Live In Love

If Looks Could Kill

Sherlock and John went downstairs and told their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, they would be back soon. "Have fun, dearies!" she shouted from the kitchen. The two men ventured out of the flat and into the night air. Sherlock looked up and down the street, then over at John.

"I think we should walk," Sherlock suggested, then began walking at a brisk pace to the right of the building. John, who wasn't paying much attention, suddenly realized how far ahead Sherlock was. John sprinted to catch up to him and within seconds, they were side by side again. "I would've preferred a cab," John mumbled, knowing fully well his thoughts didn't count anyway. If Sherlock wanted something, he got it, no matter what. The man wore a sheet to Buckingham Palace, for God's sake!

Sherlock stopped on the sidewalk and looked at John. John saw something...odd on Sherlock's face. It was a look he didn't recognize. It slightly resembled...guilt?

"My apologies, John," Sherlock said, looking John dead in the eye. John thought he was going insane, he just heard an actual apology! Sherlock looked just as surprised that those words came out of his mouth. However, he continued, "Since I decided we would walk, you can decide where we eat."

"I've died, haven't I?" John teased. "I am floating around heaven with little wings on my back," he quipped. Sherlock had an irritated expression on his face.

"Very funny, now pick somewhere to go so we don't look like fools standing on the sidewalk."

John thought for a second; he rarely got to choose when he was with Sherlock.

"How about Angelo's?" he suggested.

"Closed for the night," Sherlock stated, still looking into John's eyes intently.

"How about Chinese then?" he proposed, only to be shot down by a glare from the detective.

"Okay, fine, no Chinese...alright, I've decided," he remarked, then turned and began walking again. Sherlock quickly followed.

"What did you decide?" Sherlock pondered.

"I'm not telling you," John replied, shooting a smirk in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock squinched his face and studied John's expression.

"It's a pub, isn't it?" Sherlock sneered.

"Yes, it is, and I don't want to know how you figured it out," John told him, trying not to laugh at the annoyance on the detective's face.

"You know I hate pubs," Sherlock grumbled. "Alcohol, loud noise, people," he whined, his walk slowing to a shuffle. John stopped and looked at Sherlock.

"Then you will just have to stick with me," he joked. Sherlock smiled slightly and after a couple of seconds, he consented.

"Fine, but I won't like it."
---------------------------------------------
The two walked in to the pub and to their surprise, there were only a handful of other patrons. This seemed to put Sherlock a little more at ease. He and John grabbed a table and scoured the menu.

"This food sounds ridiculously greasy," Sherlock remarked, his face twisted in repulsion. John rolled his eyes and put down his menu.

"It is a bar," John said sarcastically. The waitress walked over and looked at the two men.

"What can I do for you tonight," she asked, her eyes dancing over John. John felt his cheeks grow red and he looked at the menu.

"I'll have an ale and a burger, thanks," he said, smiling as he handed the waitress the menu. John glanced over and he was taken aback at face Sherlock was making. If looks could kill, that waitress would have died twice. Sherlock's eyes were boaring holes into her and his face was engulfed in a look of pure distaste. The waitress, seemingly unaware of the daggers being shot in her direction, turned to Sherlock. "What about you?" she asked him in a tone not as friendly as the one she had had with John.

"I'll have a water and some chips. And congratulations, by the way," he said snidely as he handed her his menu. The waitress squinted and stared at Sherlock.

"Congratulations for what?" she asked, confused.

"I do suggest you take a pregnancy test. Then I recommend you tell your boyfriend."

The waitress turned pale.

"...I'll put your order in right away," she says shakily before heading back to the kitchen. John looked at Sherlock in amazement.

"How-"

"When we first walked in, she was making herself a drink, one that she obviously prepared often judging by the complexity and her familiarity with the process. She took a sip of it and dumped it out; apparently it didn't taste right. Then, I noticed her running from the kitchen with her hand over her mouth. More than likely early onset of morning sickness coupled with the smell of meat. Therefore, pregnant."

John stared at Sherlock open mouthed. "That was incredible," he muttered shaking his head.

Sherlock beamed and looked at John. Then, his voice became slightly aggravated.

"Why do you let women fawn over you like that?" he asked, taking John by surprise.

"Does it bother you?" John questioned, and Sherlock looked almost scared.

"No, why would it? Of course it doesn't. I was making sure it didn't bother you," he said, his words jumbling together. It was normal for Sherlock to ramble, but this was a whole different level. It's like he's embarrassed or something, John thought. Is he...jealous? John wondered.

Before he could even ask Sherlock a question, the waitress returned with their food and drinks. Her face was red and their were tear stains on her cheeks. She shakily handed them their ticket before walking away.