It was just one of those god awful nights. Where the weather did not cease and the rain continued to fall in incomprehensible amounts. For a change, John had been invited to dinner at a former military friend's house who had recently returned from Afghanistan, just as himself a few months ago. And it just had to be the night that the stereotypical English weather had decided to taint John's ever depressive mood into more of a psychopathic depressive emotion which caused him to feel more unhappy than he had ever been before. John didn't like the rain; this was evident, but poor John had chosen the single most horribly weather-blessed country to his known existence. But he was tied to London, and there was no leaving it anytime soon.

John stood near the end of his driveway, holding a crème coloured umbrella. It was being pelted by small raindrops, causing the material to cave in at points. He was fortunate enough to live where taxi's regularly passed through, so he needn't have gone far to search for one, which slightly improved his mood. And John wanted a glass of wine; a cab seemed the proper way to travel this evening.

The cab was soothing; warm and quiet. It didn't take long really; John was at his destination in little more than twenty minutes. He thanked the driver and paid him, before scurrying out into the dismal weather once more.

He hadn't seen Mycroft for about a year, on estimate. The last John saw of him was in a mess hall in Afghanistan where they both shared lunch together; club sandwiches if John recalled correctly. In fact, John hardly knew Mycroft. He was actually now asking himself why he was even standing in the lobby of Mycroft's apartment. Oh well, he thought.

Free food.

"Ah, Watson!" Mycroft extended his skinny fingers to John.

"Long time, no see." John smiled dismally, shaking the offered hand.

Mycroft moved aside to make room for John to pass through. Their coats brushed slightly as John placed his umbrella in the rack beside the door. It was full with other umbrellas and coats, puddles revolving around them.

The apartment was not really an apartment at all. It had high ceilings, with wide walls and royal looking furniture serving as the icing on the cake. Mycroft led John through the house until they reached a candlelit room where many unfamiliar faces sat around the large oak table. John hung his head and fiddled with his coat. He wasn't too good with new people.

"Family, friends," Mycroft began, smiling at his guests.

"This is Mr. John Watson."

"Doctor." John muttered under his breath. Being called Mister made him feel old.

"Welcome, Doctor." A deep voice was heard near the opposite end of the table.

John raised his head and saw a tight curled head of hair and a long, slender face gazing at him.

"Yes, John, this is my brother, Sherlock." Mycroft forcibly smiled.

"It's a pleasure." Sherlock nodded, raising his glass at John.

John smiled uncomfortably.

"John. Take a seat here; we are just about to start dinner."

"Yes, sorry I am late. You know London cabs." John murmured to Mycroft.

"Understandable." He nodded.

John had never had such a finely cooked chicken breast in his life. He usually overcooked it or it would be festering with salmonella. So, all in all, John's mood was actually improving. Good food made a happy man, or a less depressed one. But John could not help but notice that all the while he was pushing forkfuls of food into his mouth, that two blue eyes gazed upon him of which belonged to one Sherlock Holmes. It made John nervous, but he continued eating nonetheless. When the two did make awkward eye contact, John shied away and Sherlock merely smirked. It happened only three or four times, but each time, John felt more at ease than he did the time before and Sherlock seemed to be getting more pleasure from it.

When the dinner was over and the mindless chatter halted, all of the faces John didn't know wandered out of the house. John rose from his seat and followed in order.

"Military, is it?"

John turned to see those blue eyes once again interrogating his own.

"Yes, I know your brother from there." John said turning to look at the elevator buttons, trying not to make eye contact with him once more. The nature of Sherlock's glance was mildly unbearable for John, so the elevator buttons serviced as a distraction.

"He told me you were injured. Shoulder?"

"How do you know it was my shoulder?" John looked quizzically at the buttons, as if he was looking at Holmes. He had never told Mycroft he was shot in the shoulder.

"Your left one slightly drops compared to your right. But nonetheless, your posture is rather immaculate."

"I guess I should thank you." John groaned.

The elevator doors drew open and John stepped out.

"Where do you live, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock blurted, as John peered out of the window, frowning at the rain.

"Excuse me?" John turned to Sherlock.

"Your house? At which number and street do you reside in Doctor Watson?"

"Please, just John."

"At which number and street do you reside in John?"

"Why?"

"I have a car. And you don't have enough money in your pocket to go further than two streets away." Sherlock smiled.

"I have e-" John shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out a few coins. Sighing, he placed them back in.

"I can walk." John eventually said.

"No, I insist."

"Why? You only just met me, Mr Holmes."

"Just Sherlock, please." He grinned. John raised his eyebrow, and reached his hand out for the door.

"Look, I'm not going to stab you in your jugular vein then dump your body in a ditch. No, I'm far too classy for that, John. It would leave an awful mess, and I am not in any mood to cover my tracks. Now, if you would accompany me to my car, I would be much obliged to drive you home." Sherlock said, placing his hand on John's to stop him from opening the door onto the street.

John looked at Sherlock's hand on his own, and looked up at Sherlock.

"You're nothing like Mycroft." John shrugged.

"Thank you." Sherlock said, opening the door for the two to pass through.

The dinner wasn't nearly as comparable to the ensconcing uncomfortable atmosphere of that in car. But John decided to lighten the air.

"So what do you do, Sherlock?"

"I help the police with their investigations."

"Oh. Interesting."

"Yes, I rather enjoy it."

The car was quiet for a few minutes. John gazed out of the window, and watched the rain drops form funny shapes on the pane.

"Hey, wait, I didn't tell you where I lived."

"I know. We're not going to your house."

"Where are we going?"

"Mine."