CONTEXT:
John notices Sherlock staring at a woman (Y/N) in a cafe, and prompts him to ask for her number.
__________
"---but it was only a fracture, so she'd---what are you looking at?" John sat opposite his friend, who started suddenly, dragging his eyes back from over John's shoulder to focus on him.
"Nothing." Sherlock cleared his throat a little. "Please, continue."
John quirked up an eyebrow, holding Sherlock under an assiduous stare. "Right ... Where was I? Ah, yeah, so she'd basically--"
Sherlock's gaze had once again gravitated towards a point just over John's shoulder, a glassy expression clouded his usually crystalline eyes.
John felt irritation nibbling at his edges at this; sure, his strange flatmate had never been very interested in his stories about working at the surgery, but he could at least try to act like he cares, just a little. "Okay, seriously! What is so fascinating that you---" he turned around on his chair to try locate the thing that held Sherlock's attention so dearly, and found it almost at once:
A woman sitting at the table by the window. She was reading a small paperback, leaning with her back against the slightly condensation-riddled glass of the window, so absorbed in her novel's contents that the dampness didn't seem to bother her.
John smirked and faced his friend again, who's cheeks were sprinkled with a small---but still noticeable---uncharacteristic blush. "Oh."
"'Oh' what?"
John's eyebrows---which had inched even further up his face---were now hidden almost completely by his blonde fringe. He stirred the last dregs of his tea with a spoon absently; this was going to be interesting. "What do you mean 'what'? You were staring at that woman weren't you?"
Chuckling, Sherlock shook his head pityingly at John's naivety and nibbled the corner of his ginger snap. "Really, John? Surely after all these years, you would be well aware that I don't care about---"
"Yeah, yeah." It's an understatement to say that John looked unconvinced.
Sherlock sat a little straighter as if minutely improving his posture could somehow make his claim more credible. "Of course not. Do you really think that I--"
"Yes."
"No, I most certainly was not! And anyway, why out of all the people in this cafe would I be staring at her in particular? You're being illogical."
John shrugged, angling himself as much as needed to get a clear view of the unsuspecting woman in question, but not too much so as to seem suspicious. "It seems perfectly logical to me. She's about your age, you're a human being, she's a human being. She's sitting alone, reading. I'm no detective, but she seems quiet, maybe quite clever. Just your type."
Scoffing: "How do you know what's my type?" Clearly the conversation was ruffling Sherlock's feathers. So much so that he'd forgotten to deny that he even has a 'type'.
"Well, I assume it's just like your taste in everything else: If it's loud, stupid, or boring you're not interested."
Sherlock looked like he was collecting up the pieces of his dignity that he had dropped, brushing invisible dust from the front of his jacket, running a hand through his hair---a nervous habit---John noticed, and took a cleansing breath. "I'm bored. Could we please change the subject?"
"Not until you ask her out."
Sherlock choked on his tea. "What?!"
John merely fractionally inclined his shoulders.
"Don't you realize how strange that would be? Casually sidling up to someone and---and what? What exactly do you say in such a circumstance? I can't ask her to accompany me to a cafe, we're already in one! And we've just met, that's way too early for a full meal at a restaurant. And besides, it's not like I'm interested in her at all, let alone in that way. And she may not even want to," Sherlock gushed in a cascading waterfall to no one in particular.
John drained his mug, grimacing because he had accidentally allowed the beverage to cool to a tepid pool of concentrated tea dregs. He placed the now empty china to the side and gave his flatmate a look that could be seen as caring---or at least mildly benign, and stated in a patient tone: "Please. Just ask her for her number, or give her yours. Just do something. It'll be good for you; have someone else to amuse you."
"I don't want her number," Sherlock tried half-heartedly. But he seemed smaller now; unsure.
"Mate, we both know that's not true."
Sherlock stared at the man in front of him for a long time. Maybe John had a point. He'd struggled with friendship in the past, eventually giving up on it altogether (a decision that lead to a lonesome and boring existence). Then he'd met John, which had proven to be worth his time. Maybe people weren't so bad? It would be nice to have another person to socialize with, discuss ideas and thoughts, etcetera. And it's not like having friends had caused him any harm. How many times had John saved his life? Proved invaluable on a case?
Sherlock leaned over to sneak another look at the woman by the window. A weak trickle of January sunlight was seeping through the glass, causing her hair to lighten by a few hues at the edges. It looked soft to touch. Sherlock felt himself wavering. He moved closer to the table to ask John quietly (feeling his face heat with shame) "Even... even if I did... think of her in that way...what do you propose I do about it?"
John looked momentarily surprised, then offered a kind smile. "Just as I said. Go up to her and ask for her number."
"But what do I---oh." Sherlock seemed to wilt all of a sudden with disappointment, and slumped back in his chair.
The woman was packing up her things and putting on her coat to leave.
"Go catch her, quick!" John prompted, standing too and motioning for Sherlock to follow the woman who was nearing the door.
"There's no use now, there was never any use anyway, it's not like--"
Before Sherlock could protest, John had grabbed his arm and pulled him into a standing position almost roughly and was practically dragging him towards the cafe door which had just swung shut behind his flatmate's crush.
"John! Get off! What are you doing?" Sherlock hissed desperately, but that only caused John's pace to double.
"Come on! We're losing her!" He shoved the doors open, ignoring the slam of frostbitten air that greeted his face, and scanned the busy London streets. "Where'd she go?"
"There," the small (yet subtly hopeful) voice of his friend sounded next to him, and they were off again, speed walking after the woman, keeping the back of her coat in sight as they weaved through the mass of commuting bodies. "John!" Sherlock whined pitifully, trying one last time to slow him down, leaning backwards and digging the heels of his dress shoes into the uneven cobble of the street.
It did nothing, however, and soon they were right behind the woman, and Sherlock made a little squeaking noise as John tapped her on the shoulder. "Excuse me?"
The woman turned around in surprise to face the intruder of her quiet afternoon, tilting her head to the side in confusion at the tall curly-haired man in front of her, (who looked like he wanted to run away), and the shorter blonde man who was smiling warmly at her. "May I help you?"
Sherlock felt an unfamiliar warm sensation flood suddenly through his chest like syrup at the sound of the woman's voice. Up close, he could see all the little details of her face, and got a little lost in them, having to drag himself back to reality. It occurred to him that he'd really like to look at those features more. A lot more. As in, have them in his life, as loyal as trees lining the streets, prevalent as cracks in the pavement.
John widened his smile and pushed Sherlock forwards a little, and said: "Sorry for sneaking up on you like this, but my friend here saw you in the cafe just now and was about to ask you for your number." He chuckled fondly, giving Sherlock a nudge so it looked like they were just mates, bros, two ordinary people rather than one ordinary person and another so extraordinary John was worried he'd scare the woman away.
The woman looked pleasantly surprised, and Sherlock felt like he might spontaneously combust with embarrassment.
"John! Please! He elbowed him in the ribs, rather hard, and tried to meet the woman's eyes. "Sorry. We'll go now. Come on John."
"Wait!"
As Sherlock turned to leave, dragging John with him, the woman quickly stopped him.
Sherlock looked down at where she'd caught him, her hand on his arm. He could feel the gentle urgentness of it through his coat. It was nice. Her touching him. "Yes?"
"I thought you wanted my number?"
He wasn't expecting that. His face heated, and he wished it wouldn't; for some reason, he wanted to impress this woman. "If you wouldn't mi--"
"'Course I don't mind. Here." She slipped her hand into her coat and brought out a small slip of paper; a receipt from her local library, and removed a pen from her front pocket. "My name is Y/N, by the way." She scribbled something onto the paper and held it out to the detective.
John had to give him a nudge, prompting him to take the paper. He'd never seen Sherlock so shy before.
Sherlock's cheekbones reddened, John having woken him from a daydream---something about the way the light was reflecting off Y/N's lip balm---and took the paper from her. Their fingers brushed as he did so, her warm skin making his own tingle pleasantly.
John had been watching the whole thing as if it was a satisfying ending to his favourite tv show.
Y/N seemed to be waiting for someone to say something, eventually deciding they probably wouldn't and said: "Okay, well, have a good day. I hope to hear from you...?"
Sherlock had thought she was talking to John, because people usually are. Then he realised she wasn't. "Sherlock. Holmes! Sherlock Holmes," said man spluttered out, earning a chuckle from Y/N.
Usually, someone laughing at him, seeing him make a fool of himself, would send nails of humiliation down Sherlock's spine. But he didn't mind Y/N's giggle. He felt pleased to have made her smile.
"Pleasure to meet you, Sherlock." She gave him a genial smile, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Sherlock just stood still for a bit. What had just happened?
"Told you!" John's triumphant clap on the back awoke him from his stupor. "See? If I hadn't dragged you out here, you never would have gotten her number--"
"But what do I do with it?!"
John yelped as he was pulled violently by the lapels to face the detective, who stared down into his eyes with a terrified expression.
"What do I do now? How do you--"
"Hey, hey, okay. Calm down. Sherlock, please." John stepped out of his grasp, having to sort of prize his friend's fingers from his coat. He brushed himself off and looked at the taller properly for the first time in a few minutes.
Sherlock's face was an unusual pink, as if it had been full of red and then suddenly had most of the blood drained out of it, usually confident eyes now fear-stricken.
"What you're going to do, is wait until later, when she has probably got home, then call her and ask simply if she would like to meet you for a drink or whatever you want to do."
Sherlock still looked unsure, but he had a plan now, or the start of one, and plans always bring him a sense of ease. And he has Y/N's number.
...
Later, the two had walked back to 221B and were sat at the kitchen table drinking tea. There was a plate of biscuits between them and Sherlock had been taking one, consuming it quickly like a nervous mouse, then plucking another while John watched with amusement. He had never seen Sherlock so anxious in all his life; this even trumped the time he had found out about his unexpected fear of spiders when Sherlock had found one in the bath.
John decided to intervene not long after the last biscuit had disappeared, and a fresh packet had been opened. "I take it you haven't texted Y/N yet? What? You scared?"
Sherlock went crimson. "No! I was thinking of something else. A case."
"You don't have a case."
"I could do!"
John rolled his eyes and took another Custard Cream for himself. "Do you want me to text her with you?"
Sherlock snapped: "I'm not a child!" Then wilted. He would really like to see Y/N again. What if she's like him? Even a little bit? He could finally talk to someone about things he cares about, rather than an annoying patient at the surgery or about how one of John's relatives is in hospital again. "...I just don't know what to say."
"Well, I do." John looked thoroughly pleased to know more about something than the detective for once. "See, I am useful for something." He took the seat next to his flatmate and elbowed him lightly.
"I never said you aren't useful." Sherlock creased his eyebrows and even looked a little hurt.
"Oh really? How about last week when---"
"Could we just get on with it, please?" Sherlock interrupted, not wanting to be reminded of how snappy he can be. That was one of his main concerns: that even if he did like Y/N, she wouldn't like him. "Sorry. I'll feel better when it's done. I'm just worried that if I leave it too long she might think I'm uninterested."
"If you want my help, you're going to have to be nicer," John spoke as if Sherlock was a misbehaving child and had to hold in a snort of laughter.
...
It took half an hour, but, eventually, they had formulated a text that met intellectual and somewhat posh Sherlock and socially knowledgeable working-class John's standards, and presently Sherlock's finger hovered above the 'send' button.
"So?" John faced the table again after making a fresh pot of tea.
"So nothing. I'm re-reading it." Sherlock still sat, eyes flicking from side to side as he re-read the message again to check for... something.
John finally leaned over and hit the 'send' button himself, making Sherlock yelp "I wasn't ready!"
"You were taking too long!"
"I was thinking!"
"This is relationships, you don't think!"
"I'm always thinking!"
"Well, you mustn't!"
"That's alright for you to say---"
"Wait, shut up!" John put a quick end to their childish quarrel because he was staring at the screen of Sherlock's mobile, where a text bubble had appeared below their carefully crafted own.
Would be a pleasure. See you at ten-thirty tomorrow. - Y/N
...
Ten thirty, Sunday, came around simultaneously too quickly and too slowly for Sherlock Holmes. He woke early, which surprised himself, and spent the morning showering and picking a shirt to wear, then putting it back and swapping it for something that would appear to be exactly the same to any normal individual, but infinitely different to the man himself.
He debated with himself about whether to go through with this after all, or to just apologise and cancel. What if he makes a fool of himself? What if he was wrong about Y/N and she wasn't his type at all? Or, even worse: what if she was completely his type and he fell in love? How does one go about being in love? Would he know how to? What to do? Would he enjoy the fluttery feeling people describe as their lover walks into the room? Would he like touching, being touched, hands holding his, lips against his own---
Sherlock shook his head to clear it, trying to push the now rather pleasing images out of his mind. He couldn't think about that, wouldn't dare think about that yet. They had only met once and had even then only said a few words.