"So," said Alastair, putting on his coat, "will you come?"

"Of course he'll come," John answered instead of his friend.

Sherlock turned at him with a suspicious look: "Will I?"

"Yes."

"Great," smiled the youngest Holmes. "Well, I'll see you on Sunday then. Thank you John and see you soon Sherlock."

"Don't get too over-exited," said the detective and closed the door behind his younger brother who – in collaboration with his flatmate – had talked him (maybe wheedled a bit too) into having a family dinner this weekend.

. . .

"It won't be that bad," said John with a comforting smile.

Sherlock pierced him with hateful eyes.

"Come on, you haven't seen him for five years."

"Not – my – fault," he grumbled.

"Huh?"

"Alastair was in America. Snooping around again."

"Snooping?"

"Yes. But never mind. He'll tell you himself on Sunday; you're going with me – of course."

Of course?! John's eyebrows flew up in surprise at this piece of news. "No," he said as if someone had asked him to eat a living pigeon. "No, Sherlock I am not g–" he stopped as the detective approached him, giving him a glare.

"Because of you," he said slowly (the voice of his sounding deeper and colder than usual), fixing his eyes upon John in a way no one would consider as friendly, "I've accepted something I would never participate in. There are reasons for me not to do so. You probably think I have some kind of a grudge against Mycroft which is so... typical between younger and older brothers. 'Childish' you think. But you must realize that there are things, John, which you don't know."

Unwillingly John gulped and did nod: "Fine."

"Unless you kiss me," Sherlock's tone was all different now, "Then you may stay here."

"I said fine."

The detective straightened up, shrugged his shoulders and with words "As you wish," left to his bedroom.

John breathed out and leaned his head against the wall. Can't he just stay at home without having to kiss someone?

Well... no, he can't.

Not when someone is Sherlock Holmes.

He was not a type to which you put up resistance. And John was aware of it. He was almost sure that if he'd stay home on Sunday, in his very room, with locked doors, Sherlock would somehow get inside and drag him off to that dinner or turn him into an experimental model for human microbiome research.

Today's Wednesday, he thought. Maybe some difficult case will show up and there'll be no time for anything else. Maybe he'll cop out of it somehow. Couldn't Harry get married this weekend?

. . .

You know, it was not that John didn't want to or had a problem with going somewhere with Sherlock and have a dinner, no, he enjoyed spending time with him (whether it was while chasing murderers, doing something debatably illegal, squabbling about his blog or just having a harmless chat at breakfast), but this was a family dinner. Would you say it's alright (or even normal) to bring your flatmate to your family dinner? John would not. And as more as he thought about it, that it would be Holmes' family dinner, he was getting a strange – in no way pleasant – feeling about it.

. . .

Okay, let's be honest here: I promise that I will not promise anything again - as it turns out I'm not capable of writting something longer (sorry), so: bit by bit.

Mně nevadí že si to čteš, já jen umírám studem pokaždý, když si to představim.