Hi! Happy New Year to you all, I wish you a fantastic 2011. The reasons why I am in a particularly good mood are twofold. One, this story has got 97 reviews, which is just INCREDIBLE! I just want to thank everyone who's read or reviewed this story, because if you didn't read it then I wouldn't carry on. Two, my dad just told me that on the 5th of March, we're going to see Frankenstein at the National, starring Johnny Lee Miller and the freakin' gorgeous Benedict Cumberbatch. SQUEE! So I'm very very very very very very happy about the rest of the year so far, though I'm sure something will bum me out before tomorrow! Have you guys made any resolutions? Here are mine:

Replace all swear words with "Crumpets" in an effort to be more like Benedict Cumberbatch- this idea was stolen (lovingly) from Shona McEvoy.

Be nicer. I know this is crappy because everyone tries to be nicer in the New Year and it never works, but I thought I'd give it a go.

I'm not bothering with the usual "Lose 2 Stone" crap, because it just ISN'T GOING TO HAPPEN, but I've convinced myself that I can stay at the same weight. It's bullshit, but whatever.

Concentrate on school for once so I can get good GCSEs, and in turn get good A Levels, a good University placement (if I can afford one) and a good job. Which is also bullshit, because I have the attention span of a gnat.

Which also reminds me, I get my exam results back in January. I knew I'd find something to depress myself with. I'll get on with the story.

December 6th

7:50pm

Sherlock pulled on his suit, his attempts to flatten his hair seeming futile. He tried to convince himself that this was just another undercover job, that his acting skills would see him through. The thought of having a date with John, even if it was a fake one, made his fingers tingle. Well, if he was going to do this then he could at least look nice, and savour the memory. He fastened his cufflinks and smoothed down his jacket, preening in front of the mirror.

"Vanity, thy name is Sherlock," came a laughing voice from behind him.

Sherlock turned and frowned at John, before fully taking him in. John was wearing the suit that Sherlock had bought for him, and looked even more beautiful that he remembered. John's hair was shinier too, and Sherlock could distinctly smell a lemony scent coming from the bathroom.

"You look nice," said John in an offhand way. "I know you're vain but tonight it doesn't really matter, does it?"

"It does if we want to look convincing," Sherlock grumbled.

John laughed, and adjusted the plain black tie he was wearing. "Do I look ok then?" He did a little turn, slowly spinning on the balls of his feet.

"Yep," said Sherlock weakly, not actually looking at him for fear of what John's body might do to his fragile state of mind.

"Good. Now, are we going down?"

"Yes, but you'll have to put this microphone on under your shirt. Lestrade wants them as a precaution."

John sighed. "Fine," He took the microphone from Sherlock. He took off his jacket and began to unbutton his shirt.

"I-I'll-" Sherlock stuttered, glancing at John's hands with alarm. "Shall I-"

"I'll only be a sec," John continued, undoing the shirt and taking it off completely. Sherlock wasn't sure what to do- what would give him away? Staring, or the avoidance of staring? John really was very fit, Sherlock marvelled, in a dream like state. His body was perfect, except for the scarred patch of flesh on his shoulder. John caught him looking, and his face fell, looking anxious.

"Your scar," Sherlock said lamely.

"Yes," said John, his voice dangerously quiet. Sherlock searched for the meaning in his eyes. He wasn't angry, he was… upset.

"You think it repulses me?" Sherlock said, surprised to hear the shock in his voice.

John flinched at the penultimate word, answering Sherlock's question.

Sherlock took a step closer to him. "John, you could never disgust me. It is an imperfection, yes, but it makes you feel so much more human."

"Well, it disgusts me," John's voice wavered a little, his eyes reddening.

"Everyone has their scars," Sherlock said softly. He pulled up the sleeve of his suit, exposing his right arm. Track marks were dotted across the alabaster skin.

John's face did not change, but his body began to shake slightly. "I know about your addiction," he said, his voice still cracking. "Those marks will fade. Eventually."

"These wont." Sherlock rolled up his other sleeve. Across his left wrist were several jagged slashes, oddly pink against the milk white of Sherlock's arm.

John's eyes widened. "You…"

"I was sixteen," Sherlock murmured faintly. "It wasn't a good time in my life." He said it with a deliberate tone of finality, a tone that said do not ask more. He didn't wish to discuss it with him, not just yet. John brushed his hand over his past wounds, making Sherlock shudder with the sheer intimacy of the moment. He traced the cuts with his fingers, stroking them gently and finally bringing his lips down to kiss them. It was such a simple but wonderful gesture that Sherlock was unable to speak. Their eyes met for a moment that felt like an eternity before John smiled and picked up his shirt, beginning to dress again.

8:00pm

They had walked to the lifts in complete silence, eyes not even meeting as they travelled. As they arrived down in the foyer, Sherlock caught a glimpse of the woman who had spoken to them earlier.

"Hold my hand," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth.

John immediately did so, hooking his arm possessively around Sherlock's and smiling at the receptionist. She winked once more and whispered something into the ear of her colleague. Sherlock flushed a brilliant red.

John and Sherlock stood awkwardly in the restaurant, waiting to be seated. After a while, a young woman came over. "You're here for Repas au Clair du Lune?"

John grinned. "Yes." Sherlock could do nothing but nod, his mouth momentarily unable to function.

"If you'd like to follow me," She ushered them over to a table outside, on a platform suspended over a pool of water. Large silver birches formed a beautiful canopy where candles were hung from, the light shimmering off the surface of the water.

"May I ask if you and your partner are celebrating tonight, sir?" asked the young woman, smiling. Sherlock frowned. It was that smug, all knowing smile that he'd always hated. He wanted to scream at her, you know nothing about me, about him, about us. For one thing, there is no 'us'.

"No, I just thought I'd treat him," John smiled, putting his arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock's stomach jolted. John was playing his part well; he'd underestimated his acting ability.

They arrived at their table, and the woman grinned. "If there's anything you need, just let me know." She walked away, still with that irritating smirk.

They sat down, admiring the view. "Beautiful place this, isn't it?" said John.

"Yes. They've certainly used the money well. This restoration's cost a lot, I know that much."

John gaped. "How? You don't know anything that isn't necessary!"

"There was a television show, and I was bored. You were out."

"You were bored because I was out?"

Before Sherlock could answer, a waiter appeared. "What would you like to drink, sir?"

"I'd like a bottle of- Lestrade? What the bloody hell are you doing?" If John had been drinking he would have spit it out in shock. Sherlock's head snapped up.

"Lestrade?" Lestrade was dressed as a waiter, and was wearing an expression that could only be described as saying Kill Me.

"Yes," he whispered. "It was the only way I could get in, ok?"

Sherlock smirked. "Well, don't you scrub up well? You look practically respectable. Shined shoes, combed hair- even a waistcoat!" Sherlock and John burst into fits of laughter.

"Shut up, will you? You're blowing our cover!"

"Oh please. They'll just think you've told us some incredibly witty joke- though if they'd met you they'd realise that is practically impossible. By the way, tell Sally that I'm going to destroy that picture of Dawson Edwards on her desk if she ever books John and I in the same room again."

"Actually, that was me." Sherlock half rose in his chair, but was stopped by John sticking out his leg and pinning him there.

"You bastard," he growled. "Why?"

"I thought it would be…" He searched for a word, his eyes lit up with glee. "Entertaining."

"Sherlock, leave it," said John.

Sherlock reluctantly sat down, distracted by the situation he was now in. John's foot was now resting in his lap, and it was not altogether unpleasant. As soon as he had thought this, however, John removed his leg from its resting place.

"Anyway. You know where the potential victims are sitting- you can see them all from here. I'll be regularly coming up and down here, with a good excuse seeing as I'm a waiter. If you see anything, say Moriarty. Ok?"

"Fine," said Sherlock. "But we really do need some wine. Fetch us a bottle of the '95 Languedoc-Roussillon Merlot, will you?"

Lestrade scowled. "Yes, sir." He nodded curtly at John and walked away stiffly.

John chuckled. "You shouldn't torture him."

Sherlock gave John a crooked grin. "But it's so fun," he said in mock disappointment.

8:30pm

Guests had steadily filed into the restaurant and it was now gently bustling with life. Sherlock and John had blended easily into the background, just another couple in amongst many. They had just been served a small starter, one of two for that evening.

"To be honest, I've never been somewhere this nice before," John admitted.

Sherlock smiled. "Well, I have as a child but not since I've been on my own. And since living with you your eating arrangements have been refreshingly down to earth."

John grinned. "Well, beans on toast are delicious if cooked properly." He glanced around at the other guests. "I mean, I'm middle class, but I was taught never to waste money. Have you seen the prices?"

"Extortionate, I know."

"What kind of person can afford to eat here on a regular basis?"

"Why don't we find out?" Sherlock smiled, and turned in his seat. "The couple behind us. What do you think you can deduce about them?"

"Err," John tried to watch them without being caught staring. "No idea."

"He's a banker, she's a lawyer. Married for around five years, but she's been cheating. Recently she became pregnant with another man's child, but she doesn't know it yet."

John's mouth fell open. "What? Have you made that up?"

"No!" he said, a little offended. "I observed."

John laughed. "You're incredible, Sherlock!"

Sherlock squirmed in his seat. "Thank you."

"Breaking something up, am I?" came a familiar voice. Sherlock groaned. Turning around, he looked up and saw his brother.

"Hello Mycroft," said John politely.

"What the hell are you doing here, Mycroft?" Sherlock spat.

"Manners, little brother," Mycroft said smoothly. "Just out with Carol," He gestured towards his assistant- clearly; this was the name she was using for now.

"Carol," muttered Sherlock. "How very festive."

"It could have been Holly," she smiled coldly.

"Anyway, we were surprised to find you here."

"If you must know we're on a case. Now if you don't mind, you're blowing our cover."

"So you're undercover as a couple?" Mycroft's tone stung Sherlock. He knew what he was implying. "Well, isn't that sweet. I'll leave you to it. Goodnight Sherlock, Dr Watson."

9:30pm

The evening was passing reasonably well. John and Sherlock were talking as if this was a typical dinner, just another friendly conversation. Simultaneously, their phones vibrated. Sherlock got to his first.

You two are supposed to be a couple. Dial up the romance- GL.

Sherlock scowled at the text, before looking up at John. He'd clearly received the same message.

"Damn Lestrade," Sherlock muttered.

"He's right though," said John. "Put your hand on the table."
"What? Why?"

John sighed. "Because I'm supposed to be your boyfriend, and that means a little PDA is required."

Sherlock did as he was told, and John took his hand in his own. He would have been lying if he'd said he wasn't glad of the contact with John.

"I thought you were supposed to be the expert," said John. "You can talk the talk but you can't walk the walk."

"I could if I wanted to," said Sherlock. "I was worried about making a straight man like you uncomfortable."

John paused. "So are you saying you're gay, then?"

Sherlock shifted in his chair, feeling uncomfortable. "If I had to label myself then… yes, I suppose I would be gay. I am more attracted to men than I am to women, but neither of them are important to me. Everything else is transport."

John's expression did not change. The man was infuriating- if he didn't react then Sherlock couldn't observe. "Ok then."

Lestrade returned with another course, giving Sherlock a small wink before walking away. Damn him!

Sherlock cleared his throat. "So then. Seeing as we are on the subject, how about another lesson?"

"Go on then. What are you going to teach me?"

Sherlock took a sip of his wine. "There is nothing more attractive to a woman than a gentleman, but one capable of great feats of passion."

"Isn't that a little stereotypical, Sherlock?"

"Some stereotypes are true. Now, there are several ways you can do this without becoming Mr Bloody Darcy."

John raised his eyebrows. "I do believe that's two popular cultural references you've made tonight. Is there something wrong? Have you got a fever?" He placed his hand across Sherlock's forehead. It was warm against Sherlock's cold skin.

Sherlock brushed off his hand. "Excuse me for having an education. Do you want to learn or not?"

"Carry on."

"Well, we've covered the clothes already. You shouldn't be over dressed but always smart. The clothes should always be in a good condition."

"Ok."

"When you talk to Sarah, be courteous. Don't swear too much, and when you talk, be prepared to listen. However, the conversation shouldn't be one sided- you must be interested in what she has to say."

"Ok. But what about the… passion bit?" John blushed.

"Look at her, but don't look at her."

"I don't follow."

"Do not stare at her breasts, for one thing, but don't avoid looking at her. You want to appear interested but not a sleaze ball. Let her catch you looking at her hands, her neck, her eyes, but then quickly look away, as if embarrassed. She'll see it as endearing and cute."

"Right…" John looked so dazed by the overload of information that Sherlock found it hard to believe that Sarah didn't already find him cute. If it wasn't for John's own embarrassment then she'd be all over him. Sherlock sighed, and drank some more wine. The evening was going to be long.

This chapter has run away with itself. I told myself that I'd write the whole evening in one chapter, but it TOTALLY hasn't worked. So, this was a silly, fluffy chapter, but the next chapter will contain the second half of the evening. It should be better… Hopefully. Again, have a happy New Year.