Sherlock reluctantly followed John into the bustling restaurant, and swept his eyes across the room. He spotted Anderson, Donovan, and Lestrade and pointed John in the right direction. Sherlock followed, and sat beside the doctor, slipping off his coat and hanging it on the back of his chair.

Donovan sneered, "Decided to come, did you freak?"

Sherlock glanced over Donovan's attire, and smirked, "I see you've come over from Anderson's again. Did you scrub his floor again?"

Both Anderson and Donovan went bright red, and Anderson raised his hand to argue. Lestrade cleared his throat, and the two settled down begrudgingly. John glared at Sherlock, who simply ignored his friend.

A waiter appeared out of nowhere, "Now that everyone is here, would you like to order drinks?"

Everyone nodded. Lestrade ordered a beer, Donovan and Anderson ordered a bottle of wine, and John ordered coffee. The group stared at Sherlock expectantly. He rolled his eyes, "Water."

The waiter left, and everyone started examining the menus. John raised his eyebrows at the variety of food. Sherlock was glancing over at his menu, but swiftly shut it. John raised an eyebrow at the consulting detective, who simply steepled his fingers and stared ahead.

The waiter soon returned with the drinks, and pulled out a notepad and a pen, "Are you ready to order?"

Everyone, except Sherlock, glanced at each other, and nodded.

Donovan smiled, "I'll have the spaghetti."

The waiter nodded, scribbling. Anderson shut his menu, "I'll have the fish and chips."

The waiter nodded again, still scribbling on the pad. Lestrade took one final look at the menu, and nodded, "I'll have the roast beef."

"Mashed, baked, or chips?""

"Mashed."

"Gravy?"

"Please."

The waiter looked at John, "And for you, sir?"

"Um," John glanced over the menu, turning it over, "I'll just have the meatloaf. With a baked potato."

The waiter looked at Sherlock, who glared at him, "Nothing for me."

"You've got to eat sometime, Sherlock," Lestrade grated.

"Even you need to eat, freak," Donovan muttered.

John cast Sherlock a disapproving glare, "Sherlock."

"Fine," Sherlock made a flippant gesture to John, "I'll have what he's having."

The waiter's eyebrow raised, but he nodded, jotting down Sherlock's order, "I'll be back when your orders are complete."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and continued staring off into the distance, allowing the idle chatter of the others wash over him, allowing him to ignore the other patrons. It took some minutes for their orders to be completed, but they all arrived at the same time.

Sherlock glanced at his meal, and grimaced in distaste. As John, Anderson, Lestrade, and Donovan began to eat.

John bit his lip, keeping an eye on Sherlock. He remembered what Mycroft had told him once, "There's a reason he doesn't eat much. His mind over deduces everything, especially with things he's not familiar with. Why do you think he generally goes to restaurants he knows."

Sherlock was staring at his foods, eyes rapidly moving over his plate. He looked over to the waiter, eyes examining the entirety of the man who served them. Sherlock then looked around the restaurant, taking in his surroundings.

John gently nudged Sherlock's leg, then glanced at the detective's plate. Sherlock got the hint, and choked some of the food down, but spent most of the meal fiddling with what he had.

If anyone thought it was odd, no one commented, much to John's relief.

(LINE BREAK)

Prompt:

One of the reasons Sherlock is so thin and does not eat often is because he can deduce everything about his food. Ingredients, origin, how long since it had been prepared, etc. This usually leads him to losing his appetite.