"Sherlock."

The sound of violin music only increased in volume. John sighed, stepping a little farther into the room.

"Sherlock," John said again, a little louder this time. Still no response. Sherlock kept his back to the door, violin bow soaring across the strings, resolutely ignoring his flatmate.

"Sherlock, I know you can hear me, so-"

"No." The music stopped abruptly, strings screeching, as Sherlock threw his violin into his armchair and turned to face John.

John raised an eyebrow. "No, you can't hear me?"

"No, I will not come to your work party." Sherlock looked at John at last, running a hand through his hair. "I know perfectly well what your reasons will be, and the answer is no."

"How did you know what I was going to ask?"

"The party starts at 8:00, it will take you over fifteen minutes to get there, you've left just enough time to get dressed for it, and, you think, to convince me to come." Sherlock glanced at his watch. "Bit optimistic of you. You should have started hours ago, not that it will do you any good. I'm almost insulted. Not to mention," he added, "you've taken your best suit in for dry cleaning, which you never do, not even for dates. Also, you never disturb me while I'm playing, unless you've got something you feel is important." He rolled his eyes ever so slightly. "Given that we haven't a case nor a client, this was my next guess."

Sherlock folded himself into his armchair, picking up the violin and plucking it idly.

With a sigh, John strode into the room, sitting down in his chair and leaning forward. He pulled out an envelope and looked closely at Sherlock.

"It'd be good for you to get out of the flat for a change," he told him. "Change of scene."

"I like this flat. Helps me think."

"Until you get bored," John muttered.

At that, Sherlock set aside his violin and opened a newspaper, holding it up to cover his face. Undaunted, John spoke up.

"Sherlock, I've-"

"No."

"Can I at least finish a sentence?" John asked exasperatedly. Silence from behind the newspaper. John rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. This conversation was going about as well as he'd hoped, but that didn't mean it was going well. "Sherlock, I've got to bring someone, and-"

"You don't have to bring someone," the newspaper said. "No one's forcing you." Sherlock lowered the paper, his eyes suddenly bright with interest. "Unless there's something I don't know about? Which would be impressive, I might add."

"Sherlock, you are such a prat sometimes," John told him, without any real heat behind the words. "No, no one's got a gun to my head or anything like that."

"Pity." The newspaper went up again. "That might actually have been interesting."

"Look." John opened the envelope, sliding out the invitation and holding it up. "'Invitation to formal dinner for Dr. John Watson and friend'," he read aloud. "See? Right there on the invitation."

"No, it says 'date'," Sherlock told him, still hiding behind his paper. "'Dr. John Watson and date'. You made it very clear the first day we met that you were not my date."

John started to speak, then stopped, looking sideways at Sherlock. "Are you reading my mail?"

"I have been for months," answered Sherlock, not at all apologetically. "How else am I to know what you're doing?"

"You could just deduce it." John sighed. "I need to bring someone," he said patiently. "I'd like to bring you. As a friend."

"Why must you bring someone along?" Sherlock asked, with significantly less patience. "As you said, no one's got a gun to your head."

"Yes, but-" John broke off, shifting in his chair. "If I show up alone, people are going to talk, Sherlock."

"People do nothing but talk, it's nauseating." He tossed aside the paper and leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "You do realize that people are going to talk just as much if you bring me as a date."

John shook his head. "People know we're flatmates, that's all. You're my best friend, Sherlock. It's only natural."

Sherlock sniffed, slumping back in his chair. "Ask Mrs. Hudson, then. You live with her too. I'm sure she'd be delighted to go."

"Mrs. Hudson is going to be having dinner with Mrs. Turner next door that night. Apparently she's helping plan a wedding for some of her tenants." He coughed, uncomfortable. "She's actually the one who suggested that I ask you."

"What about your girlfriend, then? What've you got a girlfriend for, anyway?"

"I haven't got a girlfriend," John said, his voice carefully controlled.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course you have." Sherlock looked up at John, his brows furrowed, plainly puzzled. "She was here just last night, wasn't she?"

"No, Sherlock, she was here last week," John told him, trying to hold in his irritation, "and then she left me after you asked if you could experiment on her fingers after she died from the blood clot in her hip."

"Ah. Right." Sherlock smiled slightly, remembering. "All the signs were there. And it was a very unusual birthmark. I thought she'd appreciate the chance to contribute to science."

"Well, clearly you thought wrong," John informed him with a grim smile.

"It does happen occasionally," Sherlock admitted, "particularly where your girlfriends are concerned. Though I hardly think I'm at fault."

"You-" With an exasperated sigh, John sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. Silence fell. At last, John said "Are you sure you won't-"

"Molly Hooper," Sherlock said suddenly.

John blinked at him. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Molly Hooper," he repeated. "She'll probably be working, she's always working. Get her out of the morgue for a change. Might do her some good."

"Sherlock, Molly does do things other than help you out in the morgue," John said, forcing down an eyeroll. "She has her own life, you know."

"Without me in it? Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed. "Fine. Then get Gavin."

John raised an eyebrow. "Gavin?"

"Yes, Gavin. Gavin Lestrade?"

"It's Greg," John told him wearily. "Honestly, Sherlock. I'm not taking Lestrade as my date to my work party."

"Ah, so it is a date!" Sherlock pointed out triumphantly. John felt his cheeks heat up. "You won't take Lestrade, but you're asking me…" He considered his flatmate, his expression unreadable. "What might we deduce from that?"

"You tell me, Sherlock. You're the detective." Sherlock stared at him for a moment more, but said nothing, much to John's intense relief.

After a while, where Sherlock studiously ignored him, John said, "Sherlock, please. I'm asking you as your…" He saw Sherlock's eyebrows go up just a fraction. "As your friend," he finished, puzzled and faintly delighted when the eyebrows went back down.

"No."

John sighed and sat back, rubbing his eyes. He sensed defeat, but wasn't ready to give in just yet. He glanced down at the invitation, hoping for anything that might help him. "There's an free food. And an open bar," he said, without much hope. "Until midnight."

"You really think the promise of alcohol would tempt me?" Sherlock scoffed. "You should know I only rarely drink. It inhibits my thinking."

"Says the drug addict," John muttered. Unfortunately, Sherlock heard him.

"Alcohol and cocaine are two entirely different things," he began, clearly settling in for a lecture. "Cocaine acts as a stimulant, heightening the senses, while alcohol, being a depressant, merely-"

"Alright, alright, I get the point." John waved him off, shaking his head. "I did make it through medical school, you know."

"So you keep saying."

Exasperated, John got to his feet, tossing the envelope onto the end table. "Fine," he said wearily. "Stay home, then."

"Yes."

John headed for the door. "I'm headed to the shop for some milk," he called over his shoulder. "Then-"

"John."

After taking a calming breath, John turned around to face his flatmate. "What, Sherlock?"

Sherlock had his head cocked slightly to one side, eyebrows furrowed in the face he often made when John had done something he couldn't comprehend. "I've just said yes," he said slowly. "Yes, I'll come." He frowned. "I'd've thought you'd be more excited."

John raised an eyebrow, hardly able to credit what he was hearing. "Really? You'll come?"

"That's what I've just said."

"But… why?"

"Because you asked me to," Sherlock replied simply. "And I've got a few… experiments I've been meaning to try."

John opened his mouth, then stopped. "You know what? I don't want to know." He started for the door again. "Party's at eight."

"I know."

"Of course you do." Even while shaking his head, John couldn't stop a wide grin from spreading across his face. Little did he know that behind him, Sherlock was doing the same.

The bar was dark and crowded, the music was loud, and John Watson was well on his way to being drunk. He and Sherlock sat at a small table in the back corner, one nursing a drink, the other, a mobile phone.

John peered across the table with something that might have been interest, were he completely sober. "What're you doing?" he asked, his words slurring slightly.

"Gathering data," Sherlock replied, not looking up. "If I must be here, I'll at least make sure the time doesn't come to waste." He reached over and picked up John's glass, estimating how much liquid remained, then entered some numbers into his phone.

"Data." John shook his head, taking his glass back and draining it. "Always numbers with you, isn't it, Sherlock? Learn to live a little, can't you?"

"Numbers describe life, John," he told his flatmate evenly. "Many would say that's the same thing."

"Rubbish."

"Yes, it is, a bit, isn't it?"

The two sat in companionable silence for a moment. Sherlock busily typing away. John was still hardly able to believe this was happening: that Sherlock Holmes had agreed to go out on a- go out to a party and be with people. Be with him. It was nothing short of a miracle.

"John, give me your hand."

John blinked, not sure he'd heard correctly. "Wha'd'you want that for? You've got two of your own." He chuckled slightly at his own drunken wit.

Sherlock sighed. "Your pulse, John. I need to take your pulse." He muttered something more that John didn't catch, something about "alcohol" and "idiots." John shrugged and laid his arm on the table, palm up.

"Go on, then."

Ever so gently, Sherlock laid two fingers on John's wrist. He counted for a moment, longer than John thought necessary, then pulled his hand away almost reluctantly.

Impulsively, John grabbed it, holding Sherlock's hand closer. He couldn't say why exactly, but something about it just felt… right. He blamed it on the alcohol.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, then at their joined hands. His face was impossible to read. "I need that back, John," he said, his voice as empty as his face. John blushed slightly and let go hurriedly.

"Right, of course." He grabbed his glass to take a drink and hide his face, only to remember it was empty. He put it down quickly, trying to be nonchalant. Sherlock, however, was busily entering his new data in his phone and didn't see - at least, John hoped he hadn't.

"What sort of an experiment is this, anyway?" he asked, trying for conversation. Sherlock glanced up at him.

"I thought you didn't want to know."

John sighed, rubbing his head. "I didn't mean - that is, that wasn't - of course I want to know, Sherlock. Don't I always?"

Sherlock merely looked at him.

"Okay, fine. Not always."

"Not that you admit, at least," Sherlock corrected him. When John looked up in surprise, he was treated to one of Sherlock's rare grins.

"Alright, have it your way," he answered good-naturedly, giving in. Sherlock sighed.

"If you must know, I'm studying the effects of human behavior on adrenaline levels. I've often in the past found adrenaline to heighten the senses and sharpen the mind, and anything to help those lot keep up is worth the effort." He rolled his eyes ever so slightly.

Drunk as he was, John could still pick up on the veiled insult, though he wouldn't notice until later that Sherlock had excluded him. "Nice. So how're you studying that at a party?"

This time Sherlock didn't take the trouble to conceal his eye roll.

"The location is not ideal, it simply presented itself. Besides, I've found that the…" He hesitated. "The behavior in question is prevalent at parties. It would be foolish to ignore such an opportunity."

John snorted. "That's one way to put it." Silence from across the table. He sighed. "What's the human behavior?"

Sherlock wouldn't meet his eyes. Sudden curiosity led John to press him. "Go on, show me. I'm interested, Sherlock, don't pass it up."

With a sigh, Sherlock said simply, "If you insist." Then, quickly but deliberately, he leaned forward across the table and kissed John on the mouth.

John stiffened at first, shock taking over, but that didn't last long. To his surprise, he found himself deepening the kiss, bringing a hand up to cup Sherlock's cheek and feeling Sherlock's come up to meet his. Good God, he thought, I didn't know what I'd been missing.

And then, suddenly and all too soon, Sherlock broke away. "Give me your hand," he ordered. "I need your pulse, now."

Breathless, John complied. Sherlock's hands were shaking as they measured his heartbeat, John was pleased to note.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored him, busily taking his own pulse, then entering the numbers into his mobile.

"Sherlock, you kissed me."

"I know, John. I was there." Still Sherlock wouldn't meet his eyes. "The adrenaline increase was somewhat larger than anticipated, though it did not seem to have the anticipated effects." He hesitated. "In fact, I find the activity may have even muddled my thinking."

"Sherlock, for God's sake!" John interrupted, pounding a fist on the table. "You can't just go around kissing people!"

"I didn't kiss people," Sherlock said derisively. "I kissed you. That's entirely different."

"But you-"

"You wanted to know what I was working on," he told him impatiently. "I showed you. Still interested?"

John blushed. "Maybe. It's just-" He broke off, not sure of the right words. "How can you be so… so bloody scientific about this?"

Sherlock eyed him, his gaze level. "It was a scientific experiment," he said coolly. "Nothing more."

"I don't believe it," John told him, shaking his head, "not for a second. And I don't think you believe it either."

"John, don't find more here than there is," Sherlock warned him, though John got the impression his flatmate may have been talking more to himself. "All personal relationships must be sacrificed for the sake of science."

John snorted. "I'd believe that if I thought this was actually science." Then, seeming to realize what he'd said, he cleared his throat, glancing at his watch. "We'd better be getting back, Sherlock. It's late."

"You go," Sherlock replied, attention back on his phone. "I've things to finish up first."

"Suit yourself." John got up, grabbing his jacket, privately glad that they wouldn't have to share a cab back to Baker Street. He started to leave, then turned back. "Oh, and Sherlock?"

Sherlock glanced up.

"If you ever need to, er, repeat the experiment…"

With a smile, Sherlock nodded. "You'll be the first to know."

"Good." Rather amazed at his own bravery, and still slightly in shock at the events of the night, John hurried out of the bar, feeling that on the whole, it had been one of the better work parties he'd ever attended.

A.N: This one's my favorite, I must admit. Wow, this story is doing well! Thank you dears so much. I do hope I'm characterizing okay? Let me know, yes?

-Forever the Optimist