NB. Yes, I owe you an apology for not updating this for a million years. I know it's really stupid but I was a little down heartened by not having so many reviews for this story… But I'm over it! In a very Johnlocky mood, you know how it is. I also may have written an X-rated scene but not sure where I should upload that! Suggestions would be welcome, if you're up for that kind of thing!

So yeah, sorry. And I understand if you don't read this on principle because I am rubbish.

Week Three

"So, Miss Taylor," Sherlock scowls across the living room at the client, "you're trying to convince me that your brother went missing before midnight on the Thursday and that you had not seen him for five hours before that. Not even for milk and cookies? I'm not buying it."

The seven year old starts to cry.

Sherlock hadn't wanted to let her in in the first place but John had insisted on not only inviting her up to the flat but making her orange squash and letting her sit on whichever chair she wanted to. And while John called little Lucy Taylor's concerned parents, Sherlock had been forced to listen to the account of her big brothers 'mysterious' disappearance after playing with some magical toys.

"Henry broke your fairy doll, didn't he?" Sherlock presses, leaning towards the crying child. "That's why you're here. You couldn't control your anger, but when he ran off into the night with his little suitcase packed, you realised that magic could make a convenient alibi."

"Sherlock!" John gasps, stepping back into the room with a disbelieving look on his face. He immediately moves forwards and wraps his arms around the girl in an instinctive and natural gesture that makes Sherlock feel an inexplicable ache in his chest. "What did you say?"

"The truth," Sherlock states, turning nonchalantly back to his computer. "Miss Taylor would have to face up to her actions sooner or later."

"Later," John growls. "Later would have been better. She is seven." He hushes and comforts the child until she hiccups and gasps her way from her tears.

Sherlock feels a mixture of uncomfortable emotions. He's mildly jealous of the child in John's arms. He's also touched by John's tenderness. Equally he is frustrated by John's anger and blatant disappointment. Mostly though, Sherlock is concerned.

Emotional relationships are really not Sherlock's area, something that has only become more apparent over the last week. There have been a couple of briefly intimate moments, when something had seemed as if it might happen between them. John had even held Sherlock's hand for a short time, but Sherlock had frozen and hadn't known what to do. John had just let their hands slide a part and Sherlock spent the next five hours attempting to discern what he'd done wrong, or at least what he hadn't done right. It was no use though. It just isn't his area.

This would have been acceptable before, but now Sherlock couldn't just let them drift back into relaxed friendship. He had less than four weeks left for John to say that he was in love.

"Sherlock, apologise," John is now demanding, as far from a declaration of love as possible.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm sorry, Lucy," he grumbles. "I'm fairly sure you're brother is at his friend Tyrone's house anyway." He gets to his feet and picks up his coat.

John looks up and Sherlock tries not to look at those accusatory eyes. "Where are you going?"

"Out."

He's going to have to call in reinforcements if he's going to solve this puzzle.

.

.

"Molly," Sherlock says as the morgue attendant backs through the door into the lab. She jumps and her eyes are just startled enough to satisfy Sherlock. He holds the door open and she puts her files down onto the side, hiding her flustered blush.

"Oh, hello! How are you?"

Sherlock ignores the inane question. "Molly," he instead says, stepping close towards her, "I need you, as a woman."

"W - what?" she responds, he eyes widening.

"I need to know about love and I thought you'd be able to teach me. Will you?" Sherlock is using a deep voice, the one that usually makes Molly reasonably pliable.

Molly does seem appropriately on edge. "I… What exactly do you mean?"

"Love;" Sherlock explains, only a little frustrated that Molly can't just get it, "a part of the 'human experience' that I've managed to avoid until now. I assume you have some understanding of it and would like you to share this with me."

Molly swallows and then ventures "Is this for a case?"

"Yes, sort of."

"And you want me to, urm, tell you about love?"

"Specifically the best ways to make someone love you and to have them admit it."

Sherlock sits down on a lab stool and turns expectantly to her.

"Why?" She looks hurt. Why would she be hurt?

"Well, it's complicated and confidential." Sherlock isn't sure if his gag on the subject is extended beyond John but he's not going to take any chances. Molly shouldn't really need to know anyway.

"No, why would you speak to me about this?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Lestrade is incapable of managing his marriage so I assume he's useless and I can't mention it to John. I thought you'd know the most about this sort of thing."

"No," Molly says abruptly. Sherlock can't discern instantly if she's annoyed or upset. "You're wrong. I don't know about this sort of thing. How would I know about making someone fall in love?"

"I…" Sherlock begins, for once without really knowing what he's going to say.

"Ask Mrs Hudson. You've heard her stories. Actually, I've got to go." An obvious lie, even without the high-pitched voice and lack of eye contact. Before he can say anything else, Molly is halfway out of the door. "Good luck. With the case I mean."

Sherlock is left in the empty lab looking bemused. What had he said?

.

.

Mrs Hudson is doing a crossword in front of her soaps when Sherlock enters.

"Mrs Hudson, I need to ask you some questions," he says, in greeting.

"Oh, hello dear!" She puts down her crossword and gets up.

"Simply put," Sherlock explains, as Mrs Hudson makes her way into the kitchen, "I need to know how one would get someone else to say he or she is in love with one."

"Pardon? I'll put the kettle on. Would you like a cup of tea?"

Sherlock bites back his frustration. "Yes. Please. I'd also like to know how I could get someone to say they love me."

"Oh," Mrs Hudson says, drying some mugs from the draining board, "Who?"

"It's a theoretical matter," Sherlock responds, "for a case, not actually me."

"Have you taken him on a date yet?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the innocuous woman making him a cuppa. Is she trying to catch him out? Catch Sherlock Holmes out? "Who?"

"It's always the first thing to do. It will let him know that you're interested in him and it'll break the ice."

"There is no ice to break," Sherlock says, a little sulkier than he had intended.

"Now, I can't recommend double dating enough. It's perfect for getting to know someone without the pressure of one-on-one."

Despite himself, Sherlock is listening.

"The conversation is much less likely to lag and he will see your fun and social side." She hands him the cup of tea with a smile and a shrug, "…well. Why not take that lovely young detective friend of yours. He's married, isn't he?"

"Lestrade?" Sherlock scoffs. The image of a double date consisting of himself, John, Lestrade and his wife was just too ridiculous.

"I'm only suggesting, dear!"

"Any other… suggestions?" Sherlock hears himself ask, feeling like a pitiful fool.

"You know what, I'll have a think about it, Sherlock. You come back to me tomorrow when I've had time to recap my experiences."

.

.

"John. John?"

"Hm?" He doesn't look up from his book.

"John, I need fresh air. Let's go out tonight."

"Fine."

Sherlock takes a breath and then says it: "Where would you like to go?"

This does make him look up.

"Where would I like to go?"

"Yes, where would you like to go?"

John smiles and cocks his head to one side. "Is this a date?"

"I don't know," Sherlock says, feigning disinterest, "maybe, yes."

John's smile widens.

"What?" Sherlock demands.

"No, nothing!" He laughs in a not unpleasant way. Sherlock isn't sure if John is mocking him or not. "I don't mind where we go."

"Well then, should we go to the Chinese?"

"No, not the Chinese," John quickly says. "Let's go to that pizza place."

"Hm. So you do mind then," Sherlock can't resist stating, though he's aware it gives him a juvenile air of petulance.

"Obviously, yes." They look at each other for a moment and Sherlock fails to discern what John is thinking or predict what he will say. "Should I dress up?" he asks.

Sherlock pulls a face. "Is that a necessary constituent?"

"Of a date?"

"Yes." He realises that he doesn't like that word at all. Why does John keep saying it? What does it even mean 'date'. What a ridiculous convention.

"Well, no, that's why I'm asking you."

Sherlock wonders when he became the one setting the rules. He feels very unqualified for this job. "Oh, I don't care," he says.

John closes his book and gets to his feet. "I'll have a shower then. Fancy joining me?"

"I… urm…" Sherlock splutters.

"I was joking," John says, walking out of the room. "Don't have a heart-attack."

Sherlock watches him leave and then stamps his foot down angrily on the floor. What is wrong with him? He has never been that person, the person who doesn't know what to say. His brain usually functions at a speed incomprehensible to those around him but with these sorts of things he is suddenly becoming aware of what it's like to be a normal person, or worse still, a person of below-average intelligence. Does John want him to go into the shower with him? Is that what he really wants or was it actually a joke? Why wouldn't he want that? Or do they need to have their 'date' first?

Coming to no conclusions on these queries, Sherlock sulkily goes to his room to pick out a shirt to wear.

"So," Sherlock says, interrupting the awkward silence after their menus are taken away. He has decided that he is going to take control of this situation. That is what he usually does at any given time so that must be what John likes. "What is it that people talk about on dates? Normal people, I mean."

"Do you want to talk like a normal person?" John smiles.

"I'm curious."

"I suppose," John says, pouring red wine into Sherlock's glass, "normal people talk about themselves, their interests, their family and friends…"

"That sounds -"

"Tedious?" John suggests.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "I was going to say 'needless', but both are true."

"How is it needless?"

"We know those things about each other already."

John looks a little stunned and bemused by the statement. "Sherlock," he says, "I know next to nothing about you. Enigma is your thing."

Sherlock wonders if John is being playful or honest. Not that he'd spent much time thinking about it, but Sherlock was pretty sure that John knew him better than anyone else. Even Mycroft. Especially Mycroft. "You know my interests," he points out.

"More like 'interest'. Crime."

"It's a broad field. And you know my family and friends."

"I only know your friends because I am literally your only friend."

"Exactly."

John sighs and leans back in his chair. "I know Mycroft but I don't know anything about the rest of your family. I have no idea what you were like before we met."

That is not a bad thing, Sherlock thinks. He wonders briefly what he would be like now if they had never met. It doesn't bear thinking about. "You want to know about my childhood?" he sneers.

"Well, no, maybe not. I can't even imagine the dysfunction."

"No, you can't." Sherlock decides as he says this that he doesn't want John to. Sherlock doesn't want to break John's image of him with any sort of reality. "Is that something… Do you really want to know?" If it will make John say that he loves him, Sherlock knows he is willing to share anything.

Before John can answer, and before Sherlock can deduce what he's about to say, they're interrupted by a familiar voice.

"John! Sherlock! Fancy seeing you two here!"

Sherlock doesn't turn around but hisses to John, "Did you tell Mrs Hudson where we were going?"

"I… yes, I did. Why?" But their conversation stops being private there as Lestrade arrives at the table, his wife in tow.

"Of all the pizzeria's in London…" Lestrade is saying as John shakes his hand.

"Yes," Sherlock sighs, "fancy that."

Lestrade's wife is wearing a completely unflattering dress in an alarming shade of green. She is covered in an overpowering amount of perfume in an attempt to mask that she hasn't had a shower since she went to bed last night and there is lipstick on her teeth when she smiles down at Sherlock.

"I don't suppose you remember me," she trills, "we met at Greg's office -"

"Yes." Sherlock looks away, the frustration too much to bear, but John kicks him beneath the table. "Lovely to see you again," he adds, through gritted teeth.

"Well," Lestrade says, "should we pull up some chairs?"

"Urm, yes, of course," John says, amiably enough, but Sherlock knows that they're both annoyed by this turn of events. The difference being, of course, that Sherlock knows exactly who is to blame.

Before their starters have been delivered, Sherlock is already considering impaling himself on his cutlery. He shares many bored and frustrated glances with John, who is being nauseatingly polite in response to Mrs Lestrade's inane conversation. In fact, he even seems to be enjoying himself when the conversation shifts to the subject of his ever-popular blog.

"You haven't updated in a while," Mrs Lestrade comments.
"You follow it, do you?" John has a gleam of gratification in his eyes.

"Of course! Greg reads it out to me. He thinks it's great, don't you, really funny."

"Well," Lestrade shrugs, "it's alright."

"So, have you not been up to much recently? Not had any exciting case?"

John glances to Sherlock, who just sighs and looks away.

"We haven't been at our busiest recently," John admits. "Though we did have a client this morning."

"Oh yes?" Mrs Lestrade leans forward in her seat, desperate for the scoop.

"Yes, a seven year-old girl!"

There's appreciative laughter at this.

"God knows how she knew who we were. Do they use the Internet at that age?"

"Of course they do!" Mrs Lestrade remonstrates.

"Ours were using our credit cards on EBay by the age of three," Lestrade adds.

"She must have found our address on the website, anyway, when her brother went missing."

"Did you manage to get hold of her parents?"

"Not before Sherlock made her cry, I'm bet," Lestrade smirks.

"You know him well."

John meant it as a joke but Sherlock can't help scoffing at the suggestion. Lestrade knows nothing about him at all otherwise he would be in the process of pissing off right now.

He can see John looking at him warily. The doctor doesn't want a scene and Sherlock is really trying his hardest not to make Mrs Lestrade cry. Not for her own benefit, of course, but he has the feeling John won't be in the 'I love you' mood if Sherlock sends the Lestrades packing the best way he knows how.

"You two don't have children then?" Mrs Lestrade asks artlessly.

Lestrade is grinning between them both and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"I, we, no," John stammers, "neither of us do." He looks across the table at Sherlock and there is a moment of perfect clarity between the two of them – they need to get out of this restaurant. John excuses himself and goes to the bathroom.

Just tell them that this is something urgent to do with a case and we have to leave right now. I'll try my best to act surprised and exasperated. JW

Sherlock quickly replied:

You're an awful actor. SH

Then he looked up at Lestrades, trying not to be too pleased with himself. "That was Mr Robertson," he explained. "An urgent meeting about his Swiss valet." He gets to his feet.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock," Lestrade sighs.

"Excuse me."

John is coming back across the restaurant looking totally guilty. "What's going on?" he asks.

"We're going, John."

"What? Why?"

But Sherlock just continues walking. Outside he hails a cab, which pulls over just as John joins him on the pavement.

"Well, I think that worked quite well," John comments as they get in.

"Yes, quite an ingenious plan." Sherlock can't quite switch off his sarcastic tongue.

He enjoys the silence for a moment as the cabbie heads for home. Then John suddenly says, "Sherlock, something's wrong, isn't it?

"What makes you say that?"

John narrows his eyes. "You've been acting oddly."

"Oddly?"

"Odd for you. It seems like all you've been concentrating on is, well, me."

Sherlock pulls a disdainful face, as if to suggest this is a rather conceited statement.

"You haven't had proper work for weeks. Usually it's all about the work, remember?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I remember that."

"What's wrong?" John's tone is hushed and he looks pointedly up at Sherlock. "Is something going on? Something you can't tell me about?"

"You've deduced this from my concentrating more on you recently?" Sherlock tries to sound flippant for the sake of whoever was listening. He had no idea whether John's clothes were bugged or whether they were being followed. Perhaps it's even the cabbie. It wasn't a risk he was willing to take. "This is just like that time in Glasgow with the smugglers. You're overreacting. You need to trust me."

But a light has come on in John's eyes. Sherlock thinks he may be understanding him.

"Don't bring it up again," Sherlock insists. "You sound even less intelligent than usual." He can tell John has got the message.

Something is going on that he is unable to talk about, just like there had been that time in Glasgow. "Maybe your brother would agree with me," John says.

"If you speak to Mycroft about me, I will kill you," Sherlock promises, hoping his eyes is getting this message across to John. "Or anyone for that matter. You will die."

"Fine," John says, slowly. "Fine, I get it. I just want you to be safe."

"I just want you to be safe," Sherlock responds, and he takes John's hand, not as a calculated move, not considering how John may or may not react. He just does it. He's rewarded with a smile.

A tightness creeps into his chest. He hates the idea that there's someone watching them right now, listening to their conversations. He wants their life back. He wants their privacy back. He wants to kiss John and know that it's just about them and nothing else.

"What should we do, then, now?" John asks. He's still searching for answers, Sherlock knows. He wants to help with whatever is wrong. Sherlock wonders how many hints he could get away with.

"What normally happens at the end of a date?" he asks.

"Seriously? You're really taking a shine to this dating thing."

For once, Sherlock doesn't know what to say. John wants some explanation, but what could Sherlock say that wouldn't be too much? "John," he shakes his head, leaning across towards him, "it's not about dating. It's about wanting to spend time with you." He kisses the doctor. It is fleeting and their lips only connect for a moment but it sends a thrill through Sherlock's whole body. Then he murmurs, "and you wanting to spend time with me."

"I do," John confirms and their lips meet again.

Just say it. Just say it, and this can all be over.