John Watson slapped his laptop shut with a sudden decisive act. He tilted his head back and sighed as he stretched his neck. Writing his blog had become something he enjoyed despite its side effects resulting in a stiff neck and soreness in that damned leg. He no longer limped, of course. Though that didn't mean he was without the occasional ache and pain. Sherlock had been plucking away at his violin all this time, yet it only now drew John's attention.

Watson thought Sherlock had been taking this particular lull in criminal activity rather well. Despite having to wrestle his handgun away from Sherlock to spare the wall, John was glad to not be dealing with his usually frenetic energies.

"Sherlock. . ." John spoke.

The reply was a barely noticeable hum.

"We haven't eaten today, have we?"

"Boring."

At this John's brows furrowed in unspoken confusion, "What is? Eating's boring?"

"Of course." The pain of boredom in Sherlock's voice amused his friend.

John simply smirked. He stood, heading straight for the refrigerator. "Well we still have to eat; boring or otherwise. Mrs Hudson shouldn't always have to remind us." Then he opened the fridge. A moment after the initial shock John thought that he should be used to this by now. There, inside the fridge, was a pair of feet severed at the ankle and sitting on a platter beside the milk. Watson had nearly managed to stifle the outcry this time, but he pressed his lips together a moment longer.

"Sherlock, why. . . No," He interrupted himself. "No, I don't care. I don't want to know." He shut the refrigerator door.

His military strides carried John back to the sitting room. He stopped to watch Sherlock a moment without moving. Seemingly unnerved by this

Sherlock looked up from his violin as if realising he's missed something. "What?"

John decided for himself, and then informed his flat mate, "We're going out. To eat."

Sherlock replaced his violin in its case and stated, "Won't people talk?" Sherlock smirked.

John tilted his head to side as he rolled his eyes. "Well we have to eat."

"Mrs Hudson. . ."

"No Sherlock," Watson interrupted. "It's. . . We're not her responsibility. So what do you want? Pizza?"

John had made the final suggestion with a private smile, saying as a joke for himself, since the entire concept seemed uncharacteristic of their friendship. For John, just thinking of Sherlock in the setting most associated with socially adept university students was enough to make him laugh. Then came Sherlock's reply. He stood abruptly and regarded John with his ever-analyzing expression.

"Pizza," he stated, as if for the first time. "Pizza would be interesting actually. I've never had pizza before."

Again, John found himself flabbergasted. "What," he blurted. "You've not had pizza, ever?"

John watched with furrowed brow as Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and ignored his friend's amazed reaction. He answered in the negative to confirm John's question, all the while peering out of their second story window. Another nearly inaudible response followed, which sounded to John as if he had seen something interesting out on the street. John disregarded the latter, still focused on this newly discovered gap in Sherlock's experience.

"You do realise, Sherlock, that everyone, and I mean everyone has eaten pizza at some point in their life."

"Clearly not, John. And don't generalise. Given the massive diversity of even Britain alone. . ."

"Okay, let me stop you there, Sherlock," John interrupted, getting his coat and heading toward the door. "I don't care. I don't. I do care that I'm hungry and I've talked, at least myself, into having pizza tonight. Are you coming?"

Sherlock smiled in the way the touched only the corner of his eyes and only slightly at his mouth. "Yes. Of course. Lead the way, John."

It seemed to Watson that there was an odd manner in the way Sherlock followed behind. Then again, it was Sherlock. However, John was made to understand the subtext of that strange interaction the moment he stepped outside of 221B onto Baker Street.

Sherlock had said just what he needed in exactly the way he needed to produce that question in John's mind. The quiet "Why" that made Watson lower his usual military guard and look back toward Sherlock just as he exited the flat. As intended, John's eyes were still on Sherlock when the attack came.