Chapter 4: Eating Together.

The detective paced back and forth, his brows drawn into a frown. He wore his trademark coat; John had always thought it was the colour of the London sky. Of course the collar had been flipped up. Combined with the not-eating-on-cases and his pale skin, his flatmate looked like a vampire. All the while he shot off deductions like he was a contestant in a filibustering contest.

"Colours, colours, colours…" Sherlock muttered, his intense gaze cast upon the section of the floor where the most recent victim lay. It had been a particularly brutal case, and Sherlock was having a rough go of it. The killer had been leaving them clues, but none of the people murdered seemed to have any connection to each other, and the consulting detective still hadn't found the answer. "All this… jealousy, anger, sadness. The killer obviously knew there was a correlation… but what was it? Too simple for a straightforward motive—no, this one was done by an artist; I said that on the first day. But… colours? John, come take a look here."

The doctor swallowed his displeasure and stifled a sigh, shuffling over for the fifth time to where Sherlock stood. "Alright, what am I looking at now?"

"The colours, John! What are they?"

John squinted at the other man. His eyes were widened, dark curls tangled beyond belief. He looked insane. John had counted the number of times his arms had been thrown into the air in the past five minutes; it was twenty-seven. All the detective was missing was some foam around his mouth and he could pass for rabid.

"When's the last time you slept?" he asked, ignoring the question.

Sherlock's fervor dropped, and he scowled. "Irrelevant; it's a case."

John let out a huffing sigh, crossing his arms. "Sherlock! You can't just-"

"Colours, John!"

He wasn't giving up that easily. "How about eating, then?" The only reply that got was a glare. The doctor stared at the detective, eyes narrowing. The detective stared back. "I'm taking you to dinner," John told him. "Tell Lestrade we'll be back."

"But-"

Forty-five minutes later ("46.35, to be precise," Sherlock noted), they were both seated in a little Italian diner with crimson candles mounted on any flat surface available. John was more than certain they conflicted with several safety regulations, but hey, he lived with a self-diagnosed sociopath.

"See," he told his unimpressed flatemate, leaning a bit over his menu. "I told you it would be nice for a change."

But Sherlock didn't miss a beat. "And I told you that digestion slows down my thinking process."

John cast his eyes to the ceiling. "We're not going there again. I already had to deal with that in the cab." Sherlock didn't answer. He really did look uncomfortable; he was still wearing his coat, even though it had to be at least 30 degrees inside. The detective shifted on his seat, as if he were going to burst out the door any second. Pale ocean eyes drifted towards the exit. John's own followed his gaze.

"No, Sherlock. You're staying right here, and take off your coat."

After a pointed glare thrown in John's direction, he did. The next few minutes were spent in silence, and John almost let out a sigh of relief when the waitress arrived to take their drink orders. She was a short, messy-haired girl, with a petite figure. Almond brown eyes raised themselves to the pair, blinking once, long lashes brushing her cheeks.

"Just water for me, thanks," John managed to say.

Across from him, the detective frowned.

"Sherlock?" John prompted.

He gritted his teeth. "And I'll have the same."

The waitress smiled. "Alright, great! My name's Maggie, by the way, so if either of you have any problems…" She trailed off without finishing her sentence, seeming to melt into the background as though she were scared. When John looked next, she was gone.

"She reminds me of Molly," Sherlock said with a frown.

John raised an eyebrow. "I… I'm not even going to reply to that. Do you know what you're going to eat?"

"Must I?"

"Been over this."

"Food, I suppose."

"Getting closer. I think the spaghetti Bolognese looks good; there's a picture on the second page." John pointed.

"Too. Many. Calories."

The doctor squinted, then blinked. Then squinted again. "You're not anorexic, are you? Because—I mean… I know you… with the… um…" he lowered his voice slightly, "drugs and all, maybe. I mean that's not to suggest that all anorexics are dr- you know-"

Sherlock looked at him evenly. "I can assure you, I have no eating disorders."

"Oh, um, sorry," he said, relieved. "Well, that's good."

There was a pause.

"I'm getting that fettuccini dish with the olives."

"Mm," came the grunt.

Maggie was approaching again, John noticed, her dark hair pulled back in a loose style. It was a very pretty look on her. Oddly enough, that wasn't what John was focused on. In fact, he was only noticing in the back of his mind, as he studied his stubborn friend. In that instant, he made an executive decision.

"That's it!" he declared. "I'm ordering for you."

The waitress had arrived, and was now hanging about behind Sherlock. She carried a tray with two large mugs of water, and was in the process of setting them down when she spoke. "So, is there anything I can get you two tonight?"

It was rather relieving how professional she was, even as she lowered her gaze demurely. Not a single inappropriate move towards his flatmate. Not one. He supposed he should have been used to the flirting by now; so many people just couldn't keep the sharp-featured detective out of their minds. For goodness' sake, he couldn't take Sherlock anywhere without some girl (or bloke, for that matter, he would never forget the time when they went to a gay bar for a case) trying to jump him then and there. So yeah, it was a nice change for once, to have a server who didn't make eyes at the detective.

John met her eyes and held them for the duration of the order. "Two fettuccines with olives and that…" he stumbled," sauce I can't pronounce."

"Awesome, I'll be right back. Enjoy your waters!"

John thanked her as she darted away, and turned back to Sherlock, who was in the process of sulking.

"Come on, you'll be the better for it. You needed a break anyways."

Sherlock ignored him, staring out the window at the street beyond. At this hour, there was still plenty of activity to be found. Pedestrians shuffled hurriedly, cars honked their horns, and every so often, a siren could be heard in the distance. John listened to one now.

"Grrnsn," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Gregson, John. That's Gregson in one of those cars; it's his shift."

John appraised him with an amused expression. "I'm not even going to ask how you knew that."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense. Learning which officer's on when, it's incredibly useful." He wrinkled his nose. "We might miss Lestrade if not. Wouldn't want that to happen."

"Yeah, but you already memorized his address. Technically, we could reach him at any time."

"Details, John, details."

John had to smile at that.

Their conversation continued amicably for the next little bit while the kitchen prepared their orders. Things were going swimmingly; Sherlock was even drinking his water! Never mind that John had to threaten him with spending Christmas with Mycroft to do so. Once, John made a comment that the detective found so immensely funny that he choked on his water and it came out his nose.

John wished he had a picture of his face after that. The extremely dignified Sherlock Holmes had not looked pleased.

Eventually, Maggie came back with their pasta, setting down the arrangement with great ease. John found her service oddly pleasing. She had a genuineness about her that made her enjoyable to be around, even if she was just their server.

"Hope you two like it," she chirped.

"Undoubtedly," John replied, eyeing the dish. Across the table, the detective dipped his head slightly, just enough to signify agreement. Beaming, Maggie tucked a piece of hair behind her ear shyly, and left them.

The doctor dipped his fork into his swirling mass of fettuccine, bringing it to his lips. It tasted like heaven. He suppressed a not-very-public-appropriate moan at the pleasure. Sure, he might criticize Sherlock for not eating, but when was the last time he had eaten a proper meal? On cases, the best he got was some porridge from the police department, or half a plate of Chinese before they had to dash out again. Simply put, this was the best thing he'd eaten in days.

Sherlock seemed to be enjoying it too, John noticed. In fact, there was a spot of rosy sauce on his nose, that John found himself staring at, quite fixedly. It was very distracting.

"Uh, Sherlock, you've got…" John motioned to his own nose. The detective's eyes narrowed.

"Yes, John, I have a nose. How very observant of you."

John let out a sound of exasperation. "No, I mean- agh, just let me help!" He shook out his napkin, reached across the table, and dabbed the sauce off.

Sherlock stared. "Oh," he said.

John's cheeks reddened. It wasn't exactly normal behavior to wipe Italian sauce off your flatmate's face, after all. Not for completely straight males, that is.

"So…." He said, trying to steer the conversation in a direction that would allow him to recover inconspicuously. "What can you deduce about Maggie?"

"Maggie?"

"Our waitress?"

"Ah, right," Sherlock nodded, like everything made sense now. "She's at uni; fifth or sixth in her class, obviously smart, but look at her demeanor, her clothes; she's insecure, too much so to become top of her class, had some home troubles to establish this. Parents divorced, lived with her mother. She studies English or Philosophy as her minor, but takes Biology as well. A little lost in her career directions, she's way too comfortable in her waitress position. Types a lot at home, not a computer, typewriter, the indentations on her fingers are different. Also, in a relationship with another woman."

John's eyebrows made a five-second visit to the moon while he struggled to process what his friend had just said. "You're unbelievable," he told him, "absolutely unbelievable. And incredible, that was…. Incredible."

Sherlock tried to shrug it off, but John could tell he was pleased. He had an aura of smugness about him, like a cat that's just curled up on your newspaper. "Textbook, John. She was an open book, as they say."

John went back to eating his pasta.

On their way out, Maggie stood by the door to wish them off. "Bye," she waved, pulling a strand of hair behind her ear. "Have a nice night!"

Just as they had reached the street, Sherlock stopped and turned around to face her. "That girlfriend of yours," he said, "don't let her get away. She really cares about you."

Maggie's face contorted into shock, then confusion, stayed on confusion for a while, and then she smiled. Unfortunately, by the time the latter was reached, the boys of 221B Baker St. were already in a cab, headed back to where they came.

Half an hour later.

John watched as Sherlock's eyes widened suddenly, his pupils enlarged from the adrenaline of activity. "I've got it!" he shouted. "Synesthesia!"

Oh, how he loved it when he was the only one who understood Sherlock's technical ramblings.

"Confusion of the senses? So what do the colours mean, then?"

"Exactly the question, John, good work."

Lestrade stepped forwards. "Please, do explain."

"Quite simple, really. Once you have one piece, the rest falls into place. If we can figure out what each thing means to the killer, it will lead us to the next potential victims! Lestrade, since you're so woefully ignorant, I will enlighten you and your colleagues. Synesthesia is when the stimulation of one of the senses causes the brain to stimulate another sense. Hear colours and see music, for example. Our killer has set up a painting of the senses for us to puzzle out. The colour corresponds to the number of the next house. Colour is also associated with emotion, most people would say that green is jealous and blue is sad, for example. But we also must note that the colours are numbers and letters to this person. In the second house, there were numbers in different colours on the child's chalkboard, it was written by our killer. Get a handwriting analysis. Seven is green, so is F. Victim one was covered in green paint at number 7, Fergusson Street. Number two was at number 5, Sandra lane. Both 5, S , and the victim were red. And blue at 2 Blake Ave. So from the chalkboard, yellow is nine, eight is dark red, one is white, four is purple, and six is, strangely, missing. What emotions do we associate with this? Yellow, happy, dark red, passion, red, anger, white; John, help me out, I'm not the best with emotions."

"Uh, confusion, innocence, and… power?" Why was he being asked?

"Innocence isn't an emotion," Sherlock frowned.

"Like you'd know, freak," Sally sneered.

"Shut up, Sally," Lestrade said before Sherlock or John could beat him to it. Seeing the DI scolding her was quite satisfying, and they agreed on this with a glance at each other, followed by a small smile.

"Right, um," John struggled for the words. "What if white isn't an emotion at all? It could just… I don't know. Don't listen to me."

He didn't know how he ended up with Sherlock's thin hands gripping his arms tightly, but the detective's eyes were very close to his, and wow that was a spectacular colour, he didn't even know what that was. "Shut up, John. Go on."

Pretending that there was nothing paradoxical about that sentence, John swallowed thickly, but did continue. "Uh, well, I was just thinking that…. Maybe white isn't any emotion. Maybe it's the lack of emotion, like, dullness or something."

Sherlock released him, face alight with the sort of juvenile delight he got when something insurmountably interesting had just occurred. "John Hamish Watson, you are brilliant!"

Anderson looked skeptically at the two of them. "Remind me again why this matters?"

"Lestrade, I do encourage you to find some officers that aren't complete dimwits. If they can't keep up, it's through no fault of my own. Anderson, for your own moronic, nonexistent intellect, here is a recap. Colours, emotions, colours, numbers, colours, street-names. The murderer knew each of them well enough to have that emotion towards them, had synesthesia, you have his handwriting. That should be enough to catch him. Good night, Lestrade! Donovan, Anderson, you can be bitten by plague rats and die a horrible death."

John followed Sherlock as he bounced off, exuberant with accomplishment.

"That was a splendid case, don't you think?" Sherlock asked him upon their arrival at 221B.

"And to think, that the great Sherlock Holmes actually ate a meal in between!" John faked astonishment.

What he got in return was a good-natured glare, before Sherlock turned and bounded up the stairs at top speed, coat trailing behind him. "Coming?" he called from their doorway.

John shook his head, smiling, and headed up the steps. It had been a good day.

AN: I don't go out for Italian food all that often. Can you tell?

Okay so that took a while to update, but we're not all extreme-typists like my friend Tazia here. My inspiration comes in short bursts, unless I've been threatened with one of my co-author's death glares.

Anyway, here's a nice chapter for y'all to enjoy, written just by me. Questions, comments, concerns, and praise all go to the comments or PM. Cake if you review!

-ticklethedragon1