"Sherlock, I really don't want to do this."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but wondered into John's room nevertheless. He smirked as he watched John fumbling with his bow tie before stepping into the room to take control of the situation for himself. His fingers made quick work of the bow tie while John huffily stared up at the ceiling and tried to ignore the close proximity in which Sherlock was standing.

"There." Sherlock stepped back, tweaking the tie just a bit before giving a satisfied nod. "Now you look like a presentable gentleman."

"I feel like a twat." John already had his finger underneath the tie in an attempt to tug it loose. Sherlock scowled and slapped John's hand aside.

"Stop it; I just fixed that. And you don't look like a twat; bow ties are cool." John pulled a face but kept his hands tucked into the pockets of his tux nevertheless. "Now I expect you to act civilized for once, John. The owner of the restaurant can't suspect that we're anything except patrons. Do you understand?"

"I'm not a child, Sherlock. I'm perfectly capable of behaving myself. And I don't see how you have any room to accuse me of not being civilized; you were the one trying to operate chopsticks with your toes the other day, after all."

"That was for an experiment," Sherlock sniffed. "And I would have been successful if not for your constant distraction."

"You kept sticking your feet in the take away, Sherlock! I hardly got any food at all, thanks to you."

"Really, John, considering your time spent with smelly men in the military service, I would think that you would be a little less sensitive to such minor breaches in sanitation. My feet are perfectly clean, as you are well aware through your tendency of barging in on me during my bath time."

"Bath time? Grown men don't take bubble baths once a week, Sherlock. And if my barging in to take a piss during your three hour long bath bothers you so much, maybe you should consider taking a shower like a proper adult and not hogging the bathroom."

Sherlock watched John evenly for a moment, a small smile tugging at his lips at the sight of John fuming in his tux. He looked terribly out of place in it, like a child trying on its father's shoes. Or a nervous teenager about to go to prom for the first time. He desperately hoped that his own appearance and the fancy credit card Mycroft had unwittingly provided would maintain their cover well enough to hide just how out of place John was sure to look among the other patrons of the restaurant. Otherwise, they might never get the information necessary to close their most recent murder case.

"Are you done pouting now, or do you want to waste more time and risk allowing the murderer to find themselves a fifth victim?"

John stared up at him for a moment longer, but he finally ducked his head and sighed, muttering, "Fine. But you owe me one quiet night by the telly."


Together, they hailed a cab and rode in silence to the restaurant. Sherlock continued smirking as he watched John out of the corner of his eye. He had put forth a concerted effort to leave his tie be, but he was now tugging at his cuffs and giving agitated little grunts while occasionally writhing in his seat. Finally, he seemed so desperate for a distraction that he turned to Sherlock.

"So, what exactly are we trying to accomplish tonight?"

"I suspect that the owner of the restaurant is somehow involved with the recent murders. As we have no official evidence against him, however, he can not be brought in for questioning. Our "mission" as your coveted James Bond would say, is to find some shred of evidence against him so Lestrade and his team can begin their interrogation."

"Alright. That sounds simple enough."

Sherlock gave a little grunt of assent, but he knew full well that the job would be a touch more difficult than he had made it sound. For one, he had already attempted to infiltrate the restaurant once on his own, but the owner was shrewd and had sensed something was amiss. He had then disappeared into the kitchens and left out the back exit, but not before having his office locked shut and monitored by one of the employees. Clearly, he had something to hide, but whether or not it related to their case was still up for debate. As such, Lestrade had refused to bring the man in until Sherlock had brought him more convincing evidence. And thus here they were, John and Sherlock pretending to be a wealthy couple out for a night on the town. Sherlock had even called in advance and reserved a table for the occasion.

"By the way, John, I feel it is necessary to mention that you and I will be playing the part of an adoring young couple. I hope you don't mind." He smiled and stepped out of the cab, holding the door open for John as he sputtered and struggled out of his seat.

"What? Sherlock, you know I hate it when you just throw these things on me at the last minute! I can't just start acting like your boyfriend out of nowhere. We can't all be gifted liars like you."

"I hardly expect you to give a BAFTA-worthy performance, John, which is why you'll be in the role of the slightly submissive, quiet partner. You will be, so to speak, wearing the skirt in the relationship."

"That's sexist," John bit out. "And demeaning, and I hate you."

"I know." Sherlock smirked once again and held the door open for John as they stepped into the restaurant. Fortunately, John momentarily seemed too overwhelmed by his surroundings to continue the argument. He blinked up at the decadently decorated ceiling and walls, his eyebrows arching up in astonishment. Sherlock sighed and wrapped his hand around John's elbow as if they were a couple and led him through the foyer and up to the Maitre d'.

"Good evening, Gentlemen. May I have your name?"

"Holmes." Sherlock had tilted his chin up just the slightest in a manner which he felt imitated Mycroft when he was being his most pompous and obnoxious. He was happy to note that John had assumed his military stance, effectively making him appear just as stuck-up as Sherlock. At least he no longer looked like a ruffian being shown his first proper house.

"Ah, yes, please come with me." They were led to the table which Sherlock had requested over the phone, stating that it was where they "first realized their love and mutual devotion for one another." Really, Sherlock had just wanted it for its excellent view of mahogany doors which led to the kitchens and back offices. The sap over the phone, however, had then begun gushing about how romantic Sherlock's evening plans were, and had asked how Sherlock would like the table decorated. Never one to pass up a chance to be wicked, Sherlock had requested they adorn it with rose petals and plenty of candles. John seemed to have a strange aversion to candles when dining, and Sherlock was now enjoying the fruits of his labors through the slightly shocked and mortified expression on John's face.

"How do you like it, darling?" he said with his most sickly sweet smile.

John reciprocated by turning widened eyes on Sherlock and positively beaming. "Oh, my treasure, it's absolutely perfect." He then gripped Sherlock's hand and brought it up to his lips to place a kiss on Sherlock's knuckles. Sherlock was momentarily left speechless; he hadn't expected John to fight back like this. He gathered his resolve, however, and smiled back at John while pulling his seat out for him.

"Here you are, my dear. Have a seat."

"Thank you, pet. And could you be a sweet and take my coat to the cloakroom?" If John laced his voice with more sugar, Sherlock was sure he would give himself cavities. Nevertheless, he continued playing his role while the Maitre d' was watching, pulling the coat off John's shoulders all the while smiling pleasantly. When the host had finally left and Sherlock had taken his seat, he rounded on John.

"What are you doing?"

"To what are you referring?" John grinned at him innocently all the while leaning farther over the table to invade Sherlock's personal space.

"This," Sherlock gestured at John's posture with a scowl.

"Oh, nothing. Just playing the part, like you asked." John's hand then darted out and his fingers intwined in Sherlock's on top of the table. "It is supposedly our anniversary, after all." His adoring smile now twisted slightly at the corners as if he were smirking at Sherlock while the detective tried to regain his bearings.

"Ah, yes, very clever, John. I agree; it is necessary to act the part as best as possible if we are to collect the evidence we need." Sherlock scooted his chair closer to the table and therefore closer to John and stroked his fingers over John's wrist. He grinned wickedly at the little involuntary shudder that ran up John's spine at the touch.

"I'm glad that you understand, Sherlock," John said as his foot brushed up the side of Sherlock's leg. "It would be a shame to blow our cover by not playing the part convincingly."

Luckily, the waiter interrupted, thereby giving Sherlock some time to consider what his next attack against John would be. He had to be sure and not escalate the game too quickly; they couldn't very well risk getting thrown out of the restaurant for public indecency, after all. Unfortunately, he was so distracted trying to think up his next assault that he didn't notice when the waiter requested his order. John, therfore, took it upon himself to place it for him.

"He would like the kalamarakia tursi with scalloped oysters, please."

Sherlock jerked his head around as he heard the waiter scribbling the order onto his note pad. He was about to open his mouth to reject John's choice of food, but then John's finger, topped with some sort of sauce, suddenly plunged into his mouth.

"Here, darling, try the cocktail sauce. Isn't it exquisite?"

The waiter cleared his throat awkwardly while glancing at the finger John still had lodged in Sherlock's mouth. He then murmured that he would have their order out in a few minutes and to just call if they needed him. He quickly beat a retreat to the kitchens, then, casting one last glance at the "loving" couple. Seeing that his opportunity to get a decent, edible meal had been lost, Sherlock took great pleasure in biting down on John's finger before he could pull it out of his mouth. Once the offending digit had been removed, Sherlock glowered at John over his wine glass.

"I am not eating pickled squid. And you know that I find oysters detestable."

"I'm so sorry, dear, but I'm sure you'll manage." John looked positively smug, and Sherlock found it infuriating.

"I hate you," he said while slathering some shrimp in the cocktail sauce. John had been right on one front at least; the sauce was rather good.

"I know." John merely took a long swig of his wine, his smirk still firmly in place.

Sherlock seethed for a few moments longer before turning his attention back on the door he was supposed to have been watching. He frowned, realizing that in all his haste to make John as uncomfortable as possible, he had arranged their chairs such that he had a less-than-clear view of his target. He remedied this by simply scooting his chair around the table and therefore closer to John. John raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn't comment.

"This isn't for the game, by the way."

"I know. You needed a better view of the door. That much was obvious, Sherlock. I'm not dense."

"Mm." Sherlock was chewing on his lower lip while trying to puzzle out how exactly he was going to get into the back office. Last time had been an utter failure, and he was determined not to repeat it. He jerked as he felt fingers begin playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "John, now is not the time."

"We were getting funny looks. You can't just scoot your chair right up next to me and then not do some canoodling. People will get suspicious."

"Oh." Sherlock remained stiff for a moment longer before deciding that the touch wasn't terribly offensive, and therefore began ignoring it in favor of staring at the door once again. "I need to get into that office."

"Okay. How?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out, if you would stop distracting me."

"Terribly sorry. Would you prefer this?" John's hand moved from the nape of his neck to Sherlock's upper thigh. His fingers began stroking over the inner seam of Sherlock's trousers, causing him to stiffen in his seat once again. "Is this any less distracting?"

"You know, John, you're not playing the part of the submissive beau very well. I believe that I should be the one manhandling your thigh."

"Probably, but you weren't doing it, so I took the liberty. Hope you don't mind." John grinned up at him, once again looking insufferably proud of himself.

"You're enjoying this too much."

"I only think it's fair. You had your turn to see me uncomfortable at the flat and in the cab, after all."

"That was different."


"I wasn't trying to work there!"

"Ah. Okay then. Are you sure you're not just mad that I'm winning?"

"You're not winning anything, and this isn't the place for your childish games, John."

"Oh, you mean like the grocery store isn't the place for you to prick people with safety pins to get DNA samples? Or like my bed isn't the place for you to put the corpse of a snake?"

"Those were different."


"They were for science!"

"And this is for science, too."


"Well," John smiled. "I've deduced that you are slightly ticklish right here." His fingers brushed against the inside of Sherlock's thigh once again, and Sherlock squirmed in his seat. "That information might come in very useful someday."

"That's not a deduction," Sherlock bit out. "That's an observation. And if you don't get your bloody hand off my bloody leg, I will let loose all my lab mice in your bedroom."

"So touchy." John's hand did withdraw, however. Before he could find any more inconvenient places to grope Sherlock, Sherlock threaded his arm over John's shoulder and began playing with his hair just as John had been doing to his minutes before. He, however, interspersed the stroking with little pinches to the sensitive muscles of John's neck every so often, causing John to flinch ever so slightly.

"What, my sweet, am I hurting you?"

"Not at all, angel. Are you having any luck with the door yet?"

"No," Sherlock pouted. "This place is just too intimate. You couldn't even slip off to the loo without the whole damn restaurant knowing."

"Pity." John cocked his head, looking around for any details that Sherlock had missed. It was fruitless, of course, but Sherlock thought it very endearing that John would actually try to help solve their little problem. "That's odd."

"What?" Sherlock followed John's line of sight to one of the darkest corners of the room. Two figures were standing there, bodies close so as to maximize their privacy, but both were standing in defensive postures as if they were arguing. Sherlock squinted his eyes, but he couldn't make out much of the two other than the fact that they were both men and employees of the restaurant, if one was to go by their light grey suits. Abruptly, the two broke apart and headed in opposite directions. One went towards the small stage on which a grand piano stood while the other made his way to the door which led to the back offices. Sherlock sat up straighter in his seat as he recognized the face of the owner, now flushed in anger.

"That's him! But the other...Obviously the hired musician, but what part does he play in all this? Interesting. Maybe he's not involved...Then again, the wounds inflicted on the victims suggest an assaulter of his stature. The owner's much too small to have been able to exert the sort of force impacted against the victims' bodies. Hm." Sherlock leaned back in his seat, no longer fully conscious of the hand that he had placed against John's neck. John squirmed under the touch, but Sherlock was too lost in thought to notice. Instead, he remained almost frozen in place while he considered every angle of every blow and whether or not they could have been dealt by the piano player. His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the waiter delivering their meal. He barely concealed a scowl at the plate which was placed before him while he glanced longingly at John's dish.

"If I were the one paying for this crime against the culinary arts, I would be very put out."

"Well then thank god that Mycroft's footing the tab. We wouldn't want the great Sherlock Holmes being put out." John twirled his fork into his pasta and made a great show of putting it in his mouth and savoring it.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose while prodding at the squid on his plate. To make the whole mess even less appetizing, they had placed it on a bed of white cabbage, making the dish look like cooked entrails laying atop a nest of maggots. "I hate you, John Watson. I loathe you with an all encompassing passion, and I will never forgive you for this."

"Aw, don't say that! You know that I'm your little chunky bear and you're my sweet bumpkin blossom."

"Between your increasingly nauseating pet names and this meal, I fear I might vomit."

"That's the point!" Even though John was beaming with pride at having finally bested Sherlock, he still had his eye on the pianist. Sherlock couldn't decide if he was looking out of wariness or rapture for the man's skill, but either way he was glad that John's mind was at least partially on the case.

"John, have you ever played the piano?"

"Er, not much. I mean, I know chopsticks, but that was really the only one that I ever properly learned."

"Ah, pity. I thought that you might have. You do have pianist fingers, after all."

"Really?" John looked at his hands curiously but shook his head. "No, unfortunately I wasn't much good at it. I taught myself chopsticks, but it was so hard that I pretty much gave up on the lot. Switched to clarinet."

"Do you still remember how to play chopsticks?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, it's pretty simple once you've got it learned, isn't it?"

"Good, because I need you to be a distraction."

"A distraction?"

"Yes. In about ten minutes, the pianist will go on his break. I want to talk to him, but I may need longer than his alloted five minute break period. Should our conversation go longer than five minutes, I need you to take his place at the piano. I doubt the owner every actually listens to what is being played, as long as he sees someone at the bench on the security screen, he's probably satisfied. So, if you sit at the bench and pluck out a little ditty, I should have enough time to secure the necessary evidence."

"Um, okay, I guess."

They lapsed into silence while John continued eating and Sherlock hacked miserably at his food. It wasn't long until the man at the piano rose and wondered off to the loo. Sherlock smiled, sensing that the game was finally becoming interesting, before turning to John.

"Alright, watch the clock. Five minutes from now, take his place. I'll yell if I need you." He rose, haughtily pulling his jacket into place. He then cleared his throat, saying, "Oh, and John-" Sherlock stamped down hard on John's foot, causing the man's mouth to fall open in shock. While it was open, Sherlock crammed a forkful of squid and cabbage into it. "Help yourself to my dinner, chunky bear; I'm quite finished with it." He strolled off in the direction of the bathroom, grinning broadly at the sounds of John's gagging and sputtering.

Sherlock was lucky in that by the time he arrived in the bathroom the pianist had already done his business and was washing up. Sherlock stepped up beside him at the sink, acting as if he were merely preening himself while watching the man scrubbing at his hands.

"Are you the one playing the piano?" He asked innocently.

"Yes, I am."

"You're brilliant, you know. My boyfriend is quite taken with you, in fact. I'm going to have to watch out for him; he might just be willing to leave me for you!"

"Uh, thanks, I guess."

"Not at all. I'm sure that if I just mention you're a murderer he'll back off pretty quickly."

Ah ha! The man's face contorted quickly in a look of terror, but then it fell just as quickly into a mask of confusion. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, you know, someone breaking into people's houses in the dead of night, then beating them to death, probably with an instrument of some sort. Maybe a baseball bat, or perhaps a golf club. Boring stuff, really." Sherlock smirked as the man grew even more panicked, his eyes rapidly flickering between Sherlock and the door. Of course Sherlock knew that a baseball bat had been used on three of the victims, while the forth had been killed with a golf club. That much was obvious from examining the wounds.

"But what isn't boring," he continued, "is the motivation for the crime. You and the owner are working together, aren't you? But why...Now that's a tricky one. Probably something concerning the argument you had with your boss not too long ago in the restaurant. Probably you're getting tired of doing all the grunt work while he sits back and reaps the benefits, am I right? No, don't answer that; of course I'm right."

"Who in the hell are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes, but that's really none of your business. Now, are you going to come down to NSY to have a little chat with my friend DI Lestrade, or are you going to make this difficult? I feel it is necessary to point out that you might receive a lighter sentence should you give sufficient information to incriminate your friend the restaurant owner. Otherwise, the brunt of all this will go on your shoulders alone."

"I haven't done anything!" The man's face was now a startling shade of red which did not help his claim of innocence. "I don't know who you are or what you're going on about, but I'm innocent!"

"The blister on your right palm suggests otherwise. Didn't they teach you to wear gloves when pummeling a man to death with a baseball bat, or are you going to try and convince me that you were doing a bit of gardening?"

"I don't- You're- Fuck!" With that the man shoved past Sherlock and tried dashing into the corridor outside the bathroom. Sherlock cursed and followed him but saw that he was going to get away if drastic action was not taken, so he lunged forward in a mad dive, his arms curling around the man's legs and sending them both crashing to the ground. It wasn't until the man had kicked free of Sherlock's grasp and had begun brutally punching him in the gut that Sherlock thought maybe it wasn't such a good idea to tackling a man with a history of beating people to death. He tried to fight back, but his position on the ground left him at a disadvantage, and his blows were ineffectual against the man's onslaught.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" The blows abruptly stopped when the man was yanked up off Sherlock and slammed roughly against the wall by a gruff man with grey hair. The man continued to struggle, thrusting his weight back against Lestrade and jerking wildly in an attempt to escape, but Lestrade had a solid grip on the back of the man's collar and managed to keep him pinned while Sherlock staggered to his feet.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, fine." Sherlock wiped a bit of blood from his lip and scowled at the man. "Bastard went for my face!"

"Yes, Sherlock, that's typically where people hit other people when trying to stun them."

"Well it didn't work," Sherlock sniffed. "He's your murderer, by the way, but the owner of the place is in on it, too. I believe that you'll find that they're cousins or related in some similar fashion; the bone structure in their faces is too similar to have been by chance. Probably the murders were committed in an effort to eliminate unwanted competition. The four victims were all planning on going in together to open a restaurant of their own, which would have deterred patrons from coming here. The owner couldn't allow that, and so he promised his cousin an increased share of their profits if he took care of the problem in advance."

"Brilliant, Sherlock. Now can you tell me why you decided to come here all by yourself and stick your nose in danger again?"

"I wasn't by myself; I brought John along. And you came just in the nick of time, so I fail to see any problem."

"I only came because John texted me and said you were getting yourself into trouble!"

"Oh. How very thoughtful of him. Where is John, by the way? Usually he's not far behind when mischief is afoot."

"Beats me." Lestrade shrugged while clamping handcuffs around the pianist's wrists. "Where did you leave him?"

Sherlock, however, had cocked his head to the side was listening intently to what was going on outside the corridor. He frowned and began wondering down the hallway back out into the restaurant. When he was there, he was startled to find John still sitting at the piano, but what he was playing was far from chopsticks. In fact, it sounded suspiciously like some variation of Moonlight Sonata. John didn't seem to mind, however, and simply continued letting his fingers fly across the keys. Sherlock watched, completely mesmerized as John worked furiously over the keyboard, his enthusiastic playing eliciting applause from his equally captivated audience. The music had now transitioned into a variation of the Hungarian Rhapsody. By now, Sherlock's jaw had dropped in astonishment as he discovered John's hidden talent. Lestrade came up behind Sherlock, hands still clasped firmly around the original pianist's arms while he watched John along with Sherlock. He passed the criminal off to another cop and frowned at the scene before him.

"I didn't know John played the piano."

"He doesn't. Or, he didn't. He told me he only knew Chopsticks!" Sherlock was genuinely offended by John's blatant lie, especially since it meant that they had missed out on months of piano and violin duets. He squared his shoulders and marched indignantly over to the little stage, folding his arms and glaring up at John until his song came to its completion. Even then, he had to wait for the applause to subside before he could speak.

"What was that?" He demanded.

"Er..." John rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously, "Chopsticks. I didn't do it wrong, did I?" He looked truly worried as he asked, as if he thought that he had somehow butchered the song.

"That wasn't Chopsticks, John."

"Yes, it was. I told you, that's the only song I ever learned how to play properly."

"No, John. That was a mash up of many extremely popular, extremely complex songs. From what I heard, only the beginning was Chopsticks."

"Whatever it was," Lestrade grinned up at John, "It was bloody good! Where'd you learn how to play that?"

"Well, I taught myself. When I was a kid, I asked Harry to teach me to play, but she said that she wouldn't teach me until I had proven that I some sort of talent for piano. So she gave me the sheet music for Chopsticks, saying that it was the easiest song ever and everyone knew how to play it, and then she left me to learn how to play it. It took me a few weeks, but I finally figured it out. Anyway, it was so hard that I just sort of gave up."

"You taught yourself that in a few week's time?" Sherlock stared at John incredulously.

"Well, yeah, but it's only Chopsticks..."

"If you say that what you just played was only Chopsticks, I'm going to throttle you. Or even better, find Harry and throttle her for suppressing musical talent like yours."

"Er, thanks, I guess."

"And that's all you ever learned to play?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, I learned a few other songs, but I didn't do it properly."

"What do you mean you didn't do it properly?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, I just sort of listened to the music a lot and then plucked out the notes on the piano as I figured them out. It took me some time, but I got it eventually. But I didn't learn from sheet music or anything like you're supposed to."

"What sort of music did you teach yourself?" Sherlock was slowly becoming more and more wary of this newfound talent of John's. It almost seemed too good to be true. Then again, a lot about John seemed too good to be true. Like the fact that he would not only tolerate living with Sherlock but would also seem enjoy it most of the time.

"I mostly did stuff by Chopin and Sergei Rachmaninoff, but sometimes I would play some John Williams just for laughs."

"You played John Williams for laughs?" Lestrade shook his head disbelievingly. "I think you need to call your sister up and yell at her for a bit, mate. It sounds to me like she screwed you over just a bit."

"Well, she was probably a bit too busy exploring her sexuality to waste her time teaching her younger brother piano, I guess." John shrugged the matter off dismissively, as if he hadn't just discovered that he had some buried talent.

Sherlock grinned up at him, suddenly very excited at the prospect of getting to play a duet with John. He hadn't been able to do so since Mycroft went off to uni, and he was completely unwilling to admit that he missed playing on the violin while Mycroft accompanied him on the cello. "John, I could kiss you."

"I wouldn't," John pulled a face. "My mouth still tastes like squid thanks to you."

Sherlock laughed and together the three of them left the restaurant. Lestrade still had to make the official arrest of the restaurant owner, though, so he left John and Sherlock to find a cab on their own. Sherlock couldn't help but think that, overall, the night hadn't been too bad. He was still terribly hungry, though, thanks to John's little stunt. He frowned as his stomach gave a very audible grumble.

"Are you hungry?" John looked up at Sherlock with a touch of concern on his face.

"Of course I'm hungry! You sabotaged my dinner, after all."

"Mm," John chewed on his lower lip before smiling. "You know, there's a fairly decent Chinese place just down the road. I'm sure Mycroft wouldn't mind footing the bill for a second meal."

"Especially if he didn't realize that he was doing so."

"My thoughts exactly." They turned from the curb and began strolling down the street together, their elbows lightly brushing up against one another as they walked. "I think I should point out, though," John continued, "that I definitely won the game tonight."

"The night is still young, my little chunky bear. I have plenty of time to even the score."

"I also think that I should point out that I am more than capable of dislocating your shoulder if you keep calling me chunky bear."

"I don't see the problem with it," Sherlock smirked. "You were the one that called yourself chunky bear in the first place."

"Yes, but if you recall, I also called you my sweet bumpkin blossom. I think that I reprise the nickname, if you force me to."

"Fair enough," Sherlock sighed. "But if you muck up my dinner order again I'll have Mycroft legally change your name to chunky bear."

"As long as you keep your toes out of the take away, I won't mess with your food ever again."

"It's a bargain, then."


Sherlock thought that, all in all, he could have found much less satisfying ways of spending the evening. And now he knew precisely what to do should John ever prove himself to be an annoyance again. He smirked as he thought of all the terrible abuse to which he could put John's nickname. He had always found the title page of John's blog rather dull...