It was seven o'clock. I'd just gotten out of the shower. I was stood in the bathroom, a towel round my waist, as I stared at my complexion in the mirror.

I had no idea what I was doing.

For all I knew, Nikki could really just want a simple get-to-know-the-landlord evening with a simple glass or wine and a nice long conversation full of the customary social pleasantries, similar to those that one might have with their boss at a slightly awkward Christmas meal.

But another part of me was hoping it was really Nikki's way of asking me out on a date, and there would be three or four glasses of wine involved, with conversations that consisted of flirtatious behaviour, and perhaps put down the basic foundations of what could possibly be a future relationship.

But right now I couldn't seem to stop staring at my reflection in the mirror.

I still had it, didn't I? Not that I ever really understood what "it" was in the first place, but I was pretty sure I did. It had been a few months since I had been on a date with a girl - nine and a half weeks, if I'm not mistaken - and the last one had not ended well; but the fact that I'd managed to get the date in the first place proves that this "it" that everyone talks about was in my possession...

My reflection didn't appear to be agreeing with me.

In my mind I was trying to be open-minded and optimistic; the inspirational prep-talk I was giving my reflection started out pretty well, in fact. However the face that stared back at me, with his damp hair flat to his forehead, and tired eyes that showed just how many bad night's sleep he'd had in his lifetime did not seem to be motivated at all by the words being said - particularly as it progressed...

"If she likes me, she likes me." I muttered to myself, "If not, then she doesn't. Simple facts, John. Simple facts that you will have to come to terms with, either way. Just act like you're the boss - like you know exactly which page she's on, and that you wrote that page with your own hand, then typed it up and printed it off and sent it off to a publishers...speaking of writing, I really need to type up those case notes - they're still in my notebook...where is my notebook anyway? I hope I haven't left it near Sherlock's Bunsen burner again, because that was a bad mistake last time - No! Focus John! honestly! Where was I? Ah yes: be the "it" that wrote the publisher...no, that's not it...be the publisher that owns the girl...oh gosh, that's not right either. What am I even saying? I've gone mad. I'm talking to my own reflection..."

It was then that I just gave up. I looked at the man that was mimicking my every move, and just sighed: "Don't get your hopes up." I said, "She's way out of your league."

Sherlock was reading the paper with his back to me when I entered the living room; now fully dressed.

"Someone's trying too hard," He murmured, "I could smell that aftershave of yours before you opened the bathroom door."

"Shut up, Sherlock," I said, out of habit, "You've never even been on a date."

Sherlock went quiet.

Meanwhile, I went back to the bathroom to wash the aftershave off my face...

At eight o'clock, Nikki and I left the building and headed down the street together. She wasn't wearing anything particularly fancy - jeans and a smart-ish shirt - but looked stunning nonetheless.

"You look nice," I said, a little gauche.

"You don't look too bad yourself." She said with a good-humoured smile.

We didn't go anywhere particularly fancy either - just the "local watering hole", like she had asked. It was quite busy, being Saturday night and everything, but we managed to get two stools at the bar and I went to order us drinks, only to have Nikki beat me to it:

"Two pints of bitter," She said. It was clear she'd done it before.

That was where our night of conversation began; starting at when her father had first given her a sip of beer when she was five, and as a teenager she'd always preferred it to the lady's elegant glass of wine. We exchanged drinking stories, and next-day regrets, and alcoholic favourites. It was then that the young fellows across the bar from us decided to start taking shots...

"I've never been one for shots, really," Nikki said to me, "You get too drunk too fast and only feel sorry for yourself when you get a killer of a hangover the next day."

"Never tried one." I said honestly.

She turned to me: "Never?"

"Never."

Three minutes later, this fact was changed.

"Woo!" Nikki yelled as she downed hers, then ruffled her hair and burst into a fit of giggles, "Doesn't that make you feel young!"

"If feeling young is like having your throat burned," I croaked, "then yes, definitely!" I paused; the horrible taste still lingering in my mouth and the back of my throat, "Ugh. That was horrible..."

"Yes, I know how you feel," She laughed and rubbed my shoulder blades, "Being thirty five and everything, I think I'm nearing the stage where I just don't get out as much as I used to - who's to say that if you can't party if you're not the youth of the day!"

"Thirty five?" I asked.

"Hmm?"

"You just said you were thirty five."

"I did?"

"Yes. Just then." I tried to make it sound light-hearted with a laugh, and an inquisitive smile, but I think the overall confusion came through.

"Oh, um...silly me," She chuckled, embarrassed, "Another round?"

"Hang on a second," I said, stopping her from getting the attention of the barman, who I certainly did not want to give me another miniature glass of liquid-fire to pour down my gullet, "Nikki, you're not twenty-six?"

"Erm..well, technically no. I mean...on my birth certificate it sort of says I'm thirty five...sort of..."

"But what about the application form? Your driver's licence?"

"What can I say?" She sighed, clearly embarrassed, "If a girl's going to lie about her age, she's going to make herself younger, isn't she?"

"Can I ask why?"

I noticed that she went to give me a proper answer, but then changed her mind, took another sip of her beer, then shrugged: "I've always looked young for my age." She answered, "I thought; why not make the best of it?"

It didn't seem like a plausible excuse to me, but I sensed that if I questioned her further that our wonderful evening could turn into a night we didn't want to remember. Plus, I was getting a little tipsy, and so this minor thing didn't seem to be an issue to me at present.

"Amen to that!" I said rather loudly, gulping some more beer down, and when she called the barman over to give us our third pint, I didn't stop her. I simply laughed and said:

"You have no idea how glad I am that you didn't order another round of shots."

Thankfully, she laughed too, and we proceeded to watch the guys across the bar as they quickly got wobblier and wobblier, until one of them finally fell over. The man was not helped up again; instead, his collapse was met with a raucous cheer and a round of applaud and laughter.

"I bet you'd be like that if you had another couple," Nikki said teasingly.

"Would not," I insisted, "I'll have you know I can hold my liquor - I was quite the partier in my time."

"Oh yes?"

"Yes," I said, feeling myself get a little bit more tipsy as I took another gulp of beer, "When I was twenty three I went to Spain for a weekend - all I remember is arriving at the hotel on the first day and heading to the bar. I was told afterwards that I'd made the holiday a great one for the five mates I went with - dancing on table, getting everyone involved, karaoke (apparently) - the whole shebang!"

"I don't believe that!" She laughed.

"It's true, honestly!" I exclaimed.

"Go on then," She said, with a daring smile.

"What?"

"Dance on the table, get everyone partying - do something crazy!"

"Ah, I don't think so..."

"Come on - please?"

"I'm sorry, no..."

"For me?"

It didn't matter how much she stuck out her bottom lip in her pretend-sulk. I wasn't going to show off for her. I wasn't a teenager. We were both mature adults and we didn't need to have something crazy and exciting going on in order to have fun. We could converse, like all grown-ups did, and share stories and laugh and talk about...politics or something. But I wasn't going to do something crazy for her.

Ten minutes later, I was grabbing Nikki's arm and sprinting down the street with her. Behind us thundered the drunken guys from across the bar that had been doing shots. They couldn't run straight, what with them all being hammered and one of them having a bloody nose and all - but that didn't mean the six of them were any less terrifying as a group. If I hadn't been a little drunk myself, I wouldn't have been laughing at all, and the little voice in my head that was saying "You are so going to die" would have been a lot louder. But as I was holding hands with Nikki, and she was laughing, and I was laughing, and the two of us were just caught up in the adrenaline of it all - I felt like a child again that had gotten caught trying to steal a yoghurt off the milkman's cart; sprinting wherever my legs took me, with the full knowledge that I would be the hero of the kids on the block for the next week.

We amazingly managed to out-run the lot of them when the leader of the group ran into a lamp post and caused those following him to topple over too. Nikki and I kept on running through the streets like children, until we got to the front door of the flat at Baker Street. I grabbed the keys as Nikki grabbed my arm and jumped up and down excitedly, exclaiming how amazing it had all been.

'That', The voice of reason in my head promised itself, as the door opened, 'is the very last time I show off for a girl.'