A/N: Hmm, I'm having fun writing this. It's interesting so far. How am I doing with the characters? Reviews are loved, guys. Really.

I don't own Sherlock, not at all.

Normally, if he didn't have a case, Sherlock Holmes would be making his way back to 221B Baker Street as fast as he possibly could, but today he was delaying himself. He was quite sure that Lestrade had sent a text to John and honestly had no need for another argument. No doubt John would agree with the request. A chance to take Sarah to a ball? He scoffed. Of course John would jump at that chance.

Because of this, it was a good hour before he even considered going home. At that time he'd been so bored that he couldn't help flag a taxi down. Home would give him something to do. Surely he couldn't shoot things on a city street, as tempting as it sounded. But he could shoot things at home, quite easily. Then again, there was the chance that John would shoot him. Their rent had nearly doubled the last time he'd gotten bored with the world and decided that shooting the wall was much more fun than sitting.

The ride was swift and quiet, words only spoken when necessary. It wasn't long before he arrived back at the flat and exited the taxi quickly, barely remembering to pay. He couldn't help but to glance at the cabbie, at least for a few seconds, to study him. After the Study in Pink, as John had so affectionally named it, he'd found himself scrutinizing every cabbie he happened to flag down.

Sherlock took the stairs up to the flat two at a time, barely pausing to notice that the door was, for once, closed. Frustrated, he turned the handle with no avail. Considering he had no keys, this left him almost no choice. The man slammed his shoulder on the door, satisfied with the 'crack!' it made as it gave way to him. He stumbled into the room, a small smile on his face.

"Blimey, Sherlock, you could have just knocked!" John greeted him, looking wild-eyed. "I'd thought you were a burglar or something! Just be glad I didn't shoot you."

"Why was the door closed?" Sherlock asked curiously, his gaze flicking back and forth between John and the door. Unfortunately, he realized, their rent was about to go up again, as he'd cracked part of the wood along the side of the door. Oh well. They'd pay for it somehow.

"It's not important." At a glare from Sherlock, John shook his head and tried again. "Sarah was over, alright? She's a bit shaken up from the other times we've been held hostage, Sherlock, and you can't blame her. She feels safer with the door locked."

"Is that the only reason?"

John merely rolled his eyes and chose to move on. "I got a text from Lestrade. Something about a retirement ball for some man in Scotland Yard. Are you really not going to attend?"

"I knew he'd go to you," Sherlock mumbled, more to himself than John. He looked amused at the situation rather than annoyed by it. "Of course I'm not going."

"Oh, but I am," John informed him. "Just have to call Sarah, she'll be coming with me. Come on, Sherlock, you can't say no to this."

"I already have."

"And why's that? You don't dance?" A nod. "Sherlock, you can't turn this down of all things. Besides, what better things do you have to do? It might keep you from getting bored for a while."

"There's a few problems with that. Mostly the fact that I do not dance and refuse to."

"Hmm, so you do admit it might entertain you."

"Not at all, John, not at all."

"Oh, give it up, Sherlock," came a voice from behind them. John spun around, stunned to see the detective inspector, though Sherlock only seemed more amused at his arrival. "You're coming, and that's final. We'll even pay for the clothes."