Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock are not mine, nor is the story, nor are the characters from the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no monetary profit from this.

Note: Written for this prompt on the Sherlock kink meme on LJ: Sherlock is not asexual, he's awkward around women whenever he's trying to flirt. John tries to help him out.

The (Horrendously Inexact) Science of Flirtation

"I don't understand why it didn't work."

"Of course it didn't work, Sherlock." You would have had to pay very close attention to John Watson to see that he was trying very hard not to laugh, but it was Sherlock Holmes doing the looking, and he brought a whole new dimension to the term 'observant.' He was also fast becoming a remarkable study in 'indignant.'

"But I did everything you told me!"

"Yes, yes, you did, but it was too obvious! You were trying too hard! She was probably scared away because the only people who come on with that sort of glazed look are the poorer quality serial killers who have to make do with secondhand chloroform."

Sherlock shot John a chilly look over his drink. "And you're suddenly an expert o\n serial killers?"

"Well, hanging around you, you know, it's the sort of thing that rubs off on a body after a while. Which" -and John knew he was about to be unkind, but he couldn't resist- "is much more than I can say for your flirting skills. Honestly, Sherlock, I have never met anyone who needed to be taught how to flirt."

"But you told me to remember everything!"

"Only so you wouldn't delete it. I didn't mean for you to go and try everything on a single woman. Every single woman. Even that woman who turned out not to be single." John took a swig of his beer. "I've had enough of this. It's too painful - like, like watching those male black widows get eaten when they try to make baby spiders. I swear that group in the corner's taking odds on you now. Please, let's go home."

"Can't I have one last go?"

"Oh dear God." There was no reason on earth for Sherlock to be so inept at flirting. He had his good looks, spoke with a voice like liquid sex without even trying, and his brilliant mind should have been able to handle something as simple chatting up a girl at a bar. "Jesus and all the saints. Don't you know when you've been beaten?"

Well, the massive intellect actually seemed to be the problem here. Sherlock was trying to take flirting apart as if it was a machine, a scientific process that could be analyzed part by part. And it showed when he talked to women, as though he was reading it off a manual. Step 1 - Pick up drink; Step 2 - Walk nonchalantly - nonchanlant! no strutting! nothing overly suave! - to target; Step 3 - Smile (not too wide, not too eager, no, no too much, tone it down a little, no, too small now, a smile, not a rictus, aha, there we have it!); Step 4 - Open mouth and say something clever (nothing offensive, remember the list of acceptable lines John gave you, yes, try one, and maybe another for good measure); Step 6 - Say something else, a follow-up, also reasonably clever, oh God, no, you're supposed to wait for her to say something too, back up, back up; Step 5 - Wait for her to answer, hope she laughs, please, God, let her laugh; Step 7 - move away fast because she's not looking happy, and she's starting to reach for her purse and there's pepper spray in there, John, John, help!

Women, John was sure, did not like being approached with a checklist in your brain that they could read off of the back of your eyes. And he was prepared to bet that they could smell fear.

"There's no reason why I can't manage it now. I think I've got it."

"No, you haven't."

"You said you'd help." And somehow Sherlock actually managed to look like a kicked puppy. John couldn't say no to that face. For that matter, no woman should have been able to say no to that face, but that was one of the mysteries of Sherlock Holmes for you. It wasn't that he didn't get along with women (except maybe for Sergeant Donovan), it wasn't that he couldn't turn on the charm (witness Molly "Smitten" Hooper), but add any measure of Sherlock actually liking a woman in a non-platonic way and everything went to Hell. John never suspected that this was what the consulting detective had meant when he said that girlfriends weren't his area.

"I didn't know you'd be needing a miracle," he said dryly.

"There must be something we haven't tried."

"Short of drugging their drinks, you mean?"

"John! Focus, please!"

"Look, Sherlock, I know what works for me. And I've tried to teach you. I really have. But you're a completely different person, and what I know doesn't seem to be working for you. At all. It's like that sometimes."

"That's horrible."

"Well, it's not an exact science. You should stop treating it as if it was." John sighed. He'd already been over the whole try-not-to-make-it-look-contrived thing with his flatmate, and nothing had come of it. If anything, Sherlock had tried even harder to appear not to be trying hard, and it had all the effect of a bull trying to hide behind a month-old kitten. "All right, all right. Maybe if you went and got drunk you'd stop being so nervous -"

"Out of the question. I am physically incapable of being drunk."

"I don't know anymore, Sherlock! Look, the one thing you haven't tried yet is being yourself, maybe you should try that for a change!" He hadn't meant it, really. He was just exasperated, and maybe he'd had one beer too many trying to dull the vision of Sherlock trying and failing to hit on everything even remotely female in the bar. He hadn't expected something to shift in Sherlock's expression, for a new, bright, determined look to set up camp on his face.

"Be myself. Right. Women like that. Being myself. I can do that. Thank you, John." And Sherlock set off to try being himself at a rather cute girl at the end of the bar.

They'd had to run afterwards. John was glad they got away before the police arrived. He'd have hated having to explain this one to Lestrade.