I sat staring at the offending piece of furniture, all-too silent and undisturbed. Empty.

Four days into John's marriage felt like a lifetime for me, his absence while on holiday with Mary absolutely unbearable. Honeymoon. Honeymoon? What kind of ridiculous name is that for a holiday? Anyone with an ounce of common sense knew they'd gone off on a post-wedding holiday to have copious amounts of sex. It's a Sex Holiday quite obviously. They didn't need to spend money on traveling to do that. They already lived together and clearly did enough of that to result in Mary becoming pregnant.

Mrs. Hudson entered the flat without knocking, per usual, carrying a tray. "Sherlock, dear, I thought you might care for some tea and a bit of company."

"Tea, yes. Company, no," I lied.

It didn't stop her. She set the tray down beside John's chair, handed me a cup, and went on talking. "Oh, Sherlock, he'll be back to visit. I'm sure of it. Don't you worry." Then she proceeded to sit in his chair.

"Do not sit there." She looked confused and didn't move. I stood, taking my tea and ushering her by the elbow out of the chair and over to the sofa. "There. You may sit there." I plopped down beside her with enough grace not to spill my tea yet with enough irritation to express my displeasure with the proffered company unrelentingly forced upon me.

"Why haven't I seen that nice young lady from the wedding 'round here?" I stared blankly at Mrs. Hudson as she spoke. "Honestly, she seemed quite taken with you… and you with her. I can't imagine why you don't just let things happen naturally, dear. I know you're a smart boy, but there really isn't such a thing as too smart for love, Sherlock."

My mouth fell open as I continued to stare and process her words before jumping up, grabbing her arms, and pulling her toward the door. "You haven't seen her because I'm an idiot, and you are a wise, wise lovely woman, Mrs. Hudson. Now go away."

I shut the door behind her and pulled my phone from my pocket, finding Victoria's number in my contacts, the number I hadn't used since she gave it to me after the reception. Hopefully, it wasn't too late.

Dinner tonight? –SH

Then I waited. And waited. And waited. And maybe shot a few holes in the wall during the eternity it took for her to respond.

Three minutes later. She replied.

Hello to you too stranger. Sure. What time? –VT

Pick you up at 6? –SH

Works for me. Casual, dressy, or in between? –VT

In between. –SH

Great. See you at 6. –VT

With a simple six texts, I had scheduled my first real date and possibly began suffering a panic attack, realizing what I'd done. Only one solution came to mind.

Need help. Emergency. –SH

Almost instantly, my phone buzzed with an incoming text.

I'M ON MY HONEYMOON! CALL LESTRADE! –JW

Lestrade? What does he know about women and dating? Well, I suppose he is married, though not terribly successfully, but given that's more than I'd yet accomplished in that particular area of my life, I didn't see much harm in giving it a go.

Need immediate assistance. –SH

Urgent. –SH

Come now. –SH

I impatiently waited for a text from the Detective Inspector for nearly two whole minutes. Quite frustrating.

Do I need backup? Bomb squad? Ambulance? –GL

No. –SH

Just you. –SH

Now. –SH

I'm waiting. –SH

I do not like waiting, Lestrade. This is most urgent. –SH

The newspapers were full of boring nothingness, and the same could be said for the telly. Every request for me to take new cases were boooring. Unbelievable. I had not a single thing to occupy myself. Dreadfully dull. My violin sat untouched since John's wedding. I didn't know why, but I hadn't felt the mood to play.

Glancing at my watch, I took a deep breath and held it. Four hours and seven minutes until date night. Where the bloody hell was Lestrade?

Clothes. Clothing. Something to wear. I stalked to my room and flung open the wardrobe, examining its contents with no earthly clue what to wear on a first date. Shirt, pants, shoes. Yes, of course. Which shirt?

White? Too bland. Grey? Boring. Black? Depressing. I pulled out four potential options and laid them on the bed, carefully weighing their pros and cons.

"Sherlock? Where are you? What's wrong?" Lestrade yelled, throwing the flat's door open unceremoniously.

"In here. I've gotten myself in quite a fix," I began explaining as he entered, eyes searching the room, confusion written across his features.

"What's so urgent now?" His tone was laced with frustration. He clearly did not understand the monumental problem I faced.

"I have a date."

He stopped moving, standing stock still, then cocked his head and stared at me, mouth agape. "Wha… You… How is that even…" Grabbing the sides of his face, he shook his head. "What do you mean you have a date? How do you have a date? I'm trying to comprehend, but I just can't."

"I asked a woman out to dinner for tonight, and she quite willingly agreed to accompany me in the customary way two romantically unattached people engage in a mutually acceptable activity with the intention of using the appropriated time in order to further assess levels of attraction, suitability, and potential relationship sustainability between them," I clarified. "I don't understand your confusion regarding my problematic situation."

Dropping his hands to his sides, Lestrade sighed loudly. "Why am I here, Sherlock? What do you need me for?"

"Because although I know the purpose of a date, I've never had one before, and John's not here." Why do people always ask questions with such obvious answers? "John said to call you. You're married. Don't you know how these things work?"

"Yeah, I guess." Giving a look over the shirts on my bed, he gestured to the one on the far end. "Wear the purple one. She'll like it."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Because I've overheard some of the girls at the office commenting when you've been in wearing it, and they seem to like it. They've even got a nickname for it." He snickered at me.

"A nickname?"

"Oh yeah. 'The purple shirt of sex' they call it. Gets the girls a bit worked up whenever you come in wearing it. Can't say why. I don't understand women, but they like it."

Sex wasn't my intended outcome of the evening, but as physical attraction was one aspect of dating relationships, Lestrade's advice seemed reasonable enough, so I returned the other shirts to the wardrobe, and opted to stay with his recommendation.

"Now, location," I began, leading him into the living area and taking a seat at my laptop, typing in search parameters. "I suggested nothing too casual or too posh, something in between. Where would you say is a fitting dining establishment for such an evening?"

Lestrade took a seat on the sofa. "Sherlock, you're thinking too hard. This isn't a case to solve. It's a date, and seeing how it's your first date, with this girl and ever, I'd recommend you take her somewhere you're comfortable to keep your nerves down. You're making me a nervous wreck, and I'm not even going on this date." He gestured to my hands, which were slightly shaking as I held them hovering over the keyboard. I put them in my lap and made a conscious effort to stop chewing my bottom lip as I noticed I was also anxiously doing.

If I was going to deduce anything about Victoria during the dinner date, I needed to get my own behavior under control. Lestrade was right. Somewhere I felt comfortable would be just the thing.

I half-smiled at the Detective Inspector who appeared a tad concerned at my sudden calm. "I know exactly where to take her."

His expression grew serious. "Sherlock, the mortuary is not an appropriate place for a dinner date, no matter how comfortable you are there."

"Don't be silly."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"Yeah." He stood and headed to the door. "Well, I think I've done all I can. Let me know how it goes. You on a date is like watching a train wreck about to happen. I have a morbid curiosity and just have to know how it ends."

That comment seemed rudely unnecessary. I can't possibly be that bad.