John wondered where they were actually going to go, but of course Sherlock knew of a good restaurant nearby, and directed the taxi driver to it in his Violet voice. It was weird, John thought; even though Sherlock still had the clothes and the make up and the hairstyle, even though he was still speaking in the voice, he was suddenly entirely Sherlock. Just...Sherlock in a frock.

Not wanting to look like a bad husband when it wasn't necessary, John politely helped Sherlock out of the taxi when it pulled up, and they walked side by side, at their usual comfortable proximity, down the street. The restaurant was a small Italian place, perhaps rather more upscale than Angelo's but (and John might possibly have been biased) less cosy.

The head waiter, a man of around thirty with an aggressively charming smile and gelled back hair, approached them as they came in.

"Are you still serving?" John asked.

"Yes sir, but not for much longer. I can take your order immediately, if that suits you," he offered, a slight hint of an Italian accent in his voice.

He showed them to a table set for four in a quiet corner of the busy main room and pulled out Sherlock's chair, while John took Sherlock's coat and draped it over one of the unused seats.

"It's a good, private spot for a date, eh?" the waiter asked with a cheeky smile. "You make a nice couple. Match up well."

"Oh, we're not a couple," Sherlock trilled in the Violet voice. "We're just friends."

"Ah, but you'd like it to be more, eh?" the waiter replied and, with a wink, he placed the menus in their hands and whirled off, leaving John to wallow in the rare pleasure of seeing Sherlock lost for words.

"Now you know how it feels," he pointed out. Sherlock just held his menu up in front of his face and kept his mouth shut.

Another waiter came with water for them a minute or two later, and Sherlock leapt in straight away with his order. As usual after a case, he was gorging, and he ordered a serving of lasagne with a side salad and garlic bread. John, who had managed to put away a modest amount of food at the party, asked for a small chef salad and some wine for them both. Once the waiter left, the table felt surprisingly intimate, despite the fact that the nearest group of diners must have been less than six feet away.

"What do you think'll happen to Vale? Dyer, I mean," John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps prison, more likely some sort of institution. I wouldn't be at all surprised if Garvin made some sort of arrangements for him to be tucked away somewhere cushy. He's the sort to get attached."

"Hm, probably. It doesn't quite seem fair, that. Six people, maybe more even, all dead, and the killer will probably live out his days in relative comfort."

"And we sit here in a restaurant while little children in Africa starve. Life isn't fair, John."

"Hm," John replied, and they sat in silence for a few minutes while Sherlock busily deduced the other diners' life histories, or whatever it was he did when he got that look in his eye. The music playing was pleasant and soft, the lighting mellow, and John felt himself start to relax.

"You know," John mused after a while, "I've actually quite enjoyed this evening. Apart from the bit with my windpipe being crushed and a lobby-full of people hating me. And the abusive husband...thing."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "That was more or less the entirety of your evening, John. What else was there?"

"You," John replied, and shit that had sounded like a line from a stupid rom-com. "It was...interesting to see you being Violet, I mean. You pulled it off really well, much better than I could ever have expected."

Sherlock laughed lightly and seemed about to reply, when his eyes narrowed and the 'gaze of deduction' (as John's brain liked to think of it) was suddenly turned on him.

John tensed.

"You know John, I've been wondering why you refused to hit me, or rather, in more general terms, the root of your ethical barriers when it comes to me. You know, most people, when offered the chance to take out a little anger on the person who causes them so much frustration, without any risk of repercussion, would jump at the chance. But you became angry with me once again. Why do you suppose that was?"

"I...because I care about you. I don't like to see you get hurt," John replied, his voice coming out flat.

"Lestrade cares about me. Mycroft cares about me. Mrs Hudson cares about me. And I'm sure they wouldn't hesitate to belt me one if given half a chance. In fact, in two of those cases, I know from experience that they wouldn't."

"Really? Which two?"

"Hardly the point John. I believe there is something more to this situation, and I'd like – ah!"

John looked up to see what had distracted Sherlock and saw the waiter had arrived with their food. Relief swept through him, so much so that he didn't even mind when the huge plate of lasagne was placed in front of him and the modest bowl of salad in front of Sherlock. The waiter gave them another cheeky smile, poured out the wine for them, then left.

"Why did he get the plates wrong?" Sherlock mused, half to himself.

"He assumed that you had the salad because he thinks you're a woman," John explained, swapping the plates over and passing Sherlock his side salad. "Women tend to eat less than men anyway, and pretty women often watch their weight carefully."

Sherlock made a little pfft noise of disdain for those with less vigorous metabolisms and tucked into his food with gusto. John couldn't blame him; even the fairly simple chef's salad was delicious, and the lasagne smelled fantastic. Sherlock stole a slice of boiled egg from John's plate so John retaliated by pinching a bit of garlic bread, and they had a little elbow fight before settling down again.

Their plates were nearly clean when Sherlock, speaking around a mouthful of pasta, announced; "I think I've worked it out, John."

John's nice light meal suddenly felt like lead in his stomach. He put down his cutlery and turned a little in his seat to look Sherlock in the eye.

"The issue at hand is that you found 'Violet' attractive, which you didn't expect. I suppose she fits your type, after all, it shouldn't be too much of a surprise. This confused you somewhat, but it also gave you the opportunity to rationalise and lay to rest a lingering and uncomfortable feeling of attraction you have towards me – don't think I didn't notice – when I am in my normal demeanour. Having taken advantage of this opportunity, you began to feel that, as Violet, I needed to be cared for as you usually care for the women you date, and thus you developed protective feelings. Don't worry about it John, really."

That...John was stunned. Sherlock rarely got things wrong, and when he did it was usually just some little detail. But he'd somehow managed to get this completely ass-backwards. He was half tempted to tell him exactly what the situation was, just to piss him off, but he couldn't. There was no way.

His mouth was open and he had no idea what was about to come out of it, when Sherlock started talking again.

"In any case, I'm sure that you realise harbouring any attraction towards me is...at best silly. While we are sufficiently compatible for our living arrangements to remain advantageous, you'd quickly find yourself frustrated in a romantic relationship. People in such a state invariably seek a balance, and you'd find the disparity in our intellects increasingly frustrating. And really John, I don't think you fully appreciate the degree to which I am intellectually superior to you."

He took another bite of his food, perfectly calm.

John had it in him to get really angry. He could feel it bubbling away in his chest, just waiting for him to give into it and let rip. But he didn't, he squashed it back down.

Because he saw Sherlock clearly right at that moment, possibly more clearly than he ever had done before, and he could see hurt. He could see the people that had come before him, who had befriended Sherlock or maybe even become his lover, who had left him because of their own insecurities and frustrations, just left him all alone with himself when he needed somebody to keep him sane. It was all written there in Sherlock's stiff shoulders, in the exaggerated care with which he cut up the remains of his food. John could see fear.

That just wouldn't fucking do.

Sherlock started talking again, and there was something weak and self-protective in his voice that told John he was right.

"It's not just the intellectual question, of course. I'm younger than you, and taller, and people do try to compensate for these things John, you know it as well as I do. You'd try not to but you'd end up doing something foolish. And you already get cross with me over the way I behave and it...it would only be a matter of time before-"

"I love you," John cut in, and Sherlock's head jerked up, his mouth dropped open, his eyes fixed on John's like he expected to be attacked.

"You are more intelligent than me, vastly moreso, that's true. And you're younger than me, and taller, and let's add better looking to the list too, because you are. And sometimes the things you do and the way you treat people drives me right round the fucking twist, it really does.

"But I don't give a fuck about any of that. I won't leave you, Sherlock. I love you."

Sherlock's mouth was still hanging open, giving John a lovely view of some half chewed ragu, so feeling fearless, he reached over and carefully pushed it shut. Sherlock swallowed convulsively. John smiled at him.

"What...I..." Sherlock grabbed at his water glass like it was a lifeline and took a deep gulp from it. His hand was shaking, rippling the surface, and John gently gripped his wrist, took the glass from him and put it down.

"Do...John, do you mean that?" Sherlock croaked, and suddenly all that fear and pain came up to the surface of him, bright and harshly gleaming in his eyes and his pale face.

John slid his hand up Sherlock's arm from his wrist, up to his shoulder, and held him still.

Leaned in and kissed him.

Not a serious kiss, not a scary-for-emotionally-agitated-people kiss, because god knew neither of them needed that. Just lips on lips, warm and gentle, a soft little 'hello, nice to know you'. Sherlock's lipstick had mostly worn off as he'd eaten, just a hint of tackiness remaining, and that was all that came between those plush, beautiful lips and John's own.

Even if Sherlock freaked out now, or punched him, or brushed him off, that would be enough to make do with.

His hand still lightly gripping Sherlock's shoulder, John sat back in his chair, their faces still close. Sherlock's eyelids were half closed at first, but they quickly snapped open, the eyes themselves suddenly ablaze with curiosity and confusion.

"John, you can't mean..."

"What? What can't I mean?"

"It's just...physical attraction. Surely, it must be just-"

"I won't lie to you, physical attraction is definitely a factor. That's not all of it though."

Sherlock stared at him, baffled and upset, for long moments, and John took pity on him.

"I meant it, Sherlock. I love you. And all that that implies. Even when you're being a dick."

He smiled at his own feeble joke, but Sherlock's face remained strained.

"But John, I...when it's people..." He shook his head, eyes still fixed on John's with something like horror in them. "I just don't understand it. I can't keep up with them John, and I...they..."

John felt a little chill go stright through him, and he reached both arms out to Sherlock, gathered him up when he tried to pull away. Sitting side by side put them almost at eye level with one another, and he took the opportunity to reach up and tuck the side of Sherlock's face against his own.

"It's alright," he said softly. "I'll help you with it all. You know how patient I can be, just let me help you deal with it. If..." Here came the difficult part. "If you want me, you can have me. We'll deal with all the other stuff."

Sherlock's hands had come to rest on either side of John's chest, and as he spoke he felt the long fingers clench into the fabric of his jacket. Uneven breaths huffed against the top of his ear, and he had to force himself not to move, not to tense.

Just let Sherlock work it out.

Long seconds passed in the little bubble that was their corner of the restaurant; waiters walked by, other diner's voices raised in laughter or discussion, and John just stayed still and calm while his best friend worked everything out.

Finally, Sherlock drew back a little and looked John dead in the eye, and heaven help him but John had seen that expression before, just never expected to see it on Sherlock. And this time, neither of them really kissed the other, they just sort of met in the middle.

Arms tight around each other this time, kissing slow and careful, parted lips and polite little dabbing touches of tongues. Then John gave Sherlock's lower lip just the slightest little bite and Sherlock made a little noise into his mouth and it suddenly took two big steps towards foreplay. They both thoroughly enjoyed themselves for a good minute or two, before one of them remembered they were in a crowded restaurant.

John pulled back but kept Sherlock near, still slightly worried that some species of mood swing would strike and the big idiot would panic. They stared at each other, faces so close that John's vision blurred.

"I meant it," John said softly.

Sherlock smiled.

"Aw, quanto carino," their waiter cooed from somewhere nearby, and the bubble popped, snapping them both out of the moment. They each reclaimed their arms and shifted properly into their own chairs once again. They picked up their cutlery and got to work on cleaning their plates.

And all the time, their knees were touching under the table. And all the time, Sherlock didn't stop smiling.

They finished eating and the plates were cleared away and they barely said a word to one another, just smiled and savoured the new turn things had taken, the almost frightening wealth of potential laid out before them. The waiter, beaming as if he were cupid himself, brought them the bill, and John paid then got up and helped Sherlock into his coat.

They held hands on the way out the door.

"We host weddings!" the head waiter called after them as they left, and both of them cracked up laughing in the street.

::

This chapter took me a disproportionately long time to write, probably because I never know how to write a kiss. Or rather, I can sort of manage the more lascivious kisses, but not an innocent first kiss. I'm better at writing porno tongue than church tongue, for those of you who've seen The Wedding Singer. So I hope it reads okay.

Porno tongue is likely to crop up soon though.

The thing the waiter says is, roughly, Italian for 'how cute'. If anyone with a better knowledge of Italian wants to correct me on this though, please go ahead.

The waiter himself is sort of based on an Italian man I was seated next to on a nine hour flight last year. For five of those hours, I slept. For the other four I was on the recieving end of some of the cheekiest, most lascivious and weirdly polite flirting I have ever experienced. Oh flirty Italian chaps, you do a girl's ego good.

Also, to my mind, out of Sherlock's list of three people who care for him yet would punch him, the ones that have actually smacked him one are Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Though that's just my opinion, you may think differently.

And note I have added another chapter, so we're up to 13 total, eventually. That's mostly because this chapter and the previous one were originally going to be one chapter, but I decided to stretch out chapter 10 due to requests for Anderson and Lestrade being stumped.

I'm terribly sorry that there is going to be an extra chapter to endure. I hope you can all forgive me.