A/N So, this is my least favorite chapter of the lot, but the second half of the story starts after this, and I like it a lot more than the first, so yes.^^ If you bear with me here, you can reach the bits that I actually like, and then we'll all be happy, right? :D As always, reviewed are greatly appreciated!

Thanks to NerdiePie

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

[5/10]

Sherlock's phone was ringing.

He hesitated, hand hovering over the device, wondering whether he ought to ignore it. Anyone who knew him well enough to have something important to say, after all, would know that texting was his much preferred method of communication. Well, unless it was urgent. His eyes flickered over the caller ID number. Lestrade. Well... it could be something. Half-reluctantly, he brought it to his ear.

"What?"

"I need to ask you a favor."

He settled farther back into his chair, legs stretching out in front of him as he laced his fingers together, holding the phone in place with his shoulders. "A favor," he repeated monotonously, watching light patterns from the windows dance over the fabric of John's empty chair.

"Yes, and please take me seriously here. My wife- okay- she's decided that she has to have some sort of dinner party tonight, and has demanded that I invite my 'friends from work.' Everyone's busy, so I was wondering if-"

"No." The very idea was ridiculous, Sherlock thought, annoyed. Lestrade had called him to invite him to a dinner party? How could he possibly imagine that such an invitation would be accepted?

"Please, Sherlock."

The DI was begging, which Sherlock found rather amusing in and of itself. "Why should I?"

"Because- think about John," the voice from the other end offered desperately.

"John? John has nothing to do with this. He's at his girlfriend's funeral right now, I doubt he's in the mood for a dinner party."

"It would be good, don't you think? To distract him? He needs to get out more. It'll work out fine, just... please?"

"You want me," Sherlock began slowly, "to bring myself and my depressed flat mate to your place for a dinner party."

"Yes, I know it sounds ridiculous, but-"

"He'll be a wreck. You do realize that, right?"

"Are you saying you'll come?"

"Of course not, " he growled.

"I'll- look- there's a case," Lestrade tries, "that I didn't tell you about because I thought it would be below you. Not murder or anything, but to be honest, it has us baffled. And if you're really bored, well, I might be willing to tell you if you come along."

"You really are frantic, aren't you?"

"Please, Sherlock. Do it for John?"

"Why would I do it for anyone?" he asked disgustedly.

"Well... I just thought..."

Lestrade started babbling about something then, but his earlier words were echoing in Sherlock's mind. Do if for John. His flatmate probably would like to get out, even if he denied it. Such a venture would be good for him. Maybe... whatever he said, John's wellness was a concern for him. Just one little supper... it would be over soon, right? He could probably suffer through it. It would be worth the irritation, if it had the desired effect on John.

Anything to help him, right?

"Address?" he cut in.

"I- what?"

"I asked for your address. It's not that complicated of a request, you know."

"Right- okay- so... are you saying you'll come?"

"No, I'm asking for your address. Just give it to me already," Sherlock sighed, unwinding his fingers and gripping the phone in his hand again. This call was stretching on a good deal longer than he considered strictly necessary.

The address was provided, as well as a time at which he would be expected to arrive. Lestrade was obviously a bit overeager. He went on to mutter a quick "good," his finger already positioned over the end call button.

"So... are you coming or aren't you?"

"We might. Don't get your hopes up, we'll just have to see."

"Can you just give a straight answer for once?"

He considered this for half a moment. "Yes," he finally decided, then pressed down, cutting off the connection.

"We're going to the Lestrades' for supper," Sherlock announced, leaning around the corner of the wall from the kitchen.

John wasn't sure if he'd heard right. It was a typical thing for him to be assaulted with some declaration or other immediately after entering the room, but this was a bit of an extreme. After coming back from a funeral- a funeral for his girlfriend- he was informed by his sociopath of a flat mate that they were going to a work friend's house for the night. It wasn't a question, not an offer, just a statement of fact.

There had to be something illegal about such an infuriating situation.

Of course, even if there was, it wasn't likely to have an effect on Sherlock.

"What makes you say that?" John asked evenly, staying in the doorway rather than making any sort of move towards sitting down. For some odd reason, the words actually came out easier. His mind seemed somewhat clearer of unbearable grief when he was around Sherlock, and the... the funeral had been... closing, in a way. The goal, his goal of moving on seemed much more reachable all of a sudden.

"He called asking if we would come, I said yes. We're going. In an hour. Best start getting ready."

"And it never once occurred to you that maybe I'd disagree."

"Of course not. Why should it?"

It wasn't like John didn't ever refuse to do the things Sherlock insisted he did. He'd ended up staying behind before. Like the time... that...

Well, everything has a first time, he thought somewhat indignantly.

Still, he could already tell that this wouldn't be it. Going to the Lestrade house didn't actually sound all that bad, somehow. Oddly enough, the funeral had... refreshed him. He felt better than he had in a good while, perhaps even since before the freezer. And socializing would probably serve to help even more. There really was no reason to say no unless he wanted to be left alone at the flat as it got dark out, left to fend for himself until who knows how late...

"Fine," he grumbled.

"An hour," Sherlock repeated, then returned to the kitchen and whatever bad-smelling experiment was presently housed there.

"Thanks again," was the first thing Lestrade said when the door opened.

Sherlock grunted in response, standing up rather stiffly. He was already regretting the decision to come here, though John beside him seemed enthusiastic enough, as these things went. Just over the DI's shoulder he could see one little toddler, a girl with ridiculously curly hair, peering curiously and almost nervously at him. Children. Of course. Well, it was only to be expected- he knew that Lestrade practically had a zoo running at home- but still. The thought of one of them attempting an abysmal activity such as, say, clinging to his leg made him draw his coat impossibly tighter.

Of course, he had to take it off moments later.

Soon enough, they were seated in the living room, which was covered rather excessively with what he identified as Swedish decor. It was an extremely... homey place. Mrs. Lestrade was also pleasant enough, comfortably plump with an embroidered, lace rimmed apron and graying hair held back in a bun. The very image of a bright-cheeked, bustling housewife.

The kids, on the other hand, were a bit... stickier. The five of them, who actually lined up in descending order of height (and presumably age) when introduced had names that Sherlock quickly lost immediate track of, though he was sure he could remember who was who if he tried. There were three girls and two boys, the oldest being fifteen and the youngest four. Mary, Alfrerd, Abby, Thomas, and Dorothy. The whole thing came together as an image of the perfect family, almost too much so for it to seem real. Was this what other people were like? All happy, perfectly aligned...

John looked happy, actually smiling and laughing for the first time that Sherlock could remember since the freezer encounter. It made him feel... well... good, sort of. Relieved. Yes, relieved, to know that there was a part of the man he was used to who could still enjoy himself at least somewhat.

He'd still be able to pull through.

Eventually.

Still, one small spark of hope didn't make it any less tedious and, well, painful to sit on the edge of the floral-pattered couch, listening to the tick of the antique clock and wishing that it could just run a little faster. Already, it felt like they had been sitting there for eternity, and food hadn't even been served yet, nor were the hosts making any move towards such an action. Hell, the other three and even the midgets were conversing freely, and he couldn't help but feel like they wouldn't even notice if he were to randomly disappear from the room. Maybe he could sneak out somehow. The notion was ridiculous, and he couldn't entertain it realistically, but even he was allowed fantasies.

The cats didn't make things any better.

There were two of them, one calico and one tabby, both with fur that seemed to get absolutely everywhere. Even John, who Sherlock knew not to be much of a cat person, seemed enraptured by the apparently "adorable" creatures. Personally, Sherlock found them unnecessarily mewy and generally irritating, but, well, he'd never liked animals in general all that much. They didn't serve much purpose, or so it seemed to him. Other than generally making things even worse than they already were and getting fur all over his pants. Really, he couldn't bring himself to understand what was so great about the animals.

Dinner couldn't have come soon enough, and when it did, it was something of a relief, to know that time indeed was passing and they weren't simply stuck in some sort of unending loop of kids and cats and too-loud laughter. Sherlock, at this point, felt just about ready to hurl. This familial atmosphere was getting to him. Normally, he'd entertain himself with observing and deducing any sort of secrets hidden among parents and children, but there was, quite literally, nothing here. They all seemed to be completely honest with each other, which was near-unbearable.

It would be over soon, though. It would have to be. Or else he might go absolutely insane.

Mrs. Lestrade was a fantastic cook. In fact, the couple- and their offspring- generally seemed to be great people to be around. Sherlock didn't seem to be enjoying himself, but that was only to be expected, of course. John was happy here, actually happy, and that was... well, wonderful. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to smile. But here, surrounded by friendly people, great food, and overall cozy atmosphere, he could get near imagining that nothing had changed between now and two months ago, even get close to comprehending the fact that things could pick up again, that he could return to a... well, livable state of life.

It was nice to think that.

But of course things couldn't last.

It started so innocently. Well, he supposed later on, the whole thing was innocent. Almost pathetically so. It was sad, really, that such a lighthearted conversation could turn so sour.

Of all things, they were talking about bacon.

Apparently, Mrs. Lestrade loved it quite a bit. "Makes it every morning," as little Abby declared excitedly. "From the package with the red cow."

Rows and rows of them, frozen stacks, all with that same image... that red, bright red cow silhouette...

"I bet it's good," he managed to get out, trying to ignore the sudden awful drop of his stomach. Clearly, the bacon that the girl was talking about had come from the very same Davidston Farms at which had occurred so much... tragedy sounded fake, exaggerated. Misery. Horror. Yes, horror. At which so much horror had occurred. Absolute, hellish horror.

Don't think about it. Don't think about it.

"Abby," Lestrade began, a bit of anxiety leaking into his voice. John stared hard at the tablecloth, noting how, when subjected to such intense a look, it seemed almost to undulate before his eyes.

"From some other place now, though. Because the last package Mummy got from the red cow..." The little girl reached over to spoon more potatoes into her bowl, little arm trembling under the weight of the long serving spoon. "It had blood on it." Her little nose wrinkled. "Really yucky."