Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

A Holmes Family Reunion (Part 14)

Sherlock seems to lose yet more faith in his choice of eatery once he and Y/N are standing outside outside a stone building little larger than a house.

Pressed into the steeply inclining hill like a raisin into a bun, its facade protrudes a little on the wonk, as though, over time, it is slowly dribbling down the hillside. Despite its age, it radiates an active, lively charm, the porch bright with hanging baskets and lanterns, its name proudly lit with a warm orange glow:

'The Red Fox'

A peeling, fox-shaped wooden sign flaps below it in the low wind, a few spits of rain darkening the mascot's coat to a rusty brown.

Y/N grins at the windows flickering with the inviting warmth of candlelight and hearty laughter bubbling out of the open shutters like steam from a kettle.

In the old fashioned, gentlemanly way he does, Sherlock holds the door open, and Y/N is immediately hugged by the warm smell of malty tap beer and chips.

In keeping with its name, The Red Fox is indeed very red, the burgundy wallpaper and fuzzy shag carpet patterned and homely. A stack of sappy wood burns away in a huge open fireplace, several sodden-looking couples in rambling gear perching on the lip of a Chesterfield, holding out their steaming boots to the flames. At the well-stocked bar, a huddle of large, rugged men in overalls and muddy wellingtons chat merrily, occasionally clanking pint glasses together and roaring with spirited laughter.

Sherlock looks about the quaint, rustic little building and then apologetically to Y/N. "You're sure this is okay?"

"I really like it," Y/N says, meaning it. "It's cosy."

He leads her to the dining area where, amongst framed photos of black and white tractors and vintage nick-nacks nailed to the wall, a quiet selection of couples enjoy candle-lit meals at little round tables.

They take a seat by the window. The curtains are drawn but, over the crackle of the fire, Y/N can hear the rain striking the pane behind the faded fabric, the wind blowing it sideways off the fields.

Sherlock frowns. "I didn't want cosy, I wanted...well...when I'd envisioned our first date I'd planned to take you to Clos Maggiore."

'The Red Fox's' ceiling may be latticed with woodworm-ridden timber beams instead of thousands of cotton cherry blossoms---but their table is adorned with a little bouquet of real-life wildflowers; daisies and yarrow and baby blue forget-me-nots, and they smell sweetly of fresh air and the fields.

Y/N smiles. "I like this better." Then she realises something. Smirking:

"You'd imagined taking me on a date?"

Sherlock flushes, his eyes twinkling with a sly smile. "...I've imagined lots of things."

...

When a waiter takes their drinks order, he leaves a basket of fresh bread and a colourful pot of condiments, and---giving Sherlock a wink---lights the candle between him and Y/N with the flick of his lighter.

Wedged into a green bottle, a blob of wax steadily slides down the curved glass as they chat in their easy, accustomed way, the night growing darker and the rain outside growing steadier.

"So," Y/N begins, her tone light and jesting. "Is this an old haunt?"

"What?"

"You know; did you used to come down here with your mates?"