Ruby 18

Title: Ruby 18

Rating: PG-13

Pairings: John/Sherlock

Warnings: None

Word Count: Part I: 2,260 , Total: 4,218

Summary: A Valentine's Day fiction. Johnlock. John's got a girlfriend. Sherlock has a Valentine's Day gift for John. There's awkwardness and tea. The usual.

PART I

Ruby 18. A seemingly random pairing of word and number. For Sherlock it meant many things.

It was an entry in an evidence log, the crown jewels (so to speak) of Lestrade's headline-making raid of London's most untouchable fence. It was the name of a young Burmese woman Sherlock and John had freed, along with her twenty-nine immigrant sisters (all Rubies), from a government sanctioned brothel in Thailand. And it was the color of blood that had trickling down John Watson's cheek and the distance in seconds from Sherlock to the assailant, too far, too late to prevent the box cutter from leaving its offending trail.

Ruby 18. The color was warm, the number young and impersonal. The combination could be painful, even tragic, but it could be wonderful, too. Indeed, Ruby 18 had shown itself to be complex and surprising; Sherlock's cup of tea, exactly.

"For you."

Sherlock held out his gift, a small wooden box, unadorned.

The day before…

Amita Gupta always looked owlish with her large moist eyes which always seemed a bit unfocused even when wearing her thick, round glasses.

"For you, Mr. Holmes. For saving my boy."

She presented Sherlock with a small box wrapped in iridescent red cellophane dotted with tiny silver hearts and tied up with a gauzy red bow.

"Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. Give this to your sweetheart. It's like the special oolong he buys, but it's not oolong. I guarantee he's tasted nothing like it. I do not exaggerate when I say it's unique."

Mrs. Gupta's tiny specialty tea shop was located two doors down from Sherlock's drycleaners and three doors up from John's favorite bookstore. John's fondness for trying different blends of tea and Sherlock's interest in Mrs. Gupta's expertise on the subject (invaluable when solving British murders) had made them regular customers.

Sherlock had not, in fact, saved her boy. It had been a case of mistaken identity. The boy that Mr. Ellis, Mrs. Gupta's neighbor, had seen knocking about with the local petty thief/drug dealer was not her grandson but another sixteen-year-old Indian immigrant. The boys did not even look that much alike, but Sherlock assured Mrs. Gupta that Mr. Ellis was not a racist, but really a kind and concerned (if vain) gentleman who should be told that tucking away his bifocals to impress the willowy blond cashier at the pharmacy made him look neither younger or hipper in her eyes. It just made him unable to see life's little details, a teenager's facial features, for instance.

However, no matter how many times Sherlock told this story, in Mrs. Gupta's mind, Sherlock was the genius-saint who had saved her boy from the clutches of a gangster. Sherlock had stopped trying to correct her months ago. Mrs. Gupta was no fool, but it suited her fancy to embrace this particular fiction in the same way it suited her to ignore John's "just flatmates" denials and carry on as if it were common knowledge that John and Sherlock were lovers. Sherlock had found that, for Mrs. Amita Gupta, certain matters would forever remain closed and, obviously, well beyond the reach of logic.

"Thank you."

Sherlock took the garish bundle.

"What shall I tell him this is?"

Mrs. Gupta's expression feigned nonchalance, but from the excited way she played with her bracelets, Sherlock could tell that she was dying to enlighten him.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, as you know, tea, at its origin is quite an uncomplicated matter. There are only two varieties of Camellia Sinensis in the world, one from China (C. s. sinensis) and one from Assam, India (C. s. assamica)."

Sherlock found Mrs. Gupta's "start at the beginning" style of answering a question to be exhausting, but the small bits of new information she provided at the end were always worth the wait.

"The magic of tea lies in its cultivation, where it's grown and how it's picked, etc., and then what's done with the leaves afterward, how it's dried and, perhaps, fermented or," she rolled her eyes, "whether bergamot or some such nonsense has been added. At least that used to be the story."

Mrs. Gupta paused dramatically to see whether she had Sherlock's attention. She did.

"There's a new cultivar. A hybrid. Part Sin Shin, part Assam. Forty-eight years in the making. Tea is slow, takes it's time. Seven years, each step. Can you imagine the skill and dedication required for such a task? What am I saying? I forget who I'm talking to."

Mrs. Gupta smiled fondly at the genius-saint who had saved her boy.

"The cultivar." Sherlock nodded toward the package.

"Yes. Ruby 18, he's called."

"He?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Mrs. Gupta was getting fanciful. The rest of her tale would have to be taken with a grain of salt.

"He's been long in the making, but you'll find it was time well spent. On first sip, he's smoky with a bit of malt and a bit of sweet. But give him time. Don't rush. You will think you know everything, his whole story, but there's more. Floral notes. Some citrus. Fragrant but with weight and with depth. He's robust and creamy, silky beneath your tongue. Well worth the wait. Well worth your time. Remember how long it took him to arrive as he is."

Sherlock's eyes were wide now as he realized it was highly likely that this proper, sari-wrapped, elderly shopkeeper was only partially talking about tea. Mrs. Gupta smiled at him, clicked her dentures a couple times, and adjusted her eyeglasses before continuing.

"Never forget, tea is to be inhaled as much as tasted. And don't be surprised. The leaves are black, but the tea, when brewed, is a clear brick red. Some people are put off by the color." She shrugged as if to say, "No accounting for taste."

Sherlock had a sudden urge to leave. He liked Mrs. Gupta, enjoyed their brief encounters as shopkeeper and customer, neighbor and neighbor. But he felt she had crossed a boundary, had become improperly familiar in a way that was making him squirm. Somehow it was better when she had pretended that he and John were already lovers than when she… What was she doing, exactly? Giving Sherlock some sort of vague relationship advice? He knew about metaphors. Sometimes a cigar was not a cigar, etc. But what, exactly, was she trying to say? Something about patience and tasting and taking his time to breathe him in. John. Yes, he decided, she'd definitely been talking about John. The gift was for him, after all. And then there was that pronoun business. Who calls tea he? That, above everything else, somehow made Sherlock very uncomfortable. He had to reestablish their old, more formal report, and quickly.

"Thank you, Mrs. Gupta. I know John will appreciate this." Sherlock reached out to shake her hand. Friendly but formal.

Mrs. Gupta took his hand in both of hers in and clasped them in a gesture that was far from businesslike. Her eyes looked mistier than ever.

"Oh, of that I'm sure. I know my customers. The tea is for him. The story of Ruby 18 is for you."

Sherlock swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat.

"Well, thank you for the story, then."

Mercifully, she let go of his hand, and Sherlock was out the door with his glittery parcel and his pounding heart.

"For you."

Sherlock held out his gift, a small wooden box, unadorned.

John, who'd been busy checking his coat pockets for keys and wallet and phone, looked up in surprise. He was just about to head out on a date with Celia. Celia. The woman was dry toast on legs, a statistical norm personified. The only thing exceptional about Celia was her exceptional lack of imagination. She and John were to have dinner at her favorite restaurant, the one where they'd first met. Celia's idea. So like her; both predictable and grotesquely sentimental. It was the kind of Valentine's Day treacle that made Sherlock's stomach turn.

"What's this?"

John took the box and held it gingerly as if wary of its contents. Sherlock said nothing but watched as John first judged the weight and then ran a curious finger around the lid, pausing in indecision at the small brass latch. Intrigued but suspicious. Sherlock had spoiled quite a few of his dates. Now John thought he was at it again, offering him a Pandora's gift.

"Open it and find out."

John looked from Sherlock to the box and back.

"I don't have time for games, Sherlock."

He pushed the box back into Sherlock's hands. Sherlock accepted it with a shrug.

"Fine. Open it when you get back. I'll be up."

"When I get back?"

John was clearly annoyed by Sherlock's presumption. John had made a habit of staying over at Celia's after their dates, as Sherlock well knew.

"After four hours of observing marine-grade paint drying on barnacles, I'll be glad for the break. You too, I imagine. Give my best to Sylvia." Sherlock pressed out his most supercilious smile.

"It's Celia, Sherlock. Her name is Celia. For god's sake, I've been seeing her for two months. And I'm going to be gone a bit longer than four hours. Valentine's Day, remember?"

John glared at him a moment, but Sherlock saw his gaze soften into something akin to pity as it dawned on John that Valentine's Day was a phenomenon that always had, and always would, pass Sherlock by.

"Oh, Sherlock…" John's voice was soft and low.

And then the pity was gone, thank god, replaced by concern and care, all of it for him. John, clearly at a loss as to what to say, just stood there looking pained. Sherlock usually loved that look, John worrying about him (always unnecessarily) but found himself too annoyed to enjoy it. John was going to leave without opening his present. Celia's fault.

"Ah, the Feast of Saint Valentine. You do realize that the patron saint of this holiday was imprisoned for performing weddings for soldiers who were forbidden to marry?"

John looked horrified; concerned for himself now, Sherlock noted with an inner smirk. John would never admit that the idea of marriage terrified him, but it did. His sudden change in expression so delighted Sherlock that he abandoned the rest of his anti- hearts and flowers tirade.

"Oh John, don't look so worried. Although it's true that 10% of all wedding proposals are made on this day, your dull little companion is far too traditional to pop the question herself. The worst you'll be likely to suffer is greeting card poetry and bad house wine. Although with this one, maybe a stuffed toy as well, one with ridiculously oversized eyes."

"Oh, god I hope not. Oh, god I hope not." John shook his head as he convulsed in giggles. Sherlock joined in with a low chuckle.

Then John's watch alarm went off and everything stopped. The moment was over. John groaned in frustration.

"Damn, looks like I'm going to be late. I'll open your gift when I get back…later."

Sherlock liked the new openness of John's later. How ridiculous. That word could mean anything, but somehow, at that moment, it left him feeling light and giddy. Later would come—only a matter of time.

A reassuring smile, a last feel of his pocket for keys, and John was off. The door closed, and Sherlock was suddenly stone sober—he did not like it.

"In did, in fact, remember," Sherlock called after John's retreating footsteps. His voice echoing off the door sounded jarringly hollow in his ears.

He could hear John pause at the top of the stairs. Sherlock stood still, waited, listening and breathing. If asked, he couldn't have said what he'd been waiting for. Four seconds and five heartbeats passed before he heard John take the stairs and exit to the street. Gone.

"Later is fine. Later is more than fine," Sherlock reminded himself as he strode off to the kitchen, box in hand.

Patience. Not his strong suit, but he could learn. He could wait, find his moment, take his time. Carefully setting the box on the counter, Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed. Slowly in. Slowly out. Better. A minute later he was totally absorbed in painting barnacles.

It was 2:00AM when John returned. Sherlock had long since written up his notes on his experiment and was playing his violin. He'd been having trouble finding a tune that satisfied him and had been skipping about from piece to piece.

"Don't want to talk about it," John called out, hanging up his coat.

He strode into the kitchen and unceremoniously tossed a small doe-eyed teddy bear, all decked out in a red top hat and tails, into the bin before heading gloomily up to his room.

So, no more Celia. Good. Sherlock knew just the concerto to play for the occasion. He smiled against his instrument as John thumped about upstairs, clearly in a mood. Sherlock, on the other hand, was feeling quite contented. After all, tomorrow was the day after Valentine's Day, and the odds of being called in on a case that day were quite favorable, given the high passions running the night before. And if not, the idea of just hanging around the flat with John, reading the paper and drinking tea (Ruby 18 or something else—he was surprised to find that it didn't matter) was not unappealing either. Sherlock slept well that night, at least for a while.