John sat silently, looking across the table at his companion. Sherlock was glancing about the restaurant with his usual, razor-eyed gaze, taking in everything. He appeared to find nothing of interest and returned his attention to the former soldier. He allowed an evanescent smile to flit across his pale face.

"Well?" he asked. "What do you think?"

John blinked, and peered around. "Of the restaurant?" He shrugged. "It's fine, I guess. This was the only place you could find?"

"Oh, no," Sherlock replied, shaking his head. "It's one of the few good restaurants open twenty-four hours a day, and the closest from where we were."

John nodded, not saying anything. In those first few minutes, he would've been glad to be as far away from the scene as possible. The only thing that had changed his opinion was the almost incessant pain in his leg, preventing him from walking any further. But, as much as he wanted to call a cab, he wasn't sure if he could stand the humiliation. So they'd gone to the small, quaint Chinese restaurant nearby. And John had to thank Sherlock for that.

Sherlock must've seen the pain in his eyes, and leaned forward. "John, the man you shot was a cold-blooded serial killer," he said, his tone as close to sympathetic and reassuring as he could get. "He was trying to kill me, and, frankly, he was somewhat annoying too."

At those last words, John had to chuckle slightly. He looked at Sherlock with amusement. "Somewhat annoying? Really?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Yeah."

Just as John was about to ask, "How so?" a waiter appeared, looking down at them. He smiled politely, with just a bit too much teeth.

"Good evening," he said, an Oriental accent cushioning his words. "What would you two like tonight?"

They glanced over their menus. John couldn't see anything that appealed particularly to him, but Sherlock seemed to know right away what to order.

"Two fried rice plates, please," he said, looking up. "And don't forget the fortune cookies." The waiter nodded, making a note on his pad, and bustled back towards the kitchen. Sherlock smiled at John again. "The fried rice they make here is excellent."

John shook his head. He was getting the feeling that he would never adapt to his roommate's eccentricities. "But why the fortune cookies?" Something Sherlock had said on the way here struck him. "Can you really predict the sayings inside?"

Sherlock leaned back against the wall. "Usually," he said. "I find it an interesting brain exercise. They only have so many fortunes that they print, and I find that certain sizes of the cookies…" He shook his head. "No, I'm probably boring you. You want to hear about the serial killer."

"By all means," replied John. "Go ahead."

His sharp grey eyes fell on John, and another smile spread across his face. This one stayed longer, and it had the strange effect of giving his expression a warmth that John had never seen before. "God, you are really different, aren't you? Most people are never interested in my methods, and if they are, they typically are driven by irritation, or something like it. They're never quite as eager as you." He lapsed into silence, still watching John. The soldier shifted uncomfortably.

"Well?" John prompted. "How did you find out the killer was a cabbie?"

"Ah, of course," Sherlock said, starting up. "Well, you remember what I said—something along the lines of what sort of complete stranger would you trust? Not long after Mrs. Hudson came up with the cabbie, I realized it. That was how he collected his victims—by picking them up in a cab."

John shook his head, and muttered, "Amazing." He looked up. "How did he force them to take the poison?"

Sherlock grinned—not the warm smile, but a mocking smirk that showed every scrap of his utter contempt. "Pills. Two pills—you saw me with one in my hand, didn't you? Well, one was poisoned. The other was not. He put them both out on the table and told the victims the rules." He snorted. "'Rules'—he talked about it like it was a game, a real chess match. It was all chance, all luck. I'm amazed he lasted that long. They didn't even have to choose—the gun he pulled was fake.

"I think, when I picked my pill up, that I had chosen the right one. It wasn't easy, but, like all serial killers eventually do, he made a mistake." John was enthralled.

"How did you get it?"

"His eyes." Sherlock pointed to one of his own. "He kept glancing around in a particular pattern. He didn't do it constantly—I'm sure it was unconscious, in fact—but he did it enough for me to pick up on what he was looking at. First he would look at one of the pills, and then to me. When he looked between me and that pill, he appeared tense, almost worried. Obviously, that was the pill he didn't want me to choose. Therefore, that was the safe pill, the one without poison." He sighed. "I hope I was right, though—I never got the chance to ask him."

"Amazing," John said, aloud this time. Sherlock looked sharply at him. He seemed about to say something, but for some reason kept his mouth shut. John cleared his throat, trying to alleviate the awkwardness that ran like an electric current through the air. "Well, what else? Did he tell you his motive?"

It was at that moment that the waiter reappeared, carrying two plates. John looked up and thanked him politely. Sherlock was silent, tapping his fingers on the table.

As they ate, the consulting detective continued talking of the denouement. "You see, he had a sponsor."

John blinked in disbelief. "A sponsor? Who would sponsor a serial killer?"

"Someone named Moriarty." At John's bemused stare, Sherlock explained. "I prized the information out of him in his dying moments."

"How?"

Sherlock's foot tapped on the ground. His eyes gleamed, and he smirked contemptuously again.

John realized.

"Ah," he said, and stared at his plate for a few minutes. He couldn't restrain his curiosity, though, and finally asked, "But why was he being sponsored?"

Sherlock rifled in his jacket pocket for a moment, and pulled out a photograph. "This."

The photo was of two children—boys, barely past being toddlers. The edge of the photo was torn, and all that was left of that part of the picture was perhaps a third of a woman's face. John looked up.

"Children," he said, in sudden epiphany. "He had children."

"The autopsy will show that he was dying of a brain aneurysm," said Sherlock. "He wanted to leave something for them, something that would've allowed them to get ahead in life, to grow beyond their father's simple workings. Money was put into a fund for them for every person he killed."

John nodded. "Money—from Moriarty."

Sherlock smiled. "Exactly."

A few more minutes were spent in silence, eating.

"You were right," John said. "This is delicious."

"It's my business to be right; of course it is."

John stared at him. Sherlock smiled again. Warmly.

Not long after, they sat in comfortable silence. The plates before them were empty except for the crumpled chevrons of the fortune cookies. John sat up. His stomach was full, the pain in his leg was fading, and he was content. "So, you really can predict the fortune cookies?"

Sherlock smiled. "Do you want me to try?" John nodded, and he picked up the one on his plate. He examined it for a few moments, then said, "Probably one of the older proverbs, likely a quote—ah! Got it! The classic 'A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step', from one of those old Chinese philosophers." He snapped the cookie open and pulled out the scrap of paper. A broad grin of almost childish satisfaction spread across his face, and he brandished the slip before John's eyes.

"'A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step –Lao Tzu.'" John shook his head, laughing in his astonishment and admiration. "Sherlock, you're brilliant, do you know that?"

Sherlock looked at John in exasperation. "Of course I know I'm a genius; why do you think I do this?"

John grinned helplessly. "Right. Yeah. Sorry. What about my cookie?"

Sherlock picked it up, peering at it closely. "Hmm. This one's a bit harder. But—well—I can narrow it down to two choices—'Your path will be troubled, but pull through', or 'One who admires you greatly is hidden right before your eyes'."

John took it back, looking at it carefully. He could see nothing that could possibly hint at the contents. With a sigh, he pulled it apart, picking up the fortune inside. "Sherlock, how—never mind." He shook his head again, marveling.

Written in tiny red print was "One who admires you greatly is hidden right before your eyes."

Sherlock leaned forward, curiosity sparkling in his eyes. "What does it say? I'm right, right?"

John handed it to him. Sherlock's eyes flickered across it in seconds, and he put it down in silence.

His sudden attitude of contemplativeness was catching, and John looked back and forth between him and the fortune. A thought came into his head, but it was ridiculous—knowing Sherlock. He chuckled slightly to himself—but he found he had to ask it anyways.

"Sherlock—you don't actually put much stock into these fortunes, do you?" asked John, incredulously.

Sherlock looked at him. There was no emotion in his grey eyes. "No—it's all chance, you see," he said. He fell silent again, and glanced out the window, in the direction of the crime scene they had just left. "All luck." But he looked back, and said, quietly—"But I have found that chance sometimes is remarkably…close…to design."

John nodded. "All chance."

"Yes."

John's silence prompted Sherlock to look back at him. The soldier was looking at the table, his lips puckered in thought. His brow was wrinkled, too, and his eyes…his eyes seemed sad. Sherlock frowned. Why would John be depressed?

He looked at the abandoned fortune on the table. Sherlock realized.

"John."

John glanced up. Sherlock was looking at him. If he hadn't known his roommate better, he would've said he was even looking fondly at him.

Sherlock smiled at John, and it was a smile that looked almost unnatural on his pale face. It was a warm smile, a smile that said almost everything. John could've sworn before, too, that the emotions it showed were emotions Sherlock was incapable of—emotions like reassurance. Fondness.

Love.

There are moments in people's lives when they realize that they have a connection. John knew in his heart that this was one of those moments, and he smiled back, answering everything that Sherlock was trying to say.

It's okay. I love you.

I know.

Look! It's my very first non-Hetalia fanfic I've posted here!

The summary is taken from a random person on tumblr. I'm sorry, but I don't recall your name, so please don't kill me for quoting you- I just thought it was a good description.

Please review. I hope you think it's as adorable as I did when I was writing it. ^_^