John watched Sherlock suspiciously as he ate his Chicken Alfredo. Sherlock munched away at some sort of pasta that had fish in it. John squinted at him. He was starting to wonder what exactly was going on here. John sipped at the expensive wine Sherlock had ordered. He hoped it wasn't coming out of his card, but he didn't care too much because it was giving him a lovely buzz.
"So when did you decide to become a doctor?" Sherlock asked suddenly.
"When I was-," John stopped the automatic answer and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock once again, "Why are you asking?"
"Because I want to know," Sherlock said innocently.
John rolled his eyes and sighed. Best not question it, he thought briefly.
"I was 15," John said, pushing some food around on his plate, "I was in a restaurant and a man had a heart attack. I decided then that I didn't want to helplessly watch someone die ever again."
"What did you want to be before that?" Sherlock questioned.
John eyed him for a moment before answering.
"You wouldn't believe me," John said hesitantly.
"You don't lie to me," Sherlock stated.
"I wanted to be a detective," John admitted sheepishly.
Sherlock laughed a little.
"Well, you got that," Sherlock said in an amused voice, "A Doctor Detective. I like it."
John blushed slightly at the intense look in Sherlock's eyes.
"I wanted to be a pirate," Sherlock admitted.
"I know," John said, before he could stop himself.
Sherlock looked startled and John silently cursed himself.
"How could you have known that?" Sherlock asked in a confused voice.
"I'm sorry," John said, feeling rather guilty, "Mycroft told me."
"Oh, right, of course," Sherlock said, his face clearing, "Should have known that prat was giving out information about me."
John gave him a pained look.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John repeated.
"What? Why?" Sherlock sputtered slightly, confusion clouding his face again.
"I know you were trying to open up and I ruined it," John said sadly, "I'm sorry for that."
"Oh, don't be silly, John," Sherlock waved his hand as though to wave away John's silliness, "I'll just tell you more. For example, I'm secretly obsessed with honey bees."
John blinked owlishly for a moment.
"Honey bees?" John tested hesitantly.
"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, "I find them quite fascinating. I also keep secret stashes of honey about the flat."
John blinked rapidly again.
"Honey?" John questioned.
"Yes, it's incredibly sweet," Sherlock said brightly, "Very delicious. I used to eat it in large quantities when I was younger."
John tried to process the new information.
"Oh, yes, and I kept bees for a while," Sherlock said thoughtfully, "But I was not as good at it as I hoped I would be, so I gave the bees back to the man who taught me. I visit them every few years and get a jar of honey that's made from them. Well, the original ones are long dead by now, but their child produce honey just as good as they did."
John smiled widely at the distant, dreamy look on Sherlock's face.
"So tell me about the bees," John pressed.
John put his elbow on the table and leaned his head onto his hand. He listened to Sherlock talk animatedly about the bees he'd kept. Sherlock seemed keen on describing how they "danced" in the hive. John nodded occasionally, only speaking to ask questions. Sherlock happily delved into the subject of bees for hours. It wasn't until Angelo came over and told them they'd been their five hours that Sherlock stopped talking about the bees and everything that went with them.
Sherlock had jumped up and out of the door and walked off into the dark as soon as Angelo had come over and said it'd been five hours. John hurried to catch up with the man. John looked around for Sherlock, squinting into the dark to see where he'd gone off to.
"What are you looking for?" a baritone asked from right behind him.
John jumped and whirled around. He smacked Sherlock on the shoulder.
"Don't scare me like that!" John scowled at him, "I was looking for you."
"But I was here," Sherlock said, clearly confused.
"You don't usually wait for me," John reminded him.
"Oh, right," Sherlock shook his head as though to clear it.
John noticed then that Sherlock was wringing his hands. Sherlock was flustered.
"What's wrong, Sherlock?" John questioned, reaching a hand out to his friend.
Sherlock automatically leaned into the hand and purred. John saw his friend's shoulders relax slightly. Sherlock shuffled forward and rubbed his head against John's shoulder.
"This took longer than I thought it would," Sherlock said, his voice vibrating with loud purrs.
"What is this?" John asked, confused and tired of never knowing what was going on.
"Our first date, John," Sherlock said in an exasperated voice, "Do keep up."
John rolled his eyes and started to make some snappy retort, but then froze.
"Did you say "date"?" John demanded, pushing Sherlock away to face him.
Sherlock looked irritated at the loss of physical contact. He hissed slightly before straightening himself in an effort to regain his dignity (which was nowhere to be found).
"Yes, you said you would have sex with me if we were boyfriends," Sherlock said the last word like it tasted like the smell of liver and onions, "So I am courting you."
John laughed at Sherlock's wording, but had to sober up when he realized what Sherlock was saying.
"Well, normally people don't go through that whole process when they just want to get laid," John said, "And normally people ask for a date, they don't just whisk someone off for one."
Sherlock went silent, a calculating look in his eyes.
"Ah, well, give me a second chance then," Sherlock said.
John frowned at him.
"Don't you mean "Please, John, can you give me a second chance?"?" John said rather forcefully.
Sherlock glared and his face contorted to hiss, but he quickly stifled it.
"Please, John, can you give me a second chance?" Sherlock recited, adding a sweet smile.
"Yes, Sherlock, I will," John said, "But I think you need to learn a bit more about "courting" before you try again."
Sherlock's eyebrows came together at that.
"Where would I get this information?" Sherlock asked.
"Go talk to Lestrade," John suggested.
"Hmm," Sherlock hummed as he steepled his fingers under his chin, "Lestrade knows of social etiquette?"
John laughed, but felt like sobbing.
"Yes, Sherlock, Lestrade knows," John answered tiredly.
"Alright then!" Sherlock exclaimed, clapping his hands together.
He pulled out his phone and quickly located Lestrade's number.
"Hello, Lestrade?" Sherlock questioned brightly, "I need your help."
John could imagine Lestrade sputtering on the other end of the line and falling out of his chair. Then rushing to get his shoes and coat on because he would assume it was something to do with drugs. He was pretty sure Lestrade was sputtering something about "Stay where you are" now, but Sherlock interrupted him.
"No, no, it's nothing like that," Sherlock stated, "I'm courting John and I require information on how to go about it."
John giggled a bit as he imagined more sputtering from Lestrade. He smacked his forehead. This was not what he had meant when he said "Go talk to Lestrade", but it was quite humorous none-the-less.
"You have to help me!" Sherlock said in a frustrated tone, "I help you all the time! Social rules say that if someone does you a favor you owe them one in return."
There was a pause and then Sherlock's scowl deepened.
"That doesn't count," he said quietly.
There was a long quiet spell in which Sherlock's face changed to one of fascination.
"Ah, but what if-," Sherlock stopped short and listened some more, "Well, how many-."
Sherlock tapped his mouth for a moment, listening with rapt attention.
"Is that all?" Sherlock questioned.
There was another pause and then Sherlock snorted.
"Obviously," he said, rolling his eyes.
But he stopped again and listened carefully once more.
"Ah, thank you, Lestrade!" Sherlock exclaimed, "You have been most helpful! Do not call me for a case until I say otherwise. Thank you very much!"
Sherlock hung up and stuffed the phone back into his pocket. Then he grinned widely at John and hurried off into the night. John frowned and followed after him, briefly wondering what he'd gotten himself into.
