Sherlock was almost completely silent, pondering, and was always touching John, which was very irritating. Wherever John went, Sherlock would be right beside him, touching him in some way.
John was starting to get very agitated.
Needing some non-Sherlock time, he stood and went to the bathroom. He shoved Sherlock out when he tried to follow John in, and glared at him. "I am able to go to the bathroom by myself, Sherlock," John sighed, exasperated.
Then he slammed the door in Sherlock's face and locked it.
John was currently sitting on the lid of the toilet, wondering when Sherlock would notice he wasn't actually using the toilet.
Glancing at the window, he contemplated climbing down, until he remembered two things. 1, this was not ground level, and 2, he was in France and had no idea where he would go.
Sighing, he examined the bathroom again. Something caught his eye, and he turned his head and saw an envelope floating in through the open window.
Frowning, he slowly reached down and grabbed it. Opening it, he read the neat handwriting.
Have fun solving the case I set for you,
p.s. this letter will blow up in approximately three seconds.'
Letting out a shocked yell, John blindly threw the letter out the window, not bothering to look if he missed or not, and rushed to the door. He opened the lock in record time and tackled Sherlock, who was frowning and looking like he was about to knock on the door, to the floor. "Keep down!" he yelled frantically as Sherlock tried to get up.
BOOM!! BOOM! BOOOOOOM!
Three blasts went off, and debris sprayed over them, John bracing himself above Sherlock and protecting him. A large piece hit his back, and the back of his head. He winced, eyes squeezed shut, and beared through it until it calmed.
Coughing, he opened his eyes and checked on Sherlock, ignoring his throbbing, aching body. He didn't see any, but that didn't necessarily mean none had hit him. He ran his hand over Sherlock, breathing a sigh of relief when Sherlock didn't wince once. He was staring up at John in confusion.
Then he seemed to snap out of it, and he ran his hands over John, concern etched into his face.
John winced as Sherlock touched his back, and Sherlock drew his hands back. He sat up and dragged John to a couch, forcing him to sit and practically ripped off John's shirt.
He heard Sherlock curse. "How did you know it was going to blow?" Sherlock asked quietly while he put bandages on the bleeding wounds John had acquired.
"He told me, in a letter, I mean," John said, pondering the letter. "Sherlock? He also said 'have fun solving the case I set for you'. What does that mean? Have you gotten a case yet?"
John felt Sherlock's finger's freeze on his back. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock shook himself and resumed fixing John's wounds, remaining quiet. Sighing in defeat, John prepared to wait him out.
"Are you hungry, John? I think there is a really good restaurant not too far from here, if it hasn't closed down. Not that expensive either," Sherlock mused, startling John from his thoughts.
His stomach growled in response and John grinned. "Starving."
They collected their coat and other necessities and walked down stairs, the guy giving them strange looks, making John wonder, once again, what Sherlock had said to the guy.
They walked through the crisp, fresh evening air, both of them smiling. It was such a nice night. Just the two of them. Glancing at Sherlock, John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hand. Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hand and tugged him closer to his side.
The gesture made him smile, and they walked in silence to the restaurant.
The restaurant was simple and cozy. They got a seat by the window, in a corner with candles on the table. Every time he saw candles on tables, he thought of the guy at the restaurant Sherlock had first taken him to on their first case. "It's a bit more romantic," he had said with a wink and a large smile.
John had denied that he was Sherlock's date, but it had made his insides warm at the thought of being Sherlock's date.
And now he finally was. He grinned at the thought, looking over at Sherlock who was reading the menu. John didn't even try. He didn't do French. Too complicated. He trusted Sherlock to order something for John that John would like.
"What's that smile for?" Sherlock asked absently, mouthing different words as his eyes scanned the list of foods.
"Oh, nothing really. I was just remembering the guy at the restaurant back in London, what was his name again?" John asked, his mind blanking and refusing to think.
"Angelo. Yes, that was a rather funny," Sherlock said, his voice reflecting the smile John knew was on Sherlock's face.
The waiter appeared and Sherlock ordered for them in French, making John to try and desperately cover how much he reacted to Sherlock speaking French. The waiter jotted down their order, took their menus and left.