Brilliant {A BBC Sherlock Fanfic}

Chapter Two: Dinner Dates

CHAPTER TWO: DINNER DATES

"Are you planning on staying long?" Sherlock inquired, eyes flicking to the clock which was ever-so-slowly inching towards seven. Amelia didn't seem to have brought any overnight clothes; he doubted that they could fit in the small clutch she was carrying.

Amelia made a small indifferent noise. "I don't know. I wasn't exactly planning on it. I have some flats I'm looking into buying."

"You could always just stay with us, Ames." John offered. "Sherlock sleeps on the sofa most nights. If he even sleeps at all." John looked over at Sherlock, slightly worried that he'd object.

The detective lifted his shoulder flippantly, not overly caring about what the Watsons did and didn't do. "She can stay as long as she cleans-" He jerked his head towards the kitchen table where a dozen or so experiments were set up, "-that up, and helps pay the rent."

Amelia smiled, "I can do that."

Sherlock nodded. "Excellent. When are we going for dinner? I'm assuming we're going out. We don't have much in our fridge."

"I was thinking Chinese." suggested John.

"Amelia's allergic to soy sauce." Sherlock said just as Amelia opened her mouth to speak, his eyes downcast to his phone as he scrolled through a list of the various restaurants located nearby.

"I have a mouth, and I can speak for myself, thank you very much." Amelia said, not bothering to ask how he knew of her allergy, well aware that he'd only give her a cryptic answer in response. She collected everyone's teacups, carrying them to the kitchen. She moved a bucket of sheep livers-or at least she thought them to be sheep livers-from out of the sink, placing it to the side as she began to rinse out the cups. "Should I ask why there are livers in the sink?"

"Experiment." Sherlock said simply.

"Ah," was all that she said, wiping her hands on the towel. "So are we actually going to go to dinner or just sit here talking about it?"

"Italian food." Sherlock declared, leaping to his feet. In one fluid motion, he had already gotten his long navy Belstaff coat-which had been draped over the back of the chair-around his shoulders, and proceeded to tie his scarf-which was been tucked in between the cushion and the seat alongside the cigarettes from earlier-around his neck.

"There's a smiley face on the wall."

"Yes. Do you like it?" Sherlock said, grinning. He tossed Amelia's coat to her, pausing only to sniff the fabric, nostrils flaring at the scent of her jasmine perfume. She caught it with ease, surprising him. "Come along, Watsons." Sherlock turned sharply on his heel and began trotting down the stairs three at a time.

"I have a name!" She called out after him, rolling her silvery eyes as John followed after the detective like some sort of lost puppy. In reality, a lost hedgehog would be a better description. Amelia sighed, zipping up the coat before going downstairs to join them

♠

Sherlock was starting to get impatient. They had been escorted to a table by the maître d' but the waiter still hadn't shown up. John looked perfectly content sitting in his chair while flipping through the menu-being utterly boring, in Sherlock's opinion. Amelia, however, was drumming her fingers on the table in a steady beat, although occasionally her tapping would become more frantic, and then gradually return back to normal.

After two minutes of observing her, Sherlock realised that Amelia was, in fact, tapping the corresponding notes to the piano playing at the far end of the room. Her eyes met his; slightly startled by the fact that he had been watching her the entire time. Her fingers immediately stopped moving, resting in her lap instead.

"Where is the waiter?" Sherlock growled, scanning the room. He got to his feet, nodding at the Watsons. "Please excuse me. I shall be right back."

"Sherlock, sit back down." John said sternly, already fed up with the curly haired detective. "The waiter will be here soon."

Sherlock ignored him entirely, casually buttoning up his charcoal black blazer and walking away.

Amelia fiddled with a loose strand unravelling from the seam of her jacket sleeve while scanning the menu. A loud bang came from the other side of the restaurant, once muffled voices rising to loud shouts, and within those voices, Amelia could distinctly hear Sherlock. She let out a heavy sigh, "Does he always do this?" she asked her older brother.

His silent exasperation was the only answer she needed.

"Fantastic." Amelia said sarcastically, pinching the bridge of her nose as Sherlock-with a lovely new purple bruise blossoming across his left cheek-reappeared with a waiter and someone who appeared to be the manager in tow. She bit back laughter.

"I found the waiter." Sherlock declared almost proudly.

"We noticed." said John, giving the manager and the waiter an apologetic smile. "My sincerest apologies for our friend. He's not great with people."

"Our friend?" Amelia scoffed. "I met him four hours ago. He hardly classifies as my friend, John."

"Oh, shut up, Amy." Sherlock said, taking a seat, completely oblivious to the heated looks the manager was giving him.

"Did you just call me Amy?" she said in disbelief.

He didn't respond, instead turning to the waiter and rattling off in a perfect Italian accent. "I'll have the Fettuccine ai Porcini, and a class of the 1968 Monsanto." He handed the menu back to the waiter, raising an eyebrow at the youngest Watson. "You?"

Amelia cleared her throat, "The gnocchi, please, and just some water."

"Make that two waters, and a salmon for me, thanks." John said, the waiter scribbling down the last order, taking both Amelia and John's menus before heading back to the kitchen.

The manager huffed indignantly, then followed after the waiter.

"So," John started, leaning forward and clasping his hands on the table before him. "What exactly did you do to get the manager and waiter to want to rip your throat out?"

Sherlock ignored him entirely, glancing towards Amelia. "Piano." He said suddenly.

Amelia blinked in confusion. "Sorry?"

"Piano," Sherlock repeat monotonously, as if the word took him a great deal of effort to say. "Do you play it?" His eyes flicked down towards her hand.

"I used to," Amelia confirmed, smiling slightly. "I had to sell my piano and my violin when I moved back here."

"Where were you living before?" Sherlock asked, taking a sip from the wine the waiter had just delivered.

"New York," John and Amelia said at the same time. Amelia grinned at her brother, turning to Sherlock and continuing on, "Four months."

"Explains the rudeness." Sherlock muttered quietly, jaw muscle twitching as Amelia kicked him under the table, her toe of her black pumps digging into his shin.

Just then, the food arrived. Amelia smiled to herself before digging into her pasta, discreetly stealing some of Sherlock's fettuccine off of his plate. He noticed her and shot her a glare out of the corner of his eye. Amelia hummed as she swallowed, "That's pretty good. I should've ordered that."

Sherlock switched her plate with his, "Here. Have mine."

John raised his eyebrow curiously as Amelia looked down at her lap, blushing. "Thank you."