The potential client sitting in the front room of their flat was a non-starter. Sherlock was certain of this; any novice detective would have been able to adeptly handle the case he was relating. As was standard for such a situation, John was listening attentively, asking questions as he felt were needed, and jotting down notes. Sherlock's scowl was growing as the boredom took on staggering proportions. He could tell John was interested in this case however, and Sherlock would shortly have to deliver the news to both men that it simply would not be worth the oxygen he'd consume to take even a single step towards investigation.

He was preparing to tell them just so, when his phone alerted him to a text. Thank god, he thought, something, anything, to alleviate the sound of the man in the client chair droning on. He frankly didn't even care who it might be from, so long as it allowed him to leave the room on pretext of it being something crucial.

When he rose from his seat, John passed him a curious and somewhat irritated look; Sherlock responded by holding up his phone and mouthing "it's important". Not bothering to wish a good day and good luck to the unfortunate begging their services, Sherlock moved into the kitchen, opening the message

"Your wildflowers were perfectly lovely; your words even more so. Thank you, Kind Sir. —Tessa"

Sherlock was duly impressed. As he'd surmised, the lady was resourceful enough to have obtained a number to text him without contacting John Watson. His friend certainly would have mentioned it if she had. Conclusion—she'd likely checked Sherlock's website for his mobile number. Bright and resourceful, and surely worth a second meeting. But only in the interest of studying the idiosyncrasies of her gender, specifically in relation to her line of work. He'd already discovered she didn't fit his preconceived notions of "actress" and he was curious as to how far those discrepancies extended. Just curious and nothing more.

John was now calling to him, the inevitable question as to whether they would take the client on. Sherlock waved it off without a backward glance, reading her text through again as he walked into his bedroom.

John was left—as was often the case-to make apologies to the hapless man. Or has he had done a time or two in the past (and might certainly do again) take the case himself. It didn't matter to Sherlock, for there was something far less boring in the offing.

And so it was, the very next evening that Sherlock found himself following up a lead in the same neighborhood where the off-West End production of Twelfth Night was being performed.

His business conveniently concluded, and coinciding with what he remembered to be the curtain call of the show, he decided that such a second meeting might be in order. He fired off a text.

"A minor case has me a couple blocks from the theatre at the moment. Perhaps you would care to join me for a late supper? Sherlock Holmes"

It was several minutes before his phone buzzed, letting him know he'd received a response, "Your timing couldn't be better. Would enjoy that very much."

So far, so well, he thought. A longer conversation over dinner with Tessa might serve to satisfy his questions of perception versus reality. So long as she didn't see it as anything more than dinner, of course, for that certainly was not his intent. Sherlock considered how long a walk it would be to the theatre, and approximated how much time she might require to conclude whatever business she needed with costume and makeup (he had not failed to notice that when she joined them for drinks that evening past, she was no longer wearing heavy stage makeup, but something lighter, fresher and, incidentally, quite becoming). He quickly typed out another text, "The stage door then in say, 20 minutes?"

Her response came much faster this time, "Perfect. Will see you there."

Sherlock tucked his phone into the breast pocket of his overcoat, and set off in the direction of the Theatre Royal, with a definite spring in his step that he would never dream of owning up to.

Tessa sat staring at the phone in her hand, blinking as her surprise grew to outright delight. She had gambled the day before by sending Sherlock a text to thank him for the flowers—and had been sadly disappointed when he had not sent a response. Every time her phone had gone off that day, she'd hoped it might be him; and as the hours progressed, she began to berate herself for foolishly thinking there had been any spark of interest on his part. By the time she reached the theatre for her call, Tessa had turned the damn thing off so she could focus on the job ahead, doing her best to squelch the growing irritability she felt over misreading the situation, regretting getting her hopes up.

When Jenna suggested catching a late picture after their performance, Tessa begged off, explaining that she didn't feel herself and just wanted the day to be over. She told her friends she just needed to burrow under the covers and sleep ten hours straight at least. Neither Jenna nor Sylvie guessed it was disappointment that had put her so out of sorts, wishing her sweet dreams as they parted company. Tessa rather hoped for no dreams at all, just the obliviousness of slumber.

But all that had changed tonight, with his text; an invitation to dinner, no less! Knowing she had plenty of time until she would meet him, Tessa aimed to pace herself through her after-show rituals, but her mind wandered as she tried to imagine how the evening might proceed. She had dated very little since losing Hal; that was natural of course, but even as she shed her mourning, Tessa remained disinterested in male companionship, let alone the possibility of romance. She'd immersed herself in work instead, whenever she could, finding fulfillment enough that she only felt lonely in the wee, quiet hours of the night. But something about this particular man had reminded her there was a whole other side of her prime she was missing out on—and she was suddenly eager to make up for lost time.

Tessa made a final check of her blush and lipstick, striving to look casually put together, as though she hadn't given it a second thought. Glancing in the mirror, she couldn't help but notice the excited gleam of her eyes. It gave her pause; she looked far too eager than she'd want to let on to the gentleman in question. "Really, Tessa," she muttered to herself, "It's only dinner after all. Get a grip!" She closed her eyes, taking a couple of long, calming breaths, shaking her head as she shook off the silliness of overly high expectations. Opening her eyes, Tessa nodded a firm affirmation in the mirror, and picked up her coat and handbag and headed for the stage door.

Sherlock stood in the shadows beside the stage door, watching various cast and crew members leaving individually or in small groups, casually deducing the occasional ones he thought stood out from the others. He spotted Tessa as soon as she stepped out of the door; she was glancing around, looking to see where he was. He stepped towards her, as she was turned away, clearing his throat softly, "Ms. DeMauro?" She turned to him, looking a little surprised he had come out of the dark, but smiling nonetheless, "Mr. Holmes, please don't be so formal, it's Tessa."

"Of course," he replied with a nod, "and that makes me…" She finished it for him, "Sherlock." Her expression looked mildly amused, putting him at ease. "Shall we then?" he said, turning to walk out of the little alleyway. Tessa was puzzled by his abrupt move, but stepped quickly to walk by his side. His strides were far longer than hers, and despite the fact she was wearing flats, it wasn't long until he had pulled in front of her by about a dozen steps.

"Hold on," she said, slightly out of breath, "are we running against the clock to get to the restaurant? Because I'm not up to this pace." Sherlock stopped in his tracks, turning back to face her as she caught up to him. Despite the strangeness of his behavior, Tessa was doing her best to remain good-humored. "So, just where are we going anyway?" she asked, "Because now I've worked up a good appetite."

Sherlock smiled, but she couldn't help but notice there was a false note to it. Okay, she thought, we seem to be getting on the wrong track here, take a moment and get things under control. "How about this," Tessa posed, slipping her hand onto his arm, "just so I don't fall behind." He looked down at her hand, seemingly taken aback, considering it a few moments. His answer came out haltingly, "Um…yes…that should…be fine." His brow remained knit, as though he was processing new information that didn't seem to fit with the already known. Tessa found the effect endearing.

"It's a few streets over," he told her, "we could take a taxi if that would be easier." He looked at her expectantly, until she answered, "Oh, no need for that. It's a beautiful night, why don't we enjoy it a bit?"

Sherlock nodded again, and this time his smile seemed more relaxed and genuine. Tessa smiled back, her eyes coyly lingering on his. "This way," he said, motioning with a toss of his head in the direction they were to follow, "I hope you like Italian."

Sherlock watched Tessa as she perused the menu, interested to see where her tastes would lie. "It all looks wonderful," she said, still reading the offerings. "Can you suggest anything?"

Sherlock had only eaten there on one occasion, and the experience had been quite satisfactory. "They make a fantastic Alfredo sauce," he told her, "if you like that sort of thing."

"Really?" she replied, looking up from the menu. "That's my absolute favorite." Her face showed no sign that she was agreeing with him merely because he suggested it; he appreciated her lack of artifice in the matter. He glanced down at his menu, although he was already fairly certain what he planned to order.

The waiter joined them, pen and order pad in hand. Tessa looked up at him, saying "I'll have the Chicken Alfredo, dressing for the salad on the side please" She gave a moments more consideration, then added, "Oh, and a glass of your house white.", handing him the menu. He turned to Sherlock.

"I'll have the same as the lady," he told the waiter, "and make that a bottle of chardonnay." Sherlock consulted the wine list at the back of the menu, "Hmmm…yes," He looked satisfied, pleased with the selection he'd made, telling the waiter, "Make it the 2010 Goisot, please."

"Excellent choice, sir." their waiter affirmed, bustling off to place their order.

"That should go quite nicely with what you've selected." Sherlock could tell he had impressed Tessa a bit, although that was not his intent; picking the right wine was just a necessary compliment to any good meal.

He noticed that Tessa had reached to the locket she wore, fingering it, perhaps absentmindedly. It looked like a fine piece of jewelry, its delicate chain holding a pale gold heart, ornamented with florals in light and dark rose tones. It didn't take his exceptional powers of deduction to conclude it was a gift from her late fiancée; and for certain it would contain at least one image of the man. Sherlock didn't recall seeing it on her the evening they had met. He surmised from how she handled it now that it gave her a sense of security or confidence in facing a new social situation.

Tessa noticed him noticing, and her lids dropped demurely, before she let go the locket and reached for her water glass. He pondered if he should say something-tell her he wasn't staring, just wondering about the memento-when the waiter returned with the bottle of wine, presenting it to Sherlock for his approval before uncorking it. Sherlock nodded and the waiter opened the bottle, offering him the cork, which Sherlock choose to wave off. The server poured a small amount into his wineglass, then stepped back to allow Sherlock to sample it. He took his time doing this, observing the color and clarity, and then inhaling the aroma, finally taking a sip and swishing about in his mouth a bit. "That will be fine." he told the waiter, who proceeded to first fill Tessa's glass, dabbing the mouth of the bottle between pours to prevent any drips, and then Sherlock's. He left the bottle on the side of the table for them.

So…" Sherlock said, after the waiter had departed, "Tessa would be the diminutive for," he paused for effect only, as he'd already deduced her probable answer, "Teresa?" With his accent and particular flair for language, it sounded like "Tear-eza" to her. It brought an immediate smile to her face.

"Yes." Tessa replied, grinning, "Theresa Angeline. Family names on both sides. But when I decided I wanted to be an actress, and I mean for real, not just a preteen fantasy," she paused, taking a sip of her wine, "I knew I had to change it."

Sherlock tilted his head, curious. "And why would that be?"

Tessa chuckled softly, "Because Theresa DeMauro sounded too much like a little old Italian grandmother, complete with hair net, mustache and an ugly mole right here," she said, touching a spot below the side of her lips. "Tessa works much better as a stage name, although…" she bit her lip, a taste of flirtation about it, "it sounds quite exotic when you say it." She leaned across the table, lowering her voice to a more intimate level, "Say it again, please."

Sherlock felt as though he'd walked right into her little ploy, smirking slightly at the way she had quietly maneuvered him. "Theresa Angeline DeMauro." This time he stressed her middle name, waiting for her response. She was true to what he had already learned of her nature. "Ooooo, now that was lovely," she gave a little shiver of pleasure, "I could get used to that. Although I suppose it should just be plain Tessa for now." She looked down at her bracelet, fiddling with the charms.

Inexperienced as he was with flirtation, Sherlock could still tell she was fishing for a compliment. What harm could there be in acceding just a bit? "Oh, but you are anything but plain." He punctuated his statement by reaching for his wine glass and tilting it slightly towards her, before partaking.

Tessa nodded her head in acceptance of the compliment and lifted her wine stem in a little toast to thank him. She closed her eyes as she took another, longer drink of her wine. She appeared about to speak, when the waiter arrived with their salads.

They both started in on their salads, Tessa adding a small drizzle of dressing onto hers. After a few bites, she looked back to Sherlock, asking, "So you were on a case near the theatre? Was it anything exciting?"

Sherlock dabbed his mouth with his napkin before answering. "I needed to check the timing of foot traffic from Peabody Cross to Ratcliff Lane, taking into account, of course, the time of day, as that affects the flow of pedestrian movements.A client's alibi depended on it."

"Really?" Tessa sounded genuinely interested. "Did it work out for your client?"

Sherlock nodded, "Indeed, it did. Although I'm now certain Scotland Yard will need my skills to identify the actual perpetrator."

Tessa marveled at this, "How thrilling must be the life you lead. I'd think never a dull moment."

Sherlock's first response would have been to correct her misconception, for in truth much of the work he did lacked the sort of challenge he would call thrilling. But Tessa looked a little awestruck and he suddenly found he preferred not to disappoint her expectations. Instead of telling her he often encountered boredom in the mix of cases he pursued, he answered simply,

"It has its moments, although not enough for my tastes. Such rousing crimes of passion or brilliant mastermind offenders are rarer than the lurid tales one sees in the cheap press." He nodded as punctuation to his statement, then returned to his salad.

They briefly ate in silence, and the waiter soon brought their entrees, refilling their wine glasses and asking them if there was anything else they needed.

In due course, Sherlock asked her how she had come to study in London, and Tessa related her tale, brightly, descriptively, and with an entertainer's flourish. He marked well that she minimized mention of the man she was to have wed; he guessed it was a tender subject, so did not seek any greater detail on that matter. Before they'd realized it, Sherlock had finished his meal, and Tessa was close to finishing hers as well, before she folded her napkin and left it by her plate. Sherlock rose as she excused herself a moment, heading to the restroom; manners inculcated in him by his mother, but one he'd seldom had the opportunity to practice.

Reseating himself, Sherlock pressed his hands before him, leaning his lips against them; his classic pose of consideration. He appreciated what he felt was her genuine interest in his work. Tessa seemed an easy conversationalist and he realized in that moment he hadn't felt bored once since they'd sat down to supper. Her sense of humor was light of touch; she was articulate as well. But there was something about her that puzzled him still, something Sherlock couldn't quite catch a hold of. As baffling as it was, he thought he could conclude that his failure to "solve" this puzzle was due to his Achilles heel: his lack of natural instinct in the face of simple human nature. He thought, perhaps, this curiosity might make her worth the while of additional…..study.

Tessa returned to the table and he rose again, without a thought, and she gave him an appreciative smile, "I can't tell you how long it's been since I've seen a man do that."

"Hmm…archaic, I suppose," he replied.

"Not at all," she answered, smiling still, "The world could use more of that, if you ask me."

And then suddenly there was a measured silence, as though each had crossed a boundary and didn't know quite where to go next.

Tessa quickly found a way to fill the gap. "You know," she revealed, idly running a finger around the rim of her wineglass "I have to tell you, that day you stepped in for me at the service counter? It turned into quite a little legend around the store."

"Really?" Sherlock—the owner of an already near perfect posture—straightened even further, his interest arrested, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "Just how did that happen?"

"Well, word spread fairly quickly that the famous" Tessa paused a moment, to remember the precise way it had been phrased, "'detective in the hat' had stopped by the front counter and tossed a nasty customer right out the door."

Sherlock laughed quietly, "You corrected them, of course?"

"Well, not entirely," she replied, arching a brow, "While it wasn't as heroic as the stories spreading around the store seemed to make it, I think my description of the events left you shining fairly bright." There was a definite tease in the way Tessa had answered, intriguing enough to make him wonder just how she had painted his actions in the retelling.

Seeing she had whet his curiosity, Tessa continued. "Everyone wanted to know what you were really like. Made me the most popular girl in the break room for about two weeks. I must've retold the story at least a dozen times." She lifted her glass, finishing the contents. Sherlock picked up the bottle; when he went to pour, Tessa quickly stopped him when her glass was half full. "I have to be honest, though," her eyes widened and she leaned in to be more confidential, "I hadn't really heard of you until my coworkers clued me in." Tessa leaned back, expectant upon his response.

Sherlock drew a deep breath; he realized she was playing a little game, but found it a pleasant distraction—for the time being, anyway. "And now? Might you know a bit more of my reputation?"

At this, a faint blush colored Tessa's cheeks. "Well…" she looked down, her hand stealing to the locket once again, moving it slightly back and forth upon its chain,"…after everything my coworkers were telling me, I just had to look you up online. A real wealth of information there, too, although I had to wonder how much was fact and how much was fiction." Tessa looked up at him again, her eyes merry with amusement. "I even came across your website."

"I'll bet that was nowhere near as entertaining as the gossip you could find online." Sherlock was watching her closely now; he was very interested in her answer, to see if her light, flirtatious air truly concealed the more serious intellect he'd sensed in her less guarded moments.

"Truthfully?" she took another swallow of wine, "it was somewhat drier than I'd expected, but pretty interesting when I took the time to really understand all the little details you were talking about." Sherlock hadn't needed that trifling bit of flattery—really, he never did after all—yet it was satisfying coming from such an unbiased observer.

"And…" Tessa added playfully, "I really like that hat on you. It…" she inhaled deeply, giving it thought, "…somehow it just..…works." There was an impishness in her expression that belayed his normal reaction to mention of "the hat". He settled, instead, for a roll of his eyes and a feigned huff of irritation, "Well let's just consider you said that under the influence, shall we?" he responded, indicating her nearly empty glass of wine. Tessa laughed softly at his jest.

The waiter, who had hung back until there was a break in the conversation, stepped forward to enquire if they wanted dessert. Tessa quickly exclaimed, "God no! I couldn't eat another bite." She and the waiter both turned to Sherlock. "I'll have the chocolate mousse cake with raspberry sauce." he responded, "And two forks please." The waiter nodded, collecting their dinner plates, then leaving the table.

Before Tessa could mount any objection, Sherlock told her, "You will be trying this treat. Not to be missed on any account." Tessa warmly smiled her consent.

Their once spirited conversation began to lag, then trailed off to silence as the cab brought them closer to Tessa's flat. She couldn't be sure, but it seemed as though Sherlock's quiet arose from a growing sense of discomfort. Dinner and their banter had been more than pleasant; Tessa's light flirtations seemed to have been answered in kind, and she thought they had developed a rapport of sorts in their mutual enjoyment of the meal, wine and dessert (she was glad, in the end, that he had insisted on her having some, and he appeared pleased with himself that he had ascertained correctly that she had a sweet tooth). But she was mystified over what had caused this sudden change in his demeanor, running through the events of the evening in her mind, taking a silent inventory of what she might have done to cause his seeming uneasiness.

Of course, Tessa could not have known—given the scant few days since she had met him—that Sherlock had only truly thought of the evening as "dinner" and not as a "date". And that despite his apparent rejoinders to her blithe flirtations, he was not prepared for-and even feared-the social convention of the goodnight kiss.

The taxi pulled along the curb in front of her door; the cabbie turned to Sherlock, who answered his unspoken question, "I'll be going on from here. A few minutes please?" He turned to the passenger side door without another word to Tessa or the driver, getting out and holding the door for her. He then closed the door behind her and walked beside her to the doorstep.

With any other man, Tessa had been able to read clear intention—how the evening might or might not proceed. Sherlock's statement to the cabbie short-circuited any plan she might have had to invite him in. She decided to counter that with an easy out for both of them, "So…um…" she said, stalling a moment as she decided the best road to take, "I have an early shift tomorrow at the store, so I really do need to turn in." To her dismay, Sherlock looked relieved.

Tessa did her best to disguise the disappointment she was feeling, continuing while trying to sound lighthearted, "But I had a lovely evening, the food, the wine, the company. Just lovely…"

Sherlock stammered back, clearly now uncomfortable but striving for the "normal" expected response. "Absolutely my pleasure," lapsing into an awkward silence and a smile that looked forced.

She knew she had to see this through to the end, as much as things had suddenly soured, "Thank you, Sherlock. And…goodnight then."

He nodded back to her the same sentiment, and then turned towards the taxi.

Tessa slid her key in the lock and opened the door a fraction. Her head was telling her to let it go; apparently he wasn't all that interested in her after all. That happens to everyone at some point, she thought ruefully. It was just a shame because she found Sherlock fascinating and very attractive.

But her instinctive side—the part of her that almost always ruled her decisions and choices—wasn't willing to let it pass just yet. In the seconds she had left, she turned back to see Sherlock opening the cab door, preparing to get in. She called his name, trying to sound confident and casual, "Sherlock?" He immediately tuned to face her, and in that instant she was gratified to see surprise in his expression.

Tessa continued, vowing not to waste this opportunity, "Please don't be a stranger."

Sherlock looked decidedly perplexed, raising a brow. It appeared as though he planned to answer, but Tessa knew she must control the moment. She breathed deeply, drawing herself perfectly straight, raising her chin regally, "I'd be disappointed not to see you again." And as much as she wanted to see his reaction, she made the cunning choice—turning away and exiting the scene through her doorway.

Sherlock was left on the sidewalk, outfoxed and intrigued, precisely as Tessa had hoped. He climbed into the back seat, a smile growing slowly as he realized she had played her part perfectly—for he surely couldn't let her closing volley go unanswered. He sat back, brushing his index finger across his lips, ruminating upon the small surprises she had already presented and the promise of more such—if he should decide to follow the course she'd clearly indicated was on her mind.

As the cab wended its way to his home, Sherlock continued his efforts to decipher what it was about Tessa he believed lay beneath the carefree disposition she projected. There was something Sherlock had seen behind the glint of mischief in her eyes, behind the sidelong glances Tessa had sent his way when she thought he wasn't noticing; something he had heard behind her pretty laugh, its music easy on the ears. Sherlock was not a man who'd be inclined to ask—and surely not knowing her so briefly—but he supposed it was the business of her late fiancée that could explain these things.

John Watson would probably tell him that was it. Of course, he could not see himself even broaching the topic. But Sherlock couldn't guess the whole of John's probable response: that the sadness behind the light of her eyes and the quiet pain behind the music of her laughter—these were mirrors of Sherlock's own buried troubles and heartaches. John might even have told him that they made a likely pairing for that very reason.

[Their story continues in "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes (or Ginger Can Distract the Man)"]