Somehow, they ended up having dinner with the strange family.

Ah, yes. John remembers. It all started when Sherlock pretended we were a gay couple and asked the odd family if we could come to dinner. Of course, they said yes, because how could they not refuse two delightful blokes like us?

John picked at his peas awkwardly. The family of five (a mother, a father, two sisters, and the altar boy who discovered the victim), were utterly silent. It was one of the most awkward things John had ever done, and Sherlock wasn't making it any better.

"So…" the mother began. She was a short, stout woman with a messy poof of orange hair atop her skinny head. "How long have you two been together?"

Sherlock smiled his most un-Sherlocky smile and took John's hand in his own. "Two-years."

If John hadn't been too preoccupied with being upset, he would've smiled too. You're not upset about the fake relationship, he told him. You just wish it was a real one.

John looked over at Sherlock again. Sherlock seemed very content with pretending they were a couple: a fact which both delighted and alarmed John.

"Though, we've been having some trouble lately," Sherlock confessed randomly.

What are you doing? What is he doing? John wondered.

The woman smiled. "Well, if you two are needing help, I could advise you."

What? "Um…"

"She's a relationship therapist, John." Sherlock smiled, and John became properly terrified. "Can we pop by tomorrow?"

The woman told them they could, and proceeded to speak for the next twenty-minutes about intimacy.

John kept thinking, My relationship with Sherlock is fine; we don't need a therapist. Wait. We're not even really in a relationship – are we? Are we? This is weird. We're fine as we are. We get on. I describe things to him and he tortures me. It's just like it always was – except it isn't – except it is. What the hell?

John couldn't have been more relieved when they got back home to Baker Street. Collapsing onto the couch in an exhausted heap, he sighed. "That was awful."

"I thought it was nice." John heard the clicking of Sherlock's cane in the hallway and realized his flatmate was tumbling around the kitchen, trying to make tea.

"Oh, Sherlock." John walked into the kitchen and took the kettle from his flatmate. "I'll get that." John put some water in the kettle and set about making tea. All the while, he couldn't help noticing Sherlock was standing unusually close to him. They were only a few inches apart. "Do you need anything?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded, and John's breath hitched. "Yes. Tea."

John stifled a sigh. "Chamomile or Earl Grey?"

"Why not both?" Sherlock smiled and bumped into the cupboard while attempting to get some cups.

John held his hand out in front of the detective to stop him. "Sherlock, I've got it, really."

John thought he saw a flicker of disappointment in Sherlock's face, but it was gone in an instant. He just needs something to do, John figured. Ah! John turned on the tap and put the kettle in Sherlock's hands. "Can you fill the kettle for me?"

"Of course." John guided Sherlock's hands forward and under the tap. Sherlock's hands felt smoother than usual, almost as if he'd been using something. Moisturizer, maybe? Hand cream? John wasn't sure. With the kettle filled, John took his hands of Sherlock's and let the detective put it down on the stovetop. "Good."

"Oh, please." Sherlock scoffed. Something about Sherlock was different tonight; it was almost as if he… cared.

No. That can't be right. John took another look at his flatmate and made some deductions of his own. Slight lines around the eyes: hasn't been sleeping; worried, possibly? No. Not likely. Sherlock never worries about anything. Moisturized hands? Taking extra care in appearance? Why? He can't see, so what's the – Oh. Oh. Duh. Who's been holding his hand so much lately? You, dummy John. It's all for you.

John stayed silent. Inside, his mind was a joyous riot. SHERLOCK CARES ABOUT ME. I AM SIGNIFICANT. FINALLY.

The whistling of the kettle brought John out of his thoughts and alarmed Sherlock slightly. Unconsciously, John touched his hand again and the detective relaxed.

John poured the tea slowly. Sherlock leaned in close, enjoying the sound of the tea as it fell into the porcelain. Trickle by trickle, John poured every last drop. Next John poured the sugar in; every grain fell, little snow falling into a lake and dissolving below the surface. Stirring it, John took extra care to tap the spoon along the edges so it produced almost a musical melody. Sherlock was simply enchanted by the sound.

"Here," John handed Sherlock the cuppa gently. The cup was warm in Sherlock hands; almost hot against his fingertips. "Enjoy."

I most certainly will, Sherlock thought. He sipped his tea quietly, until the urge to speak overwhelmed him. "John?"

"Hmm? Yeah."

How to go about this? Sherlock considered many possibilities. In the end, they were all terrible. He decided a direct approach was probably the best. "Will you promise me something?"

"Of course." John's voice: honest, sincere, friendly, devoted, loyal, good.

"Promise you won't leave me. Not when I need you, of course."

John smiled; it was a wasted gestured. That didn't matter though; most gestures were wasted nowadays, but he still did them anyway. "Of course. I promise."