"This is getting out of hand," John grits whilst brandishing the front page of the paper around the sitting room. 'The Consulting Detective & His Pining Blogger?' Sherlock!"

"Not exactly the catchiest headline, in my opinion," Sherlock deadpans.

John grunts in annoyance, then laughs sarcastically. "You've got to do something about this. It's ruining any chance I've got left of picking up women!"

"Oh, don't worry, John – your jumpers do that for you already anyway."

John's jaw tenses and his nostrils flare in pent-up irritation. "I'm serious, Sherlock. Just do one interview, for god's sake. Set the record straight, yeah?"

Sherlock sighs, ignoring the pun for the sake of John's temper. "If it troubles you so much, John, I'll do a bloody interview. But I choose with whom I speak. Understood?"

John considers the proposition for a moment. "I'm amenable to that."

"Ah, John – now you're speaking my language."

"You'd better not be having me on, Greyson."

"I'm not – I swear I'm not. I'm about as surprised as you are, actually," your superior replies.

"But... but why me?" You're just an insignificant little side-column journalist. At the Times, you report on new scientific and technological developments, sometimes including forensics and pathology.

"Not sure. He asked for you directly. He didn't want anything to do with the entertainment journalists." Of course you know who Sherlock Holmes is – you just never would've expected that he'd know who you were, too. "He said he's decided to do one interview, after we've been hounding him for years." He pauses. "If you do this right, love, you could be looking at a much bigger column for yourself in the near future."

You steel yourself, taking a deep breath, trying to maintain some sort of professional composure. "Right, okay, erm – has he, you know, made any arrangements with you yet?"

"Yes – it'll be Friday, early afternoon, on neutral ground. We agreed on a little hole-in-the-wall café that should work quite nicely."

"Will Dr Watson be there?"

"No, you and Holmes will be alone."

"Did he mention the nature of his agreeing to this interview?"

"Nope. Just said he was looking to discuss recent cases, and would be, quote, 'amenable to answering questions of a more personal nature.' God, that's mouthwatering."

You share a comfortable laugh. "I swear, if you're just taking the piss..."

"Come on – like anyone here is creative enough to come up with a trick as elaborate as this one."

You laugh. "Yeah, you're certainly not wrong on that one."

"Just do your best, love," says Greyson, a sincere smile on his stress-worn face. "You'll do so well." On his way out the room, he pauses to add, "Oh, and you should slip him your number. The worst he can do is say no, eh?"

You're always at least ten minutes early. You buy two coffees and sit in the corner booth, far from the few other patrons inside. This is perfect.

It would be impossible to miss the grand entrance of one Sherlock Holmes. He sweeps inside the door wearing his iconic Belstaff, scanning the faces of the other people before landing on yours. His face shifts quickly from cold to soft. Must be an act. You can't help but smile wide like an idiot. You rise from your seat as he approaches, saying, "Mr Holmes, it's an honour."

He nods. "Yes, I'm sure," he says rather arrogantly, then holds out his hand to shake. "Introductions are unnecessary, I presume?"

You take his hand and shake it, replying, "Pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes. Please, have a seat."

He divests himself of his coat, scarf, and gloves, and you motion to the coffee on his side of the table. He stirs in his preferred two sugar packets before finally directing his attention back to you. You're digging through your briefcase, pulling out the necessary items: notepad, check, pen, check, dictaphone, check. "Let's get started, then, shall we?" You press record.

He laughs into his cup of coffee. "I'm sorry, but… really? Handwritten notes and a dictaphone? That's a bit, err, traditional. Shouldn't you have a laptop?"

You shrug. "I do have one – I just don't like taking notes that way. I try to be present during interviews. Technology makes me feel disconnected." There's a pause. "Which is a bit backwards, I suppose, given my column's usual subject matter." You mentally shake yourself. Back to the matter at hand. "So, Mr Holmes – to what do I owe the pleasure? Why decide now to agree to an interview for the first time in your career?"

"I figured it was about time I did."

"Right. Well, I'm certainly glad you did. I've followed your detective work for years now – the way you analyse and piece together evidence is remarkable, astonishing. I know there's no use in asking how you do it, but surely there's something for others to take away from your 'Science of Deduction.'"

"I don't even think about it anymore, really – it just happens. I look at people as if each one of them is a walking crime scene – with evidence and a mystery to solve."

You smile to yourself. "Again, I'll reiterate: remarkable."

"Not necessarily. I've found that most don't enjoy my scrutiny when it's directed toward them – it's not always a great conversation piece."

"So you do it to everyone you see?"

"Yes, but most of the information is deemed irrelevant and is quickly deleted. Need room on my hard drive for more important things." He pauses, holding his breath, until he hesitantly asks, "Would you like me to demonstrate? On you, perhaps?"

"Oh, sure, if you'd like – I mean, I don't want to jumble up your hard drive if I'm too, you know, 'irrelevant.'"

He chuckles. "I think I can make some room." He stops, his face growing cold and blank, his eyes scanning back and forth as if he were reading words on a page. The transformation is incredible. "Let's start with your clothing, shall we? Your dress – it speaks less of 'work attire' and more of 'Sunday mass' or 'job interview,' but not overly so. You were worried about seeming too unprofessional. The dress is brand new, inexpensive, bought for today's interview from a casual wear store. How do I know that? One of the hanger loops is just barely visible beneath your neckline, meaning that you haven't worn it in enough to snip those loops off yet. The dress should stay on a hanger just fine, so you wouldn't bother keeping them for their use anyway. You probably forgot to cut them before you put the dress on this morning. Your jacket – it was expensive, but it's quite old. Likely belonged to a relative, possibly your father. The rest of your outfit is rather expensive – your glasses, briefcase, shoes – they're part of your everyday wardrobe, worth investing money into. Understandable. You're a fan of comfort – why else would you wear such an oversized tweed jacket? So you're not used to dressing up for work – most of your interviews, though scarce in number, are conducted via telephone, webcam, or email. I know this because I read your column. Maybe that counts as cheating.

"Moving on. I can smell your coffee – it's black. The coffee rings on the other papers in your notepad are a lighter shade of brown, meaning that you usually take your coffee with milk, or you only drink tea. So I can conclude that, as black coffee is associated with stress, you're more nervous about this interview than you're letting on. Though you'd like to think that you're radiating confidence, your hands shake when you're not paying attention. I'm flattered. A good percent of your notes are scribbled out, written in pen. You're a perfectionist. You refuse to write in pencil, however – because journalism is ink, not lead. Silly reason, in my opinion – but you're a traditionalist and I get that.

"You have a long-haired ginger cat at home that you're allergic to, causing the redness in your eyelids and the dry skin on the sides of your nose. There are just a few ginger hairs on your socks and your scarf, which most pet owners are used to and therefore don't notice. The cat was thrown into your lap when a friend couldn't keep it anymore, likely because they were moving somewhere that wouldn't allow pets. I know that because you wouldn't intentionally adopt a cat with your allergies, which means that you were likely pressured into taking it in.

"You're very dedicated to this interview – as a columnist, you're not unfamiliar with technology. Plus, you have the newest model iPhone. You've no other reason to take notes the way you are unless you're trying to do this 'properly,' likely advice from a superior." He frowns, biting his lip in concentration. "I'll leave it there, before I start delving into your obvious parental abandonment issues. That's usually when someone decides to slap me." You're beyond giddy – you have butterflies. You grin. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Did I get it right?"

"Of course you did. That was brilliant!"

"All of it? There's always something..."

"The jacket was my grandfather's. He was a very tall, slim man, and he paid a lot to have this tailored for him. He gave it to me when he got fat – didn't want such a thing to go to waste." You take a sip of your coffee, hiding your mouth behind the brim to conceal your nerves.

"Oh, stop being stupid and add some bloody milk to your coffee. You look like you're being made to drink hard liquor."

You laugh, conceding – that really was a ridiculous idea in the first place. "Hey – I happen to enjoy hard liquor."

"Is that so?"

"I can prove it to you, and by the time I'm pissed, you can talk some more about my supposed 'parental abandonment issues.'"

Oh my god, am I... flirting? With Sherlock Holmes?

He chuckles, "Sounds like an enjoyable evening."

You clear your throat, course-correcting your digression. "Right, so, let's talk some more about your recent cases, and the skills you use to –"

"Wait, hang on – aren't you supposed to ask me some inane dribble about my personal life, hoping I make some sort of huge admission? I wasn't expecting this interview to be of much actual substance."

You pause, looking up from your notes and considering this for a moment. You fold your hands on the table. "Then why, pray tell, would you want to be interviewed by me?"

He sighs. "I... I must confess something. Off the record."

You grin. "Not a chance."

He shrugs before continuing. "I promised John that I'd agree to one interview, just to set the record straight about where he and I stand as far as 'relationships' go. It's absolutely platonic. And John is tired of people thinking that we're, you know, together – because apparently it's a great hindrance to his attempts at a sex life." You laugh openly, and Sherlock soon joins in. "Make that the headline: Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson: Consulting Detective and London's Most Eligible Bachelor, Respectively."

"That's a bit lengthy. I'll need something a bit more succinct," you say sarcastically.

"Okay, how about this: Surprise: They're Not Gay."

You both giggle, struggling to breathe. "Oh god, now that's bloody perfect."

"Well, I think I have enough to go on here. It's been an absolute pleasure, Mr Holmes."

When you hold your hand out for him to shake, he takes it, but instead scrawls his phone number on the back of it in pen. "Don't hesitate to text me if you have any other questions. For the article, I mean." You smirk at him, pulling your hand back as he finishes writing. Doesn't he have business cards for that sort of thing? "Or if you ever want to go for that drink."

You bite your lip. "I certainly will. For the article, of course," you add jokingly.

"Or, you know – for other reasons." You're slightly taken aback by his forwardness, which he picks up on. "You're clever. And contrary to what my ego may suggest, I get bored being the only clever one around sometimes." He winks at you and gathers his things, waiting for you to leave the café.

Once on the pavement, the two of you have to go in separate directions. "Goodbye, Mr Holmes," you call, and he smiles back.

"I look forward to hearing from you."

You decide to wait until after the article is published before reaching out to Sherlock. It comes out on a Friday morning, and that evening, you chance a text: "So, how about that drink, Mr Holmes? I'd love to hear your thoughts on the article." You don't bother signing your name.

His reply comes fifteen minutes later. "We could meet at the pub next door to the café. Ed & Bernie's. Tomorrow, say, 8:00? –SH"

You grin to yourself and type out your reply, waiting an extra fifteen minutes to hit send because you want to seem aloof. "I'll be there."

A/N: Is is glaringly obvious that I'm American? This will probably have at least two chapters; I have it all mostly written, but whether I post it or not depends on the response I get. Any feedback is greatly appreciated!