A.N. I am properly ashamed of being so late, I swear. The daily prompt challenge in the ACD Holmes verse made me lose track of everything. Imagine me with ash on my head...but I won't commit harakiri at least until I update the last chapter! ;D

Chapter Nineteen: Dinner Date

John leaned against the wall. Too many people walked across the portico they'd chosen to meet in for him to want to obstruct the way. It didn't hurt that his knees going weak at the sight of Sherlock would be inconspicuous, too. John thanked his foresight when his date appeared. Sherlock only lacked a pair of wings to make a convincing angel. "Hello, handsome," he purred, before wincing. "Okay, that was so cliché but…damn, it's true. How many do overs do I get with you?" He laughed nervously.

"I don't know. Normally I would say that I am willing to turn a blind eye to things until you become boring, and then I'll just forget you, but to be honest…I don't want to. Let anything about us slip from my mind." Sherlock shrugged.

"Not even that time I spooked you into sparring?"

"Definitely not." Sherlock answered without needing to think.

John grinned. So he wasn't the only one to consider it a fond memory… "Duly noted. What are you in the mood for tonight?"

"Italian." Sherlock dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. Was he in a mood? Maybe his brother had been annoying?

It was his express duty to cheer the man up, then. "And here I was thinking of a nice little Greek place I've found." At the other's weak glare, John laughed. "Joking. Well, there is a Greek place, but I'm more than down for whatever Italian place takes your fancy."

John wasn't sure where they actually went. He let Sherlock lead him, while his brain was on the lookout for anything entertaining. He grinned, seeing a white-haired man wearing the red hat in the classic portrait of the Duke. "What do you think, immortal? Time traveller?" he asked, elbowing Sherlock and nodding towards him.

His partner rolled his eyes. "Obviously not, unless he opted for nose surgery as soon as possible. Amateur actor. Much more dull. And given that he didn't get rid of the wig or the fake wrinkles—look at his hands, he isn't nearly as old as he pretends—I'm wondering why he did take the fake nose off…or is their production so bad they wouldn't bother with the man's most prominent attribute?"

"Brilliant."

Sherlock flushed, much to the doctor's appreciation.

Minutes later, they found a place they liked, and John announced with a grin that they were on a date. At least nobody would be surprised when he couldn't take his eyes off his companion. Not while they were seated, and not even for the time it took to peruse the menu. He just pointed at something randomly. As soon as their waiter finally left, he asked, "So, which is more fun? Being a consulting detective, or a professional journalist?"

"I wouldn't repeat this in front of my mum, and if you betray me, I'll deny I ever said it," Sherlock replied, "but…Doyle did know how to stave off boredom."

"Your secret is safe with me. I'd like to share one of my own, but to be honest I don't think I can say anything you haven't already deduced. The downside of dating a genius." He giggled.

"You underestimate yourself. There are undiscovered depths to you, or I wouldn't be here," Sherlock said, playing with a small piece of bread.

"You're more than welcome to uncover…I mean, discover everything." John was the one who slipped (it was really an accident), but Sherlock was the one who blushed. Adorable. The doctor couldn't have helped, nor did he want to, the slow smile that spread on his face.

In apparent retaliation, Sherlock let his foot caress the other's ankle. Oh, yes.

John's grin only grew, thrilled with his date's intense scrutiny. He hadn't been sure what his love was up to, but he was open. More than open.

Murphy's law decreed that their waiter picked that exact moment to bring their food. Despite John only moving the minimum necessary not to make things difficult for the poor man, Sherlock stopped flirting at the interruption. When John's foot sought contact again, it didn't find anything. The legs he was searching for were well beyond his reach.

"Tease," said John—apparently to his pasta.

This time, Sherlock was unfazed, his focus apparently on the plate in front of him. Not that John blamed him—the meat roll with herbs smelled delicious. Seeing the man enjoy his food, for once, was sexy in its own right.

John paid attention to his own food, before he made a mess of himself like a kid. The lasagne rolls, filled with minced meat, were covered in sauce. His tongue darted, to make sure nothing dripped from his lips to his shirt.

To his delight, Sherlock immediately imitated him. Sure, the gravy had to be lovely, but…This required an experiment.

At the next bite, he let himself hum in pleasure. He didn't moan, oh no. He just…came close. If anyone asked, his dish definitely deserved it.

Again, Sherlock followed suit. Part of him wanted to see how far they could take this game, but the other part of him reminded John that being thrown out for obscenity wasn't a good ending to a dinner date. Especially what was their first official dinner.

Trying to restrain the exchange to something acceptable, he asked, "A bite for a bite?" He tried to keep his tone as light as possible, but he wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock deduced what he was actually ravenous for.

At Sherlock's nod, John cut up a morsel, offering it with a smile. The sleuth leaned towards him, and accepted it, almost suckling it off the fork. The man's eyes closed, a blissful expression overtaking his features and…No, damn it, John wasn't jealous of food. Of course he wasn't. (He absolutely was, who was he kidding.)

They were both entranced for a moment, but then Sherlock's smoky eyes opened, catching his own before lowering to the plate. Cutting meat was best not done blindly, true, but John missed them already.

It was just a reflex if his mouth dropped open more than strictly necessary for the piece he was offered. He wished he could ignore the food and fork outright and go for Sherlock's fingers, instead. For a start. And then…Bad Watson, no daydreaming at the table.

Oh, no, not bad at all. Whether he'd been deduced, or Sherlock's mind was on a parallel course of his own, the soft sound of pleasure coming from his partner still sounded loud to his ears. And this time, there was no food in Sherlock's mouth to justify it.

John felt briefly proud of his restraint, for not jumping over the table and having his way with the moaning beauty in front of him. He couldn't pretend he had heard nothing, though. "Yes. Whatever you're thinking, yes." He considered not groaning his words to be a victory.

"How can you say that? For all you know, I'm considering something completely disgusting. Or even criminal. You're not a mind-reader." And now, that delightful mouth was pouting. Oh God. John would make a fool of himself before the end of the evening.

He took a breath and replied, "Doctor, so grossing me out is near impossible, really. I'm open-minded, I promise. Criminal? The little bit of crime we've indulged in has been fun, and you don't strike me as the person to purposefully hurt people. Otherwise, with your name and all the jokes, you'd have murdered a number of people already. When I say yes, I mean yes."

"Who says I haven't? You've known me for barely a week." Sherlock's face contorted into something that was supposed to be…what? Threatening? Crazy? Both? To his credit, if he'd pulled this as soon as they'd met, John would have spent more time wondering how he'd sent the man off the deep end. But now, all John could think about was a cub trying to roar like his parents. If this was an attempt to scare him off, the man had forgotten what the former soldier had lived through.

John couldn't even pretend to be scared. Instead, he laughed so loudly that people from at least three other tables glanced at them. Perhaps even more, but he refused to turn around to check tables he couldn't see. Oops. He didn't mean to attract attention, but he couldn't stop giggling either. At Sherlock's frown and darting looks, his laughs dissolved into wheezing, and finally he could say, "We've had this conversation already, remember? Seriously, why is your knee-jerk reaction to pretend you're a serial killer?" If he was being too forward there were simpler ways to get him to behave. Credible ones.

"People usually believe that." Sherlock shrugged minutely.

"The mother of idiots is always pregnant, like the bloke in the room next to mine said when the receptionist gave me the key to his room," John retorted. When either of them caught any other patrons peeking at their table, with a disapproval that looked very much like envy of their joy, their laughter redoubled. "No joke," he continued, as soon as he could speak. "You are a journalist, aren't you? I'm here to be used. Just ask whatever you want to know—whatever you haven't figured out already—whether it is about me, or the army, or even more ways to inflict and repair grievous bodily harm. You were asking Misha about the newest treatments, after all. And of course, ask if there's anything I can do." Conversation—and the subsequent lack of moaning—would improve his sanity. With luck, any false murderous claim would be forgotten. John already had to deal with his own false charges. The newly blossomed consulting detective didn't envy him that, did he?

He'd slipped the Doyle quote in by instinct. God knew that it had served him well with a few past partners, and now it was too perfect not to. How had such blatant flirting between two men not created a scandal back then?

A slight narrowing of grey eyes made him worry he'd offended Sherlock. At least, this time, the man didn't rush away in a huff. Instead, he took a bite, and…were his ears turning red? He had a feeling he wouldn't help his case by exclaiming, "Adorable!"

"We'll keep up the fair exchange, then. A question for a question," Sherlock said. At his nod, he added, "This might seem stupid, but…cats or dogs?"

"Both. I swear, I'm not trying to evade the question. We had dogs with us in Afghanistan, which was funny as hell. They were higher rank than their handlers, you see, for their own protection. There's nothing quite as ridiculous as watching a friend saluting a German Shepherd! They were amazing, though; frankly, they deserved it. As for cats. I do love them, I just wish they loved me back The only times they seem to want to be around is when I'm trying to get something done, though. Which is cats for you, I suppose. I'd just like to be allowed to pay my respects sometimes." John sighed. "I'm rambling again, aren't I?"

"All very interesting, I assure you. Especially your wording. Respects?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, flush gone now, but a provocative half smile on his lips.

John was tempted to kiss it away. Instead, he shrugged. "Well, they're godlings and they know it, so yeah, respects seemed to be the right term."

All teasing gone, Sherlock gave him a delighted grin. His eyes wandered, and John would have given a lot to know what thoughts made him so happy. Probably his partner was just a very cat person—he acted like one often enough—and remembering some cherished feline in his life. So, he asked, "Did or do you have any pets?" Turning the 'I know what you are thinking about' trick on Sherlock Holmes would be an accomplishment to be proud of.

"I wanted one to play with, but apparently our flat wasn't suitable and I couldn't be trusted to take care of anything—gross lie, I'll tell you—so all we got were zebra finches. Not their fault, but obviously I hated them. Uni was a bit chaotic, but I've been considering getting one recently. If the job takes off. Freelance is…"Sherlock waved away the word that wouldn't come to him, settling for, "freelancing. Bit of chaos. And the last thing I want is to have to ask for help."

"That makes sense. Just saying…if you want to, I'd happily help. Walk them, if they need to, or play, feed, whatever. I'm pretty sure I can justify that as therapy, too. And your family doesn't have to know." John swallowed his last bite, and licked his lips.

"As if Mycroft wouldn't find out." Sherlock's gaze lowered to the tablecloth. John might not be a consulting detective, but Sherlock's thoughts were undoubtedly less than happy. His duty as a friend (and hopefully more) was clear.

He signalled to the waiter, and when the man came over, he said, "I've heard some brilliant things about Ascolane olives. Would you mind bringing us a portion to share?" Just in case Gemma's girlfriend was actually trying to upsell them. She was working, after all.

The man nodded and left.

Not even the brief interruption and the reminder of their enthusiastically supportive friends cheered Sherlock up, though. Grey eyes seemed lost far away, whether in time or space…or both. If Sherlock's last sentence was any clue, this was all Mycroft's fault. Damn it. John liked the man—would always be grateful to him—but why did he have to loom over their evening like a paint-dripping cloud? "No. Whatever you're thinking, very much no." John's hand half-moved as if to touch him, stilling for a moment in mid-air before settling back on the table. Better not push his luck, no matter how tempted he was to caress the bad mood out of his date.

"And again, you're acting as if you can read my thoughts. This doesn't really fit you, does it, Watson?" Sherlock snapped his name like an insult.

Was he supposed to be offended? John couldn't help it; he chuckled again. The other's look of anger softened into a befuddled, hazy one John could have got lost in. "I'm sorry, just…Have you read the stories? Watson as a genius mind-reader? Definitely no, and I'll never claim to be one. But Watson as a Holmes-reader? Sure, he'll blunder, especially if he's worried for his companion's health, but he's an expert in Holmes Moods. I thought it was the cohabitation, but maybe a consulting detective's emotions aren't as inscrutable as they both like to pretend."

"What is so transparent, then?" Sherlock crossed his arms.

"That your brother annoys you. And that somehow, my idea of getting British frustrations out of your mind by way of local specialities was a colossal mistake. Sorry…I do say sorry a lot, don't I? But I aim to not repeat it for the same reason. Ideally, at least."

Their waiter came back, with a soft "Enjoy," before quickly retreating. Now they had in front of them a plateful of golden orbs. Yes, John's brain was overly lyrical there. Sherlock's deepened scowl at the interruption didn't justify that at all. In fact, John worried briefly if he should have gone with dessert instead, to sweeten the environment. When his detective was offered one, though, he daintily bit into it, staring for a second, as if checking its contents…before wolfing it down. He even licked John's almost scalded fingers clean of crumbs. Keeping his mind out of the gutter had been difficult enough all evening; right now, John would have considered it easier charging an enemy stronghold with no cover at all.

No moan followed this time, luckily for his peace of mind. When the detective mimicked him once again, John couldn't resist. He took the whole olive in his mouth…and if a good part of Sherlock's finger got suckled too, it was plainly an accident.

With his mouth occupied by bready crunchiness, slightly bitter olive, and soft, meaty deliciousness (in order) Sherlock decided it was his chance to admit what the problem was. "What's wrong is that you agree Mycroft will know about our arrangement."

"In my experience, nosy relatives usually do…and if I know anything about your brother, it's that he's meddlesome." John half-smiled, reaching for another and offering it to his love. Better to avoid an explanation. God knew that he would do his best to keep Sherlock away from his own siblings as long as possible…which might not be that long, once they got back to London. Damn. Sherlock would run the second they opened their big mouths, no doubt. Well, he would follow as he always had.

It was useless to worry in advance anyway. Not when Sherlock offered such a brilliant sight, eyes closed and features relaxed again. In fact, they were almost slack; he looked midway through a pleasant dream.

"Penny for your thoughts?" John's voice was soft, not wanting to disturb such a lovely vision.

Sherlock's eyes opened, his smile spreading even further. "Let's get out of here." He took his share of the leftovers olives and stuffed them all in his mouth. John, never one to back down from a challenge, did the same. If his date wanted to continue their night somewhere else, he was completely in favour of it.

John paid, and in a moment they were outside. The evenings were the best, not as stifling, the world softening to a palette of pastel colours. Damn, had he absorbed some vocabulary from all the artsy people he'd met lately? He was lucky it had remained just a thought. His pals would laugh at his sudden aesthetic ramblings for half an hour at least. And Sherlock…Honestly, who knew. John's uncertainty amplified the other's charm; he always liked being kept on his toes.

"So…tomorrow it's back to London," he said aloud instead, his fingers finding Sherlock's. This was starting to become a habit; one that John had no intention of ever giving up, if fate allowed it. And fate itself better be prepared for a fight, if it tried.

Sherlock didn't reply. Not that he had to; slowing down was enough of a clue. John considered surprising him by voicing what he suspected were the man's thoughts. Yes, I wish we could stay longer too. Yes, I love it here too—so much. Yes, I want us to wander into a fairy ring (were there any in Italy? He had no idea) and have this evening stretch for a hundred years or so.

Before he could choose his words, Sherlock nodded, almost coming to a standstill. It seemed he was still struggling with something. Why? Oh. Perhaps Some things needed to be said. John should have known better.

He looked up at Sherlock with his most earnest expression, his hand carefully slipping away from his partner's. He hated to break their connection, but needed Sherlock to understand that this was a conscious, personal choice. One that hopefully would be answered in kind. "Whether our pet project goes on or not, we're still going to see each other, aren't we? No matter who meddles?"

Sherlock could say no. He could avoid further contact. No more John Watson messing up his life, or exposing him to being mocked and manipulated by siblings. However grateful John was to Mycroft for this chance, any progress had to be their own.

"Of course we are. Don't be obtuse." There was no doubt at all in Sherlock's words, nor in the way he clutched John's hand in his own again.

"Just checking." John grinned, and caught himself staring entrancedly at the other's lips. In his defence, they were right in his line of sight.

Still, he didn't expect Sherlock leaning into him, or kissing him out of the blue. It tasted heavy and warm and…John lost himself in it, fully enjoying being plundered, at first. A short first.
He had to show he was a lover worth keeping, after all, and being unresponsive would insult them both. Soon his tongue was sparring with Sherlock's, teasing, promising. He found himself slowly taking control of the kiss. Sherlock's eyes fell closed as he thoroughly enjoyed welcoming his partner in turn. John was still watching—he would watch forever, if allowed.

Eventually, they were forced to part for air. A breath, and John exhaled loudly, "Wow. Not sure what I've done, but I'd like to do it again."

"You kissed me," Sherlock deadpanned.

John chuckled, and wanted to kiss him all over again. "Yeah, but you started it. And I'd like to prompt you into it again." He half expected a snarky answer.

Instead, a sparkling-eyed Sherlock replied, "I'll have to keep my reactions consistent, then. I'm sure you will deduce it eventually. Holmes expert, right?"

"John Watson. Aiming to be." John saluted him. He didn't even realise until after he'd done so, but he didn't regret it. Reporting for duty—and this? This was a pleasure, of course, but also a duty, in a way. Too many people had misunderstood the brilliant man in front of him, if Sherlock found necessary to act as he did.