A/N: I've been having a lot of feelings for these two dorks lately. This is kind of spur-of-the-moment, but I heard an intriguing fun fact from my girlfriend a couple days ago and, well, I felt the need to make it Sherlock-related.

I also wanted something to cure my pain because I recently watched The Reichenbach Fall for the first time and I just…nO.


John Watson had a date. This, in itself, wasn't unusual—first dates weren't, that is. Anything after that was rare, thanks to Sherlock scaring away all of his girlfriends, so the fact that this particular girl was going out with him for a second time was downright miraculous.

Sherlock had been busy on some sort case at the time, if John remembered correctly. Minor, but it kept him distracted long enough for the blonde to wander away and bump into a pretty young woman with a face he knew he'd seen around before. She'd smiled quite a lovely smile, then asked him if he was busy with his boyfriend, and John (for the hundredth time) had to explain that, no, he was not, and Sherlock was not his "boyfriend," thank you very much, and, actually, if you were free, I'd love to take you out for dinner tonight!

Amazingly, she accepted the invitation, even though their first date had gone awry when the detective whisked John away for assistance on a case he didn't really need help with.

Needless to say, the doctor was in high spirits at the moment. He was humming a tune to himself and fixing his tie in the mirror when his flatmate passed by him to sit down on the sofa, violin and bow in hand.

Though it was already evident to Sherlock, he asked anyway, "Date tonight?"

"Yes," John answered, drawing out his 's' proudly. "And it's with a woman I've been out with before! This is our second date."

"Must be a new record."

John shot the other man an annoyed look, but Sherlock had begun playing his violin and was pointedly ignoring him. John kept talking, regardless. "Well, you're the one that always runs my dates away, I'll have you know."

"Because they weren't worth your time."

"And you are?"

"That was hurtful, John."

"Oh, please. You don't care."

The older man didn't hear a response, so he assumed the conversation had ended and gave the other a short wave on his way out the door. There was no notice taken to the fact the violin music had suddenly become clumsy—a result of shaking fingers and a wandering mind that suggested to Sherlock that he certainly did care, and perhaps a bit too much.

Without a sound, Sherlock set his instrument aside and rose from his seat to glance through the window at the retreating doctor. It took a mere five seconds for John's destination to become apparent.

An idea suddenly struck him, and he wasted no time in grabbing his coat and cell phone to hurry out the door with. The last thing he did before darting across the street was send a brief text, the response to which he would be delighted to see in a matter of minutes.

"Oh, that, um, that was my phone… Pardon me, miss. I am so sorry. So, so sorry, but I…it might be important and, um," John was mumbling now, reaching for his phone just as they'd arrived at the restaurant to answer a text; his date was less than thrilled about this, but her annoyance was unparalleled to Watson's own when he read the message.

You have my permission to order for me. The usual. See you in five minutes.


"Oh, God."

"What seems to be the problem?"

John looked up at his date, whose light-colored eyes brought to mind the very man texting him (he tried to push that thought away), and offered her an apologetic smile. "Maybe we should relocate ourselves."


"Ah…just a suggestion. The, uh, moonlight here…it's illuminating you much too well, you know! I would get distracted by your beauty and end up wasting my meal if we sat here." He forced a laugh, and despite the awkward way it translated, the comment made the woman smile.

"Trite, but cute. I'll oblige for whatever reason—just this once, because your improvisation was impressive, in a strange sort of way."

John laughed once more, this time managing to sound a little less fake. "There is a two-person table in the back that—"


He groaned. "Pardon me…"

That one's the technical assistant, correct?


One more text, arriving just ten seconds after the first, read:

Well, she obviously isn't anymore, but you know what I mean.


The blonde set his phone down and plunked his elbows on the table, then put his head in his hands, to which his date responded with a tight-lipped smile and a less-than-casual, "Wife bothering you?"

John shot up to a straight sitting position once more. "Goodness, no. No, no. I've—I haven't a wife, just a friend. A very, very annoying friend."

"Right, of course. Well, I would wager that your date with him went much better than this one is going, because he still appears to be very interested in coming back."

John glanced first at her, his mouth slightly ajar with words frozen at his lips, then over his shoulder toward the tall, dark-haired man approaching their table, and back at her. "Wait, listen, I have an explanation. That's not—he isn't—"

"You didn't order a drink for me. How rude." Sherlock didn't waste a moment in taking a seat beside John in the booth, and John was struck with the realization that he was never going to be able to keep a steady girlfriend. Surprisingly resigned to this fate, he simply cradled his head in his hands again and offered a longsuffering sigh.

"Amelia," the blonde began, almost guiltily, "He's just here to be a nuisance. He apparently doesn't have anyone else to pester at the moment."

"Lestrade is asleep, as is Mrs. Hudson, and Molly is on a date."

"I'm on a date, but that didn't stop you from coming here!"

"Molly's date was, for once, respectable."

At this point, Amelia opened her mouth to interject, narrowed eyes affixed on John, though her words were aimed at Sherlock. "You are implying that I'm not respectable?"

"Sherlock!" John slammed his hands on the table hard enough to draw the attention of a few other people. "Could you perhaps find a better outlet for your jealousy?"

The question was loud, sudden, and not at all thought out. It took the inquirer a good few seconds to decipher that Sherlock's expression was one of rare emotion—surprise, to be exact—and a few seconds longer to realize that he, himself, had caused that.

"Oh—oh, God. I didn't mean… That's a dumb accusation. It's just that, that's usually the case. You know, sitcoms, soap operas, the like… I know you aren't jealous, Sherlock. That's preposterous, isn't it?" He tried to work his way out of the situation with another awkward (and hopefully somewhat charming) laugh, but, this time, the attempt failed.

The silence was wrought with palpable tension, and Amelia was now glancing between the two men with her eyebrows furrowed. "This," she began after some time, her tone deliberate, "is not amusing. Nor is it something I want to stick around for."

She had just begun to stand up when curt words made her stop short.

"No, please, stay." To both Amelia and John's surprise, it was Sherlock who said this. "I was just leaving. My boredom got the better of me, and I do apologize for my rash behavior." He stood; Amelia slowly lowered herself back into the booth, staring quizzically at the detective as she did.

John closed his eyes and exhaled sharply through his nose. "Sherlock, don't apologize if you don't mean it."

"Wonderful, then. In that case, I am not sorry." The detective fiddled with his coat collar as he said this, then offered Amelia a smile that was, quite frankly, the most sarcastic smile she'd ever had the pleasure of seeing. "Good evening. Have fun on your date."

"Thank you," Amelia replied flatly, keeping her glare affixed to the detective.

"But there is one more thing I must mention. Just a little tidbit."

John looked up at his flatmate, trying hard to keep his hold on what little patience he had remaining. "That isn't necessary, really."

Sherlock, of course, spoke anyway. "In the act of kissing, you share two-hundred-million germs each second."

At the close of that fact, both of the seated individuals were regarding the man with silence and twin expressions of irritation, and that gave him just enough time to bend over, lay a hand on the tabletop, and lean across the booth to press a kiss to John's lips.

Amelia's glare had darkened considerably when Sherlock pulled away, but his only answer was a self-satisfied smile and a declaration of, "Now it's a game of chance. If you kiss him tonight, perhaps you'll manage to come away with a higher percentage of his two-hundred-million germs than mine. Then again, it is highly likely that you will not."

With that, Sherlock left, leaving behind two gaping restaurant-goers in his wake.

When John returned to the flat, Sherlock was back at his violin, facing the window and playing as usual, as if nothing had transpired between them a mere half hour beforehand.

The detective was prepared for the top three likeliest scenarios that John would create, so he simply waited patiently and was rewarded with the exact thing he expected not sixty seconds later.

"Do you mind telling me what the hell that was?" Though the question had been posed, it only hung in the air, unanswered; the violin didn't stop, so neither did John. "Are you entertained by driving away my dates? Is it something that gets you off? Because you could, you know, find a better target for that. Like, oh, let's see! Lestrade. Or Molly. Or anyone else."

"So the date went well?" was Sherlock's only response, and the blonde didn't even have to see his face to know he was smiling in that smug manner of his—with one corner of his mouth quirked up, just barely visible.

It was a shame that he was turned around, though, because John would've given anything to see the expression that followed his response.

"I have another one tomorrow."

All at once, the beautiful notes from the violin ended with a screech, and Sherlock's shoulders stiffened. He said nothing, nor did he turn around. In fact, just a moment later, he was playing again, just as he had been before. "Well," he began lightly, "she must be extremely fond of you."

"Not with her."

Finally, the music ceased permanently, and Sherlock sat the instrument down on the sofa in favor of facing his friend. "You aren't seeing her again tomorrow?"

"Absolutely not." The blogger cleared his throat and averted his gaze first to the ceiling, then down to the wall. "You owe me for that little stunt back there." He didn't notice at first, but he found himself smiling at the surreal nature of what he was asking.

He'd never seen so many emotions—it was a miracle to arouse one—flash across the younger man's face at one time. "John?"

"Well I'm bloody well not letting you walk away from kissing me like that without giving me a proper excuse to return the favor!"

They held each other's gazes for a minute before Sherlock looked away. He shuffled his feet a little, cleared his throat, and straightened up in preparation for a quick inquiry of, "Tomorrow night?"

To which John responded, "Same time."

"Nice restaurant a little ways downtown. Mrs. Hudson won't miss us."

"Will Lestrade?"

"I couldn't care less about Lestrade."

"So it's set, then?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

John nodded once and headed to bed, pausing just inside his room to register what had just happened. "Bloody hell…" His laugh was a sound between a disbelieving scoff and a genuine chuckle. "I'm his date."