Fic for bk7brokemybrain: An Acquired Taste

[holmesticemods]

Title: An Acquired Taste
A03 Link: Here
Recipient: bk7brokemybrain
Author: corpsereviver2
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (BBC Sherlock)
Rating: Teen
Warnings: AU
Summary: When an injury forces adventure and travel photographer John Watson to take more sedate jobs, he worries he might be bored - until he meets Chef Sherlock Holmes.


oOo

John got off the tube at Angel and pulled out his mobile to check the address Mike had given him. His camera bag was slung over his better shoulder; between it and the mobile, and thanks to the limp, he was off balance, and he swore under his breath in frustration. He was damn glad to be back in London, make no mistake, and if he'd had to stay a week longer with Harry he would have gone completely spare, but he just wasn't used to this. He should feel lucky that he could still walk and use his hands - that's what the doctor had said- but he wasn't used to feeling slow or being irritated by a busy pavement in Islington when he was used to traversing much more exotic and dangerous locations with ease.

Won't do to dwell on it, he chided himself. John Watson, this is your life, and at least you can still see and hold a camera so you can work, even if your future's more likely to be flower shows and luxury home interiors instead of Himalayan climbs and desert treks.

The green pin on the mobile app showed that he was almost at the address. He walked a half-block down the road lined with well-kept rowhouses until he arrived at a cheerful house with a bright blue door and a profusion of multicoloured blooms in the window boxes.

The woman who answered the door appeared as cheerful as her house.. She was petite like John's mum, and about her age, but that was as far as the resemblance went. This woman was smartly dressed in a soft knit aubergine dress which looked both comfortable and expensive.

"Oh, do come in, you must be John Watson."

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs Hudson." John extended his hand but, instead of shaking it, she clasped it warmly.

"Do call me Martha. Thank you so much for coming; I thought it might be nice to meet here rather than you come to the office in the City," she chattered as she gestured for John to follow her up the stairs into a cosy sitting room on the first floor. "I always find that, when I go there, I end up staying far longer than I'd like and spending far too much time being asked about all sorts of little projects that don't interest me at all. I suppose all the young folks feel like they need my approval, but micromanaging was more my late husband's method, and I trust them to do their own thing."

"Well, yes, I think that's a good approach," John said uncertainly. Martha Hudson wasn't what he had expected at all. All he knew was that she was an old friend of the Stamford family and that she was, since the death of her husband, the Hudson of the Lestrade-Hudson imprint at the behemoth Boscombe publishing house. Though Mike hadn't gone into detail on the phone, for some reason Martha had asked Mike to arrange this meeting.

John settled onto a comfortable chair as Martha poured the tea and set out a plate of truly delicious-looking scones.

"You must be wondering why I asked to meet with you."

"Well, yes," John admitted after taking a sip. "Of course, it's a pleasure and the tea is lovely, but - "

"But why are you here? I have long admired your work, Mr Watson."

"John, please."

"John." She smiled. "The National Geographic piece on the Torres del Paine was extraordinary. I thought it quite captured the mood of the place." As John's eyes widened in surprise, Martha's smile grew wider. "I don't seem the type to be gallivanting around national parks in South America, do I?"

John felt himself flush with embarrassment at being caught out. "I'm sorry, I should know better than to stereotype. I haven't met many people who've been, though. Thank you; I thought it turned out well."

"I don't get around as much as I used to with my hip and all - I feel I have one leg in the grave some days. " Martha's gaze went to his leg as she said it, and it was her turn to blush. "Oh, now I've done it!"

She looked so shocked at her faux pas that John couldn't help but laugh. Martha joined in and, after a few sips of tea to restore her equanimity , she stood up and went to one of the bookshelves that lined one wall of the room. She pulled a single volume from the shelf and handed it to John.

The cover was a close-up of some sort of plant: bright orange stamens against a saffron petal. There was one word on the cover - BLOOM - in tall black letters. He balanced the big book on his knee as he carefully turned the glossy pages. He wasn't much for flowers, but he had to admit the photography was stunning. There were the expected bright colours, but the compositions were interesting and the use of light and shadow was very well done.

After a few minutes, he noticed Martha was watching him intently while he browsed. He set the book aside. "Lovely work."

She pointed at the spine. "That's the old Gregson imprint. After Tobias passed on, Boscombe stopped making this type of book. I think they're lovely, so I've got Greg Lestrade - he's my partner in crime - interested in reviving this part of the business: beautiful books that use images to make the reader look at things in a new way. We're looking for the right talent to make the photographs for a book about a restaurant, and Mike Stamford suggested you might be available."

"I'm not sure if I'm right for the job." John realised he was scarcely in a position to turn down work, but he was afraid this was precisely the type of job he had hoped he wouldn't be relegated to.

"I know it isn't what you're used to, dear, and I'm afraid after all you've done, it doesn't sound very exciting, but I think the project Greg's lined up has potential. Will you at least meet with him? I really would be so excited to be on this project with you; Greg said it would be a stretch to get someone of considerable reputation to do this, and the first person I thought of was you."
oOo

Martha Hudson's flattery, in addition to the scones, was his undoing. On the following Thursday, he found himself in Greg Lestrade's car on their way to the restaurant that was the subject of the proposed book.

John had liked Greg immediately. He definitely wasn't a stuffy City type. Instead of a suit, Greg wore a cream-coloured shirt with the cuffs turned up and a pair of casual olive trousers. His Range Rover was a recent model and shiny on the outside, but the back seat was littered with several crayon drawings and a few small toy cars. He had a good sense of humour and, like John, was a Tottenham supporter, so the conversation flowed easily. Eventually, they got around to the topic at hand.

"I don't know what you know about fine dining in London," Greg said.

"Not much, I'm afraid. Not really the fine dining type, and I travel a lot anyway. Well, used to." John was grateful that Greg didn't follow up on the "used to" comment, although John could tell by his expression that Greg had noted it.

"Heard of the Zaftig Mallard?"

That name was at least familiar. "That's the restaurant over in Kent? The one with all the reviews about how it's the best in the world or something, with the pompous chef?" John felt a twinge of nerves until he reminded himself they obviously weren't on their way to Kent.

"That's the one," Greg said. "Mycroft Holmes's place. Very exclusive- the tasting menu is something like 250 quid. He's a very big deal in foodie culture."

"But we're not going there."

"No, we are not. He refuses to do a book: some rot about keeping his methods a secret, as if he's some MI6 agent and not a cook." Greg chuckled and continued. "But he's not the only talent in the family - and that, my friend, is where you come in."

oOo

Their destination was on a small street not far from Bond Street tube station. Greg drove by the front for John's benefit. The place was unassuming. There was a plain black awning over the door, and the dark curtains over the windows didn't reveal anything of the interior. The door was a single sheet of brushed steel, with LAB221 etched on it in black block capitals. John didn't think he'd seen a less welcoming restaurant in his life, and was about to say as much when Greg spoke.

"Yeah, I know, but trust me. Sherlock's a bloody genius and, come dinner time, people show up in droves."

Greg parked around the corner, then led them into the service entrance on the side of the building. John had expected a typical restaurant kitchen, but the room they stepped into looked more like a science classroom. The walls were pristine white tile, the counters dark slate, and the appliances shining stainless steel. There were shelves of test tubes, beakers, and Erlenmeyer flasks. While there were the typical appliances John had expected, there were also a few that he had never seen before, and he had trouble imagining how they could be used. One wall was composed of rows of shiny metal drawers which reminded him of nothing so much as a morgue. On the far side, above a counter, there was a rectangular opening to the dining room. John found that a bit of a relief; it kept the decor from being overwhelming.

Although it was early in the day, the kitchen was bustling with activity as staff did the things that, John supposed, had to be done before dinner service. John's experience in "professional" kitchens had been limited to hole-in-the-wall joints on his travels. He'd never been backstage at a real restaurant before. John realised he didn't even know the right terms to use (and was fairly sure "backstage" wasn't one of them) and made a mental note to either hit a bookstore or Wikipedia - preferably both - before his next visit.

A small group of people wearing white chef jackets were clustered around a table in a corner. They were silent as they looked at Greg and John in a way that made it completely obvious this was an unwelcome interruption.

Greg cleared his throat and waved at them. For a moment, there was no response, but then the tallest of the group, a slender man with a mop of dark curls, looked up at them from the table. John was immediately struck by two things: first, that the tall man seemed quite unhappy to see them; and second, that he was absolutely striking. While all of John's sexual experience was with women, his photographer's eye recognised beauty when he saw it, and this man was an artist's dream. His hair was a riot of wild loops and whorls above a face of sharp angles and smooth planes. His eyes were bright and a colour John couldn't name, and his mouth, in contrast to the sharpness of the rest of his face, was full and lush. He immediately wanted to drag the man out of the fluorescent light that filled the room and take him somewhere with natural light, his D3S, and his favourite lens. As it was, he could barely resist the urge to take a snap with his iPhone. The angry expression, from a professional perspective, was just a bonus, and John had to bite back a grin.

"Lestrade, to what do we owe the pleasure? How could we have completed a staff meeting without you?"

"Knock it off, Sherlock," Greg said, unruffled by the sarcastic greeting. "We have an appointment. Check your phone."

"Tiresome," Sherlock answered but he beckoned Greg and John to the table anyway, in what John supposed was an admission that he and Greg weren't, strictly speaking, intruding unannounced.

"A moment," he said to Greg before turning his attention back to the table. John saw three nervous young men standing on the other side, each with a covered dish resting in front of them. The scene reminded John of some cooking competition he'd seen on telly. He shifted his weight to his cane and stood still to watch the show.

"Now that we may continue, Lyons, you're up."

The young Asian man straightened and pulled the cover off his plate. "Poulet sous-vide with a malt vinegar and peach foam -"

"Derivative," Sherlock said. "Dimmock?"

The second man, who was pale, thin, and didn't look much older than a teenager, stepped up. John noticed that his hands shook when he uncovered his dish. A cloud of fog rose up from the bowl. "Frozen peanut soup with ginger-lime-tamarind gelée, served over -"

"Possibly, David, you might someday make something that is not evocative of either your mother's home in Virginia or your girlfriend's in Bangkok? Your food tells me you are overly attached to the women in your life and little else. I suggest a new psychotherapist if you can't come up with something new for next time. Dull."

David Dimmock looked crestfallen.

The last man grinned eagerly. He looked quite keen .

"Go ahead, Henry."

"Bouquet of rocket in a vase of springwater ice, poached sablefish, and warm citrus-herb jam," he said proudly and blushed from the tip of his nose to his generously sized ears.

"Ice vase?"

The young man shrugged.

"Lose the ridiculous presentation for the rocket and change up the jam. Your reverse spherification needs work, so try that. A successful go and we'll try it as an amuse next month. Good effort."

"Thank you, sir."

With that, the group broke up. The three young men and the other staff members dispersed to stations in the kitchen or through an open doorway to what John guessed was some sort of staff room.

The striking man, Sherlock, turned his attention to them but said nothing; he simply stood with his arms crossed.

After a few moments of tense silence, Greg spoke.

"John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes, head chef here at LAB221. Sherlock, meet John Watson."
"
Photographer, yes," Sherlock interrupted. "If you're expecting Gordon Ramsey style histrionics or Nigella Lawson-esque simpering, then I do hate to disappoint. This kitchen is a laboratory of cuisine, not reality television or soft focus gourmet pornography. What we do here is more akin to a science organisation than a cosy local featuring flaccid peas and flabby Sunday roast." He paced a slow circle around John as he talked. "I won't compromise the work for an amateur observer in the kitchen. Things will get hectic and, if we are very lucky, as we are on occasion, dangerous. If you don't enjoy -"

He stopped in front of John and looked down, as if noticing him for the first time. The oddly coloured eyes narrowed as he stared; John felt as if he was on a slide under a microscope.

"But you do," he finally said. John thought he saw the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I do what?"

"Enjoy a bit of danger."

John felt something warm in his cheeks that he hadn't felt in a long time.

"Oh, God, yes."

Sherlock's lips lost the battle and broke into a wide grin.

"Thank you, Lestrade, you may go. Mr Watson will do splendidly."
oOo

Greg left John with a handshake and the instruction to phone if he was needed, but John assured him that he'd be fine.

e was looking forward to talking more with Sherlock, but before he could ask a single question, a woman in a plain black jumper and slacks burst into the kitchen.

"Chef!"

Sherlock glared at her, seemingly displeased at the interruption.

"Sorry, Chef, but Simon says there's a problem with the small freezer. And Sally just phoned. Her mum's been taken to hospital and she's called off for the night."

"Lovely. Our front of house manager will be so much more use underfoot at a hospital than she will here, and Simon will likely let everything spoil while he stands in the open freezer poking in his considerable nose."

Sherlock looked so offended that John almost wanted to laugh despite how callous it would have sounded.

The young woman looked only slightly shocked herself. "What should I do about - "

"I'll be there in a moment, Hetty. Tell Simon to move everything into one of the others for now. As for Sally, Henry and I will sort it."

"All right then." She nodded and went back out.

Sherlock turned back to John and gave a short bow. "My apologies, but duty calls." He beckoned to another woman who was ostensibly working at a nearby station but who kept glancing over at them.

"Molly Hooper is my pastry chef. Molly, please find a place for Mr Watson to be while he's in residence here."

Sherlock stalked in the direction of the malfunctioning freezer and Molly sidled up to John.

"You didn't flinch," Molly said. "That's very good."

John tore his gaze from the retreating chef. "Was I supposed to?"

She chuckled as she tucked away a strand of hair that had come loose from a neat bun. "Sherlock is a bit abrasive, and you wouldn't be the first he's run out of the kitchen."

"He didn't seem to keen to have visitors. Why did he agree to do this, anyway?"

"He didn't - his investor did. He holds the mortgage and a share of the restaurant and insisted about the book deal. Sherlock's brilliant, though." Her voice was full of admiration, and perhaps something more. John couldn't resist pursuing that.

"You seem fond of him."

Molly's cheeks coloured slightly. "I am. I love this job. At first, he was kind of arrogant. Well, okay, really arrogant. But he gave me the freedom to try things and be creative, and when he realised I could do the job, he was actually pretty great to work with."

"Sounds like he values competence."

"Yeah, I think that competence must be his secret kink, since it's the -" she stopped abruptly and her flushed face turned from pink to scarlet. "Um, forget I said that?"

"'Secret kink' seems an odd way to put it," John said. This was an unexpected but intriguing line of conversation.

"Well," Molly said as she leaned closer to him and lowered her voice, "nobody here can recall Chef even noticing someone, much less dating. So the joke is trying to figure out what would turn him on. The only thing that seems to impress him is when someone's really, really good at something." She gave John a wistful look. "Unfortunately for me, sugar sculptures don't seem to do it."

"Sugar sculptures?" John was grateful for the conversational segue. He needed to remind himself that he was here to work, not to have vaguely unsettling thoughts about the head chef.
oOo

Molly turned out to be an excellent guide to the kitchen. Much of her work was either done hours in advance (she was often first in the kitchen) or at the very last moment. While the crew geared up for dinner service, she kept John from being too underfoot as she explained more about the restaurant, pointing out people and equipment and how it all fit together. John always liked having the opportunity to scope out a site before he had to set up and start shooting, when he could just take visual notes with his iPhone or jot things down in a notebook. He made mental notes too: about the equipment he'd need, given the space and the lighting, and how much he thought he could have without irritating Sherlock or his staff and, a small voice in the back of his head suggested, how he might plan the project to show his experience and expertise to the best effect .

He caught a glimpse of Sherlock now and again, mostly busy at a counter or table or in conversation with one of the sous chefs. A few times, though, he saw Sherlock tapping or reading something on his mobile. Once, Sherlock caught him looking, making John blush, but the chef just slipped the phone back into his white coat and turned his attention to a row of beakers.

With one thing and another, it was a while until they got back to Molly's station and the incredible things one could do with sugar. She had tacked a few snapshots to the wall, showing various creations she'd made for the restaurant. The shapes and colours were extraordinary, and John would have sworn he was looking at sculptures made of glass. He said as much and she fairly glowed at the praise.

"Let me show you what we have for tonight. We don't assemble until right before service, but I always put together one or two samples so the staff can see the finished product."

What she produced for him wasn't a plate, but something that looked like - and maybe was - an actual petri dish. The bottom was covered in a shiny caramel-like substance in which sat a dark, glossy island that John guessed was some sort of glazed chocolate cake. Stuck in the cake was a sharp-edged pane of what appeared to be sepia-coloured sugar glass, covered in dark squiggles. John squatted down so that he was eye-level with the piece, where he could see that the glass was actually two separate panes with a paper sandwiched between. Something was written on the paper: a nonsensical script eight lines long, each with the same number of letters.

John studied it for a moment and then looked up at Molly.

"It's a code?"

"Brilliant, isn't it? I just make the dessert but Sherlock is the one that designs the puzzles."

"He does this regularly?"

"Oh, yeah. Usually once a week, he comes up with a cryptogram and an idea on how to put it in the dessert course for one of the menus. People love it! One of our regulars actually has a blog devoted to the puzzles so people can work on solving them together."

"That's amazing!"

"And since mobiles aren't allowed in the dining room, people have to be really surreptitious about taking snaps of the desserts before eating them. It's got to be quite a game between the fans and the front of house staff. Sally Donovan has no problem confiscating a phone or a camera for the duration of the meal."

John laughed. "That's mad and completely brilliant!"

"That's not what they usually say."

John stood up at the sound of Sherlock's amused voice.

"Let me guess, 'give me back my damn phone?'"

"And, occasionally, worse. Apparently a heated discussion of whether to eat or solve is not uncommon. Last week it was 'Tell that freak of a chef he ruined my sodding anniversary dinner!'"

John burst out laughing and Sherlock's lips curled up in a sly smile.

"I hope the rest of the meal was worth it."

"You can find out for yourself. Sally and I usually go through the reservations to choose who will be at the chef's table but, as she's absent, I thought you might be willing to do us the honour? For your research, of course."

John beamed. "It would be my pleasure."
oOo

The "chef's table" actually consisted of four tall chairs at a counter below the window between kitchen and dining room. It allowed the diners (or single diner, in John's case) a look at the action and gave Sherlock and his staff, if they were so inclined, the chance to talk with the guests there. John liked the set-up. He didn't feel as awkward as he might at a regular table, especially as his plain navy shirt and khaki trousers were less dressy than some, if not all, of those who came in for dinner. He wondered why he'd noticed glances from some of his fellow diners, but then Henry leaned over and said, with a wink, "The regulars probably want to know why there's a single taking up the whole chef's table tonight. Should I have Hetty spread the rumour you're an actor or a footballer?"

All thoughts of the opinions of others left him, though, when the meal began. First came a pale, lustrous half-globe in a small shallow dish that was presented to him as an aperitif. John thought he'd misheard but, as he shook his head in confusion, Sherlock walked over with an identical dish and gestured for John to pick up his own. Sherlock raised the dish to his lips and sipped at the thin porcelain as if slurping a raw oyster. John mimicked the gesture, half expecting the briny taste of the sea. Instead, there were the crisp flavours of lemon and champagne. John grinned at the unexpected delight of it. He licked at his lips to chase more of the taste and noticed the chef watching him, gauging his reaction, and then, with a pleased look on his face, mirroring John's gesture as his tongue lapped quickly at his own bottom lip.

After that, there was a plate of melon carpaccio with thin slices of the fruits arranged like layers of tissue, decorated with vibrant filaments of impossibly thin citrus zest and accompanied by a tiny glass flask of something that evoked honey , pepper, and other things John couldn't name. Exquisite dish after dish was set before him, though sadly Sherlock did not appear again. John was almost relieved by his absence, though, as he feared he might embarrass himself if the chef did stop by. Every morsel was a delight and many had a touch of clever mystery about them. What seemed to be an egg of cold polished stone was actually a thin crust holding a savoury warm custard; a small round filet of beef came with an alarmingly realistic syringe filled with a sauce so addictively good that John wondered if the drug reference was intentional or whether it was his own overactive imagination.

Finally, when he was nearly stuffed with food and his senses were on the edge of being thoroughly overwhelmed, Sherlock returned with the puzzle of a final course.
"
Oh, God, I don't know if I can," John said.
"
Surely you can have just a little more?" John thought he heard something suggestive in his tone, but Sherlock's eyes gave nothing away.

"It's intriguing, and I'm sure it's delicious; everything has been delicious, but - "

"Just a little taste?" From anyone else, John would have been sure that was a come-on but, after what Molly had said, it couldn't be the case. The chef didn't know John, or anything about him really, except that he was the publisher's hired camera jockey.

"Well, I grant you it's not as exciting as Buon Ok Pansa in Luang Prabang or even Timket in Gondar, but I think you might enjoy it if you try it."

John's eyes widened in surprise.

"I did have a few minutes to do a bit of checking on who Lestrade-Hudson sent to my kitchen," Sherlock admitted. "My compliments. Your work is striking."

"You saw the website, then." John was flattered at the praise but, if Sherlock had looked at his website, he'd almost certainly seen reference to the incident in San Heraclas as well. He'd been with a group of university students on an archaeological dig. They'd been in an ancient jeep hauling a makeshift metal cart; the weather had turned treacherous and the driver was inexperienced. John had been thrown from the back when the jeep skidded down an embankment. He'd been lucky not to fall too far or too hard, but one of the young women hadn't been so fortunate. He and one of the others had managed to shift the vehicle off of her whilst others pulled her away, but a piece of equipment had come loose and the heavy weight had come down on him instead. He was glad to be alive, though he'd never have the same career again.

John waited for Sherlock to say something typical about how sad he was or how tragic and heroic it was or how John certainly looked well in spite of it all, but he said none of those things.

"I did. Perhaps you could tell me more about it sometime?" He looked over his shoulder at the kitchen, still busy even as the night wound down. "Duty calls. I hope you enjoyed dinner. Good night, John."

As soon as Sherlock turned away, Hetty was at his elbow, asking about his meal then offering to call a taxi for him, which John accepted with thanks. During the entire ride home, he could barely think of the job ahead. He almost managed to convince himself it was because of the exquisite food, and not at least a little due to the man behind it.
oOo

John spent the early part of Friday morning doing research. It turned out there was quite a lot on the web about both LAB221 and the techniques used there and in restaurants like it. John could have got lost for hours on the blogs about modernist cuisine and molecular gastronomy. He found a few articles about the Holmes brothers and their rivalry since Sherlock had left his brother's restaurant to strike out on his own. Sherlock apparently rarely gave interviews, so much of the information was at least second-hand and there was no information at all about his personal life.

The most fascinating thing he'd discovered was a blog called Dessert Deductions which was apparently the fan blog that Molly had mentioned. A slightly blurry snap of last night's cryptogram was already up, along with a few comments guessing at the encryption. More of the comments, though, were along the lines of how "dishy" the chef was and to just what lengths (several of which John thought sounded anatomically challenging, at the very least) the commenters would go to get a hint to the solution.

John noted that Sherlock certainly seemed to inspire passion even if, as Molly had suggested, he didn't indulge himself. John found that thought more disappointing than he probably should. He'd quickly admitted to himself that Sherlock was aesthetically pleasing. That was a big part of his job, after all, recognising people and things that drew the eye. He'd got used to the fact that some people came in really gorgeous packaging and, as had happened once or twice in the past, sometimes that packaging was worth a brief mindless fantasy or a quick wank before falling into an exhausted heap in the middle of a taxing job. What unsettled him in this case was how alluring he found the man outside of his appearance. Sherlock Holmes was a fascinating mixture of creativity and control; he was obviously fiercely intelligent, and appeared to keep a wicked sense of humour just enough under wraps that John wanted to see how he could tease more of it out. John mentally chastised himself at that line of thought. He was there to do a job, not to experiment with his sexuality or get a foolish crush on some genius who was obviously far too choosy to do anything more than exchange a few double entendres with a battered photographer.

He'd made himself shut down the Mac before he got too distracted or, at least, had to admit to himself why he might be getting distracted, checked his latest email from Greg Lestrade, and packed up his gear. He was more accustomed to outdoor shots, so the lighting and space restrictions were going to be a bit of a challenge. If Sherlock was amenable, John could schedule some time when the restaurant wouldn't be open to customers in order to get some beauty shots of the various dishes that would please Lestrade and Martha. He packed a few of his favourite lenses including a macro, a set of extension tubes, and a couple of teleconverters. He hoped to get some shots of the food, but also of the staff and equipment.

When John arrived at LAB221, he was greeted at the back door by Lyons, one of the young sous chefs who'd presented a dish for inspection the day before. Lyons was just closing the door behind them when someone called out.

"Hold that door!" A dark haired man in a grey suit was getting out of a Bentley that he'd parked half on the pavement and half in the street. He trotted up to the door and thrust his keys at the young chef.

"Watch the car for me. I'll be back in a bit, that's a good lad." He strode in purposefully without acknowledging John, who followed in his wake, unnoticed.

When the man entered the kitchen, all the conversation in the room stopped abruptly as if an audio cord had been cut.

"Well, so glad to see all the little underlings hard at work. But where's His Highness? Not rolled out of bed yet?"

The man spoke with a faux jocularity John found as familiar as he did offensive. He knew the type well enough - obscenely rich blokes who thought the world revolved around them and who, in John's experience, were usually the type to see a pristine rainforest or majestic mountain and want to put a huge resort right on top of it: preferably while displacing as many local families eking out a living as possible, since they ruined the view. John felt an immediate, intense dislike.

Finally a young woman spoke up. "He's in the big freezer, Mr Wilkes, checking on a batch of -"

Before she could finish, Sherlock appeared, surprisingly coatless and very pink in the cheeks from the cold. John, still behind Wilkes, shivered in sympathy.

"Well, there he is, our famous chef!"

"Sebastian," Sherlock said, his mouth pursed in a tight line. "What brings you out today? Lying about on your hoard uncomfortable in this weather?"

"Always the charmer. While I'm sure whatever it is you were in the middle of doing is simply fascinating, I came to see if you'd had a moment to meet with my publisher and their photographer. I don't think I need to impress upon you the importance of this project to my portfolio and thus how it will affect your financial future?"

John recalled what Molly said about it being the investor who'd insisted on the book. John had hoped it was done with good intentions for Sherlock, but he could see that this was a vanity project for a rich bastard who wanted to profit off Sherlock's work for his own aggrandisement. His opinion of the man dropped even further.

"Lestrade-Hudson has my complete cooperation. Now that I've assured you on that fact, I cordially invite you to piss off." Sherlock began to turn towards one of his assistants, but Sebastian Wilkes wasn't deterred.

"If things are going along so swimmingly, where is our photographer? Dragging his heels, perhaps?"

John sat down his bag on one of the steel tabletops, not hard enough to damage it or his gear, but loud enough to surprise Sebastian Wilkes, who jumped in surprise. John didn't miss Sherlock's grin at that.

"As it so happens, I'm right here. John Watson, Mr Wilkes." He extended his hand but couldn't manage a patently false "pleased to meet you."

Wilkes shook his hand in a cold, firm grip. "Glad to see you're willing to make the effort. Hope it's not too much of a challenge to you."

John briefly considered telling the man just what he could handle, but decided the words would be wasted. Instead he just said simply, "Looking forward to it."

"Well, that's good then." Wilkes gave John what he probably thought was a conspiratorial wink. "Make sure he doesn't spend too much time in the freezer. Probably that's the only place he can find kindred spirits. Our Sherlock's a bit of a cold fish." He guffawed at his own joke, then seemed confused when John didn't join in.

"Funny, I don't find him so at all."

"Really? He's a technical genius, to be sure, but his lack of passion won't make your job easy."

John frowned as if he had to think that through. "If you can't see Sherlock's passion in everything he creates," John said after a moment, "then I imagine you have trouble seeing it anywhere. I pity you." He looked Wilkes in the eye and then down at the left ring finger where Wilkes sported a thick gold band. "And your wife, too."

Wilkes's face purpled and John felt a pit in his stomach; he'd gone too far, let his temper get away with him, and he'd bollixed it up for himself and Sherlock. Thankfully, Wilkes didn't start yelling or take a swing at him.

"Looks like Greg Lestrade found Sherlock's perfect match. Perhaps you'll work together well after all," he said with a sneer. "Good day, gentlemen, ladies."
oOo

With Wilkes's departure, the activity in the kitchen soon returned to normal levels. Lyons came back and showed John an area in a corner that Sherlock had designated for his exclusive use and where his equipment would be safe from the goings-on of a busy commercial kitchen. Molly gave him a smile and a nod when she bustled by with a tray of beakers half-filled with a bright fuchsia gel, but didn't stop for a chat. John made a note to get some shots of the stuff, as it seemed a likely accompaniment to the profusion of blossoms and fruits Dimmock was sorting. John spent some time at his station; the young man was prone to stammering and blushing, but his knife work was excellent and John thought some of the things he'd captured there would turn out well.

As John was jotting down some notes, an attractive woman in a chic suit came into the kitchen with an iPad. As she approached a table in the centre of the room, John noticed she got nearly as much attention from the staff as Sherlock did.

As she pulled up a stool to the table, someone called out, "Welcome back, Sally!" and another, "How's your mum?" She chatted amiably with them until Sherlock emerged from his office. "Miss me?" she asked him.

"My heart wept for every moment Sally Donovan was away," Sherlock said with a small bow.

"Knock it off, you wanker, or I'll fill the chef's table with footballers' wives."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Try me."

As Sherlock and his front-of house-manager engaged in their banter, John noticed most of the staff had set aside their tasks and moved toward them. Molly came up beside John and tugged on his sleeve.

"Come on, this is the fun part," she said and pulled him closer.

"Begin, please, Sally."

"First, we have Gabendale, party of three. Called from a mobile, a USA 214 number. Sounded middle aged, asked if we permitted cigars."

"Businessman from Texas, possibly cattle but probably oil or petroleum. Hoping to impress his local contact and the contact's wife. Buying and smoking as many Cubans as possible while abroad. I'll pass, thanks."

There were muffled chuckles until Sally held up the tablet and said, "Well done. Gabendale Oil and Gas is owned by Hank Gabendale of Plano, Texas, and is in talks with BP."

Sherlock simply beamed.

"Next, and here's a name for you - Herc Shipwright - party of two, requests a 'special table' for a 'special lady.'" The crowd laughed at Sally's imitation of the man who'd made that reservation.

"Post-middle-aged Lothario who thinks a fancy meal will charm his female companion out of her sturdy M&S knickers."

"Can't verify that, but the note is made."

"A tenner says he's right," quipped Lyons.

"No bet, he's always right!," answered Henry.

The back-and-forth continued through the list of reservations, with Sally providing what information she'd gleaned from the phone and Sherlock trying to deduce as much as he could from the few facts. John was impressed that the few Sally could verify revealed the chef was spot-on, and everyone seemed eager to see who would show up for dinner. Sherlock had predicted that the two couples chosen for the chef's table would turn out to be Québécois honeymooners and a Swiss architect on his first date after his divorce. While Sherlock did come off as extremely confident in his deductions, bordering on arrogant at times, John found himself even more drawn to the man. His mind was razor-sharp and his eyes had danced in delight at the game. He'd also not minded that the work of the kitchen came to a virtual standstill during the performance. Part of that, John thought, was him being a show-off, but Sherlock also seemed aware of - and glad of - the enjoyment his staff got out of the game. The more John found out about the man, the more John liked him.

John was disappointed that, after the chef's table selection, Sherlock himself was elusive. John caught glimpses of him as he darted from place to place like a magpie in a white coat, consulting with an assistant, holding a test tube to the light as if trying to deduce its secrets, or scribbling feverishly with a marker on his large glass chalkboard.

Given John's reason for being at the restaurant, he shouldn't have felt shy about watching Sherlock as he worked. Still, John knew himself well enough to know when his interest was more personal than professional. He knew he could make a good shot, and he probably would, of Sherlock through the glass board, his face shadowed by his own scrawls of recipes and formulae. John could have watched him stand there for hours, and throughout the day John's gaze returned to the board. John wanted to catalogue the chef's changing facial expressions, from thoughtfulness to frustration to delight ,which was, John noticed, frequently marked by emphatic underlining with a thick green pen. John noticed that Sherlock had the habit, when deep in thought, of scrubbing his fingers through his hair or winding a curl around a slender finger and tugging on it as if to tease some inspiration into his brain through the sensation of it. It was the hairpulling that was nearly John's undoing, as he kept imagining his own fingers buried in those curls, testing Sherlock's reactions to gentle tugs and sharper pulls.

"Are you all right? You look a little flushed." Henry interrupted his reverie, and John thought he might have to ask if he could take a few shots of the freezer. He shook it off, though, and let Henry get him a carafe of water.

After he'd quickly drunk two cool glasses of water, John began to set up by Violet Hunter, the young woman who'd greeted Wilkes earlier. She was working with something called a 'smoking gun' that would flavour a compound butter she was making. She excused herself to fetch a container of wood chips and, while John stood alone for a moment, Sherlock finally approached him.

"Thanks, for earlier," he said.

John fiddled with his lens. "For what?"

"That thing with Sebastian. That was, well, quite good, actually." Sherlock smiled and seemed genuinely grateful.

"That was nothing, really. He's a bit of an arse."

"Just a bit." Sherlock pushed an errant curl from his forehead and John had to still his hand to keep from helping.

"Anyhow, it was true, what I said. I'm looking forward to working on this and, well, I -"

"You think I have passion," Sherlock said quietly.

"I think that's obvious."

"For the work."

"Well, yeah, but what Wilkes said about you being a cold fish, that was just crap. Just because he can't visualise -" John felt his face flush. That was an unwise word choice, given just what he'd been trying not to visualise all day.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Sebastian would have trouble visualising good art whilst standing in the middle of the National Gallery."

John chuckled. "How the hell did you wind up stuck with him?"

"Long story."

"And you're busy." John glanced at the clock; opening was coming up soon. "Is it true what I hear about chefs being night owls? Maybe after closing, we could find a drink and you can tell me about it."

Sherlock's smile widened. "I think I'd like that."

Workwise, John had a thoroughly productive evening. He had to switch out both his battery and memory card halfway through, and he was looking forward to seeing what he'd captured. Then, there was the food. Though John wasn't sitting down for a meal, as each course went to the dining room, someone would bring a small plate over to John with "Chef sends this," or "Sherlock would like you to try," or even "this is something new, can you give Chef your opinion?" John felt as if he was being courted by proxy and seduced bite by delicious bite. The staff also kept him apprised of the guests as they arrived; not only had Sherlock deduced the diners at the chef's table, his predictions for the rest of the crowd were almost perfectly accurate. By the time the last of Molly's gorgeous desserts left the kitchen, John knew his face would likely hurt tomorrow from all the smiling he'd done tonight. He'd had a wonderful evening, and he hoped the best was yet to come.
oOo

It was after midnight by the time Sherlock was ready to leave. He emerged from the little room he used as his office in a v-neck grey vest, black jacket, and slim-cut black jeans. He looked more like a postgrad student than a professional chef, relaxed and even more attractive than he had been in his whites.

He helped John lock up his stuff in a spare storage room and led them out the back. It was then John realised the flaw in his plan to get to know Sherlock better. He didn't know the neighbourhood terribly well and had no idea where they could go .

"I'm afraid I'll have to defer to your knowledge of the neighbourhood. I'm afraid I don't have the foggiest where to go around here for a late night cuppa."

Sherlock smiled. "If you can manage a bit of a walk, I know just the place. Less than a mile."

John agreed and, as they walked, he asked Sherlock how he'd come to open LAB221. Sherlock had read chemistry at Cambridge, where he'd met Sebastian Wilkes and had almost been persuaded to join a pharmaceutical company of which the Wilkes family owned a share. Instead, though, he'd spent his summers working at his brother's restaurant, then gone full time after finishing his degree. He had used his chemistry background to help develop some of the recipes that had put the Zaftig Mallard on the culinary map.

"However, we weren't meant to work together long term."

"No?"

"Mycroft is an insufferable control freak." Sherlock shot John a look as he choked back a laugh at that statement. "I realise how that must sound, given what you've observed of me in the last two days, but Mycroft's megalomania is only matched by his talent for micromanagement. Well, that, and his ability to put away vast quantities of pastry." Sherlock smiled as if the memory of watching his brother devour a mountain of puddings was somehow pleasing.

"So I decided to strike out on my own. I had myself, and I convinced Mycroft's pastry chef that I could offer her more freedom to practise her art," he said as they turned onto Baker Street.

"Molly worked for Mycroft?"

"Yes," Sherlock smirked. "I have an eye for talent."

"Seriously. Good on you for that; she does amazing work."

"That she does. Of course, taking her also meant that I'd get no support financially or otherwise from Mycroft, so -"

"Sebastian Wilkes."

"Precisely." Sherlock stopped at a door: not to a bar or café, but a residence. On the door were brass numbers: 221.

John looked up at Sherlock, puzzled.

Sherlock winked at him. "The decor's not much, but the proprietor makes a great coffee and will usually throw in a little something extra for free."

"This is your place."

"Well deduced." Sherlock unlocked the door and ushered him in. "I'm in flat B, upstairs."
oOo

Where LAB221 was sleek and polished, 221B was slightly shabby, cluttered, and actually quite cosy. John noticed a microscope on a countertop in the kitchen and a skull on the mantel which somehow seemed very Chef Sherlock, but a soft blue dressing gown tossed over a somewhat battered leather sofa bedecked with a Union Jack pillow did not. John felt at home immediately and flopped down in an armchair beside the sofa.

Sherlock ducked into the kitchen. "Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?"

"Whatever you're having is fine."

A few minutes later Sherlock emerged with two tumblers, each with a generous shot of amber liquid.

He handed one to John and clinked their glasses together.

John took a sip, expecting a typical whisky, but the smooth, sweet flavour surprised him. Sherlock, stretched out on the couch, was watching him with delighted interest.

"You like it?"

"Yes, it's -"

"Small batch bourbon from a colleague in Kentucky. He swears the proper way to appreciate it is with a rasher of American-style bacon, but I'm afraid all I can offer is some prosciutto which I fear won't provide the same experience."

"This is perfect, thanks. Besides, I really just came for the company." As soon as the words left his lips, John wondered if he should have said it.

He looked at Sherlock, hoping his blush wouldn't be obvious in the dim light. Sherlock was wearing an expression that was both pleased and utterly relaxed. He had kicked off his shoes and socks; his bare feet hung over one arm of the sofa and his head was propped on an upholstered pillow, dishevelled curls giving him a dark, messy halo.

"You look content."

"Mm," Sherlock replied, "As someone said, it's the company." He set his glass on the floor. "Speaking of the company, I've been doing most of the talking. Your turn."

"You can't tell me everything about myself simply from observation?"

"I could, but I think you've far more interesting things to tell me than your sister's addiction issues, or the accident and physical therapy, or even why you chose a Nikon instead of a Canon or something else. In a sense, you're a professional observer."

"I suppose that's a way to look at it."

Sherlock rested his chin on his fingertips. "But you don't deduce from what you see. Or, rather, you do, somewhat, but your work...." Sherlock paused for a moment, looking thoughtful before continuing. "Your work both manages to obscure and emphasize that."

John grinned. "That's the goal. To point out something specific, but without letting myself get in the way. It makes it personal for the viewer - lets them have their own experience. I want them to see what I see, but have their own thoughts, arrive at their own conclusions. It's a balancing act between making them feel they've been there, but still making them desperate to go see for themselves."

"That's brilliant."

John could feel his cheeks flush hot with the praise.

"How is it your photographs don't look like everyone's holiday snaps?"

"Good equipment helps, but a lot of it's just experience, practise, and a willingness to delete the vast majority of what I shoot."

"You make it sound simple."

"In principle, it is."

"But there's a lot of technical knowledge."

"I know a few tricks."

"Tell them to me."

"All right, then. What do you want to know first?"

Sherlock , as it turned out, had looked at more of John's work than he'd realised. He asked questions about a number of the pieces on his website, wanting to know how various shots were made, what equipment John had used, and how he had determined the right angle or the right light.

After John had explained all that, Sherlock asked about the hardware, the software, and the lingo, having wrinkled his brow the first time John had said things like "tack sharp" or "f-stop." John worried at first that he was boring Sherlock with long explanations of things a non-photographer would never want to know, but Sherlock seemed more delighted with each detailed explanation and bit of trivia.

Only after they'd both had a second drink did the topics shift from the technical aspects of John's work to where he'd been. Sherlock was fairly well travelled himself, and the conversation shifted to places and peoples, history and architecture and, of course, food. As John recounted his experiences at Bangkok's restaurants and markets, Sherlock reclined further on the sofa, eyes closed and a small smile on his lips. John's words slowed as the minutes progressed; Sherlock's murmured responses grew less frequent and more quiet, and John didn't even notice that he was nodding off himself.

A twinge in his bad shoulder made John jump a bit in his seat. He blinked a few times and realised he'd drifted off somewhere in his monologue about a fruit market. A glance at the sofa showed that Sherlock too was fast asleep and snoring softly. John took their empty glasses to the kitchen but, when he returned, he didn't have the heart to wake his host. He pulled an afghan from another chair in the room and draped it over the sleeping chef. He couldn't resist the urge to reach down and stroke Sherlock's hair, which he found was as soft as it looked. He fought the further urge to sink to his knees beside the sofa to continue petting him, and instead just whispered "Good night," and let himself out of the flat.
oOo

Saturday was unseasonably chilly and drizzly, and John slept later than he'd intended. He'd managed to find a night bus for most of the way home, but it had been still been quite late when he'd finally got to bed and he needed to wind down. He thought a shower might do the trick and the warm water would soothe him quickly to sleepiness.

To his dismay, that hadn't been the case. The caress of the water on his skin had put him in a quite different mood, and he'd not been able to banish thoughts of how Sherlock's long fingers would feel brushing over his skin or how John's would feel buried in Sherlock's hair. He'd succumbed to the thoughts and the resulting urge and, by the time John was stroking himself to completion against the shower wall, the water was growing cool. After that, however, he'd managed to fall asleep in good time.

Although he'd overslept, John awoke feeling relaxed and sunnier than he had in a while. He got up and put the kettle on for tea while he uploaded the previous day's work from his memory cards. He hummed a tune as he reviewed the shots, pleased with a decent percentage of them. He jotted some notes and sent off an email to Greg with a few ideas. He turned on some music while he made a list of things he had to do : laundry, the shopping, run by the post office. He wondered if he was too early to show up at the restaurant and what time Sherlock would arrive. John wondered if Sherlock had slept all night on the couch or if he'd stumbled to bed and, if he had, whether he'd just collapsed fully clothed or whether he'd - oh.

As soon as the realisation hit him, John grinned at himself. The relaxed feeling he'd had on the bus ride home, the cheerful anticipation about the day ahead, the music, the general feeling of contentment with the world: they all pointed to one thing. He had a crush. More than a crush, he admitted to himself; he was attracted to, and definitely interested in, Sherlock Holmes. He poured himself another cuppa and allowed himself a moment to let the fact of it settle in his head. He'd never dated a man before, nor even really wanted to. He might have looked a few times or had a few fantasies, especially after a dry spell, and he didn't have any issues with finding the male form pleasing. It was, he thought, more of a connection thing, the "something more" that made him want to take the leap from just looking to taking action. That had always been with women, though he had to admit that, lately, even those feelings had been few and far between.

He took a long sip of tea and waited for the inevitable moment of panic. It didn't come. He then imagined the end of this project, packing up his gear, and never seeing Sherlock again. He felt a feeling in his gut like a blow from a cold hammer. That settles it, then, he told himself. He'd never shied away from something with great potential before, even if he was a little afraid. Besides, he didn't think Sherlock was going to just drag him into a storeroom and bend him over a crate of radishes without any warning, as much as that image didn't actually seem unappealing.

He set down his mug and checked the clock. It was past time, he thought, to get to the restaurant.
oOo

The kitchen was in full swing when John arrived. Molly had told him that Saturday was the busiest night of the week, and it was usually when Sherlock and his senior assistants unveiled new dishes. John got a glimpse of Sherlock as he set up his tripod; the chef was weaving gracefully through the busy room holding a beaker of steaming liquid in a pair of shiny metal tongs. While John was changing a lens, he noticed Sherlock plating something that looked like small gleaming cubes made of garnets or rubies. He had been hoping the chef would have a spare moment so John could talk to him, though he wasn't exactly sure what he was going to say .

He had set his camera down in his storage room for a short break and was considering his options when Sherlock came into the room. John's heart skipped a beat as his mind flashed to his earlier thoughts about what Sherlock might do to him in such a situation. John glanced around and saw there were neither crates nor any other furniture suitable for a quick tumble. He was both relieved and disappointed.

Sherlock leaned against an empty shelf. "Do I owe you an apology?"

John frowned. He wasn't sure what Sherlock meant. "Apology? For what?"

"I was a bad enough host to fall asleep."

"You were tired and I was nattering on. Can't say that I blame you."

Sherlock dipped his head and looked at John from under long eyelashes. "On the contrary. It was quite interesting. It's just that I find it difficult to sleep after busy nights and...."

"And you gave out. I get that."

"Today, though," Sherlock said with a small smile, "I took a nap." A flicker of hope stirred. It sounded like Sherlock might want to spend more time with him.

John found it difficult not to wonder if Sherlock had availed himself of the same sleep aid John had used in his shower.

"So you might be more able to stay awake after work."

"Likely." Sherlock's smile widened a fraction.

"You know, you haven't had a chance to look at any of the shots of taken the last few days. Maybe tonight after close we can go to mine and I can let you see what I have so far." John tried to make it not sound like an obvious come-on in case Sherlock wanted to keep things strictly professional.

"John Watson, are you inviting me home to show me your etchings?" Sherlock's eyes gleamed.

"I think that I am."

"Then I look forward to it."
oOo

It said something about how much he enjoyed the kitchen of LAB221 that, despite his anticipation about his "date" - and you'd really like it be an actual date, a voice in his head supplied - the evening didn't drag. At first, he was afraid he'd be unable to concentrate, but John was soon swept up in the bustle; the occasional glances from Sherlock didn't hurt. At the end of the night, when John was packing up, Sherlock slipped a little dish of the cubed garnet jewels onto his table. John popped one in his mouth and tasted wine, fruit, and a trace of spice. He took another, and another, and didn't notice that Sherlock had come to watch him.

"These? These are magnificent."

"Sangria."

"Trying to get me drunk first?" John ventured.

"Ah, then how would you be able to show me your etchings?" Sherlock held up his hands. In one was a thermos, and in the other, an insulated bag. "I thought I'd impose with my own sort of takeaway."

"That sounds wonderful."
oOo

Sherlock insisted on a taxi in deference to the food; John warned him that his flat was not up to the standards of the cuisine, but Sherlock just laughed and said they'd make the best of it. When they arrived and Sherlock saw the complete lack of a dining area, he managed not to roll his eyes.

"It's what I could get on short notice until I could find something permanent."

"In London?" Sherlock asked as he poked around the small flat.

"Yeah, London will be home base from now on. I'd like something central, but that might mean a flatshare for something decent."

"Mmm," Sherlock said in response as he came out of John's bedroom with an old quilt and his pillows. He spread the quilt out on the floor. "There are definite possibilities," he said somewhat cryptically and pulled the cushions from the small sofa to the floor.

Sherlock knelt on the floor to arrange quilt, cushions and food to his satisfaction. "If you can arrange for us to look at the photos from here, we can have a picnic."

"As it happens, I can." John started up a slide show on the Mac of the restaurant pictures, toed off his shoes and settled down on the quilt next to Sherlock.

"Wait a mo." John got up and grabbed a bottle of fizzy water from the fridge, since he didn't think the last can of Guinness would go with whatever Sherlock had brought. He left the light on in the kitchen but turned off the lamp in the main room. He settled back on the quilt where Sherlock was leaning back against the sofa and unpacking the food.

John unscrewed the cap on the water bottle which gave a faint hiss.

"Cheers." Sherlock accepted the offered bottle and took a swig.

They soon tucked into the food, which was as good as anything at the restaurant. The thermos was filled with a savoury, mushroom-y broth. There were airy buns filled with spicy-sweet shredded pork and thin slivers of pickled cabbage, salty crisps that were certainly not made from potatoes but which were definitely delicious, a small container of shiny green orbs that tasted like the best olives John had ever eaten, and, finally, more of the little sangria cubes. They chatted about the photos between bites. Sherlock liked most of the ones of the kitchen and all of the ones of the food, but wrinkled his nose at the ones of himself. John thought it was charming that he didn't seem to notice his own beauty, but held his tongue. Hopefully, there would be a more appropriate time for that: if not tonight, then soon.

John sank back on a cushion and rolled to his side to look at Sherlock. "That was amazing."

Sherlock scooted down and shimmied to face John across the detritus of the meal. "Thank you. I have to admit, I wasn't sure you'd like it. I feared you might be more pedestrian in your tastes."

John couldn't help but tease a little. "You didn't deduce that, after all my travels, I might have a bit of an adventurous palate?"

Even in the dim light, he thought he saw a faint blush on Sherlock's fair skin. "Ah, I'm hardly ever one hundred percent. There's always something."

"A man can't be too obvious in his tastes, or there's no mystery. Besides, even though I'm open to adventure, I'm still awfully choosy." John swallowed hard and wondered how obvious it was that he'd ceased talking about the food.

"It's good," Sherlock said as he leaned closer, "to be selective."

John shifted to meet Sherlock halfway, until their lips were mere centimetres apart. "And to try new things?"

Sherlock's gaze dropped to John's mouth and then he met John's eyes again. "Yes," he said and moved forward the rest of the way.
oOo

The first kiss was a little awkward, John thought, as first kisses often were; there was a brief mash of noses and a clinking of teeth. At one point, John rolled Sherlock over onto the open bottle of water; this necessitated a removal of Sherlock's jacket, which did not disappoint John, and a relocation to the re-cushioned sofa, which disappointed neither of them. They kissed slowly and unhurriedly, John confessing shyly he'd never done this with anyone who wasn't female, and Sherlock admitting he hadn't done this with anyone since university.

John gave in to the urge to tangle his fingers in Sherlock's soft curls and gently pull Sherlock into place for another long snog, eliciting a gorgeous little moan as his hands tugged in Sherlock's hair.

"We'll just have to practise," John whispered into those lovely, plush lips between kisses.

"Until we're up to par," Sherlock nuzzled John's neck and chuckled against his skin, "as this is absolute rubbish."

"It's Sunday morning," John said to the shell of Sherlock's ear as he stroked his fingers over Sherlock's cheek.

"Your point?" Sherlock said as he grabbed John's hand to pull it back towards his hair.

"Restaurant's closed until Tuesday. Time to practise."

"I think that's at least enough to get us properly started," Sherlock agreed, and kissed him again.