Sherlock was out of sorts and irritable the entire time John was getting ready for his date, which was due in large part to the fact that John could not be dissuaded to beg off said date. Sherlock had tried nearly every trick in his book, including fasting and, at one point, hiding John's shoes, but to no avail. Not only was he absolutely dead set on his social outing with Sarah, he apparently was expecting it to be some kind of tide-turner; that was the only explanation for the alteration of his usual attire.

Frankly put, John looked more than a bit smart that evening, and Sherlock was uncomfortable with the degree that he noticed it. There were, obviously, several levels of awareness; Sherlock practiced a purely empirical one on a daily basis, with nearly everyone he came into contact with, and whether or not it was fleeting depended entirely on the subject. There was literally almost never an emotional reaction of any sort, unless his interest was piqued, and even then that was curiosity rather than any sort of attachment. John referred to it as the "thrill" and he supposed that was serviceable enough; neither of them wanted to linger on what his general occupations were an obvious substitute for. He'd been clean for several years, after all, and had no intention of relapsing as long as Lestrade allowed him access to interesting cases.

However, he was simultaneously applying a variety of different levels of observation to John, and while the thought was mildly uncomfortable, he was hardly going to set aside such a perfect opportunity to gather more data. That he was invested in John, John's happiness, and John remaining at his side were all obvious and undisputed; why, or at least to which degree all the different reasons pertaining to the why were actually allocated, was of interest to him.

Despite withholding judgment on whether or not he wanted to build toward initiating a physical relationship with John (and it would be so annoying to take the patient route; heteronormative ideals were so bothersome to navigate, even in a man who studiously devoted to it's all fine as John Watson. He seemed to be one of the breed of men who could allow for any quirk or aberration from the supposed norm in others, but when it came to himself, well.) he was beginning to see the merit of it. It was nothing like a lightning bolt from the sky or a sudden, staggering punch of lust - and he'd experienced the latter, but that had been when he was young and naive - it was rather more comfortable than that, if something could be comfortable and then uncomfortable at the same time.

John was always inspiring these kinds of paradoxes in his head, it seemed.

From his vantage point on the sofa, sulk in full swing, it wasn't difficult to track his flatmate's progress while he fussed and readied himself for his date. John never dressed up to that degree when they went out together, which was obviously because he never considered them dates, but it was still fractionally insulting. While Sherlock hadn't quite begun to woo John until fairly recently, he had pointed out when their acquaintance was relatively new that he awarded their outings the same sort of social significance that other people did dates; simply because he didn't indulge in dating on a regular basis didn't mean that he misunderstood the importance of it. For every part of Sherlock's life that deviated from the norm, he had something to fill the space instead, after all.

Friends? First his skull, and then when he'd come along, John. He felt he was well rounded there. Sexual gratification? Intellectual gratification, obviously. Socialization? Well he saw Lestrade & co on a regular basis, didn't he? It wasn't as though he was holed up in his flat, never seeing the light of day. Really, the list went on and on - normal people filled their lives with sentiment and frivolity, and he filled his with science and purpose. Equal and opposite of the norm, many would say, because he preferred to get his stimulation through logic.. and he was fine with that.

Largely.

Narrowing his gaze at John, who had paused to lick his finger and attempt to coax his hair into submission once again, he snapped, "If you're going to just fuss with it continuously, put more product in it."

"So you can throw me off my game by dissecting my level of personal hygiene?" John glanced at him, smirking a bit as he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. "Not likely."

Steepling his fingers, Sherlock returned dourly, "If that's enough to put you off your game, I feel for Sarah. I really do."

Disappointingly, John didn't rise to the bait. He simply smiled, brushing his hands down his stomach, then over his thighs. (The motion was more distracting than it had a right to be.)

"Don't wait up," John said cheerfully. "Don't text unless it's an emergency. A real one, you know, not just that you can't be bothered to fetch yourself a pen. I mean it."

Sherlock's lip curled, and while John's back was to him, he amused himself by mouthing the rest of John's running dialogue. He was surprisingly accurate, all things considered, but carefully schooled his expression into resentment once again when John glanced over his shoulder.

"All right, then?" Lights began to flash on the wall, telltale blue laced with red that made Sherlock's pulse jump and John's shoulders sag. "Oh, come on, Lestrade, really?"

Springing up from the sofa, fingers wiggling at his sides in an attempt to redirect his delight, Sherlock spun to John. "A case! I've been positively lusting for a case, to put it in terminology that would mean something to you. Fantastic. Wonderful. Perfect timing."

Mouth drawn into a firmly unhappy line, John muttered, "For you."

Yes, for him - but also for John, though he was still pitifully in the dark about that. He waited until he could hear the footsteps, allowing his enthusiasm its brief, intoxicating run through his system, before he sighed and reached over idly to pluck a book from the coffee table.

"And as I was telling you, John - oh." The door swung open, and Sherlock blinked, as though surprised to see Lestrade there. "Detective Inspector. We were just headed out."

Lestrade glanced between them, apparently distracted enough by the state of their dress that he forgot why he'd come here. "Er," he said, very intelligently.

The tips of John's ears reddened, which Sherlock found more amusing than he ought to have, and he clarified, "I've a date with Sarah. Sherlock dressed up because... well, because. I actually don't know what he was intending."

Glancing down, Sherlock frowned faintly, trying not to be offended by John's words. While he hadn't exactly let his flatmate in on his plans thus far, he thought John ought to have been able to appreciate the fact that he'd stepped up his own wardrobe a notch in an attempt to sway John away from his date. The jeans highlighted both his legs and arse to great effect, and that wasn't sentiment in the least; he'd twisted in front of the mirror and studied himself very carefully while selecting this particular ensemble. John had always seemed to favor the purple shirt, anyhow, and he knew that he did, because his eyes always went momentarily unfocused when he realized Sherlock was wearing it.

Pretending otherwise was simply unbecoming, he thought with a mental huff, and more than a bit ungracious.

"Right." Sweeping his jacket behind him, Lestrade braced his hands on his hips, distributing his weight between evenly spaced legs. He looked like he was gearing for a battle, Sherlock thought idly; interesting. "Something's come up."

"Obviously." Sherlock rolled his eyes, tossing the book carelessly. John snatched it out of the air, tucking it under his arm with an annoyed look. "Must we go through this song and dance every time?"

Lestrade's voice was quiet, his eyes guarded, when he asked, "Will you come, please?" The please was new. Sherlock's gaze sharpened, and his mind focused on it: please. What was different? "Both of you."

John's breath hissed out, softly, but before either of them could speak, Lestrade turned to John. "I wouldn't ask, but this... I know your date's important. And I'm sorry. But I need him," he gestured to Sherlock, who was tapping his fingers against his thighs to vent his mounting curiosity. "And I need you there, to keep him..."

He gestured, hand waving in front of him a bit uselessly, before he simply cupped it over his eyes and sighed. "There's a child."

John's gaze softened, and Sherlock knew that the fight was out of him. "You've seen dead children before," Sherlock said, before his limping social conscience could catch up to the rest of his intellect. "Ah-"

"This one's alive." The way Lestrade said it, though, made it sound like that was nothing close to a positive. His voice was tight, rasping, as though there were a hand closing around his throat; his entire body was rigid, and a quick glance showed Sherlock that his fingers were digging into his hip.

"Have you called children's services?" John asked gently, already reaching for his jacket, movements hurried and precise.

"Yes, of course." They were both speaking as though Sherlock was not even present, and while normally this would have annoyed him, the fact that it made them both more hurried to leave was satisfactory. "Thank you, John."

He was already dialing, shaking his head as he walked. After a moment or so, he said, "Sarah, listen..." and after that, Sherlock ceased paying attention.