"…we could go out for dinner, I suppose."

"Really?" John asked, watching the detective's still form sprawled across the couch. "Are you going to eat tonight, then?"

Sherlock glanced at him as if this question were ridiculous. "We could go to Angelo's."

"And explain for the fifth time this week that we aren't dating?"

"It bothers you very much, doesn't it." Sherlock was staring at him now, grey eyes fixed and unwavering. It made John only a little uncomfortable.

"I didn't say that. Perhaps you enjoy the confusion?"

The detective shrugged, and returned to his contemplation of the ceiling.

"…might be nice. The food's always good, it's usually quiet. A meal together, alone, a candle—"

"He'll remember not to give us the candle, after you told him off the last time."

"—maybe I'll buy you some flowers on the way home from work. You like daffodils, don't you?"

"I—what?"

"Daffodils, Sherlock. Do you like them?"

"…they're like any other flower, I suppose."

John smiled. "We could stop for a drink afterward. I know you're not much for alcohol, but there's a place just down from Angelo's that's quite good." Sherlock was frowning at the ceiling now, his concentration clearly now on their conversation and not on whatever internal monologue had occupied him previously. He seemed unsure of what to make of it. "And when we get home—"

"John, are you asking me out on a date?"

The doctor laughed, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair. "You really are a bit dense at times, you know? Did you delete this sort of thing?"

"…Mycroft told me I was unlikely to require it."

"Right. Of course he would."

"…when we get home, John?"

"When we get home… I suppose you'll get first-hand experience on why they called me Three Continents Watson, won't you?"