Warnings: none. Also available on AO3 for ease of reading.
You’re so pleased when John asks if you want to go and get dinner with him. You know you don’t deserve it—the last thing he should be doing is voluntarily spending more time with you—but he offered it and you accepted it and you’re not the kind of man who quits while he’s ahead. There’s more to talk about, John says. There’s more catching up the two of you need to do. You look him over and realise he wants to make sure you won’t run away now that you’ve solved the case and saved London from its dissenters. He wants you to stay here. With him. You couldn’t be more pleased if you tried.
You know just the place to take him to: a quaint Mexican restaurant on Hampstead Road with unforgettable sopa de tortilla that will warm you right up after an evening of breathing in the foul, dank air of the London Underground. You’re desperate to taste it again. You’re desperate to taste him again, too. You’re desperate to grab him by the waist and dip him down like a dance partner and taste him tasting you on the tip of your tongue.
You shouldn’t think like that. You know you shouldn’t be thinking like that. You look away from him to hail a taxi and tell yourself to stop thinking like that immediately.