Dinner conversation becomes food for the soul.

"Why do you do that?"

The fork freezes. "Hmm?"

He nods pointedly at the plate. "That."

"What, use a knife?" He slices another hunk of chicken off and slips it between his lips, raising his eyebrows. "Old habits, you know. Surgical residency." A wink, the jaw working around.

Lips purse.

"Oh, no, you mean…eat carbs?" He twirls a spindle of noodles. "Sherlock, are you saying I need to watch my weight?" An exaggerated pout before he strips the fork clean with his teeth.

He leans against the table's edge with his forearms, fork poised between two fingers. "I have spent many meals across from you, John. I've seen how you approach your dinner."

Mock surprise. "Sherlock Holmes has been dissecting again?" The back of a hand goes dramatically to the forehead. "Whatever shall I do?"

A small smile, letting the humor roll by. His voice quiets. "Seriously, John. I want to know."

He pauses, then sighs. "Ok. Out with it."

Sherlock scoots closer, sitting higher over the table as he speaks, his deductive fervor overtaking him. "Typically, you devour meals directionally, left to right across the plate. Proteins, starches, all of it. What you don't like you push to the right lower quadrant, as if you want to hide it beneath your arm, maybe because you were expected to clean your plate as a child, but given your fit build and the innate kindness with which you live every day, it's more likely that you're simply being polite."

John puts down his utensils, resting his chin on folded hands. "My but you've done your homework." Quiet, but tinged with the same admiration he's felt from the start.

He directs his intense gaze fully to John's face. "But in the last month, you've started to disseminate your main course first, carving exactly three small bites and pushing them to the top of your plate, away from you. You do not eat these, except if they are left at the end, after everything else has been picked clean."

He takes a swig of beer and waits.

"It cannot be related to the food type. You've exhibited this behavior in 21 of the last 26 meals we have shared, all of varying origins. And curiously, when you invited Mrs. Hudson up for a plate of fish the night I was held up at the Boyer deposition, you did not do this. I entered roughly fifteen minutes after you had started to dine, judging from the condensation on your glasses, and you had reverted to your typical left to right pattern."

"That all?"

Bright eyes probe his face. "Isn't that enough?"

He takes up his fork again, stabbing absently at the center of his plate, a curious smile curling his mouth. "Apparently not, since your mystery seems unsolved."

With his left hand, he slaps at his hair, pushing it from his forehead, eyes searching a middle distance only he can see. His right hand, still gripping his fork, sinks into one of the reserved hunks of food at the rim of John's plate. He chews slowly, one bite after another, head shaking as he dismisses theory after theory. One part of his mind registers the taste, and he comments vaguely, "Nice. Tender, that."

John clears his throat. "Cracked the case yet, Detective?"

Startled, his hands drop to his lap. "No."

"Missing a few clues?"

"Apparently."

He gestures to his plate. "So am I."

Sherlock stares at it, hard. His eyes move to John's, digesting the soft smile and the amusement that crinkles the edges of his face.

"You told me once that the first bites of a meal are the best, that a person's enjoyment dissipates after the third bite." He tilts his head. "Now why would I choose not to eat what is, theoretically speaking, the best part of my very own meal?" The index finger taps the bottom lip. "Hmmm…That's a tough one."

Sherlock tries to respond. But his jaw, loose in its hinges, won't cooperate.

Eyes widen. "Sherlock Holmes stumped and speechless?" He cranes his neck around. "God, where's my laptop? This needs a full page in the blog!"

"So that's…you mean, all of it…it was only for…"

"Yes?"

"…me?"

"Now he's got it!" John pats his fingertips together in mock applause. "Well, you're such a bloody snarf. You pretend you aren't, with that 'just transport' line and you're ridiculous metabolism, but that fork seems to land on my plate as much as your own. I figured resistance was futile." His tone is light, teasing, but his eyes have turned a warmer shade of blue. He draws a crooked smile, then drops his head, brushes at a few nonexistent crumbs on the table's edge.

Sherlock still stares, unmoving.

Finally, John laughs, cheeks pink. "Stop it! What is the matter with you?"

Abruptly, he slides from his stool, fork clattering onto the table top. He clutches his arms around John, lifting him off his seat, crushing him in a hug. His fists grab bundles of his shirt, and he squeezes tighter. He buries his nose into the crux of John's neck, swallowing hard at the lump that constricts his throat.

John's eyes fly open. He wraps his arms around Sherlock, gently stroking up and down his back with both hands. His smile fades. "Hey, you all right? What's happened? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Broken and muffled by the skin of John's neck.

John cards his fingers through the thick curls and coaxes the head up so he can see the eyes, dark and edged with what he could only label as bewilderment. "Tell me. Please."

Sherlock draws his lips into a thin line, eyes slipping closed. He breathes in and out through his nose for several beats. "No one surprises me, John. No one. Ever. It's as if I can see all their thoughts with how transparent their actions are, how predictable their motivations. And the most predictable part for all of them is the selfishness—no one acts without the assured promise of personal reward."

John nods abstractly, softly kneading the muscles at the small of Sherlock's back.

Strong hands suddenly grip John's shoulders. "You're the only person I've ever encountered who breaks that pattern. You deliberately do things for others at the cost of your own comfort. It is actually your natural instinct. Do you have any idea how rare that is? And you do this with no obligation to do so; you never call attention to it nor expect it to be returned. All you think about is—"

"You."

Sherlock's eyes dampen and he sucks in a breath, voice thinning. "And that's the strangest part." His face tenses, a cringe. "Why? Why me?"

"Why not you?"

"None of it makes any sense." Eyes drop to the floor.

John centers his hands around the taut waist. "Listen, Sherlock, you're not the only one who finds people depressingly predictable."

Eyes snap up, brows knitting together.

"At one point in my life, I was drowning in it. Went half way around the world to pull myself out of it, and just ended right back where I'd started." A light squeeze. "Until I met you. You break every convention that's ever been stuffed in my face. With you, there's no map, no guide rails. Since I've moved in here, I've not had a 'typical day.' And thank God. Most people bore the piss out of me."

Sherlock's head tilts; his eyes rove over John's face, as if he is not quite sure he's hearing correctly and has to read his lips to make sure he's not mistaken.

He gives a lopsided grin. "Why you? No one else comes close. You're it."

Hands curl again into the fabric of the plaid shirt, working it through his fingers, the certainty and solidity of it, a quiet reality test. "I see." It's a brainless reply, but all he can muster.

John's fingertips brush his cheek. "Probably not—not yet, anyway. But you will, in time."

They sink back onto the stools and pick silently at the remains of their dinner. John drains his bottle. Minutes pass, then Sherlock looks up at him. "Truthfully, I never thought I'd ever find it."

"What's that?"

"Someone who would feel love because of me, not despite me."

That stabs his heart. A sharp nod, and he reaches out and grabs Sherlock's hand. Throat clears, voice gravelly. "Same."