A/N: So I gave myself a bit of a break with this chapter, and it's significantly shorter than the others. Hope nobody minds. I'm immensely grateful for all the lovely reviews from Gwilwillith, BrownEyedGirl87, 88dragon06, Lothelen, TeamTHEFT, elbafo, EmmaB, hatondog, and ReaderNotaWriter. The first chapter of the new Sherlock/OC story will be out tomorrow, so pop on over if you're interested. As always, your reviews brighten my day. Please leave one on this chapter if you have the time!

Disclaimer: Still don't own.

Chapter 10: First Dinner

I experienced exactly five seconds of sheer horror before Mycroft intervened.

"Come now, do close your mouth, dear. That gaping is most unattractive. Now if you wouldn't mind heading out of my brother's ever sharp line of hearing, we should be able to finish quite quickly."

I sent Sherlock, who had extracted his coat out of his bag and was significantly less distracting as a result, one last look that screamed "save me", only to see him quirk one amused brow. Asshole. Resigning myself to my fate, I followed Mycroft to an alley a little ways off from where the tourists and John were still crowding Chris, hoping I wasn't about to be skewered by that damnable umbrella.

"Look, I tried not to fuck up, alright?" I blurted immediately, examining Mycroft's expression for clues on his current mood. I should have expected not to find anything, him being the master of the cool government mask. "I gave you regular updates."

"I know. You performed rather admirably for someone who is new to my surveillance system," smiled Mycroft. I shuddered at being described as "surveillance". The automatic comparison to a security camera was not something I relished. "I just decided to drop by and write you your first cheque. The sum will be transferred to your account automatically in the future, but there is a certain pleasure in holding a solid object and knowing its value I wouldn't want to deprive you of."

"Oh." I glanced at the cheque he was already holding and took it without further ado, trying not to show any reaction to what was still a ridiculous sum even after being given time to get used to it. "That's alright, then."

"Yes, I thought as much," Mycroft said, examining me closely. "I'm afraid that doesn't quite cover everything I wished to discuss with you. I know you're eager to get back to my brother, so I will try to be succinct."

"Why not just ask what you need to then, instead of building up to it?" I asked, cheque shaking in my palm. Mycroft didn't look offended.

"What are your intentions regarding Sherlock?"

"God, not this again," I snapped, utterly fed up with his insinuations. "Nothing has changed. There is nothing happening between Sherlock and me. We are colleagues. Barely even friends. I'm not interested in him, he's not interested in me. Get that through that thick skull of yours."

Apparently Mycroft Holmes did not appreciate being described as thickheaded. His congenial nature disappeared in an instant.

"You are aware how few people can even classify themselves as 'barely friends' with Sherlock Holmes? The fact that you've wandered bravely into that elusive territory past 'acquaintance' should speak for itself. He is most certainly fond of you, Ms. Fields. Accepting young women he barely knows as colleagues is not something my brother normally does."

"Okay, he finds me easier to put up with than some. That doesn't mean we're desperate to get into each other's pants," I sighed, wondering just how long this was going to take.

"Oh, I don't doubt that on my brother's part. He is…how can I phrase this delicately…inexperienced in those areas. I do, however, consider it a remote possibility that he may find you desirable in the future, or as much as Sherlock Holmes is capable of finding anyone desirable. The signs are already there."

"I think you're grossly misinterpreting the situation," I said carefully, wondering what he'd been smoking before confronting me. Because Sherlock's attitude to me was solely one of tolerance. I wasn't going to delude myself into thinking there was a chance of him slamming me against a wall, kissing me like he'd deduced every way to make me squirm, tugging me into his bedroom and…oh, God, I needed to slow the fuck down, or I'd be blushing in front of Mycroft of all people. If anyone could read what I was thinking, it was the elder Holmes brother.

"Julia, I never misinterpret." He ignored my dubious snort. "In any case, you most certainly want him, and I can't help but find that troubling."

"I do not," I scowled, crossing my arms. I was well aware I looked like a petulant toddler, but really couldn't give a fuck. Mycroft was not the Holmes I cared about impressing.

"Mm, yes, at the moment you're deluding yourself. But know that you will eventually have to acknowledge you have a sexual interest in my brother, and I can only hope you proceed carefully from there," Mycroft said, as if engaging in a casual commentary on the weather.

"There are no words for how incredibly wrong you are," I said, still sounding toddler-ish and still not giving a fuck. Because I really didn't want to sleep with Sherlock Holmes. Nope, not one bit. I had absolutely no desire to tug my hands through those curls and savor that gloriously sharp mouth for hours and hours, thank you very much.

Well, maybe if he was wearing spandex. Or that purple shirt.

But I was getting sidetracked.

"Even if I did want to shag your brother, why would you care?" I asked; just to distract myself from what was rapidly becoming a one-way train of thought. "I know for a fact Molly Hooper is harboring a crush on Sherlock."

"Molly Hooper does not have the same advantage you do when it comes to Sherlock's heart," said Mycroft gravely. "Should you choose to in the future, you would be much better positioned to hurt him, and badly. I am here to ensure that doesn't happen."

"Mycroft," I began, glad I was finally able to understand the purpose of his latest attempts at intimidation. Knowing they were out of brotherly concern made him much less threatening. "Even if I was interested in your brother in that way, I'd never actively try to hurt him. I'll do anything I can to prevent anyone from hurting him, myself included. He's my friend."

Mycroft regarded me carefully, like he was trying to smell a lie. Upon finding none, he sighed in what I assumed was defeat.

"This isn't finished, I'm afraid, Julia. It is my duty to look after him. Enjoy your first payment. Might I suggest perhaps investing in a new wardrobe?" He glanced pointedly at my heavily embroidered tunic-style dress, a product of one of my dad's trips to Germany. It wasn't as baggy as it had been when I had first emerged from rehab, but it was still rather ill fitting. "A haircut as well, perhaps." This time, his eyes found my unfashionably long hair.

"Uh, yeah, I don't really think what I look like is your business," I mumbled, more embarrassed than I cared to admit. I had never really cared how I presented myself, but there was something about Mycroft's unusually sharp eyes made me want to apologize for existing. Or punch him in the face. Neither seemed like a very good option, so embarrassment it was.

"Everything that concerns Sherlock is my business," Mycroft said with a seemingly friendly smile. "Until the next time, Julia."

"I eagerly await our next meeting, Mycroft," I said, throwing in a sarcastic curtsy for good measure. When he was finally out of earshot, I added a muttered "not". After the day I'd had, I was entitled to a little childish-ness.

Sherlock was mostly unconcerned about Mycroft in favor of his more pressing need: He had barely eaten for four days and was finally succumbing to the normal human need for nutrition, a "failure" that was irking him to no end. I fixed him with a disapproving look when we'd squeezed into a taxi, me in the middle again with both Sherlock and John by my side.

"You should have eaten the scone I bought you."

"Natalia was right. Stop mothering me," Sherlock snapped, knowing perfectly well it would get under my skin. I rolled my eyes and reminded myself he was only grumpy because he was hungry. Well, grumpier than usual anyway. "And I did eat the scone, for your information. Sugar doesn't do a good job of sustaining one's self for an extended period of time."

"Well, you should have let me buy you something more substantial, then," I said, trying not to show how giddy I was that he'd actually eaten the scone. "I wouldn't mind running out to get real food for you while you're working, so long as I don't have to watch you faint. And I'm not mothering you, I'm concerned for you. It's what friends do."

"He's a lost cause on that front, Julia," John said, sending disappointed doctor vibes Sherlock's way. "Stubborn as an ox."

"I'll keep trying. And maybe you need mothering," I shot at Sherlock, who was having a hearty sulk beside me.

"I do not," he muttered. "I already have a mother I'm pleased with, and she isn't you. Ah, we're here."

I peered around Sherlock's sharp profile and took in the cozy restaurant glinting welcomingly through the cab window. Relieved at not having to think about Mycroft or my mothering tendencies, I clamored out of the cab gratefully, taking in the cheerful yellow ceiling lights illuminating the window. Upon entering the place, Sherlock was immediately accosted by a thick, bearded man with a ponytail who pumped his hand enthusiastically and spoke in a thick Italian accent.

"Ah, Sherlock. Always a pleasure to see you. I see you brought John and…oh, who's your little lady friend?" He eyed me curiously and I smiled timidly, taken aback by his size and booming voice.

"Angelo, this is Julia Fields, a friend of mine," Sherlock said, sending my heart into wild palpitations at the simple use of the word "friend". "Julia, this is Angelo. I got him off a murder charge. No, no, Angelo, there's no need to tell her the whole story. I'm afraid I'm actually intent on eating tonight and am incapable of tolerating any prattle until I consume something of more nutritional value than a scone."

Angelo, far from looking offended, greeted this pronouncement with a nod and graciously seated us at the table snuggled in next to the window. I slid in between John and Sherlock once more, feeling so utterly at peace with the world I wanted to rest my head on my folded napkin and fall asleep right there. Instead, I took to examining the menu, only to have Sherlock snatch it away and beckon Angelo back to us.

"Yes, we're ready to order," he called, actually managing to send Angelo a genuine smile when he trotted over.

"Of course. And what will you be having tonight, Sherlock?"

"The alfredo fettuccine and tomato mozzarella bruschetta for me," he answered, "And I'll be ordering dessert as well. John?"

"Spaghetti bolognese," John replied without a beat. Sherlock had clearly taken him here before.

"And what about you, little lady?" Angelo asked me kindly. I did a double take, looking around for some other "little lady" before realizing she was me.

"Oh! Er…"

"A bianco pizza for her," Sherlock cut in, "Prosciutto in place of arugula."

"Of course." Angelo bustled off, leaving me to glare at Sherlock.

"A whole pizza? There's no way I can eat a whole pizza. And I'm perfectly capable of ordering for myself, you know."

"Oh come now, Julia, there's no need to be like that," said Sherlock comfortably. "I'm just looking out for you."

It took me all of two seconds to realize this was his way of getting revenge for that scone. I sighed in defeat.

"Fine. I promise to never mother you again. Even when you need it," I added under my breath. Sherlock smirked. "How did you know I prefer prosciutto?"

"I pay attention. And you are still on your quest to regain weight after your drug abuse. You've been doing quite well so far, and it did seem logical that you would want to continue your progress."

If I didn't know better, I'd have thought he was eyeing me appreciatively.

"Well, I might want to slow down that progress soon," I said ruefully. "I think I'm starting to fill out a little too much." I'd certainly had trouble squeezing into the pre-rehab jeans I'd bought halfway through my drug related weight loss. Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"Oh, no, don't act like one of those weight-obsessed women who natter on about diets and clothing sizes all the time. They're incredibly dull. Your new weight gain suits you very nicely."

He was definitely staring at me now. I didn't hold any delusions that he liked what he was seeing, so to speak, but it certainly wasn't his usual cool analytical stare. My face was on fire yet again, and my heartbeat was definitely loud enough for Sherlock to hear and know how he was affecting me. I salvaged my resolve and forced a smirk on my face, ashamed that the words what would Natalia do? flashed through my mind at all, but following them all the same. I needed to be cold, collected, and remote, and I most certainly could not continue turning into a tomato every time he so much as looked at me the right way.

"Not susceptible to your flattery, Sherlock," I said, refusing to look at him. "I know you're probably buttering me up for some diabolical scheme you're cracking."

"Attempting to predict my actions would be tremendously ambitious of you, Julia," Sherlock said, nonchalant as always. "Not to mention foolish. As would deluding yourself into thinking you know me."

The silence that followed this pronouncement was tangible. John cleared his throat.

"Ahem, right, I have no burning need to spend the evening in a suspense film. Now, if you two idiots are done with the staring contest, our food's here. Drink, Julia?" He jiggled the freshly arrived merlot temptingly, drawing attention to my still empty glass.

"Oh, no, I can't," I said, though something stronger than iced tea sounded incredibly appetizing. "I'm really an embarrassing drunk."

"Now this is something I need to hear more about," John grinned, eyeing me over his wine glass, and offering me an excuse to diffuse the previous tension. "Do go on, Julia. No need to be embarrassed. I have my own share of stories."

"John, please believe me when I say you really, really don't want to know. My drunken shenanigans are awful enough to cause everyone who hears of them a painful death by second hand embarrassment," I said. When John continued to eye me expectantly, I elaborated. "I'll give you three clues: skinny dipping, desperate drunk, teacher neighbor."

John frowned. Sherlock did too, though his was more confused.

"I'm not sure I understand."

"I do," said John. "Oh dear."

"Oh dear is right. I'll tell you some other time, Sherlock. When I'm more confident you won't snort derisively," I said to Sherlock, wincing at the mere thought of recounting my stupidity to such a judgmental audience.

"I do not snort derisively," Sherlock scowled.

"Yes, you do. Now shut up and eat," said John, gesturing to a heap of steamy pasta that smelled sinfully delicious. Better than my pizza, in any case. Not that it smelled bad, but I was definitely more of a pasta person. Sherlock ignored him.

"It would appear I've misjudged the situation," he said, fixing me with a stare that left me nearly quaking with the fear he was about to announce he'd uncovered my deeply buried lust for him to the whole restaurant. Not that I had a deeply buried lust for him at all. But it did seem like a logical deduction, given my tendency to blush furiously, stammer, and stare whenever he was within ten feet of me. And Sherlock definitely possessed a knack for embarrassing others, albeit sometimes unknowingly. I had been screwed from the second I stepped foot into 221c.

"You can switch dishes with me, if you so wish," continued Sherlock, startling me out of my increasingly tense thoughts. I stared at him blankly, not even close to comprehending what he'd said.

"Sorry?"

"You'd clearly prefer the pasta to the pizza," Sherlock said, looking at me like I was the most hopelessly thick imbecile he'd ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon. "And I'm not opposed to prosciutto."

I continued to stare blankly. John rolled his eyes.

"Take the opportunity, Julia. He never does anything not entirely motivated by self-interest."

"As always, you are grossly over-simplifying the situation, John," Sherlock said mildly, switching the plates himself while I still struggled to process not being humiliated for daring to grow fond of Sherlock Holmes and having the man do something kind for me instead. "Do eat, Julia, you're looking pale."

"I'm probably just going a little dotty," I said faintly. "If I wasn't to begin with."

"Mm, dubious," said Sherlock before promptly digging into both pizza and bruschetta with much gusto, leaving me to savor the fettuccini. It was absolutely delicious, of course. Real, quality Italian food; an increasing rarity. And to think we were dining for free! Sherlock certainly had his eggs in all the right baskets.

Once he had finished his food in record time (Honestly, it couldn't be healthy to starve himself for days at a time and eat that much that quickly), Sherlock's attention turned to the dormant issue of Mycroft, a topic I definitely was not looking forward to discussing. I wasn't good at lying, especially not to people I greatly admired. Sherlock was at the top of that list. Actually, he was at the top of all my lists.

"What did Mycroft want with you?" he asked as I attempted to ignore him in favor of the fettuccini. "If he was too unbearable, I'll have a word with him. I won't have him terrorizing my colleagues."

"He was only a little terrifying today," I sighed, resolving to get the whole issue out of the way. "He just wanted to pay me in person." And give me the classic "If you hurt him, I'll destroy you" lecture regarding Sherlock prematurely, though not in so many words. But I couldn't tell Sherlock that.

"That couldn't be all," frowned Sherlock. "You were speaking with him for far too long for it to be that simple of an issue. What else was there? Attempting to protect Mycroft is both foolish and futile. He's completely vile, and not worth a second of your time and effort."

He said it with such ardor; I was touched to the core. Being above slimy, insinuating Mycroft in Sherlock's eyes was better than nothing.

"I'm not attempting to protect him. I'm attempting to protect myself. Believe it or not, I don't have to share absolutely everything with you, Sherlock," I said, pointing my fork at him for emphasis. "There are some things I'd rather keep private."

"Sherlock, leave it," John interjected sharply, but Sherlock ploughed on ahead anyway.

"Ah, of course. He uncovered a sensitive spot and prodded it just enough to startle you. How typical," he sneered.

"He also insulted my clothing and hair, if you must know," I added, hoping to divert his intention from the path I was so not willing to head down tonight. John frowned, more concerned than Sherlock about that particular insult.

"What's wrong with your hair? So long as it doesn't get caught in anything, I don't see the issue," he said indignantly. "Mycroft ought to get off his high horse. Don't listen to him, Julia. I'm sure he's only jealous over the fact you actually have a full head of hair."

I had to giggle a bit at that, Sherlock's pleased expression at someone else insulting his brother not helping matters.

"Thank you, John, but I really wasn't that offended." I was more concerned with his determination to prove I wanted to shag his baby brother.

"But do try and keep it out of the way," added Sherlock, looking at my hair as though noticing that I had any for the first time. "And keep it out of your eyes as well. You'll ruin your eyesight."

And then he did something so shocking, the bite of pasta I was chewing dropped out of my open mouth and hit my plate with a soft plop. He reached over and brushed a strand that had spilled over my eye away from my face, hand lingering a millisecond too long. I closed my mouth, swallowing heavily at the burning his fingertips had left when they briefly made contact with my skin. It was a gesture so fundamentally out of character for a man who didn't touch anyone except Mrs. Hudson willingly, I nearly reached out and returned the favor with one of his errant curls. I managed to stop myself just in time, heart still leaping valiantly in my throat as I realized it was the first time Sherlock had touched me without immediately dragging me somewhere afterwards.

"Mm, that looks much better, Julia," John said pointedly, fixing me with a knowing look after glancing between Sherlock and I. "Your eyes are too lovely to be covered. Aren't they a nice color, Sherlock?"

Sherlock seemed to have lost all interest in me in favor of directing his x-ray stare at an elderly couple across the room.

"Yes, very," he said absently. It was clear he hadn't heard the question, but his vague affirmation made my heart soar even higher anyway. Of course, my eyes were absolutely nothing compared to his impossibly pale ones, so see-through they looked as if they were made of glass. I didn't dare voice such a thought, instead bowing my head and focusing all my attention on my remaining pasta.

The rest of dinner passed without further "incident", if Sherlock touching my hair could even be called that. It felt more like the explosion of the Earth itself to me. Sherlock rattled off the elderly couple's romantic history (She'd been his babysitter as a child, he'd fallen in love with her young and followed her to college, where she eventually fell for him as well) to mine and John's delight, and after dessert for Sherlock, who somehow managed to down a thick slice of tiramisu on top of everything else while John and I clutched our swollen stomachs and groaned, it was time to leave. Sherlock stretched with a hearty sigh after Angelo came by to sweep away the plates, sated from the full meal.

"I am looking forward to sleeping," he said, casting a slightly bleary eye around the restaurant. "It's been five days, I think. And do ask Mrs. Hudson to bring up something good for breakfast tomorrow, John."

"You've gone five whole days without sleeping?" I asked incredulously, once again marveling at his complete and utter disregard for his own health.

"No, he's slept sporadically," said John, looking equally disapproving. "Though I keep telling him a full eight hours more than once a week would do him some good. You can't be on your best game if you're sleep-deprived and hungry."

"I've been operating at my best for the past two years, John," Sherlock said coldly, "Before you and Julia came along."

John looked hurt, and I interrupted quickly.

"Let's go now, okay? I'm going to fall asleep right here if I don't get home."

"Yes, let's," agreed John, throwing Sherlock one last disappointed look before following me outside.

The cab ride passed in silence, and John tromped straight upstairs when we did reach 221b. I lingered in the stairwell behind Sherlock, not quite wanting to call it a night just yet. I didn't hold any delusions that I could further enchant him with whatever wiles I possessed, but I was determined to end the evening on a good note, and Sherlock's icy response to John's well-meaning reprimand had put a taint on the whole lovely dinner.

"He means well," I blurted, successfully fighting the urge to duck my head when Sherlock turned to look at me. I had grown comfortable enough in his presence to stand my ground even before the threat had been imposed. "And you really should take better care of yourself. I mean," I mumbled, desperately searching for a way to diffuse what was becoming a dangerous situation, "If you're this insane right now, who knows how much worse you'll get if you continue to neglect yourself?"

Sherlock stared at me for a long moment, leaving me wincing in anticipation of whatever bitchy retort he was about to throw at me. And then, miraculously, both corners of his mouth quirked up. He was smiling. I had managed not only to avoid being eviscerated by his tongue, but had said something pleasing enough to earn a rare smile. Success!

"I've been 'neglecting' myself for a long time, Julia," he said, "I know what I can handle."

"You don't know what I can handle," I frowned, "I don't care if you think I'm mothering you. You're my friend and I worry about you. It would be unnatural if I didn't, with all the crazy shit you get up to. My hair will be white by the end of this year."

"Stop worrying," Sherlock said patiently, still smiling. "It never did my mother or Mycroft any good when it came to my behavior, and it won't with you either. Good night, Julia."

The dismissal caught me off guard. I blinked.

"Good night, Sherlock."

But he was already up the stairs and out of my sight. It was physically challenging to not follow him, try and stop him from doing anything dangerous, and appreciate everything about him when he ignored my advice and went ahead. I was already empty with curiosity over what he was doing, whether he was going to sleep or stay up all night experimenting, and the frustration over not being able to find out was painful. I didn't want to think too hard on what it meant. This fixation wasn't something I'd experienced before, and the fact that it was occurring now with Sherlock Holmes was both terrifying and freeing.

I was falling, and fast, for someone incapable of reciprocating such feelings, and there wasn't anything I could do about it except live in denial as long as possible.

A/N: Yay for pointless fluffy stuff. The next case is a bit darker, and I thought y'all deserved a break first. Poor Julia is becoming increasingly besotted with Sherlock, and I do think even the dark cases will be good fun now that there are hints of romance. Sherlock feeling things is always entertaining. Please review, lovelies! Many thanks to all of you for reading.