Sherlock, Grab the Salt

Dinner Party?

       A few hours had passed, and Sam was more desperate to find the Colt than ever. Not because of Agaroth, or any other danger that could present itself to him, but because he wanted to make sure than when he killed Dean for some peace and quiet, it would actually work. Dean would come back somehow, he rationalized, so what would be the harm? He's thrust out of his thoughts by Dean's complaining. Again.

       "Seriously Sammy, this has to be your worst idea in the history of terrible ideas," Dean whined "We're about to get our asses handed to us, either by a demon or a fuckin' umbrella man if we don't do this job right, and your solution is dinner with the neighbors?" Sam took his head out of his hands and ran them through his hair for what had to be the millionth time in an attempt to calm down.

       "This was not my idea, and stop complaining for the sake of being a pain in the ass. You know there's no getting out of this. And would you please put some nicer clothes on? Dinner is in twenty minutes."

       "I could sell my soul again?" Dean suggested, ignoring Sam's request, and he didn't seem nearly as sarcastic as Sam would've liked.

       "Dean!"

       "Fine." Dean opened his mouth to add something else, but thought better of it before heading to his room to put on a flannel that didn't have burrito stains on it.

~~~~~

       Upstairs in flat 221B, John was about as frustrated as Sam, if not more. He had spent 45 minutes cleaning up the mess from Sherlock's various experiments, and he was just praying to every deity possible that the brothers wouldn't open up the fridge to see the container full of severed fingers. Sherlock, on the other hand, was unbothered.

       "Do dry your hair John, they'll be here in seven minutes and twelve seconds and I would like to make a good impression." The taller man drawled, and John clenched his fists as he fought the urge to inform Sherlock that he had been forced to shower after dealing with a mess he hadn't made, and that Sherlock had never before cared about impressions and was picking a very inconvenient time to start. He took deep breaths as he set the small kitchen table.

       "My hair is fine Sherlock, and please be cordial when they arrive. I actually do want them to feel comfortable, and making deductions about their lives might not have that effect."

       "I am aware that people cannot often handle the truth." Sherlock replied, locking eyes with John and putting more weight behind his words than John thought was necessary.

       "I am quite serious Sherlock. If you notice anything especially interesting you can inform me after they leave." Sherlock looked annoyed but nodded. This did not make John feel better, as Sherlock would probably do whatever he wanted anyway, but he let it drop. If things went horribly wrong, he would just do what he does best and fix it. It was at times like this where John wondered if the constant worrying about Sherlock's actions was worth it all, but the thought barely flickered through his head before he dismissed it. Of course it was worth it. It's Sherlock. The horror John felt when he thought about being apart from the detective barely shocked him anymore. Ever since he had come to terms with the fact that he was decidedly not straight, or at least when it came to Sherlock, his nightmares had shifted from being about Afghanistan to visions of Sherlock coldly walking away from him, bored and done with it all. John figured that he could deal with the dreams as long as he kept his feelings hidden from Sherlock, which had proven to be much easier than expected given the detective's lack of concern for anything romantic.

       "John!" The doctor was torn from his thoughts by Sherlock's forceful voice, and he looked around to see what might have caused the panic. "Do get the door." Sherlock continued when he saw that John had heard, his voice incredibly calm. John gave him an annoyed look and moved to open the door, where Sam stood poised to knock. The tall man started a bit when the door opened and his brother (Dean, John remembered) chuckled.

       "Hi, sorry we're a bit late. Dean apparently forgot how to dress himself." Sam said.

       "Oh, no worries." John replied, "We've only just finished getting ready ourselves, so it isn't a problem. I should have asked, but is steak alright?"

       "Hell yeah, you guys made steak?" Dean said, pushing past Sam to shake John's hand. "I'm Dean, by the way."

       "Nice to meet you Dean. And no, we ordered the food from a restaurant nearby but trust me, it's much better than if I had attempted to make it myself." John said, holding out an arm to welcome the brothers into the flat. "This is my roommate, Sherlock." He continued, gesturing to the detective, who was already sitting at the table. Dean's eyes flashed with recognition when he heard the name and he exchanged a glance with Sam, a moment that did not go unnoticed by Sherlock, who narrowed his eyes.

       "Pleasure to meet you. I hope you are enjoying London?" Sherlock said. He made to move to get out of his seat and greet the brothers, so they just nodded.

       "Yeah it's been nice. We haven't been here long but so far we've liked it." Sam said, moving to take the seat across from Sherlock while Dean sat next to his brother. Sherlock hummed in reply but didn't seem to have anything else to say.

       "Well, let me get the food then!" John said a bit too happily. The three men at the table sat in uncomfortable silence as John moved quickly around the kitchen and placed a few plates on the table. Along with the steak were plates of green beans and mashed potatoes, a very American meal.

       "We've also got wine if you would like some?" The doctor asked the brothers, who were happy for a reason to look away from Sherlock's evaluating stare.

       "They'll have wine." Sherlock cut in before they could answer, "But this one would much prefer a beer." he nodded at Dean. Dean gaped but recovered quickly.

       "Wine is good with me." He said, looking a bit too confrontational when he met Sherlock's gaze, and the detective's eyes narrowed even more.

       Sam and John cleared their throats at the same time, each one hoping that their companion wouldn't cause a scene. It was in this way that dinner continued. Dean was placated by the food, and anything that might have lead to trouble was quickly dispelled by Sam or John's quick topic changes and warning looks. By the time dinner was over, John and Sam had found that they get along incredibly well, and even Sherlock could acknowledge that Sam was less idiotic than most. Dean was another thing entirely, and the consulting detective found his tendency to talk with his mouth full repulsive. Not to mention his grammar! But John found Dean to be likable enough, and he had seen enough in the army to be able to ignore the man's eating habits. He was funny, at least. When the brothers said their goodbyes and John closed the door to the flat, he turned to find Sherlock sitting on the couch with his fingers steepled under his chin.

       "Either you couldn't figure anything out, apart from that beer fiasco, or you actually decided to do what I asked, and I don't know which is more unlikely." John joked to break the silence. He truly was curious about what Sherlock had deduced, and it was never boring to watch the detective's brilliant mind in action.

       "Don't be an idiot John. I do care about what you think." Coming from anyone else this might have been seen as sentiment, but this was Sherlock. John crossed his arms.

       "Well?" he asked, "You must have deduced something then." Sherlock placed his hands in his lap and turned a bit dramatically to look at John.

       "Of course. Would you like to hear?"