Sherlock blinked at his reflection, wrinkled his nose and grunted. "John I really don't think…"

"Sherlock, it looks fine. Stop fussing."

There was a knock at the door and Mrs. Hudson bustled in with a tray of sandwiches.

"Thought I'd drop these by. It's a big day Sherlock, after all."

John gave her a warm look, "Thanks Mrs Hudson, very kind of you".

"That's right dear, not your housekeeper, remember."

John turned to Sherlock who was still grimacing at the mirror, and fiddling with his collar.

"Sher…"

"I'm not hungry"

"Right well…"

"I'm fine stop fussing" he shouted and walked out of the room.

Mrs Hudson raised her eyebrows at John. "He does like to be dramatic doesn't he?"

"You know what he's like about the media, especially when Mycroft is involved. He feels he needs to prove himself." Sighed John.

"He'll be fine, dear. I'll be downstairs if you need me."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson."

John stood up and looked in the mirror as well. He saw an aging army doctor, who was stressed, unemployed, but very happy. He smiled, the corners of his mouth curling and dimples forming in his cheeks, and climbed the stairs.

He knocked lightly on Sherlock's door and pushed it open. Sherlock was stood facing out the window, his hands in his pockets. They were trying a new look on him, the plain purple shirt he favoured had been replaced with a blue and white striped shirt with a larger collar. Sherlock didn't like it, it reminded him of his private school, and that was an experience he didn't need a reminder of.

"The shirt… look you don't have to…"

"I know I don't have to John, I can do anything I wish, but I'm not doing this for me."

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock scoffed, "Mycroft? Why on earth would I do anything for Mycroft. Really John use your brain. Try to see the real world."

"Right, fine."

"John… John, comeback."

John slammed the door behind him, jogging down the stairs.

"Taxi" He scolded, and got into the back seat.

Sherlock closed his eyes. What was it he was feeling? Nerves? Excitement? Surely it couldn't be nerves. He was Sherlock Holmes, he didn't care enough. The taxi beeped from outside. He picked up the object that was laying on the table next to his bed. He ran it through his fingers, taking in it's slightly sweet scent. He took a deep breath, and put the phone down again. Her phone. The Woman. He grabbed his coat, scarf and keys, and ran out the door.