2Of Sandwiches and Sucking Face
It was months after Sherlock Holmes's apparent 'death' and since then the consulting detective was miraculously cured of this disease and back on the streets in much the manner of before. Nothing had changed really, except that they talked less and argued more, and despite multiple parties being hurt, Sherlock seemed, as always, indifferent. John had thankfully met someone to take his mind off of less pleasant matters, and it was she now who sat opposite him, watching as he ate a sandwich.
Mary, for that was her name, fidgeted with her skirt, impatient.
"John, I came over because I thought we had planned on doing lunch, and now I find you here, eating a sandwich."
John slowed his chewing. "Yes, well…Holmes made it for me."
"So?"
"It was an apology. Don't ask me for what—I have no idea. I'm sure I'll find out later."
"So you're eating it because it's an apology sandwich."
"Yes."
"But what about lunch?"
She was becoming exasperated.
"We can still do lunch."
"Yes, but you won't be hungry."
"Well…no, I suppose not."
Here Mary sighed, then peered again at the sandwich in his hands.
"John, that looks absolutely dreadful."
"I like it."
"It's loaded with onions! Is he trying to poison you, or just give you really terrible breath?"
It was at that precise moment that Sherlock chose to pass through the room. He glanced down at the sandwich, then to Mary.
"Both."
John immediately stopped eating and put the sandwich down with vengence.
"Thanks for that Holmes."
"You're welcome. Now then, I'm going out. I can't stand to see you two…romancing. I'll be back later."
"Try not to get yourself killed."
"Later then!"
And he was gone, the door slamming behind him. No sooner had he left than Mary rose with her purse.
"Where are you going?"
"Home. There's no competing with him, so I may as well go home."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Holmes—the two of you! You act like an old married couple, bickering back and forth! If it weren't for the lack of physical affection I might actually be convinced!"
"Yes, well…"
At a loss, John shook his head. Here was yet another woman ready to walk out on him because of a losing competition with Sherlock Holmes. And he'd rather liked this one.
"It's preposterous. Tell me really, John, what is it between you? And whatever it is, whatever your answer—I'll respect it. But I just can't understand it."
Well now, this was new. His last string of girlfriends merely left angry, not wanting anything more to do with him. But here was one who actually wished to hear what he had to offer.
"Let's just say…sometimes the gamble isn't worth the stakes of the game."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I mean we had an argument, and I gambled, and I lost."
"Well what happened? What were you fighting about?"
John shook his head.
"I don't know—I don't remember. Silly stuff. His mess or—or his manners, or something like it. And it doesn't matter, because everything really just comes down to the fact that he pretended to die in front of me. 'You are infuriating'— I said that. I said—"
"You are infuriating!"
"Why? How?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's you who is infuriated by me, so tell me—what is it exactly that makes you so…angry?"
"That!"
"I don't understand. What?"
"That! What you did just there. You want to know what makes you so incredibly hard to tolerate? It's every smart-ass word out of your mouth!"
"Aha. So, you're angry with me because I am smarter than you."
"Exactly. I mean no! No!"
"No?"
"Definitely not."
"Now I'm confused."
"Ok, that may be a part of it."
"Now we're getting somewhere. Please continue."
"Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"That—all this—detective business, Holmes. I'm your friend, not a murder suspect, and you are certainly not my therapist, so just cut it out."
"You want me to stop figuring you out."
"Precisely."
"Hm." Holmes paused, shrugging and looking away. "I've already got you figured out anyway."
"Have you now."
"Of course—it's my profession."
"It's not—"
"It is my job to be attentive."
"It is not your job to figure out your friends!"
Holmes visibly deflated, shoulders down, arms hanging limply by his side, a prominent pout on his pale lips.
"Well then what do I do?"
"You simply be a friend."
"A friend." There was a note of exasperation in Holmes's otherwise monotone voice.
"Yes."
"And how do I do that?"
John looked away, shaking his head. "God it's like talking to an ape."
He turned back to Holmes, who for once in his life, looked quite lost for words.
"You're so—so clever about—well, about nearly everything, but you are completely and utterly incompetent when it comes to proper social behavior. You are completely blind to the subtle dance of relationships and you miss perhaps the best things in this world because of it."
"Friendship."
"Not just that, Holmes."
"Oh please. Don't tell me you're talking about that 'romance' nonsense."
"That's just it. You wouldn't know it if it was staring you in the face, and so you write it off as unimportant drivel. You're not the only one who has things figured out, 'Mr.' Holmes."
"You don't think I could recognize romance if it were right in front of me."
"I am positive to that effect."
"Well then, enlighten me."
"And then…well, then…I kissed him."
"You what?"
"I—he—he was goading me to do it, so somehow I just…laid it on him…"
"So then what?"
"He thought I was joking."
"Jo—"
"Yes! He thought I was bloody well being funny! Yet another aspect of society he needs to work on. He has no sense of humor whatsoever, and truthfully I think his funny bone was removed at birth and replaced with a 'deducing bone' or some nonsense."
"Now you are joking."
"Yes, but I wasn't then."
John sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, his eyes suddenly seeming very tired.
"Damn it all…but it proved my point. He wouldn't know romance if it was literally sucking face with him."
Mary rose from where she had sat to listen to his tale, and leaned down to kiss John on the forehead, a tender sympathy in her striking blue eyes.
"Well, Dear John, I don't know what to say. Only that perhaps you'd best start putting your attentions somewhere where they'll be readily recognized."
"Mary, I—"
"No, it's alright. I was leaving anyway. Good luck John, and farewell."
She left the room and as John heard the door close quietly behind her, he sighed, shaking his head. She was right, of course, hand over his mouth as he stared at the bullet-abused wall before him. She was more than right.
"Is she gone then?" Holmes asked, coming into the room. John looked up at him, puzzled. He couldn't remember hearing the door open.
"Yes, no thanks to you."
"Oh good then, so the onions worked."
"What?"
"Nothing. Figure of speech."
"You don't use figures of speech."
"Quite right."
Holmes pounced into the chair opposite John, where Mary had sat not two minutes ago, staring at him intently.
"You knew she would leave."
"How was the sandwich?"
"You were trying to get rid of her."
"Yes, Bravo. How was the sandwich."
John peered back at the man in front of him, eyes simmering.
"It was bloody awful," he said, "worse sandwich I've ever had. And a bloody terrible apology."
Holmes brought his face closer, taunting.
"Well, like you said, I'm not well versed in the ways of social 'dance'."
The next moment found a hand slipped behind John's head and pale lips against his own. Holmes was in his lap, and the hand on the nape of his neck was cool.
"Now, what was that comment about sucking face?"
"I hate it when you eavesdrop."
"Think of it as social research."
Holmes bent down again, but John pulled back, raising his hand in protest.
"I smell like onions."
A subtle grin made its way along Sherlock's face.
"I don't mind."