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John checked his watch for the umpteeth time that hour. Hour. Had it really only been an hour? It sure felt like a lot longer than that. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't been excited for this date, but after texting back and forth with Sherlock for over two weeks, this was quickly proving to be very anticlimactic.
A nice Italian restaurant, semi-secluded booth, nice-smelling candle—should be a recipe for romance. But apparently of the things John had learned Sherlock was good at, being romantic wasn't on that list. Aside from greeting John outside of the restaurant and placing his order, Sherlock hadn't uttered a word. Just stared at John for the entire time. John had tried to make conversation a few times, but all attempts failed when Sherlock just made vague humming sounds. And as if the silence wasn't enough, the staring was starting to get creepy. John had wiped at his mouth to ensure nothing was there, so he had no idea what Sherlock could have been looking at so intensely.
Finally, after finishing his meal, John cleared his throat and started to gather his coat. "Well, this was an, um… interesting date, but I should probably get going. Thanks a lot, Sherlock." He smiled politely before smiling and walking out. As he started down the street, pulling his jacket closer around him as protection from the cold, he couldn't help but feel disappointed. He had really hoped things would work out with Sherlock.
Suddenly, there was a hand gripping his wrist, forcing him to stop and turn around. "Sherlock, what—"
"I apologize," Sherlock sighed. "I realize now that that wasn't the most interactive of dates, but you have to understand that I've never attempted anything like this. My few relationships were brief, in university, and altogether not very romantic or personal. This is new territory for me."
John looked down at where Sherlock's hand was still holding onto his wrist, though it was now loose enough that John could pull back if he wanted. John found he really didn't want to. "Then why are you trying so hard now?" he asked, giving Sherlock a puzzled expression.
Now that John didn't seem to be going anywhere, Sherlock relaxed. His head tilted as he studied John. "I honestly don't know. That's what I was attempting to figure out in the restaurant. It can't be because we're overly similar—your intelligence is average, and we discussed not two days ago that you are not musical."
"I'm not nearly as good as you at complimenting others," John added sarcastically, pulling free of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock's face fell, and he looked as though he considered grabbing John again, but thought better of it and let his hand fall to his side.
"I just told you I wasn't good at this," Sherlock muttered. "I don't go around attempting to 'flirt'." John smiled just slightly at Sherlock's almost pouty face.
In an attempt to make up for pulling away, John teased lightly, "Well, I can tell you your first problem. Flirting requires talking." The joke went over Sherlock's head, though, and he sighed heavily.
"I already apologized for being silent through dinner. Must I repeat myself?" John stared a few seconds, not sure if Sherlock was serious at first. Then he laughed and shook his head a little. "What?"
"Nothing. Just—you. Unintentionally funny. You should have just talked to me, you know, instead of thinking so much."
"You wouldn't have walked out?" Sherlock asked, as though the idea was ground-breaking.
"No," John smiled kindly. "Definitely not."
"I see…" Sherlock gazed at John thoughtfully for a few moments. "You're still looking for a flat, correct? You mentioned something a few days ago," he suddenly asked.
"Yes," John answered warily. He briefly thought back to the conversation—he had really only made an off-hand comment the one time. He was surprised Sherlock remembered.
Sherlock's tone changed to one of intentional casualty. "I have my eye on a rather nice one in central London. Two bedrooms, a decent sized kitchen. Only one bathroom, unfortunately, but it's nice. It's actually only five minutes from here. I can't quite make rent on my own… You're welcome to come with me and take a look, if you would like."
John narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but a small smile crept onto his lips. "I can't tell if you're actually asking me to come move in with you, or if this is just your way of trying to get me into bed."
"Please," Sherlock scoffed. "If I wanted you in my bed, we would already be there."
"Is that so?" John chuckled. "You're awfully confident."
"I have reason to be," Sherlock smirked minutely. "But, back to the matter at hand—this is a genuine offer. You obviously don't have to move in as my significant other, but I need to find a flatmate, and you are my preferred option."
"You've known me all of two weeks, and you would rather have me move in than some other friend?" John raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"I don't have any other friends," Sherlock said simply.
"Oh…" John bit his lip briefly and looked back down the street. He could say no. He could make up something about already having one in mind. He didn't have to go with Sherlock… But he didn't want to go anywhere else. He looked back at the detective and reached for his hand. "Five minutes, you said?"
Sherlock's face immediately broke into a grin, but he quickly tamed it and nodded. "Yes, just a short walk." Squeezing John's hand for a second, Sherlock turned and led him towards Baker Street.