John often wanted to question Sherlock's sources and contacts, but knew it'd be hopeless. He'd dealt with the Home-less Network, the former acquaintances from Sherlock's life, and even the posh wankers that seemed to flock towards his friend.

John would have liked to ask about that girl, Quinn, but knew it'd be pointless at this time and would have to remind himself to ask about her later on. But this.. a club that a guy like Sherlock had no - or rather, should have no - business in, being friendly with the bartender, who was now handing over a package that looked very stereotypically ominous. It was wrapped in brown paper and accented with paper ribbon. The package reminded John of old movies where people were sent dismembered body parts or a bomb.

Sherlock gave a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Stephen. You've been most helpful."

"Anything for you, Sherlock."

"Why?" John asked. "Why anything for Sherlock? What'd he do for you; get you off a murder-charge? Keep criminals out of this club? Incriminate someone else for you?"

"John-" Sherlock started.

"No, Sherlock. We meet one contact of yours after another and I don't get to understand how you know any of them? Don't be a prat."

Sherlock sighed. "John. This isn't the place for this conversation. I'll tell you what you want to know when we get back to the flat."

"Sherlock-"

"Anything you want to know, John. Just, please, wait until we're back at the flat."

John huffed. "Fine."

A smug smile threatened to form onto Sherlock's face, but instead there was a quick quirk in the corner of his mouth. "Excellent!" Sherlock pulled out his wallet and gave this man, Stephen, a large note for his troubles.

"'Til next time, Sherlock."

The detective gave a nod and went on his way towards the main entrance.

The closer they got to the doors, the more something nagged at John.

"Hang on," John called over the music, grabbing Sherlock's arm to have him stop. "I'll meet you outside. I have to do something first. Just go get us a cab, and for God's sake, Sherlock, if he seems the murder type, don't get in the damned thing again."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued walking out the door. John turned and made his way through the crowd of dancing people and to the woman, Quinn, who was still perched in her seat.

"Hello, again," he said.

"Oh, hello, John."

"I was wondering if I could get your number. I mean - I'm not hitting on you. Not that you're not someone worth hitting on.. I just.."

"It's alright," Quinn laughed. "Yeah, you can have it."

"It's just," John stammered as Quinn began writing on a napkin. "It's not often that I meet someone who knows Sherlock from his life rather than from his infamy. Even rarely often that I meet one that also got shot in the military."

"Well, if you ever want to get together, John, just let me know," she said as she handed the napkin over. "God knows I'd love to stop hanging out with girls so much."

"Will do, Quinn. Thank you," John said with a smile on his face.

"Anytime."

With that, the doctor took his leave. He found Sherlock outside at the street, but there was no cab.

"Why haven't you gotten a cab?"

"Didn't know how long you'd be. What were you doing in there, anyway?"

"I was getting a girl's number."

If John didn't know any better, he'd say that Sherlock's eyes widened, microscopically, with a tint of jealousy.

Strange.

The detective composed himself and hailed a cab that was making its way down, they got in the back of the car and headed back to 221B Baker Street.

"Sherlock, really," Mrs. Hudson started as she examined the contents of their refrigerator. "You should think about putting your experiments in a different storage space. I don't enjoy finding body parts in bags and heads on platters, young man."

"Yes, of course, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, hardly paying attention.

John was sitting on the couch, sipping his tea and enjoying the show. He'd watch their landlady make a fuss about the whole flat many times, and in turn, watch Sherlock's lack of caring. This time, the detective was a bit preoccupied with examining the package he'd received earlier that night, though he hadn't opened it.

"It's just the state of things in here, Sherlock. You boys need a case, otherwise I fear what will happen up here."

"Maybe if you wouldn't come up so often, you'd be less afraid, Mrs. Hudson."

"Sherlock," John warned.

"Sorry," Sherlock told the landlady.

"It's fine, dear."

"Though, you are correct. John and I do need a case, and I think I've found something for us to work on. So, if you wouldn't mind.."

"Oh, of course, dear. I'll just get out of your hair."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

Their landlady made her way out of the flat and down to her own, humming as she went.

"We have something to work on?" John asked.

"Of course, John. It might have escaped your noticed but there's an unmarked package sitting here."

"Yes. And.. Why haven't you opened it to see what's inside?"

"Oh, I know what's inside. This package isn't for me, John, it's for you. You need to deduce what's inside without opening it. I suggest you don't move it, you may not enjoy the reaction."

"I.. What? You want me to figure out what's inside a plain package without picking it up or moving it? Are you mad, Sherlock?"

"Of course not."

"I disagree."

"John, could you just do this, please?"

He huffed, "Fine." John sat across from Sherlock and stared at the plain, brown clad package. "So, I can't move it?"

"No."

"Can I sniff it?"

"If you feel you must."

"Lick it?"

"If you wish."

"Sherlock, how am I supposed to deduce what's inside this box if I can't really do anything with it?"

"Well, John, that is for you to figure out. But, just know that it's a gift."

"From whom?"

"Me."

"You- you got me a gift?"

"Yes. Am I not allowed?"

"It's just," John faltered. "I don't think I've ever seen you give someone a present."

"Well, congratulations, John. You popped my cherry. Now, get on with it."

John swallowed hard. Why did Sherlock have to use terms like cherry popping? Seemed a bit unfair. He felt the color start to drain from his face, closely followed by the heat that came with an embarrassed blush.

Fuck.

If Sherlock were to notice John's blushing - which he surely must since the bloody pray was boring his eyes through him - the detective may learn something that the doctor isn't quite ready to share.

Double Fuck.

John cleared his throat.

"Well, then.. Thank you, Sherlock."

"You're welcome. Now, I've got other business to attend to. I want you to sit in this flat until I get back. Try to find out what is inside the package. If I'm still gone when you have an idea, text me. Otherwise, we'll discuss this further when I return."

"You can't just force me to sit here and wait."

"Just trust me, John. Sit there and ponder. Text me any conclusions you come to. I'll be back in a couple hours."

Sherlock moved elegantly to his feet, walking to the door and grabbing his coat and scarf. John watched him take his leave and listened to his footsteps descend the stairs followed by the door opening and shutting behind him.

John sighed to himself as he lowered his head onto his raised hands. He stared and glared at the package, wondering what would Sherlock have given him as a gift?

"Probably a dismembered arm," John said to himself. "Probably not a gift for me at all, but more something for Sherlock to experiment on and surprising me like this is just a bonus."

John pulled out his phone.

It's not an arm, is it? -JW

It didn't take long to receive Sherlock's reply.

No, John, it's not an arm. I'm offended that you think I would do that. Keep trying. Don't move from the table unless necessary. -SH

Fuck.

John got up from his sit and clicked the kettle on. Tea was necessary for this. He was to deduce the contents of an unmarked box, a supposed gift from his insane flatmate, without moving it at all.

It was going to be a long night for the doctor.