John pulled on his shirt as he came downstairs; the faded blue always seemed to work well for him. He'd had enough women go on about his eyes whenever he wore it. Now a bit of a touch-up in the bathroom and he'd be ready to go.

Trolling with an old rugby mate hadn't been his first choice for tonight. Not until Sarah caught him as he was leaving the surgery.

"We need to talk." Never, never good words from the woman you were dating.

She'd been nice about it, very gentle, enough they could still work together. But the heart of the matter was she needed more stability in a relationship than he could give her. She understood his connection with Sherlock and the hypnotic draw of the adventure to a man like John; she just couldn't live with it herself. John could understand that, and her honesty had been refreshing even if it did sting a bit.

So when Bill rang up and asked him to come hang out for a night at the pub, it sounded better than staying home and listening to Sherlock dissect every little factor of his wrecked romance. God, where's Mycroft when I need a diversion?

"You've not worn that shirt before. Not since I met you."

Yep, a diversion in the form of an officious, self-satisfied older brother would have been most welcome. John worked up his buttons. "It's just a shirt."

"No, it's not." Cool blue went to deductive grey. Damn. Dissection time. "Were it a regular shirt, you'd have worn it prior to tonight. Yet it isn't new. There are signs of wear on the cuffs and the edge of the collar near your right ear. So you've worn it frequently, but not to work. And not on cases. So when do you wear it? Out. But not with Sarah. Why not? Sarah is your girlfriend. Or was. So you don't wear this particular shirt with your established mate, either." A dark brow twitched. "The color is complimentary to both your skin tone and your eye color, rendering you more attractive to potential sexual partners. Therefore, this is not just a shirt. This is your looking to have sex with a stranger shirt."

"I'm not looking to have sex!" Yes, he should have expected the oh-please expression before he opened his mouth. "Okay, I guess I'll rephrase that to I'm not necessarily looking to have actual sex with anyone, stranger or otherwise. Not that I'd balk at the idea, but..." Hell. Now it was the oh-really look making his ears burn. "It was in the trunk of stuff I stored in Bill's attic when I went overseas. I just got 'round to unpacking. And yeah, Sarah broke it off with me today. Happy?"

"Reasonably. She wasn't in any way worthy of you. I'm certain—what is the correct phrasing? Yes. I'm certain you can do much better. In fact, I know it." Sherlock's intense gaze swept John. "But you shouldn't go out. Isn't this sort of thing considered reckless? Getting drunk and having dangerous sexual encounters to forget an unpleasant breakup?"

God help him. "For your information, it wasn't as unpleasant as it could have been. She was very nice about it, said that she understood my tendency to...adrenalin overload. She just needs more from a relationship than what I can give her, that's all. We're still friends. I'm only going down to Mulligan's for a pint with Bill. If there happens to be a nice girl who wants to dance..."

"Pfft. Dull. Boring. There's no challenge there. I could go to Mulligan's—well, actually, no. It makes me ill to go there. But any moderately non-nausea-inducing club, and have any nice girl or not-so-nice girl I wanted. Or better yet, any nice or nasty boy I wanted. That's not the point. The point is it would be boring. Useless. Tedious beyond my ability to tolerate. And worst of all, it would be pointless."

"Why does Mulligan's make you ill?" John figured this conversation could continue just as well while he ran a comb through his hair and splashed on a little aftershave—just enough, never too much. He headed for the bathroom. "And how exactly would you manage to pick up a stranger, boy or girl, especially if they all bore you to tears? Sorry, I am still listening. But I told Bill I'd meet him there at eight and I'm running a bit behind."

"Mulligan's is indescribably pedestrian. It's the epitome of mediocre. There is absolutely nothing of interest there." Sherlock's voice followed John, though the man himself remained behind. "And what do you mean, how would I manage to pick up a stranger? I'm very adept at it. I've had to do so several times for cases."

He has a point. Still, trying to picture Sherlock in the middle of a nightclub making eyes at some sweet young—or older, who knew what the preference might be—thing just left John having to refocus on his reflection in the mirror. "I didn't mean it as an insult. It's just hard to picture, is all."

"Really, John. Use the brain I know you have. I'm quite beautiful in a way that appeals to both sexes. My voice can be modulated to be immensely stimulating. I'm graceful and dance very well and very sensual when need be. How could you think I wouldn't be successful at seduction?"

Still can't picture it, mate. John smoothed down a last annoying cowlick with a touch of product and went back into the kitchen. "All right, I'll tell you what. Tomorrow night, barring a case, you show me how it's done. Your choice all around. Location, all of it. I'll even behave tonight. Nothing more than a couple of pints and a dance or two." He smiled at the glare he got. "I'm not saying you can't do it. I just would like to see you in action, so to speak." He took a step toward that pout leaned up against the kitchen counter, Sherlock's arms crossed tightly over his chest. "Come on, consider it an experiment."

"For you. I've already conducted the experiment several times." Sherlock sighed. "Oh, very well. I'll prove to you I can have my pick of London's nightlife."

"It's a date." John caught the smirk. "Stop it. Have you got something to keep you busy while I'm out, or should I phone Lestrade and have him put the fire department on alert again?" He couldn't help a grin at the renewed glare and the not-hard-to-deduce-at-all desire to slap John upside the head gleaming in Sherlock's eyes. "Just checking."

"Go, indulge your need to have a drink with your friend." Pale eyes raked the blue shirt again. "Text me if you'll be late, so I don't call Lestrade and report you've been kidnapped again."

"Deal." John glanced at his watch. "Oops, I better dash. I'll see you later. Mrs. Hudson made a shepherd's pie today and brought up a plate for each of us. Yours is in the fridge. Eat. Occasionally even you have to refuel. I'll see you later." He tucked his shirt in, grabbed his jacket and headed down the stairs to catch a cab.