Nothing Like Love and Everything Like a Phoenix

Chapter Six

John convinced Sherlock to wait until Friday. Sherlock said he was gonna pick John up himself, he wanted it to be as close to a real date as possible. (John had come around to calling it a date. Somewhere between Sherlock kissing him and John getting ready.)

"I didn't take you for the romantic type." He said, Sherlock's head right by his, staring at nothing, the same as John. Sherlock just shrugged.

By that time Sherlock's eyes were drooping and John didn't know if he should tell him to go home or let him fall asleep right there.

John didn't dress up for the date. He wore a sweater, pants and shoes. Nothing out of the ordinary, besides combing his hair to the side.

His sister used to tell him stories of when she went out with guys. (Years ago, when she still cared enough to talk to John.) She would come into his room on Friday night, right after a date, and tell John everything that was wrong with it. She always looked the same as usual (she never dressed up for a date, always said it was pointless. If the guy didn't like her when she dressed normal then he didn't like her at all.)

John sighed and looked at himself in the mirror. He wondered what Sherlock saw in him. John wasn't exactly special, in fact, he worked hard not to be. He liked staying low, being one of the pack.

He thought of Sherlock, with his tight black-washed jeans and leather jackets. He wasn't one of the pack, never would be. People couldn't handle Sherlock, part of the reason he didn't make friends.

John could barely handle Sherlock. He was in a constant state of fatigue when Sherlock wasn't around, and when he was John's head felt like it was gonna explode. Maybe it was just because he wasn't used to using it.

John turned when he saw a flash of headlights in his window. He smiled to himself and bounced down the stairs, trying not to break his ankle in the process.

He smoothed out his clothes and opened the door with a bit more apprehension in his body than he would've liked. Sherlock was already standing there, white sleeves rolled up past his shoulders and black washed jeans high above his ankles. His hair was pushed down with a flat top hat, but still sneaked under the visor, curling it's way over Sherlock's eyes. All the air left John's lungs.

He smirked at John, "Ready?"

He let his eyes linger for a moment before nodding, "Yeah..."

Sherlock chuckled, "Shocked?" He asked, removing a pack of cigarettes from his rolled up sleeve and tapping one out.

John snorted, "Don't flatter yourself." He forced his feet to step forward, towards the car, and towards hell in the process. Funny, he felt like he'd been here before.

"So, diner, then I thought we could catch a flick at the drive-in." Sherlock said.

John brushed his fingers against the car, which had a cherry red paint job, shiny rims, and fender. It was in perfect condition, perfect style.