Dropping himself into his desk chair to immediately prop his feet up on his desk afterwards, John Watson had to admit: he was tired. It was the middle of January and the weather had been simply atrocious, meaning that a flu and cold epidemic had washed over London. He was tired of dealing with all of these people complaining about their stuffy noses and coughs, longing for the days when he felt like he had actually made a difference. Being a doctor in the military was not, by any means, easy, or often enjoyable.

However, John felt that stitching up bullet wounds from combat and salving burned flesh from detonated bombs had been useful, meaningful work. He wanted to tell these people that going down to the corner drug store and buying themselves over-the-counter medication would have worked nearly the same, and certainly would have cost them far less. With a sigh, he let his eyelids flutter closed, glad that in just thirty minutes' time he would be headed home to Sherlock.

He was thinking that he may try to convince the detective to give him a massage or perhaps have a bath with him when his phone alert went off, signaling that he had gotten a text message. Reluctantly opening his eyes, he awkwardly shifted in the chair so he could retrieve the phone from his pocket. At seeing it was from Sherlock, John raised his eyebrows, swiping his thumb to unlock the phone and read the message.

'Dinner at Angelo's. See you then. -SH'

He groaned at the thought of going out to eat after such a long day, just wanting to go home and have a bath or watch some crap telly on the couch with his boyfriend. He began thinking, however, and decided that it would be a nice change to not have to cook dinner or order takeaway. In fact, John couldn't remember the last time that he and Sherlock had went out for a meal together that didn't involve socialization with others or a case. Not to mention he was sure that Sherlock had not eaten in at least two days, only sipping tea and pacing about the house like a maniac. Smiling a bit, he tapped out a response and hit send.

'That sounds lovely. -JW'

Putting down his phone and returning his feet to the ground, he picked up a pen and began signing off on his paperwork for the day.

Angelo had just finished lighting the last candles and was then sliding the meatballs into the oven when Sherlock came around the corner into the kitchen. The older man smiled, closing the oven's door and going over to his pantry to gather the noodles and a tray of fermenting bread sticks that he had made that morning.

"Soooo? Dr. Watson coming to dinner, then?" Angelo asked with a grin, lying his supplies down on the counter.

"Yes, actually. But that was the easy part, of course. Now I've got to convince him to marry a sociopath; a far more daunting task."

The detective eyed the Italian as he worked, noting that Angelo had went through the pains of hand-crafting even the noodles for the special occasion. Lowering his eyes momentarily, he allowed himself to be touched by the man's kindness before he raised his gaze once more.

"I saw the dining room."

Angelo raised his eyebrows, ladling sauce into a pot to be warmed up before placing a cover atop the pot.

"Yes? Did you-"

"It's perfect. Thank you, Angelo."

The older man smiled, obviously pleased with himself, as he dropped the noodles into a boiling pot of water. He knew not to comment any further, aware that the detective rarely said thank you, and a 'you're welcome' may embarrass him. Sliding the bread sticks into a different oven with a different temperature, Angelo cleared his throat.

"I'm sure he'll say yes, Sherlock. Who could deny you, eh?"

With a short pause, the detective nodded, not meeting the Italian's eyes.

"I hope you're right."