Mary stood in front of The London Club; the dress that Sherlock picked out for her hugging her body, and a subtle pair of black heels enveloping her feet. Her short, blonde bob curled in several places so that bounced when she walked. She didn't want to be nervous, but she very much was. Just because he was a lawyer, and just because he had a membership to one of the most exclusive places in London, didn't mean that he was an interesting guy, or that he was good looking. For all Mary knew, he was an overweight bore, who used his status and his brother's girlfriend to get dates for him, and Mary would have to enact her emergency out, which seeing as how John was also out on a date was going to be rather difficult; she doubted very much that Sherlock would come down to the club and pretend to be a jealous boyfriend (though she assumed he probably had a membership himself). Greg would do it if she asked, but he hadn't been home all day, and Mary had no idea what he was doing.

On the other hand, if he wasn't an ugly dullard, he might be gorgeous, and intelligent, and, rich, and Mary would stand no chance in his presence; an awkward orphan, who spent most of her time talking to animals rather than people, and Mary would make some stupid joke Greg had told her, or try and recite an impressive fact she heard Sherlock mention once, but get it wrong. Mary could very easily not be good enough for this man; she quite obviously hadn't been good enough for any of the other ones before.

Mary finally managed to make it into the lobby of the club (unable to go any further than that without an escort, or someone with a membership (and really, how demeaning was that?). She was wringing her hands together, and trying not to look as desperately afraid as she felt, when a soft hand pressed down onto her shoulder.

"Mary?" a rich, Irish brogue flew passed her ear, and Mary felt her skin start to tingle.

She turned around, the hand falling away from her shoulder, and put on a smile to face him.

"Yes." She said, holding out her hand.

He smiled back at her; wrinkles creasing in the skin around the corners of his brown eyes, and dimples punctuating his cheeks the further back he pulled his lips. He wore a simple cut black suit with a white shirt underneath, and his hair was dark, and a little bit spikey; a little bit messy. He was, in short, absolutely gorgeous.

"James." He said, clasping his hand in hers. "You are just as beautiful, if not more so, as Leslie told me you would be."

Mary blushed, "Thank you."

"Should we go inside? I'm terribly sorry about all the formality of having to make you wait out here."

"It was no problem."

"Good." James gently put his hand to the small of her back; it was almost as if he wasn't even touching her, and they pushed their way through the small, milling crowd of others, who just like Mary moments ago, had no way of getting inside.

Most of the tables in the club were made for two people. They were situated around a great, golden antique fountain and pond in the center of the room. Everything was black wood, with white and golden accents. There was a bar off toward the back, and flowers and trees everywhere. Mary wasn't sure if it was what she had expected or something completely different.

James led her to a small table next to the fountain, and pulled out the chair for her before settling down across from her. There was a candle flickering between them in a short and square, heavy, opaque, black holder.

"If you'd like to look for an appetizer, I can order us a drink at the bar." James offered, handing a slim menu over to Mary.

"That would be lovely; I'd like a greyhound please."

James left the table to go over to the bar. Mary watched him until she couldn't see him anymore, and buried her eyes into the menu. She closed it when she had figured out what she wanted, and a waiter came over to take her order.

If she didn't look out of place, she certainly felt like she was anyhow. Mary knew that she was middle class, and she was proud of being in the middle of the socio-economic system, but she did fancy herself to be a bit classier than most of the women in her class, able to fetch a bloke just a bit out of her reach, but James; James was something completely different.

He came back with their drinks; the greyhound for her, and a rusty nail for himself. Mary laughed quietly as she wondered who in the world came up with the ridiculous names for these drinks.

"You're Leslie's brother in law, then?" She asked, taking a sip from the straw in her glass. She normally threw the straw into the bin, but she thought this was the kind of place where unless it was a martini or a cosmopolitan, a lady drank her cocktail from the straw.

"Yes; well, they aren't married, but have been together for years, and they do have the dogs together." He laughed just a little bit.

"Yes, I remember when Leslie was thinking about adopting Rufus with him."

"I'm more of a cat person, to be honest." James said.

"Yes. Socks, you said?"

"Yea; she's white, except for black on her feet, which make her look like she's wearing socks."

Mary laughed, and took a small sip from her straw again.

"Well, that's disappointing." John said, coming down from his bedroom, fully dressed for his date. He threw himself down in his chair, "Jeanette cancelled on me. Something about an old friend who came into town a day early. We've reschedule for next weekend."

"That's nice." Sherlock said from where he sat at the desk.

John shook his head, "are you still doing this naked thing?" He asked, looking at Sherlock's bare back in the chair.

"Honestly, I kind of forgot I wasn't dressed."

"Well, why don't you put some clothes on, and come to dinner with me?"

"What?"

"I'm not going to waste my reservations. It's that Chinese place you like."

Sherlock hummed in thought, and got up from the chair to walk over to the couch and sit right back down, "Do something for me first."

"Something like what?"

"Sit down next to me." Sherlock patted the empty space next to him; not the other cushion of the couch, but the space very near to him.

John furrowed his brows in a bit of confusion, and slowly got up from the chair. He walked over to Sherlock and started to sit down again, but Sherlock held up a hand to stop him.

"Take your clothes off first." He said.

"Are you mad?"

"Possibly, but take them off."

"Why; what is us both being starkers going to prove to you?"

"It's not about proving anything to me, John. Just get undressed. I'll look away."

Sherlock closed his eyes, and bowed his head down to his lap. John sighed. He had no idea how he got himself into situations like this with Sherlock, or why he let himself continue to be dragged into them even when they got as ridiculous as John undressing in the middle of their living room, in front of Sherlock (it didn't matter much that his eyes were closed; he was still right there.)

"Have you done it?" Sherlock asked.

"Give me a second." John said, unbuttoning his trousers and folding them over his arm to set them down over the arm of the couch. He unbuttoned his shirt, and laid it across his trousers. He hesitated a little at his pants.

"Do I have to take it all off?"

"Yes."

"Fine." John stepped out of his pants, and sat down, slowly, next to Sherlock.

Sherlock lifted his head, and opened his eyes, but he made no move to look over at John.

"Is there a-"

"Shh."

John quieted, and sat there with Sherlock. The leather was cold underneath his arse, and he could feel the heat coming off from Sherlock's thigh; so close it that if John shifted the right way they would touch. Neither one of them said a word, and John had no idea what Sherlock was on about; though he never was very sure. After a few minutes John started to feel tense. Not about the strange situation that he was still in, but about something else; about a lie; an omission he had been carrying around with him for years, that had never bothered him before.

Damn Sherlock. John thought, and took a deep breath.

"I am, you know?" John said, quietly.

"You are what?"

"Bi- sexual."

"I know that."

"But how did you know that?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "You've not told anyone before?"

"No. Well, I've talked about it with Harry, but no, you're the first I've told."

"When did you know?"

"When does anyone find out about their sexuality? In Uni, of course. I was still getting over my breakup with Mary, and thinking I was never going to see her again, and there was this bloke in my chemistry lab."

"Chemistry? I see the appeal already."

"Shut it."

"Apologies. Please continue."

"I would see him in class, and I would think, 'wow, he's got a really nice smile, or he looks really good in that shirt today; it brings out his eyes.' And I thought nothing of it; I was certain that I was straight, and I was comfortable enough with that to be able to appreciate another man's beauty. But then I started thinking about how he would look out of his shirt, or what that smile would look like against my lips. I never did sleep with him, but not long after I took notice of him, I found a guy at some party.

And that's just what I did for a while. It was new, so I wanted it all the time. I never dated any of them; I've always preferred my relationships to be with women." John was quiet for a minute, and Sherlock didn't say anything back.

"When did you know that you were gay?" John asked.

"I knew when I was twelve, but I didn't accept it until I was twenty."

"Why so long? Your parents don't seem the homophobic type."

"Oh, They aren't; they never were. I just- I was strange enough as it was; I didn't want another thing to set me apart. But eventually I got tired of trying to keep up with my peers; I didn't even like them anyway."

"You don't date."

"Like I said, I'm strange. Most people can't stand to be around me. Even mind blowing sex isn't enough to keep them."

"Mind blowing, really?" John laughed.

"Do you know me to not be an expert in anything?"

"The solar system?"

"Anything important."

"Sex is more important than knowing the Earth revolves around the Sun?"

"Of course it is."

They both laughed.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm."

"Can we get dressed now, and go eat?"

"I suppose. My arse is a bit tired of sticking to all this leather. If we choose to go nude full time I suggest we get all fabric furniture."

"Yea, that won't be happening."

"Did you drive tonight?" James asked Mary now that they were standing out in the cool April night.

"No. I took the tube."

"I would be happy to give you a lift home; or if you'd like to share a cup of tea with me; I'm not very far."

Mary smiled, "Tea would be great."

James returned her smile, and Mary was finding that the more he did it, the more she was unable to resist him. He slipped his arm through hers and reached into the pocket of his blazer to hand over his valet ticket.

Of course, when the car was pulled up at the kerb in front of them, it was a BMW, and of course it was a convertible, and of course it was sleek and black, and softly rounded at the edges. James opened the door for Mary, and slid in her into the buttery leather seat. He jogged around to the driver's side and jumped in like a kid jumping into the seat of a roller coaster.

The engine roared, at the start and then evened out into a purr that Mary could feel vibrate against her thighs in the seat. James' childlike grin stayed on his face as he effortlessly maneuvered down the streets of London with only one hand on the steering wheel; the other rubbing circles across Mary's knee.

Mary felt like she had opened the door to Wonderland the moment she heard James' voice rumble through her ears. She was in another world with fancy cocktails she could only remember tasting once; at a dinner party her grandmother (the one who wore a string of pearls around her neck no matter what else she was earing) had thrown, a world where she sat in the front seat of a BMW that cost more than a years worth of her rent, and where the man driving the car was a delectable mixture of class and sophistication, and sex.

And just when Mary was trying to get a grasp on this strange world she had flung herself into, James drove passed a tall, sparkling building that seemed to rise high up into the sky, and pulled into an underground parking garage. He brought the car to a space with his initials painted onto the wall, and jumped out to open Mary's door. He slipped his arm back into hers like it had been earlier, and walked, with her heels clicking against the cement to a lift.

"The very top." He said, motioning with his chin for Mary to press one of the gold framed buttons.

She pressed the number 26, and they stood, linked together in silence but for the whirl of the motor and the cables that surrounded them outside the confinement of the lift.

The doors opened directly to James' home; white tile in front of the lift, white carpet after that; wooden tables, o dark they were nearly black, against the walls, holding works of art, books, and what looked to be his mail.

Mary lost her breath at the sheer expanse and openness of his flat; everything was gray or that nearly black-gray or white or cream. There was some gold and some silver, and it was all very rich, and decadent. There was a wall in the living room, behind the couch, that was made entirely of windows from end to end; bringing the London night right to Mary's feet.

"This is amazing." Mary said, slipping her coat from her shoulders and feeling James take it from her and hang it on a rack by the lift.

"Thank you." He said. "Did you want tea?"

"Oh yes; please."

James took her hand, and they padded through the living room, passed a dining room table that had been set as if he was expecting guests for a dinner party at any moment, and into the kitchen; chocolate brown and stainless steel.

Mary had half been expecting some kind of staff to appear to take his jacket or make them their tea, but no one did. James unbuttoned himself, and laid his jacket across the back of a chair at the kitchen island, and pulled out another chair for Mary to sit.

She watched as he reached up into a cupboard and brought down a bamboo box. He opened it, and crinkled his nose at the selection he found.

"I'm afraid I haven't had the chance to get to the shopping; I have Darjeeling or Irish Breakfast."

"Darjeeling would be lovely; thanks."

He smiled, and took two packets of Darjeeling tea from the box and then replaced it back where it belonged. He put water in the kettle, set it to boil, and pulled two mugs from a small gathering on the countertop. He opened the packets and dropped in the bags.

As they waited for the water to boil, they went back into the living room, and stood between the sofa and a floor lamp, looking out the window.

"I can't get over this view." Mary said.

"Yes, it is one to admire." James stood next to her at the window, as she watched the stars sparkle. It wasn't often that you got to see the stars with all the light and fog of London, but they were so far above the ground, that Mary felt she could watch the heavens go on forever.

"Mary."

"Yes." She turned to face him, and before she had any real time to think, James' lips crashed into hers. Had he been anybody else, Mary might have pulled away, might have given them a slap in the face for taking something she hadn't yet offered, but James was the kind of man who didn't ask; who didn't need to ask, because nobody ever told him no.

John and Sherlock had eaten together before, usually with at least one other of their friends, but sometimes, they had gone alone to the Italian restaurant down the street from the flat, so it wasn't strange to John to be there with Sherlock, but it was strange to be there on a Saturday night when everyone else around them was out on a date. Likely, the other patrons of the restaurant thought the two of them were also out on a date, and, in a sense they were, but no, really, they weren't.

"Season starts soon." John said, tapping his finger against the side of his wine glass. He had already had two since they ordered the bottle and appetizer. Had he been there with Jeanette, he wouldn't have been finished with his first glass, but Sherlock knew of John's propensity to drink, so he wasn't shy around the bottle.

John wasn't like his sister Harry. He didn't need the alcohol, but he liked it, and perhaps he liked it a bit more than everyone else, but John had it under control; he always had it under control.

"September, which means I have until the end of May to get the pieces rehearsal ready."

"You're not conducting, yea?"

"Victor Trevor will be the visiting conductor, allowing me to play with the others."

John laughed, "You mean allowing yourself to show off your skills with the bow rather than the baton?"

Sherlock' lips curved into a quick grin before they d settled against the run of his glass, and he could take a drink. John suddenly thought about exquisite that day red liquid looked pushing through the desk of his pink lips.

"Trevor. That name sounds familiar."

"I might have mentioned him before. We went to the conservatory together. We lost touch a few years back."

"Oh. Is that going to be awkward for you?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "of course not. Why would it?"

"A friend, you haven't seen in a while."

"I never said he was a friend."

"But, he was."

"Yes." Sherlock left his answer at that, and John didn't pry him anymore.

They finished their dinner, and took a taxi back to the flat. The feeling John experienced upon walking into the flat after a lovely dinner with Sherlock, hanging their coats up on the same hooks they always hung, walking together up the stairs, toeing their shoes off at the door, and comfortably sitting in a silence with one another, was surprisingly warm and pleasant. It was a routine that they easily slipped into, repeatedly, and John started thinking how that must be what it's like for long term couples, and how wonderful it must be to be able to do that with someone, but to not have to go to bed alone, like both John and Sherlock would eventually do, because they were only friends.