Chapter Text
“John? How do you seduce people?”
John's fingers freeze for a fraction of a second around the artichoke he's been weighing in the palm of his hand. They're in the middle of a brightly-lit Tesco, John is mentally cooking their evening meal while trying to keep Sherlock away from the sweets aisle, and he's not prepared for curveballs in the middle of the produce section. Carefully, he lowers the artichoke in a see-through bag.
“Sherlock. We're in the middle of grocery shopping.”
Quickly, John checks that there aren't too many people around to overhear this odd conversation. Or perhaps that's the point – and there's someone nearby who prompted the question? Someone... attractive?
John frowns. Sherlock hasn't ever expressed any interest in bodies that don't have rigor mortis, and prefers the smell of decay over perfume. There were times when John wondered whether there was a tenderness underneath that cold mask, but that seems like ages ago.
“Yes, it's infinitely boring,” Sherlock says. “Entertain me. How does John Watson convince people to play doctor?”
Sherlock's knuckles are blanched as he grips four water bottles close to his chest. He's refusing to put them in the shopping cart, again. John glares at him. Somehow it irks him when Sherlock tries his best – helps to carry stuff, holds a door open, accompanies him to the store. He didn't use to do that. But ever since he returned about six months ago, after more than two years of pretending to be dead, he's been almost nice. And John hates it. As if such a betrayal can be soothed by carrying grocery bags.
John takes the water bottles from Sherlock's hands and dumps them into the cart.
“A little hint from Doctor Watson to Sherlock Holmes on how to seduce someone,” he breathes through his teeth. “Don't. Be. Yourself.”
For a brief second, Sherlock looks at the bottles sadly. Then he positions himself behind the shopping cart and pushes it, stubbornly. His Belstaff flutters open dramatically. John sighs. He looks completely ridiculous. Who goes to Tesco in such a tight, insanely expensive designer suit?
At the registry, John tries to haul the groceries onto the conveyor belt extra fast, before Sherlock can help him. As if to punish him. John knows it's an insane type of race, an absurd competition, but he can't stop himself. They're both aware it's happening. Sherlock flinches with every item that touches down hard. Breathe, John thinks. He slows down. Grants Sherlock the last item, toilet paper, to lift.
John finds his bank card and smiles at the cashier.
“So I guess smiling is on the list,” Sherlock says, suddenly uncomfortably close to his ear.
“What?” John's heart skips a beat while he holds eye contact with the cashier, a nice young woman with soft, black hair. As unperturbed as possible he tries to glide his bank card into her slot. The slot! The slot.
“You smile as a means of flirting,” Sherlock says, his voice in rapid deductive mode. “We come here twice a week, and usually, you choose this particular till. Is this averagely attractive young lady any faster than the others? Oh please. Even I could probably devise a more efficient method of checking out myself. In fact, I have, and it would save us 34,6 seconds on each visit, which amounts to 3,598.4 seconds each year, or approximately one hour. Each year, John, can you imagine what one could accomplish with that kind of time saving? But no, you choose the fourth slowest of all cashiers in this Tesco, that is, assuming the large freckled redhead has been fired since we haven't seen her for three weeks, and why? It's clear. You fancy this one. You smile at her. You once lied that you forgot your Clubcard so she'd have to talk to you longer. You don't have to explain to me about your method of seduction. I'll just use my method of deduction.”
The machine beeps. John curses softly. Wrong pin number.
John turns toward Sherlock, glaring. He’s still standing uncomfortably close, but the stream of cruel comments has stopped. That's a sign of self-control, John reckons, because Sherlock must be absorbing about a hundred details right now: the hitching of breath, the flustered laugh of the lady, and the light red discoloration in his neck. John can imagine it all too well. A complete arse, he is.
John wants to go pack the groceries, but he notices that he's apparently holding the front of Sherlock's shirt. When did he take hold of it? He sighs, and pulls his fingers away. Sherlock's shoulders relax a little.
“Have a nice day”, the cashier says. She's actually quite cute, and Sherlock was right, John had noticed that. But that's hardly the point, is it?
From now on they will have to use the self check-out.
Find a different store, definitely.
Or no, better still: Sherlock is no longer allowed to accompany him, anywhere.
John frowns. Unless that was Sherlock’s goal? Maybe he didn't deign to admit he wanted to quit these trips. Obviously Sherlock loathes grocery shopping, so he thought of a lewd strategy to make John yell at him in public. Then John would be the bad guy, and solve his problem for him, and Sherlock wouldn’t technically be a quitter.
Completely childish.
John gathers the three grocery bags before Sherlock can get to them, and stomps out of the store, onto the street. The heavy bags pull on his shoulder, like toddlers craving attention. Two steps behind him, Sherlock follows. Trying to catch up.
“John, I may have overstepped.”
John treads even faster as he turns the corner of Melcombe street, right into Baker Street. The bags slam into his shins. He hopes he’s not bruising the artichoke.
“But I really need your expertise,” Sherlock adds, trying to make eye contact. John grumbles and looks straight ahead as cars speed by.
“Even though, one could argue that you're not an expert,” Sherlock says, very much not helping his case, “given that it's been a while since you have, colloquially said, pulled anyone. ”
John almost drops the bags at 221B's front door. He fumbles for his keys.
Sherlock quickly pulls a wrinkled piece of paper from his coat's pocket.
“You see, it's for a case,” he says. “This note might explain it better than I have.”
And he holds the paper in front of John. John can't look away. Just when his key slides into the right hole, finally, something clicks. He stills.
On the paper, two neatly scribbled sentences:
I will seduce him. Then kill him.
John blinks wildly. Someone wants to seduce Sherlock?
“Someone wants to kill you?” John asks.
***
The shopping bags are left at the door while John walks up and down the living room. Sherlock is crouched in his chair, hands in prayer-like mode, fingertips touching.
“It's very straightforward, John. A man is being threatened. He's about to be the subject of interest on a televised dating show. The showrunners got a threatening note and they asked me, Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, to look into it.”
“Lestrade passed you the case, didn't he?”
“They need me. We've agreed the best way to find out who sent the threatening note is if I go undercover on the show. As one of the suitors.”
John stops in his tracks and turns on his heels. Silence falls. Nobody breathes. Sherlock refuses to look up.
“It's a...” John hesitates. Gay show? Is that derogatory or descriptive? “Same-sex dating show?”
“It's more than that, John.” Sherlock stretches his knees now. He's all legs and arms. “Our would-be victim is not just any around-the-corner gay bachelor. He's a celebrity doctor, a famous surgeon, apparently, named Jonathan Wilson.”
John has heard that name. Well, who hasn't? He's been on a reality medical show called 'Top Doctors' for several seasons now, and his face has graced many magazines outside of the realm of medical journals. He might even have been in a toothpaste commercial, now that John thinks about it. Jonathan Wilson is about forty-ish, very intelligent, and very, very attractive.
John stares at Sherlock.
“So you're going to seduce...”
John's brain short circuits. A man. A man.
“... this Jonathan Wilson. On television. For a case.”
“Don't be absurd, John.” Sherlock scoffs. “I'll have found the killer by the first commercial break.”
John tries to grip the side of the table less intensely.
“I will solve the case on air”, Sherlock says, “I will have the murderer arrested, and leave the show. It'll be good for ratings.”
“But bad for your reputation.”
Sherlock's head snaps up. “How so?”
The doorbell rings, once, twice, and by the third ring it starts to feel like a very angry client. Sherlock doesn't move, but holds John's gaze. John would be all too happy to go answer the door, but he seems cemented to the floor. Downstairs, Mrs Hudson lets the guest inside. Cheerful noises. Footsteps on the stairway. Neither John nor Sherlock breaks eye contact.
Not until the door swings open, and a loud voice booms.
“You can't just steal the bloody evidence.” Lestrade barges inside.
With an indifferent nod in the direction of the kitchen table, Sherlock directs him to the threatening note. Lestrade puts it in a see-through bag.
“You're lucky it was me who realised it was missing, not Anderson,” Lestrade says.
“Anderson wouldn't recognise evidence if it was hitting him in the face with a shovel,” Sherlock says. “Though I'd like to test that hypothesis.”
“So,” John says, swallowing. “Jonathan Wilson.”
“Yes, lovely bloke, you should meet him,” Lestrade says. He scratches the back of his head.
“Does he know he's being threatened?” John asks.
“No”, Lestrade says. “The production team wants to keep his reactions... genuine.”
“Good”, Sherlock says.
“Good?” John folds his arms behind his back. “Sherlock. That man's life is in danger. He deserves to know.”
Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. “It'll only upset him.”
“You're going along with this, Lestrade?” John says. “This... madness?”
“Most likely it's an empty threat,” Lestrade says. He clears his throat. “But yes. According to Sherlock, this can go three ways. Possibly it's an empty threat, a prank of sorts. Or one of the suitors or crew is genuinely after Wilson's life, in which case we need Wilson to act naturally or else we give away our game of being onto the killer. Or, third option, Wilson himself wrote the note.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Finally, you're asking the right questions,” Sherlock interrupts. “I have looked into this Jonathan Wilson and he seems to be a decent man. Heart surgeon, so he's busy. Never married, clean records, rather goodlooking. A real catch. So why would he go on a television dating show?”
John shrugs. He's never heard Sherlock call anyone 'a real catch' before. Not even a bloody fish.
“Not the money, he's a surgeon, remember,” Sherlock says. “No gambling debts, no family members in trouble, he's entirely clean. So. Perhaps they somehow tricked him into this, made him sign a contract, and now he's trying to get out of it. There's nothing quite like death threats to get out of something tedious.”
Sherlock shuts up at once, sucks in his breath. Like he suspects that he said something wrong.
“This is ridiculous.” John shakes his head, looking at Lestrade for backup. “Why wouldn't he suspect he's being investigated? Or that something is being investigated, at least? Sherlock's a detective, for Christ's sake. And it's not like he can hide it.”
Lestrade looks at his knuckles. “Well. Even a detective must look for love sometimes.”
Sherlock looks unmoved, and rather clueless.
“They don't know he's a sociopath,” Lestrade adds.
Sherlock puts on his blue dressing gown and lies down on the sofa.
“I don't like this. Not one bit, Lestrade. And if something happens...” John trails off.
He's remembering the days before Sherlock jumped off St Bart's. How the media turned against him. The many headlines after. The repeated phone calls from journalists, calling him from different phones if he blocked their numbers. They harassed him near the cemetery. At the bakery. At Speedy's. And after Sherlock came back, it got worse somehow. Long opinion pieces were written about whether John Watson was right in forgiving his so-called friend. As if it were up for public debate, to be battled in likes and shares. Angry smiley if you vote no. Fuck off.
John swallows heavily.
“I don't think he should draw that much attention to himself again,” he says.
“Oh, come off it, John,” Sherlock snarls, eyes closed. “Don't worry about your little reputation. The whole case will be solved before the theme song hits the screen. And we've been very low on clients, especially since you refuse to update your blog anymore. This could be good for business.”
It's a low jab. After Sherlock's death, John had to disable the comment section. Now he can't even bring himself to load the blog anymore, not even to delete the evidence of his grief. It's not as if he has much to say, anyway. And who even blogs anymore? He should probably just snapchat his 221B life. Put a flower crown on that deerstalker.
John shakes his head.
“Anyway, now that I have retrieved that piece of evidence, you might be interested in this,” Lestrade holds up a memory stick. “It contains footage of your future boyfriend, Sherlock.”
Sherlock sits up at once and raises his eyebrows. John grins uneasily and collects his laptop.
“The production company, HeartBeat Films, sent me this teaser trailer they released a few weeks ago, to find contestants. I mean, suitors,” Lestrade says, as he clicks the video file.
A man's face fills the screen. He has brown hair with a loose strand falling on his forehead, and a nicely squared jaw, yet with a soft streak to it. “I'm just a heart surgeon”, Jonathan Wilson says, as his name and profession appear in dramatic, golden handwriting on the screen. “Looking for a good heart.”
Cue dramatic music – My Heart Will Go On, just to drive home the gay – and several shots of Wilson rushing to the ER, walking around his beautiful home and – lord – even horseback riding. At the end of the video, a female voice appeals to any viewers to go to the show's website to enlist for this special dating show. The title, apparently, will be 'Wilson Needs A Heart'. John chuckles. The tagline – ' There's no 'i' in Love' – is even more cheesy. Céline Dion tries her best, but really, this show is most likely a sinking ship.
John rolls his eyes, and glances at Sherlock. His breath hitches. Sherlock's back is straight as a rod, he has his hands folded in his lap, his face open. He's absorbing every word.
***
That very night, lying in his bed, John goes through his usual routine: staring at his ceiling and realising he's been a right idiot. Something soft had fallen in Sherlock's features earlier, when he watched that Jonathan Wilson clip. Maybe there was more that lured him to this case than just another mystery, another puzzle. It's been awhile since Sherlock even took a real case. And that question in the middle of the supermarket – suddenly it seems so obvious. He wasn't asking about it in an odd place because he's simply Sherlock, detective incapable of detecting social awkwardness – no. He was attempting to hide his vulnerability, the bare truth of the question. He chose somewhere public so the conversation would never have a real chance of taking off.
John sits up and shoves his feet into his slippers.
Downstairs, draped in partial darkness, he finds Sherlock, still in his dressing gown and seated on his single chair. A sad trace of smoke leaves the hearth. The fire is out. Only a small nod of his head betrays that Sherlock has noticed John, that he hasn't retreated into his mind palace too deeply.
John quietly makes tea for the both of them, and then sits down. With long fingers Sherlock envelopes his cup. In front of him, John bares his feet to gingerly explore the soft threading of the rug between his toes.
“The trick to … getting someone to like you, is really just listening,” John says.
Sherlock slightly lifts his chin in surprise. In the darkness, his eyes are hidden, his face a blurry grey, but John imagines it's charmingly confused, and he's interested, even if he tries to hide it well.
“I know that sounds like a cliché,” John continues, “but hear me out. People love to talk about themselves. They love it when someone listens. Really listens. It doesn't happen too often, in real life.”
John pauses. Sherlock sits perfectly still, as if making a move will break the spell.
“So ask about who he is and what he thinks, deepen the conversation, and answer any questions he might have in return. As honestly as you can. Relationships are about intimacy, even more than they are about seeking thrill or adventure. Those things will happen naturally, to people who spend time with you. But once you really let them in... show them who you are... They won't want to leave.”
The moon passes by the window – or rather, a cloud stops hindering its light – and for a second John feels as if he’s sitting in a spotlight. He looks down at his steaming cup.
“Also, compliments are important. And light touches, just to test if he's open to that. Try a small touch to his arm while laughing, for example. And eye contact. Also very important. When, you know. You're. Flirting.”
Sherlock hasn't touched his tea. He looks like he wants to say something, but John stops him.
“The thing is, there is no real trick to seduction. You either click with someone, or you don't. The flirting will come naturally if you do. Smiles, compliments, and kindness help, though.”
He smiles reassuringly, but the moon is shaded again, and the darkness is a hot and heavy blanket. John puts his feet back into his slippers, and ascends the stairs, shedding its weight. During the night, time seems to be shaped differently, and it's as if the world is inside out.
John would often wake from a nightmare and keep living a waking terror that only faded with the morning light. Quite like that feeling, John awakes after their nighttime conversation, feeling as if it never really took place, as if it happened inside the sea, and the words are muffled faraway sounds now, as the morning washes him ashore.