Ella the Therapist always told John that he needed to be more in touch with his emotions. She recommended meditation or writing or just taking a couple of minutes to just sit and think about where he is mentally and spiritually. Whenever he tried those things, he found that the only emotion he was getting in touch with was a massive, crushing boredom.

But that wasn't the case now. John felt very much in touch with emotions. There were about... thirty of them, currently. Most of them were directed towards the brilliant, insane, possibly psychotic man sitting across the table from him. They all seemed to be varying shades of confusion, shock and .

"Basically, you brought me to a murder investigation as... a first date?" John asked incredulously over his gargantuan plate of lasagna. The owner of Angelo's, unsurprisingly named Angelo, was very eager to please. Perhaps a little too eager. He had kicked out another couple so they could have the window seat, repeatedly congratulated Sherlock for his 'fine catch' and was half a second away from hiring a violinist to 'set the mood' when Sherlock politely suggested that he piss off. It was... a bit awkward to say the least, considering John wasn't aware a romantic involvement was a part of the agreement (if they even had an agreement) and he wasn't even sure if he was into men, let alone vampires. But hey, the lasagna was excellent.

Sherlock grimaced at the wording of the question, as if the word 'date' physically injured him. "Dating is for mortals. I would never bother with anything so... frivolous."

"So what is this, exactly? Because I am... utterly lost."

The vampire hid behind a menu that John knew for a fact that he wasn't reading. The army doctor smirked around a mouthful of pasta. "I figured that..." Sherlock spoke slowly, choosing every word carefully. "since I got a taste of your life, it was only fair that you got a taste of mine."

"Oh. I get it now. All this business with the murder and the breakfast banquet and the... coat is you-"

"-my life, yes." He interrupted confidently, letting the menu fall to the table.

"... I was going to say 'you showing off'." John finished, stifling a smile when Sherlock mouthed an embarrassed 'oh' and suddenly became very interested in the menu. Again.

After a few minutes, he seemed to recover his confidence and leaned back in his chair, searching through his phone with all the leisurely elegance of a marble sculpture. "Don't gorge yourself, you'll want your wits about you. The day isn't over yet."

John paused as he sliced off another chunk of lasagna, the layers of soft pasta and thick sauce suddenly looking all too much like flayed skin. He pushed the plate aside and turned his attention to Sherlock. "What do you mean?" He prompted.

Sherlock's phone disappeared into a pocket as he leaned over the table. "Don't you find it a bit suspicious that most of the blood was still wet when we arrived?" His voice was low and quiet. John didn't hear him speak, so much as feel it vibrating through his skin.

"I... didn't really notice."

"Of course not. You're only human." He grinned, preening like an immortal cockatiel. "It takes roughly 1-2 hours for blood in that volume to dry completely, which means we arrived within the hour of her death. That makes it very possible that the killer alerted the police herself as soon as she was finished with her victim. She's proud, arrogant. She wants her work to be seen."

John gaped. "Tha- that means... She might still be in the area. She can't have gone very far in that amount of time." Suddenly, it felt very wrong to be sitting around chatting. He shoved his chair away from the table and began to stand, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

"John. Sit down." It was more of a suggestion than a command. But it was the kind of suggestion one gave to someone about to step on a bomb. John complied. "You not seriously planning on just wandering the streets looking for some faceless, nameless woman, are you?" Sherlock looked amused, in a exasperated sort of way.

"... It seems better than just sitting around, yeah. Why, have you got a better idea?"

"Yes, if you'd just listen!" He hissed, baring his teeth with irritation.

"I'm all ears!"

"Good!" Sherlock collected himself with a sigh, scanning the rest of the room for signs of disturbance. "She was watching us at the crime scene. I couldn't be sure where, but I could smell fresh adrenaline in the air. I couldn't risk calling attention to her and driving her away, so I set a trap. Besides, it's more interesting this way."

"The praise. You praised her work so she'd follow us."

Sherlock didn't answer, only smiled approvingly at how quickly he caught on. "She'll need some time to change her clothes and google the address. I estimate... oh half an hour?"

"We're going to meet a murderer in half an hour." John tried very hard to be horrified. Terrified. Anything other that excited like a ten-year-old about to see disneyland.

"I doubt she'll come up to our table and introduce herself. She has gotten away with this before, after all." Sherlock caught the attention of a waiter and ordered a glass of wine. Red, with way too many syllables for John's budget. He nudged John's plate. "Eat. But slowly. We need to look like we're not waiting for her."

"Alright." John picked up his fork and picked at a fragment of pasta.

A glass of wine materialized on the table. "A little idle conversation might help also." He mumbled over the rim of the glass.

"So… how long have you been a vampire?" John asked the first thing that came to mind. It wasn't exactly the best choice for an attempt to act normal. But it was something.

Sherlock blinked. His mouth opened. "Roughly… 170 years?" He seemed just about as comfortable as a man trying to answer the question 'Why do you have a live animal in your rectum?'

"Oh. Wow. So how does that… happen exactly?" Sherlock didn't look any less confused. "How did you become a vampire?"

"I was born." Sherlock answered, fairly confident in his answer. "How else would one become a vampire?"

John lifted a bite of lasagna to his mouth, to give it something to do while he tried to think of something that wouldn't make him look like a total idiot. "Uhm.. Biting?"

Realization spread across Sherlock's face. "Oh. You've been reading those idiotic stories." He smirked, lifting his glass. "Do yourself a favor and don't assume to know anything about us. Vampirism isn't a virus, so much as a subspecies. All of those stories are ju-" He froze mid-sentence

"What? What is it?" John asked, although he suspected that he already knew the answer.

Sherlock grinned. "She's here. Act natural, but get ready to run."