"I'm getting married next week!"
Sherlock is busing himself with his microscope, observing a miniature cicada wing. He's thinks it's somehow related to a case, though he isn't sure why yet, so he continues to study its meticulous patterns. He tries to ignore what John has just stated, in order to concentrate better on the task at hand.
John clears his throat, clearly frustrated. He hates when Sherlock ignores him, which is somehow becoming more frequent than his usual bouts of silence.
"Did you hear me, or do I have to be a dead body in order to get you to pay attention to me for once?"
Sherlock scoffs. Whatever John has to say, it's probably not important.
"Sherlock, I said I'm getting married. Next week. Surely you know what that means?"
Again, John is met with silence. He rolls his eyes, picks up today's paper and flicks through the pages, waiting for an answer that will not come. Once considerable time has passed, he gives in.
"Stag night, Sherlock. It's when a groom and his male friends go out to celebrate his upcoming wedding."
The other man groans in disproval from the kitchen, just as Mrs Hudson bustles in.
"Just checking you've got your milk, dears... The Lord knows how forgetful the pair of you can be sometimes, what with running around solving your silly little crimes.."
John smiles at her warmly. "We were just talking about my stag night celebrations."
"Oh!" She exclaims, a delighted beam spreading across her face. "Oh, you'll have a lovely time, I'm sure. Just don't get up to any mischief! I can't have my boys misbehaving!" John struggles not to roll his eyes for the sake of politeness - she winks and taps the side of her nose before exiting more quickly than she had entered.
"You didn't get any biscuits!" Sherlock yells after her, clearly irritated. John has learnt over time that he can irritated by practically anything.
Leaving his microscope, the detective stands and then journeys to his chair, where he will undoubtedly sit and think for a while. John is surprised, however, when he speaks.
"And what sort of-" He pauses to scrunch his nose up in disgust, "Celebrations... do these stag nights include?"
John looks at Sherlock for a moment with a puzzled expression, before hastily continuing the conversation.
"Well, I'm inviting Lestrade and Stamford," Another scoff from Sherlock that John chooses to ignore, "I'm thinking of taking you three around my favourite pubs in London, and there's no way you're getting out of it, Sherlock. What's that face for? I never drag you with me for a drink."
"I can assume, then, that you'll be consuming alcohol?" The brunette questions accusingly, in the sort of condescending manner that reminds John very strongly of Mycroft. "..Yes?" John says pointedly. "Obviously?"
"That's all I need to know then. Thank you John. Let me know on the day what time we're going to leave." Sherlock gets up, and brushes out the room with the grace of an odd sort of swan. John looks bewilderedly after him, the familiar feeling of being totally and utterly dumbfounded returning again. This only ever resurfaced because of Sherlock, and John was aching for the day that he might finally understand this stubborn enigma of a man.
For now, though, all the husband-to-be could do was mumble "Nutter," under his breath, before returning to the reassuring common sense of his newspaper.
/A few days later/
"Sherlock, you ready? We're supposed to be meeting the others in five minutes, and you know what the bloody traffic's like!" John calls up the stairs, before hurriedly checking his watch. He hates being late to anything because of the overwhelming stress it causes him, and Sherlock, apart from anything else, unfortunately adds to that. "Come on!"
Polished dress shoes appear on the stairs and descend slowly. There he is; dressed in an outfit more suited to perhaps a gala than a casual night out. Typical Sherlock, being far more over-the-top than necessary, John thinks. But there is something elegant about his deep blue dress shirt, the creases folding in just the right places - the way his clothes are almost feminine with how carefully they've been picked. Compared to John's jumper and jeans that he has hastily thrown on last-minute, Sherlock looks... almost ethereal.
John doesn't realise he's been staring until Sherlock awkwardly clears his throat. "Ready, then?"
"Yes, uh," John coughs, "Uh, the erm, Taxi, outside. No, is outside-" But Sherlock has already waltzed passed him and let himself in through the waiting black doors of the car.
The former army doctor sighs, gives himself a moment to breathe, and then joins his best friend in the cab.
It's going to be a long evening.