'1 day left.' That was the first thing that came into John's head the second he awoke. He grumbled into his pillow that was soaked with body heat. "Shit."

Melodic music filled the lounge of 221B. "Morning." John's voice was thick with sleep. The raven-haired man was stood in front of the window; he focused intently on the stand which held his sheet music. Despite his deep concentration, the melody came effortlessly. The music however, was interrupted when Sherlock turned to face John. "John, I'm glad to see you've had a more restful sleep."

"So am I." John smiled weakly.

"Have you packed yet?" John suddenly paused; memories of the night before flooded back to him as his consciousness continued to heighten.

"I didn't go to bed last night."

"Indeed," Sherlock confirmed, "you didn't."

"Why did I wake up in my bed then?"

"Because I put you there." Sherlock answered nonchalantly. "You fell asleep when we were watching television; after discovering that you were an incredibly heavy sleeper, I decided to carry you up. The whole situation was a bit risky though."

"How so?" John asked, slightly embarrassed.

"I walked down and found Mrs Hudson in our fridge, well, not in our fridge but..." John smiled at the detective's choice of words. He couldn't help but think of the severed head that was in there at the moment. "She was taking back the jam that you apparently borrowed."

"And that was risky because...?"

"If I had decided to take you up a few minutes later, or if she came in a few minutes earlier," Sherlock tried to suppress his smile of amusement, "she would have found us snuggled up on the armchair, with you snoring in between my legs-"

"I don't snore." John interjected.

"You do."

"I don't."

"I believe you do, John."

Instead of defending himself, the doctor just simply gave Sherlock an apologetic smile, to which he chuckled. "Don't worry, it's cute."

"Cute? Sherlock, I'm an army doctor, I've been wounded in Afghanistan, I've killed people. I am not cute." Despite his words, John could feel a blush creeping up his neck.

"Have you finished packing yet?" Sherlock asked again. John sighed and shook his head.

"I plan on doing it this evening."

"Isn't it more logical to do it now and get it over and done with? That way you won't stress about it for the whole day."

"I suppose so," John shrugged as he turned towards the kitchen. "Tea?"

"I'd love some."

John decided to take the detective's advice. After handing Sherlock his tea, he slowly trudged up the stairs. His mug in his hand swayed as he climbed each step, causing tea to trickle down the side of the mug. John dreaded it; packing. It was so mundane. It was so tedious, and yet, it was also so stressful.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was reading a book as he sat in his armchair: 'Top Ten Infamous Serial Killers'. Every now and then, a faint smile of amusement grew across his lips; not because of the brilliant techniques of the cunning killers, but because he heard John crashing around upstairs, occasionally cursing when weighing his suitcase, only to find that it was too heavy. It took 35 minutes of John's anger before Sherlock began to find himself becoming frustrated. He dropped his book into his lap and reclined back into his chair. He closed his eyes and tried to tune out the noise.

"Do you know what's wrong with him, Sherlock?" He opened his eyes to find Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway; she too, looked rather agitated.

"He's packing." Sherlock interjected.

"Packing? For what?"

"He's going to Ireland tomorrow to teach medical students for a month." The detective couldn't be more relieved that he was a remarkable actor, for his emotions would have revealed his pain.

"Oh!" Mrs Hudson appeared to be delighted. "How nice! This will open a lot more doors for him!"

His acting skills failed him. He was filled with horror. "Yes. It will won't it?" Sherlock tried his best to mask his face with enthusiasm.

"Were you actually planning on telling me then?"

"Apologies." The detective forced a fake smile. "It's all been a bit hectic, he only found out about it yesterday."

"Awww, the poor thing. I hate packing too. It must be so stressful for him, especially considering its last minute." As if on cue to the landlady's statement, there was another crash from upstairs. Then there was a pause; it became silent. Sherlock hoped it wasn't so quiet that his heart palpitations (that had just kicked in) could be heard.

"Hmmm." The landlady finally broke the silence. "I think I'll make him a cuppa. Would you like one, Sherlock?" The man gave an abrupt nod in response before she left the room. It was like she never left though; her voice was as clear as a bell as her all too true statement fluttered over and over in Sherlock's mind. His panic was induced with every lap that the sentence made around his brain. 'This can open a lot more doors for him!" He despised the optimistic tone of voice which came with those words. Sherlock waited; deep breaths came from his lips as he tried to compose himself. Since when did he get heart palpitations? He glanced at his watch: 12:17 PM. John had been silent for 4 minutes. "He's tiring." he said to himself, a weak smile on his mouth. Swiftly exiting the room, the detective made his way up the stairs...

John heard 3 brief knocks on his dark wooden door. "Come in." His fatigued voice revealed his frustration. He endeavoured to hide the grin on his face when he saw a tall, pale and familiar figure in his doorway.

"Nearly done?" Sherlock asked.

"Nearly," John sighed. "I'm 4 kilograms over the limit though."

"4 kilos?"

"Unfortunately."

"Does that make you the girl in our relationship then?" Sherlock smirked, as did John.

"Hey," The blond objected. "You need a lot of things for a month."

"Hmmm...okay" They both knew that Sherlock didn't agree.

"Just because you wear the same type of thin clothing every day doesn't mean everyone else does, you need a lot of things for a month." John repeated.

"Your case is only over the limit because you've packed so many jumpers." The detective gestured towards the suitcase which was overflowing with woollen jumpers. John had no defence for his companions statement.

"Yeah I know." He grumbled.

"I mean for god's sake, wear one, wash it, wear it again." Sherlock sat himself on John's bed, beside another mountain of jumpers. He smiled. "Here's what I propose." He caught the doctor's attention. "It's now..." He looked at his watch. "12:23, I believe we should go for lunch. Afterwards, we go out."

"Go out where?"

"Anywhere. And then we come back and I will help you pack."

"What happened to getting it over and done with?"

"What happened to making up for the time you will be gone?" Sherlock smiled.

"A valid point." John grinned as he got up and pulled his coat from the hook of his door. "Let's go."

Soft sunlight danced off of the window's of Angelo's . As the couple approached the restaurant, they saw Angelo's gleeful face in the window before the door swung open moments later. "Sherlock!" The man pulled him into a hug. "I haven't seen you in ages!" He glanced at John and his smile grew. "I see you've bought your date."

"I'm not his-" John stopped himself as he thought it through; he didn't know how to react. Yes, he was indeed Sherlock's date, but they were keeping their relationship secret; they were playing a game. He regretted cutting off his sentence almost immediately though, as he realised that his pause had just revealed their relationship to Angelo. He felt guilty, Sherlock wanted to play a game, he wanted to keep themselves secret. Had he lost? He looked up at Sherlock, a smile was at the corner of his mouth. Shit.

"Everything for you and your date is free, as always." He winked at John, who was mentally kicking himself for his little slip up. Angelo clearly liked it though, it was clear as crystal by his ever-growing smile. He believed they were together ever since day one though; because of that, the fact that he knew about their relationship was not a huge issue for the deducing duo. Sherlock took Angelo's knowledge to his advantage and guided John into the restaurant, his hand at the small of his back. Thankfully, the building was extremely quiet and nobody even looked up at the couple. As they walked, their bodies were centimetres apart. Angelo overtook them and guided them to a dark corner. He grabbed a candle off of a nearby shelf on his way. Shadows engulfed the surroundings, making it almost seem like it was night; but as Angelo lit the candle, the shadows dissolved and replacing them, was a warm glow which caressed the table. The golden light sparkled on empty wine glasses that were rested on the tablecloth.

"The usual?" He asked.

"Please." Sherlock answered as he placed his coat on the back of his chair.

"Don't worry, you haven't lost." Sherlock broke the silence when Angelo practically skipped away.

"How?" John asked confused. "I gave us away."

"You lose the game when you give into temptation." The detective winked. "And let's be honest, Angelo knew about us before we even did." John laughed at Sherlock's statement before the man they spoke of returned with plates in his hands. Spaghetti bolognaise was placed in front of John as Sherlock was given a light salad. Angelo just stood there, clearly gleeful on his knowledge that his ship had become canon. He wanted to witness every single event between the two but Sherlock tried his best to dismiss him politely. "That will be it...thank you"

"Enjoy." He smiled as he slowly walked away, glancing behind his shoulder every few seonds.

Silence filled the air; it was unusually awkward for John. He looked up at Sherlock, his food was pushed aside and his chin was rested on his hands. He appeared to be taking in John's every feature, his every movement. The blond found it difficult to look up at Sherlock as he felt exposed under the man's observant eyes. He drew his attention to his food by twirling the spaghetti around his fork, over and over again, still avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

"Look at me John." The doctor obeyed; it was surprisingly easier than he expected; and once he looked up, he instantly regretted avoiding the man's eyes. His regular cold eyes that he normally saw were surprisingly warm; his icy irises had melted into warm pools of light blue liquid. The liquid flooded into his eyes. Sherlock Holmes was tearing up. Naturally, John was immediately concerned. "Sherlock, what's wrong? Are you ok-"

"Don't go, John."