dog who still hasn’t learned a trick when he does. And three…
Well. If he’s honest with himself – and he almost always is, it’s one of those lessons war teaches you that’s difficult to unlearn - John gets it. They do look like a couple. They certainly behave like one, leaning is to talk to each other in hushed tones, all intense eye-contact (Sherlock) and helpless smiles (John, absolutely defenseless in face of Sherlock’s brilliance). In fact, he’s pretty sure that most of the staff witnessing their sudden and hurried departures assume they’re in a rush to get home and shag each other senseless rather than chasing after whatever the next clue in whatever convoluted mystery Sherlock is in the middle of solving and John is in the middle of trying to ensure Sherlock doesn’t get himself killed doing so is.
Sometimes, John thinks even the grandma at their local curry house is itching to slip in a tealight or two into their bags, or maybe draw little hearts on the lids of the food containers. She certainly gives John a saucy wink every time he comes by to collect and wishes him a ‘lovely evening with your fella’. John has not once corrected her.
The point is, that John is used to seeing lit candles at restaurants and extremely used to ignoring the implications and pretending they won’t make him feel any way at all.
What he’s not used to, however, is this.
Someone has cleaned the flat. His first guess would be Mrs. Hudson but Sherlock’s various experiments and knick-knacks and notes have also been tidied and there’s no way Sherlock would let her touch them. It’s not a particularly complicated sequence of deductive reasoning but John is still flabbergasted by the conclusion.
Or he would be, if he had any flabber to be gasted left after taking in the transformation their lounge has experienced. The armchairs have been pushed to the side to make room for what he assumes are the kitchen table and chairs, underneath a snow-white tablecloth and some strategically placed cushions – all of which seem new. The fireplace is lit. John didn’t even think it was functional.
“Is that safe?” he asks, worry over carbon monoxide poisoning momentarily overriding everything else.
“Of course, it is.” The eyeroll in Sherlock’s reply is audible. “I had a qualified chimney sweep look at it last week. The certificate is on the bookshelf, between the botanical encyclopedia and Peter Rabbit,” he calls from the kitchen.
There’s a rattle of pans as John drifts toward the bookshelf and plucks the note from exactly where Sherlock said it would be, glancing at it more for form’s sake than because he really doubts Sherlock’s word.
As a distraction, it’s not very effective.
“Uh… What’s going on?” He eyes the table, set for two with what looks like some of Mrs. Hudson’s best plates and cutlery, wineglasses and an opened bottle in the middle. It looks like… Cold dread fills John suddenly. “Are you…” He clears his throat, trying to go for casual and failing horribly. “Are you expecting company?”
There’s a pause in the noise and Sherlock peeks his head through the kitchen doorway, regarding John silently for a few seconds. “Yes,” he says, sweeping into the room, hands coming up ease John’s coat off his shoulders. “And he’s just arrived. Sit.” He nudges John toward one of the chairs. “Please.”
John sits. He can feel the way his mouth slackens in surprise. The ‘please’ is so out of character, said as if Sherlock genuinely wasn’t sure if John would follow his suggestion. Which… By now he should know that John would follow him to hell and back on nothing but a flimsy hope.
Sherlock goes back to the kitchen but then returns a moment later with serving dishes smelling of…
“Indian?” John asks, even though he can already see the basket of naan and selection of dips Sherlock is placing on the table. A large bowl of rice follows, and then several dishes with meats, sauces and sides.
“I got the recipes from Mrs. Bakshi,” Sherlock replies, referring to the old lady at their favorite takeaway place, and not quite meeting John’s eyes as he organises the food just so for optimal access. “Off the menu so new for us.”
“You… cooked?” It’s impossible to stop the smile that’s spreading over his face, disbelieving and delighted.
Sherlock huffs, affronted. “It’s all just chemistry.” He surveys the table critically, which gives John enough time to finally survey Sherlock himself.
He looks… Good. Posh and expensive in the way he always does, but even John can tell the difference between Sherlock’s everyday ensemble and this. Sherlock is wearing black trousers with a leather belt, a shirt of deep burgundy that looks like silk which means it probably is. Everything is fitted in a way that suggests tailoring rather than something off the rack. The shirt is open by two buttons, revealing the notch of Sherlock’s throat, the sharp jut of his collarbones, all of which John wants to…
He breathes deeply, the spice of Sherlock’s cologne prominent at this distance. John drags his eyes back up, only to find Sherlock watching him in return. His expression is undeniably pleased, but there is also something almost… nervous about it too.
“One more thing,” Sherlock says. He puts a single white candle in a beautiful silver candleholder in the middle of the table. “Shall I light it?” he asks John. “Or shall we not bother?”
And John may not be a genius like Sherlock but even he can work out what Sherlock is really asking here. Instead of answering out loud, John leans over and gently takes the lighter from Sherlock’s fingers.
“Let me,” he says, and lights the candle with careful, deliberate movements.
Sherlock’s smile, when it comes, is slow and beautiful, and brighter than any flame, warming John to his core.
***
Title: Candlelit
Author:
kat_lair Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Tags: Candles, Dinner, Getting Together
Rating: G
Word count: 1,191
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Summary: The candle thing keeps happening.
Author notes: Spooktober 2023, Day 28/31. Prompt/theme: candles.
Candlelit on AO3
It starts at Angelo’s, when they are still getting to know each other. Or, to be more accurate, when John is trying to get to know Sherlock. Sherlock, of course, already seems to know everything about him.
Except, that’s not quite true. But that’s something Sherlock will learn later, after a shot in a dark, and just before an almost goodbye that smells like chlorine.
But before all of that, there’s Angelo’s, and a lit candle on the table. Meant to be romantic. And John is, despite everything, at least a little flustered. Sherlock finds it amusing. Sherlock seems to find quite a bit about John amusing. John doesn’t mind. After all, that’s only one step removed from being interesting.
The candle thing, that keeps happening. By their third visit to Angelo’s, he more or less expects it. But it’s not isolated to just that establishment. In every restaurant, every even slightly upscale café or bar they end up in, typically for a case, sooner or later a member of the waiting staff will come by with a candle and a lighter. John stops protesting. For one, it makes no difference. For two, Sherlock keeps looking at him like he’s a particularly dim-witted dog who still hasn’t learned a trick when he does. And three…
Well. If he’s honest with himself – and he almost always is, it’s one of those lessons war teaches you that’s difficult to unlearn - John gets it. They do look like a couple. They certainly behave like one, leaning is to talk to each other in hushed tones, all intense eye-contact (Sherlock) and helpless smiles (John, absolutely defenseless in face of Sherlock’s brilliance). In fact, he’s pretty sure that most of the staff witnessing their sudden and hurried departures assume they’re in a rush to get home and shag each other senseless rather than chasing after whatever the next clue in whatever convoluted mystery Sherlock is in the middle of solving and John is in the middle of trying to ensure Sherlock doesn’t get himself killed doing so is.
Sometimes, John thinks even the grandma at their local curry house is itching to slip in a tealight or two into their bags, or maybe draw little hearts on the lids of the food containers. She certainly gives John a saucy wink every time he comes by to collect and wishes him a ‘lovely evening with your fella’. John has not once corrected her.
The point is, that John is used to seeing lit candles at restaurants and extremely used to ignoring the implications and pretending they won’t make him feel any way at all.
What he’s not used to, however, is this.
Someone has cleaned the flat. His first guess would be Mrs. Hudson but Sherlock’s various experiments and knick-knacks and notes have also been tidied and there’s no way Sherlock would let her touch them. It’s not a particularly complicated sequence of deductive reasoning but John is still flabbergasted by the conclusion.
Or he would be, if he had any flabber to be gasted left after taking in the transformation their lounge has experienced. The armchairs have been pushed to the side to make room for what he assumes are the kitchen table and chairs, underneath a snow-white tablecloth and some strategically placed cushions – all of which seem new. The fireplace is lit. John didn’t even think it was functional.
“Is that safe?” he asks, worry over carbon monoxide poisoning momentarily overriding everything else.
“Of course, it is.” The eyeroll in Sherlock’s reply is audible. “I had a qualified chimney sweep look at it last week. The certificate is on the bookshelf, between the botanical encyclopedia and Peter Rabbit,” he calls from the kitchen.
There’s a rattle of pans as John drifts toward the bookshelf and plucks the note from exactly where Sherlock said it would be, glancing at it more for form’s sake than because he really doubts Sherlock’s word.
As a distraction, it’s not very effective.
“Uh… What’s going on?” He eyes the table, set for two with what looks like some of Mrs. Hudson’s best plates and cutlery, wineglasses and an opened bottle in the middle. It looks like… Cold dread fills John suddenly. “Are you…” He clears his throat, trying to go for casual and failing horribly. “Are you expecting company?”
There’s a pause in the noise and Sherlock peeks his head through the kitchen doorway, regarding John silently for a few seconds. “Yes,” he says, sweeping into the room, hands coming up ease John’s coat off his shoulders. “And he’s just arrived. Sit.” He nudges John toward one of the chairs. “Please.”
John sits. He can feel the way his mouth slackens in surprise. The ‘please’ is so out of character, said as if Sherlock genuinely wasn’t sure if John would follow his suggestion. Which… By now he should know that John would follow him to hell and back on nothing but a flimsy hope.
Sherlock goes back to the kitchen but then returns a moment later with serving dishes smelling of…
“Indian?” John asks, even though he can already see the basket of naan and selection of dips Sherlock is placing on the table. A large bowl of rice follows, and then several dishes with meats, sauces and sides.
“I got the recipes from Mrs. Bakshi,” Sherlock replies, referring to the old lady at their favorite takeaway place, and not quite meeting John’s eyes as he organises the food just so for optimal access. “Off the menu so new for us.”
“You… cooked?” It’s impossible to stop the smile that’s spreading over his face, disbelieving and delighted.
Sherlock huffs, affronted. “It’s all just chemistry.” He surveys the table critically, which gives John enough time to finally survey Sherlock himself.
He looks… Good. Posh and expensive in the way he always does, but even John can tell the difference between Sherlock’s everyday ensemble and this. Sherlock is wearing black trousers with a leather belt, a shirt of deep burgundy that looks like silk which means it probably is. Everything is fitted in a way that suggests tailoring rather than something off the rack. The shirt is open by two buttons, revealing the notch of Sherlock’s throat, the sharp jut of his collarbones, all of which John wants to…
He breathes deeply, the spice of Sherlock’s cologne prominent at this distance. John drags his eyes back up, only to find Sherlock watching him in return. His expression is undeniably pleased, but there is also something almost… nervous about it too.
“One more thing,” Sherlock says. He puts a single white candle in a beautiful silver candleholder in the middle of the table. “Shall I light it?” he asks John. “Or shall we not bother?”
And John may not be a genius like Sherlock but even he can work out what Sherlock is really asking here. Instead of answering out loud, John leans over and gently takes the lighter from Sherlock’s fingers.
“Let me,” he says, and lights the candle with careful, deliberate movements.
Sherlock’s smile, when it comes, is slow and beautiful, and brighter than any flame, warming John to his core.
***
no subject
on 2023-11-04 02:10 pm (UTC)Having said that maybe I should point out that it is now November.
Also, that most Brits will be thrown by pillows in a lounge/diningroom - I had to re-read to make sure the table wasn't about to be used as a bed (though that would have been interesting too)!! Cushions are what are needed here!!
no subject
on 2023-11-04 08:08 pm (UTC)Haha, I know, but I have three more to do and I'm finishing this thing, dammit! Slight extension to Nightmarish November?
Hee, thanks for the BritPick, this is one of those words where my brain just goes 'eh pick whatever crops up first', assume it's to do with the fact that there's no differentiation in Finnish, or you'd just say 'sofa pillow' if you needed to be specific. All corrected now :)
no subject
on 2023-11-05 03:33 pm (UTC)And yes, I know other languages/cultures don't necessarily distiguish between pillows and cushions, or for that matter between rats and mice, etc. etc. but we do, so it tends to throw us out of a story into strange worlds when it's 'different'!! I still think they could use the table as a bed with one of them laid out like a sacrificial feast...