Psycho-boring disclaimer alert: If I owned Benedict Cumberbatch, Rupert Graves or Andrew Scott, the world would know. Trust. I just do this for fun.


A Study in Hot Pink.

Let's have dinner, and catching a not-killer.

"Where are we going?"

John looked to Sherlock expectantly as he answered her with "Northumberland Street. It's a five minute walk from here." Sherlock feels very proud that men were looking at John, and then seeing Sherlock and giving him dirty looks.

"You think he's daft enough to actually go there?"

Sherlock smiled to himself. Oh, the things he could teach this woman as his assistant. And he would. He answered her, a small skip in his step in the fact that it was his every word that she was hanging off of, not anyone else's and it was him that was given the treat of being the reason that her face lit up in realisation. "No, I think he's brilliant enough. I love the brilliant ones. They're always so desperate to get caught." At her continued confusion face, Sherlock felt the desperate need to elaborate so that she'd gift him with the sight of her realisation face. "For the appreciation, the applause. At long last the spot light. That's the frailty of genius, John. It needs a spotlight."

She snorted and then said teasingly "Says the man who'd carry a skull just so that he can have the excuse of talking aloud."

John watched Sherlock spin, indicating the immediate area around them as he said "This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know that his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go." John then widened her eyes and raised her brows in surprise as Sherlock raised his hand to either side of his head, as if to focus himself, as he said urgently "Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

John furrowed her brow in thought, before she gave up, shrugged and said "I give up, Houdini. Who?" Sherlock lowered his hands and shrugged as he said "Haven't the faintest. Hungry?"

Sherlock led John to a small restaurant, revelling in her smile to him when he held open the door for her, saying "Thank you, Billy" to a waiter who seemed to have been waiting for them and took away a reserved sign from a table right by a large window which looked out onto the street.

Sherlock, having taken off his coat, his scarf and his gloves, nodded to a house on the other side of the road and told Johnnye "22 Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it."

John had noticed the reserved sign that the waiter had taken off the table. She found it helplessly endearing and cute that Sherlock had obviously paid money to book the table, but had tried to make it seem like a spur of the moment thing and totally up to her.

When had a man ever respected her enough to put so much effort into her? Had any man really shown her the level of care and attention that Sherlock did?

She was about to ask him what the dealeo was about that, but a man came over with a smile like a kid's on Christmas morning and clapped Sherlock on the back and said "Sherlock!" The guy was very clearly ecstatic to see Sherlock in his establishment, grinning almost inanely as they shook hands.

"Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you and for your date." He handed them both a menu and clapped his hand together in joy. Sherlock looked to John and asked her if she wanted to eat without even looking at the menu. John, however, was staring confusedly at the man who obviously ran the joint and eventually blurted out "Date? We're not, you know..." she trailed off, hoping that her motioning between Sherlock and herself would be enough to let the man know that he'd got it wrong.

The man motioned to Sherlock so that John knew exactly who he meant when he said "This man got me off a murder charge." At the thinking face on his 'date', Sherlock nodded to the man and told her that he was Angelo. John held out her hand and told Angelo her name, not expecting the man to kneel in front of her and take her hand and kiss it eagerly after saying "Piacere de conoscerla, signorina Watson. I knew you would be intelligent, but I never thought that Sherlock would get a bellissimo signorina too." In the same confused manner, John said "Errr, thank you?" Angelo continued to kiss up her arm a little, but stopped when he felt the daggered glare of Sherlock turning to him.

He knew that he needed to quickly think of a compliment for Sherlock and his lady as a couple. Angelo thought of the first compliment an Italian can usually think of. "Your name will sound very nice when married." The result of this was not something that made Angelo happy though, Sherlock glared again and his lady had wide eyes and opened and closed her mouth, spluttering in shock before asking in a higher pitch than she'd told her name "Come again, Angelo?"

Feeling that he needed to give Sherlock and his lady the push in the right direction, he reasoned his statement by telling them "Your name will sound molto bello when married. Mrs Johnnye Holmes. Has nice ring, eh?"

Eyes wide, John turned to Sherlock as he blurted out "Murder charge got off Angelo". She felt her lips quiver a little at the endearing way that Sherlock was, in his way, uncomfortable and embarrassed at Angelo's assumption of their relationship and his compliment for her married name with him.

Sherlock was sure that he'd never felt so exposed and red and hot in his whole life than how he was after having blurted out his rushed words that made absolutely no sense.

He wanted to think of ways to make Angelo pay. He wanted to tell the man ten feet away that the woman he was dating had a husband, two children and a small Border Terrior named Brownie. He wanted to think of anything other than how Angelo was right.

Because Angelo was right. Johnnye Holmes did sound 'molto bello'. But he knew that Johnnye Holmes could never exist. For one, who in their right mind would want to have a relationship and marry him? Most who met him thought him a psychopath within five minutes of meeting him. Except, a little part of his brain whispered, for John. John hadn't thought him a psychopath. John hadn't been scared off, hadn't followed advice that had warned her off of him.

Sherlock quickly explained, trying to hold back a blush and wanting to quickly move the conversation away from that rather tender subject. "Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade that at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking." Angelo proudly joined in on the tale and told John "He cleared my name, signorina." Sherlock made an unconvinced face and said "I cleared it a bit." He nodded to 22 Northumberland Street as he asked "Anything happening opposite?"

Angelo shook his head and answered "Nothing." He turned back to John as he said to her proudly "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison." John bit her lip as Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly "You did go to prison."

Angelo wasn't paying attention to Sherlock, staring at John as he said "I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic." He walked away before John could even indignantly squeak in outrage of Angelo's presumption, of everyone's - Mrs H, the Boogeyman and Donovan's - assumption that she and Sherlock were in some sort of relationship.

She sighed and pulled out her hipster glasses from a pocket in her Capri pants. They were black and thick rimmed and made her eyes bug out a little at the wrong angle. She hated them, ever since she'd found out that, if she wanted to read, she needed to wear them. Contacts wouldn't work either, she couldn't use them for anything else, and so they were impractical. She pushed them up to the bridge of her nose and looked down to the menu. She didn't see the point in waiting here for a while on an empty stomach. Her mother may have been a great many things that aren't polite for a lady to say, but she did make sure that her children were healthy and well-fed, having come from a wholesome background of being a Yorkshire lass.

She looked up and asked if Sherlock would recommend anything, but when he turned his head, he stopped answering and stared at the sight of her in her vintage glasses. Cocking a brow, John ground out "Got a problem?"

Sherlock internally slapped himself to get himself back into a properly functioning state, he didn't need John to think that he was mocking or laughing at her. "I recommend the pasta, preferably the creamy, white wine-based sauce than the bolognase sauce – it's less salty and has far fewer saturated fats." John gave a small smile at Sherlock's recommendation, especially as she did need to think about how fatty it was. Not 'cause she worried about getting fat, it was about going blotchy on her face. How many men would have thought of that? Johnnye knew that hardly any would have given the salt and saturated fat content a second's thought. But Sherlock thought of it, Sherlock could be bothered to ponder whether she'd want to know such information.

One brow raised, John turned back to Sherlock to ask "Sherlock, err, why does he think that I'm your date. And why does he think that we want a bloody-" She was cut off by Angelo coming back with a small and lit, red candle in a clear glass and put it in the centre of the table. He gave her a thumbs up, which she returned, albeit with a rather sarcastic smile on her face and a mocking tone in her voice as she said "Thank you".

She turned back to face Sherlock and raised both brows this time, drawling out "Well?"

####

She had ordered a small dish of the cheesy pasta that Sherlock had recommended, which had come lickety-split from the kitchen and given to her with a great flourish by Angelo.

She knew that it wouldn't hurt her figure or anything, her metabolism was crazy fast. Her parents had thought that she had a glandular problem when she was growing up, but no. She was just blessed in the fact that she could eat all she wanted and not get fat, and as long as it wasn't junk food and she jogged every now and again – she hadn't done that in a while, she'd admit – her face wouldn't get blotchy like it had the tendency to do. If only she'd have known that in her teens. How many times had she heard the phrase 'pizza face' thrown viciously at her during her youth?

If she were to admit anything at that moment, it was that Angelo employed an ab-fab chef - the tagliatelle was fresh, the cheesy white wine sauce was full of ham and mushrooms, and the two pieces of garlic bread were awesome. She just hoped that they served mints afterwards.

She'd ordered a beer – it was either that or a White Russian – which stayed in its bottle at the corner of her plate. But, all too soon, she was nearing to finish her meal and downing the dregs of her beer.

Sherlock and herself had been in a rather uncomfortable silence – he'd paid for her, refusing to let her do it, and she'd not taken the loss of her freedom too lightly. Her mother and grandmother hadn't fought for independence just for the 21st century woman to give it all back. She'd sulked and ate her meal huffily, and he'd gone to staring out of the window to 22 Northumberland Street and drumming his fingers into the table.

John knew that she had to bridge the gap, so she asked something that she hoped sounded conversational and totally casual. "So, doesn't your girlfriend mind you getting a flatmate?"

Sherlock wanted to laugh, but his brain just couldn't quite get over the fact that John thought that he would have a girlfriend. He looked over to her and said "Girlfriend? No, not really my area." He didn't see the realisation on her face before she asked "Oh, sorry. So... doesn't your boyfriend mind then?"

Sherlock looked sharply at John to see that she was being sincere. Of course she'd be sincere, Sherlock chastised himself, she's got a gay brother for god's sake. Why'd she mock you for being gay? Sherlock wondered why this woman thought that he had to be in a relationship. He wanted to slap himself for feeling a warm fuzzy feeling in his stomach and the need to assure her that he was free.

"Boyfriends, girlfriends, all sounds a bit dull."

John wanted to say something to shake off the awkwardness of the silence, so she waffled "Ok... fine... you're unattached, like me... that's good." She cleared her throat, placing her fork onto the empty plate and picked up her beer to drink the last of it.

Sherlock replayed her statement in his head and felt the tell-tale numbness of dread when he deduced her meaning. Another boring, useless woman hanging off of him. That he didn't need, didn't want for himself. He didn't want someone. Didn't want to be that dependant on someone else who could just walk off one day and leave him remorselessly.

Looking over to John placing her beer bottle, now empty, on the table and shifting her eyes to him, he said "John, umm... I think that you should know that I consider myself married to my work. And while you're a pretty woman and I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any-"

"Pfftt! Relax Houdini, I'm not asking you out. I was curious, that's all." Her golden eyes turned teasing as she said "Besides, I am way outta your league." She stuck out her pink tongue childishly, making Sherlock chuckle at her teasing. He felt a weight off of his shoulders. Finally, a woman who doesn't fancy every single man she sees.

Sherlock was sincerely glad that John interrupted him when she did, he had started awkwardly and it had gone downhill form there, he'd started to rapidly babble and he'd not really known what he was going to say when he was already on the next word. Sherlock was thrown. Since when had he done that?

Sherlock quickly returned her amused expression, before looking back out of the window and locking his gaze with a taxi. "John, look across that street. Taxi. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out." More to himself than to John he murmured "Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?"

John tilted her head as she said incredulously "So that's our guy?" Sherlock didn't look to her as he ordered "Don't stare." Feeling unfairly reprimanded, John turned to look at Sherlock and said accusingly "You're staring at him."

"We can't both stare." Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and bolted out of the restaurant, a shocked John followed suit, grabbing her Army green parka that threatened to tickle her knees and slugged it on as she caught up with Sherlock and watched with him the Taxi on the other side of the road. Sherlock had lugged on his coat, turned up the collar and wrapped his scarf around his neck like he did when they first met in the lab at Barts.

The taxi pulled away, Sherlock bolted forward to follow. Having forgotten to look, he was almost run over by a car coming at them from their left. The driver slammed on the brakes, Sherlock rolled over the bonnet and kept on running. Her heart pounded in delight as she sprinted after Sherlock and the taxi. She caught up and stopped when Sherlock realised that they'd have to find another way to catch up to the taxi.

"I've got the cab number."

"Good for you." Sherlock hadn't wanted to sound sarcastic, but nonetheless he did. He raised his hands either side of his head and concentrated on calling up his mental map of Soho and overlaying it the streets of the route that he knew that Cabbie would have to take with a red track. Right turn, one way, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights. Having worked out his route, Sherlock looks up to see a man unlocking the door to a nearby building. Alternate Route. Sherlock raced to the man, John following on his heels, shoving him out the way as he charged into the building.

John's muscles buzzed with adrenaline as she followed Sherlock into the building, up some stairs and out onto a metal spiral fire escape leading tot the roof. Sherlock took two or three steps at a time, but John still kept up. She'd won her year's 1000metres four years running for crying out loud. She leaped after Sherlock from the railings of some stairs and across to the next building. Her heart pounded in her ears as she watched Sherlock leap over a wide gap, over an alleyway, onto the next building. She skidded to a halt before the gap, staring fearfully down to the concrete floor. She quivered, she couldn't jump that.

"Come on, John. We're losing him!"

John backed up a few paces and looked from the gap to Sherlock waiting the other side. He held out his arms and called "I promise I'll catch you."

Hoping that he would keep to his word, John closed her eyes and gulped helplessly before taking a leap of faith. Faith for him, Sherlock thought. It made his pumping heart jump in delight. But then John was in his arms, safe and radiating her warmth into his chest.

Ignoring the new buzzing in his brain and the sudden dryness of his throat, he grabbed John's small hand, taking it into his own and running on. Down onto a walkway along the side of the building, Sherlock Holmes and Johnnye Watson ran hand in hand after the serial murderer. Another metal staircase, onto a ledge and they dropped down into an alleyway. Just about to exit the alleyway into D'arblay Street, they saw the taxi drive happily past. Angrily growling his displeasure, Sherlock took a right turn, John still holding his hand as they caught up to the cab, which was forced to take the long way around by various road signs.

Sherlock released John's hand, leaping in front of the cab, crashing hard into the bonnet and yelled "Police! Open her up!" He pulled out DI Lestrade's ID badge that he'd pocketed the other day, and flashed it at the driver before running over and wrenching open the door.

Sherlock groaned in frustration at the sight of the passenger, straightening up and panting out "No." He leaned back towards him and said "Teeth, tan. What?... Californian?" He looked to the guy's luggage and nodded as he told John "L.A. Santa Monica. Just arrived."

"Of course, the luggage labels." John wasn't out of breath, her voice as clear and as mellifluous and as beautiful as in the Restaurant. He looked to see her point to the luggage label showing that the man had flown from LAX – Los Angeles International Airport – to LHR – London Heathrow Airport - and smiled at her for noticing. Sherlock praised her before he turned back to the American to say "It's probably your first trip to London, right? Going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you."

The poor guy looked from Sherlock to John and back again before asking in his thick accent "Sorry... Are you guys the police?" Sherlock flashed the ID card and said "Yeah. Everything alright?" Giving them a small smile, the American gave a small smile and said a half-laughing "Yeah."

This was now tedious and dull for Sherlock, so he wrapped up the conversation with a quick "Welcome to London" before walking away. It took him only a few steps to realise that John was still speaking to the American. Feeling a sliver of anger rise up in his blood, he stomped over to her, slide his arm around her waist and tried on the most charming smile he had catelogued as he told her "Come on, luv. We told babysitter we'd be back at ten."

John was wide eyed as Sherlock gave a very fake last smile to the American, who'd told her he was Brax Williams, and dragged her away. Ignoring the blush that fought to rise to her cheeks and the confusion and anger at such a con at the poor, confused foreigner, John said "So, just a cabbie that happened to slow down."

"Yep."

"Not the murderer?" Sherlock venomously tried to ignore the cute face John was pulling, her brows furrowed and her lips downturned and pouting in disappointment. Sherlock found that however cute it was, he despised the thought that something was making John so sad that she displayed it through her face.

"Not the murderer, no." Sherlock stopped them, his hand still on her hips as he sighed discontentedly at the state of the case. They were no closer to solving it than they were at the restaurant.

John ran her hand down Sherlock's arm to his gloved hand, Sherlock was ashamed to the fact that his breath hitched in his throat at the touch of furnace heat that radiated through his leather gloved to burn into his skin, took the ID badge from him and asked when she'd flipped it open and looked at it "DI Lestrade?" Sherlock smirked as he said "Yeah, I pick-pocket him when he's annoying." He looked down to stare at her eyes as he said non-plussed "You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat."

She nodded slightly as her lips started to quiver once more, fighting to not laugh. She lost the battle, and a glorious laugh sounded from her chest that was side-to-side against his. At Sherlock's confused look, she bit her lip and laughed at him "Nothing. It's just, um... 'Welcome to London'".

They laughed together, and Sherlock looked back to see the American talking to a real policeman further on down the road. Motioning for John to look, he waited until she was staring at him before he asked "Got your breath back?" She smirked at him, holding out her hand to him for his to take and said "Always, luv."

Chuckling at her, he took his hand off of her hips and placed his hand in hers, revelling at the heat radiating through his gloves and wondering what it'd feel like if he hadn't his gloves on. And then they ran away into the night.


So sorry. I know this is way overdue. I've recently got into a new school after finishing GCSE's. Tough time, right? Anyway, here's a low down on Angelo's Italian, just in case Google Translate doesn't appeal to ya.

Piacere de conoscerla: Pleasure to meet you.

Bellissimo: lovely.

molto bello: very nice.

Review if you liked, review if you don't. Just don't eat me! :$

Phoenix.