This will be two, possibly three parts. A somewhat-sappy ficlet that was born out of snarky dialogue… as usual. Hope you enjoy!

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The under-eye circles only left by being dragged out of bed in the wee hours of the morning didn't do much for anyone. It certainly didn't do much for either John Watson or Sherlock Holmes, standing on either side of a young woman, splayed out in the grass of a park. Her reddish-brown hair was tangled beyond belief, skirt worked up around her hips – violent bruises on her throat. Her eyes had been closed by someone. Anderson, likely. He may present as a cold fish, but he had a sentimental streak. Sometimes John thought that might have been a good part of the problem between Anderson and Sherlock – both of them cared, under it all, but would die before they'd show it.

Sherlock's rambling broke into John's fogged consideration of the body. "It just doesn't make any bloody sense why she would have followed him here of all places. It was a blind date. A perfect stranger! And it isn't as if the media wasn't all over the last killing." Sherlock waved an annoyed hand. "Women have no sense of self-preservation nowadays, honestly."

"That's a bit harsh."

"Howso?"

"Well it's not like dating is generally particularly risky." He rubbed an eye, irritably. Coffee. Lots of coffee. And some sort of pastry. He'd give up quite a bit for both those things right now.

"Nor is it particularly interesting, so why bother taking the risk at all? Especially with someone you don't even know. Asinine"

"It is no—look, have you ever even been on a date?" John asked, his voice strained with irritated disbelief.

"They're banal. Really, how long can you make small talk?"

"That doesn't answer the question."

"Yes of course I have."

"When?"

"You should know, you were there."

"Wh…" John trailed off, his utter bewilderment giving way to exasperation. "Sherlock, that was my date. The one you crashed."

"Yes, and it was utterly dull." Sherlock paused, mulling it over for a half a breath. "That is until the attempted murder. That part was more interesting. Really spiced up the evening, wouldn't you say?"

John pinched the bridge of his nose and reminded himself that he had signed up for this. "Only you would see that as spicing it up. Most of us would think that rather killed the mood. Very few dates involve murder or mayhem, Sherlock."

"Actually, you'd be surprised at the amount that do."

"That's not the point, Sherlock!" He groaned a little. "Every date is a risk. You don't know what will happen in the end. People risk it because the reward is…" He trailed off, letting out a slow breath and biting back the rest of it. Sherlock wouldn't understand. He never did. "Never mind. Are we done here?"

Sherlock hummed under his breath faintly, looking once more at the body at their feet. "Here? Yes." Distractedly, he handed John's phone back to him, commandeered earlier because Sherlock's had been acting up. "Phone Rossini's and make a reservation for two. Back left corner table. Ask for candles."

John blinked. It wasn't unusual for them to retrace a victim's steps, but... "I'm sorry, a reservation?"

"Seven o'clock will do. I trust you have a nice suit jacket." He waved a hand distractedly, turning to leave.

"For what?"

"Science!" Sherlock tossed over his shoulder.

John snapped his teeth shut, afraid that he'd either gape or snarl at his flatmate's retreating back. It was only after Sherlock was quite out of shouting distance that the whole thing sunk in.

Sherlock had just invited him on a date. For research. And John really didn't know what to make of that.

He straightened a cuff with a kind of military precision that he hadn't bothered with – well, since he'd been discharged.

This was it, though. This was the war again, the campaign. He glared at himself in the mirror – getting all the glare out, as it were. He would turn the tables on Sherlock tonight, if he killed himself doing it.

Perhaps this wasn't the best way to go into it, but then again, this was Sherlock Holmes. "Date" didn't cover it. It would be like calling a swim through shark-infested waters a dip in the pool. Extreme dating.

He ran knuckles over his grimly-set jaw, re-checking the stubble there for the third time since he'd dressed and the seventh since he'd finished shaving. Smooth, check. Most flattering outfit (light blue tshirt, dark blue jeans, black suit jacket), check. Light touch of cologne (very light, Sherlock was always sensitive about smells, though he did comment once when John was going out that it wasn't horrible on him), check. Battle plan – working on it.

Bloody hell, he was about to make a fool out of himself, wasn't he? He grimaced lightly, looked himself over once more – though really, he knew that this was as good as he was going to get – and stepped out of the bathroom, flipping off the light.

His flatmate was waiting in the living room downstairs, standing by the fire. Silhouetted, almost, and the light almost made him thinner, more ethereal. He could be some sort of spirit but for the cell in his hands, fingers flying over the keys. Or at least they were until Sherlock glanced up once, quickly, and then again more slowly. His eyebrows slid up, slowly. "Taking this rather seriously, aren't you John?"

"Speak for yourself." He said, shoving his irritation back, hard. It wasn't as if Sherlock hadn't changed too – fine white shirt, black jacket. A different cut than he normally wore. John couldn't remember if he'd ever seen that jacket before, but then again, he rarely remembered details like that. "Besides, who am I to deny science?"

"Quite so. Have you called a cab, then?"

"It's waiting outside." And John said a quick, silent prayer of thanks that he'd thought of that detail.

"Oh." And now Sherlock was actually looking at him, with a faintly perplexed light in his eyes that John couldn't remember seeing ever before. It warmed him up better than a pint on a cold day, gave him courage to see the rest of this through. He picked up Sherlock's scarf from where it had been laying haphazardly across the back of a chair, and stepped into the other, just a hair too close, where he knew that he was ever-so-subtly violating Sherlock's personal space, and quite casually looped it around his throat, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Let's not be late for our table. Science would be most disappointed." He said lightly, as if he hadn't noticed the way Sherlock's light eyes sharpened, honed in on him as if they'd just seen something entirely new. Score one, Watson.

The cab ride to the restaurant was short – and mostly silent. John held the door for Sherlock, and insisted on paying, instead of being bullied into it. He didn't pull out Sherlock's chair, but he did order for them both. Sometimes he thought he knew more about Sherlock's taste in food than the man himself did.

Not too far from their usual MO, he supposed, but it was at the same time. It was enough to keep Sherlock's mouth just-so-slightly pursed.

And then, of course, there was the eye contact. Instead of looking around the restaurant, or reading over the dessert menu or searching out a loose thread to tug at, he was simply watching Sherlock. It was a trick he'd picked up at some point or another, from a friend in the army who swore that it worked every time. He'd never really employed it before, but if Sherlock had to turn everything into an experiment; John saw no reason not to try one out on him.

"Why are you staring at me?" The other asked, almost immediately after the wine had been poured.

"Is that what I'm doing?" John asked – murmured, almost – and kept right on doing it. Eyes focused on Sherlock's, even as he sipped the wine. He honestly wouldn't be able to say later if it was a good vintage or not. That didn't matter, at this point. All that did was maintaining that eye contact.

"Of course it is." Sherlock said, shifting some, a faint wrinkle between his eyebrows. But he didn't break the gaze, not entirely anyway. Score two, Watson.

"Mn." He shrugged a little, a roll of his shoulders… and broke the gaze for a moment, to take a breath. What the hell was he doing? Seducing his likely-asexual flatmate to prove a point? Did he even want to seduce Sherlock?

Yes. No. Maybe. He honestly didn't know. Sherlock had this way of taking his world and shaking it upside down like a snow globe, all the bits and pieces falling into a new and unrecognizable pattern. Since they'd met, he had to constantly re-evaluate who he was. Everything seemed changed – or maybe just thrown into hyper-relief.

Maybe he just wanted to see that he had – even to the smallest degree – the same effect on him. Thoughts of seduction and sex were jumping the gun, by miles. He raised his wineglass to his lips again, and took another, cautious drink. As a rule, he didn't like to drink anyway, but right now losing control of his already-fragmented emotions could be a disaster.

Bloody hell, he was turning into Sherlock if he was doing this all to prove a point, he thought sourly. It must have shown up on his face because before the thought even completed himself, it was interrupted by an almost-amused, "What are you thinking about?"

"The liver you've got under the sink." He said dryly, knowing that Sherlock won't be sure if it's a lie or not. He inhales slowly under the dubious look he receives, squaring his shoulders just a little – not too much, not enough to look like he's standing at attention.

If Sherlock knows he's lying, he does John the solid of not calling him on it. Gulping a mouthful of the wine instead, and that itself seemed odd, incongruous. Sherlock didn't like things that dulled his wit.

He wasn't sure how the small talk started. He'd probably asked Sherlock something inane… but somehow, oddly, Sherlock didn't find it to be so, and they'd started talking. They'd asked each other all those little questions that had slipped through the cracks of cases and exhaustion and haranguing Sherlock about his odd habits and being harangued over his own.

It flowed, surprisingly well, in a way that all the dates he'd had since he'd returned from Afghanistan hadn't. Perhaps it was because he wasn't looking forward to tonight, to a bed and warm skin and the press of bodies. He was just enjoying himself-with-someone-else. The frenetic intensity of cases with Sherlock dampened, muted. No, not muted, concentrated. He barely tasted the food, the richness of the conversation itself feeling like it could sustain him. Was this how Sherlock felt while on a particularly good case? No wonder he didn't eat. Eating was boring.

Their plates were cleared, check paid. (John paid, and ignored the twist in his stomach when he tucked his card into the book without even looking at the check. He had enough to cover it, whatever it was, and he wouldn't regret it.) Wineglasses emptied, and were refilled. They drank slowly – John still cautious, never more than just enough to feel warm to his fingertips and toes. Sherlock less cautiously, though John would never accuse him of getting drunk. A single bottle of wine never hurt two grown men. The candle guttered out between them before John realized, and he glanced down, smiling at it.

"They're probably getting sick of us, yeah?" He said lowly, nodding his head over towards the servers. Noting how Sherlock's lips pursed in exasperation.

"I suppose. Home, then?" Sherlock isn't even waiting for John to agree, standing and reaching for his coat, slipping it on and popping the collar. Such a silly, vain, dear habit. John can't help the smile that he tries to bite back as he stands, and hands Sherlock his scarf again.

They step out into the street, bells on the door jangling as it bangs shut. It's a cold night, hints of frost clinging to the air. John should have dressed more warmly, a shiver working down his spine as he gets used to it. The cold never used to bother him, until the pressing heat of Afghanistan.

The backs of their hands brushed as they walked; accidentally, of course. John hadn't meant for the awkward knock between them, hadn't planned on Sherlock looking at him askance. "Are you trying to hold my hand?" He almost laughed at the absurdity of the question and couldn't help the smile that broke out on his lips. He held his hand up, in a silent challenge, daring Sherlock to take it.

A brief hesitation before fine Italian glove slid over his bare palm and their hands were falling between them, a heavy weight that held them in orbit.

"People usually do this without gloves you know." He couldn't help but needle the other lightly, still able to feel that mad grin still his face.

"Vile." Sherlock responded lightly, but he didn't drop John's hand. Score three.

They turned towards home as they walked, John's breath catching just a little when Sherlock took a wrong turn. Sherlock never took a wrong turn. The knowledge set him dizzy, and if he weren't already grinning like a loon… he looked over and up at Sherlock, whose eyes were bright in the low street lights. Was that a faint flush, or just the orange of the light? He didn't know. He was afraid he was blushing too – or maybe that was just the frost. Would Sherlock be able to tell the difference? Feel the too-fast heartbeat in his palm, through those ridiculously soft leather gloves?

Was that even his own heartbeat?

Bloody sentimental nonsense. He cut himself off, pulled up shortly. The door of the flat was there, just a block away, and he couldn't afford to knock himself arse over teakettle. No matter what he might feel now, in the light of home he was still plain old ordinary John, who was somehow fortunate enough to be let into the strange, twisted wonderful life that was Sherlock. He wouldn't lose that. Especially not to prove a point.

An experiment, that was all this was. Liver under the sink, maggots in the icebox. He let out a slow breath as they reached the door of the flat, letting Sherlock's hand go to unlock the door. Smooth, no hint of fiddling on the keys. His hands as steady as they were holding a gun.

They stepped in, the silence that descended suddenly awkward, unlike the contemplative, wonderful lulls that had punctuated their conversation up until this point. Stairs creaked under their feet, John flipping on the light of the living room as they reached it. The fire had died out at some point, he noted, absently.

"Well. It was an early morning, so…" John started, keeping his face pleasantly neutral. It just wouldn't do to show the sudden nervous shyness.

Sherlock, blessedly, seemed not to notice. Fingers loosening his scarf. He was still next to John, too close. He let himself swallow once against the tension wrapping his throat, starting up the stairs towards his room.

"John." Sherlock's voice came out somewhat twisted, strangled before John was more than two steps up towards his room. He kept from smiling – just barely – before he turned back to Sherlock.

"Yes?" Nonchalant. Well not completely, but as much as he could be, and he knew Sherlock noticed the tremor in his voice, but also that his flatmate hadn't quite identified it.

"I… believe I understand." Sherlock grit out, slowly. "Thank you. The results should be most helpful in.."

John was back down a step, his hand on that soft blue scarf that he'd wrapped around Sherlock's throat earlier before he knew it, and before he could even think about what he was doing, his mouth cut off Sherlock's. Impulsive, he knew, from the moment that Sherlock's lips moved against his, awkwardly, not sure if he was still speaking or kissing. And bloody hell he wanted to press forward into it more, and show Sherlock what he was missing. But he didn't. Pulling back, he met Sherlock's eyes – wide open and so, so pale in the odd light in the hallway.

"Good night kiss." He said, his voice not at all as light as he would have liked it. "Not a proper date without it."

Sherlock's inhale was audible, and the way the angular planes of his face evened out with the surprise just fascinating, but that odd awkward twist was back in his stomach and he couldn't keep standing there, staring. He did the only thing a sane person could do (oh god, sane and living with Sherlock Holmes, that was obviously a contradiction of the most glaring proportions…) and turned to take the stairs again, deliberately not taking them as fast as his feet wanted.

John closed the door behind him with a soft sound and leaned back against it, letting out a long shaky breath. Scrubbed his hands over his face with a soft groan. He couldn't be sure if he'd dodged a bullet or walked into a firing squad.

He dug his keys out of his pocket, haphazardly tossed them on the nightstand.. then his wallet, and then his phone. Bloody thing.

Almost on cue, it buzzed, LED light flashing. John growled, pulling off the suit jacket, hanging it up though he wanted to just throw it across the chair (but no, too many years of military instincts kept him from doing that) before he sat down on the edge of the bed, picking up the phone and checking the text.

:Further investigation required. Keep Friday evening open. SH: