Working on the Edges

Chapter Four

Sherlock watched John settle into the comfort of the squishy chair and glance over the menu. Sherlock had chosen the restaurant carefully, attracted by the level of seclusion offered by the low lighting and the scattered seating, and he liked how the seating was cozy and intimate. He sensed that John liked such things, old-fashioned armchairs, overstuffed to the point of protest if anyone sat in them that they hadn't been molded to. It was no Angelo's, but that would have to wait until he got John to London.

He thought he had made the right choice here. John looked as if he relaxed a bit, away from the pressure of the Olympic Village. He looked less upset with him, Sherlock thought. Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

The waitress appeared. Sherlock didn't allow her to distract him from his comfortable contemplation of John's face.

John said, "Um, this, I guess," pointing, and then looked expectantly over at Sherlock.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said, and waved his hand negligently.

"Wait, you're not eating?" John said.

"I'm not hungry."

"I'll just have a glass of wine, then," John told the waitress.

"You can eat."

"It's late, Sherlock. I was only eating because I thought you were going to eat."

Sherlock said to the waitress, "Bring us a bottle."

"Of what?" she asked, in heavily accented English.

Sherlock supposed that was a fair question, and also he could not think of anything he cared about less in that moment. "Anything you like."

The waitress moved away with a shrug.

John gave him an amused look. "You know she's going to bring us the most expensive bottle."

"It's fine," Sherlock said, because John was sitting opposite him and smiling at him and everything in the universe was fine.

"Well, at least it will justify us taking up this table. I wish you'd told me you were going to change, you know. I feel like an idiot in this." He glanced at his outfit and wrinkled his nose.

"Oh, I think you look fantastic in your terrible American jumper," said Sherlock. "Very patriotic of you."

"Oh, shut up," John said, good-naturedly. "Just because you Brits were all decked out in prim and proper Burberry."

"It wasn't Burberry," Sherlock said, confused.

"You've just exhausted my knowledge of British fashion," John told him.

"Did you like the Opening Ceremony?" Sherlock asked.

"It was great. Why didn't you stay for it? Does it get boring after your third one?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't go to the Opening Ceremony."

John looked surprised. "What, ever?"

Sherlock shook his head again.

"You didn't even go to your first one?"

"That would be exactly what I'm telling you," Sherlock said, as the waitress arrived with a bottle of champagne. Sherlock didn't even bother to look at the label. John was absolutely right, she'd brought the most expensive thing in the place.

He watched her pour, watched John lift his flute and take a sip and then put it down. "Why not?"

"Why don't I go to the Opening Ceremony?"