"Do we have any lemons in the fridge?" John threw two pieces of lightly battered cod fillets into a pot of hot oil. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up and realized he'd been in another trance again. He got up and opened the fridge. A giant head was taking up most of the space, but he moved it aside and found half a lemon in a ziplock.

"Thanks, Sherlock." John took the lemon from Sherlock. He put on a timer and began placing potatoes into a bowl of cold water. "You know I'm glad we had cod, because I can't really cook anything else other than fish and chips."

Sherlock said, "Well John, do you want to continue answering more questions?"

"Sure," John replied, taking out his pieces of cod with a slotted spoon. "I just can't really look at you the whole time, I have to finish this."

"Alright." Sherlock had memorized all the questions and said, "Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?"

"Hmm, I suppose I always thought I might die in Afghanistan. I'd had a few close encounters," John said as painful memories flooded his brain. He started to slice the potatoes into thin fries to get his mind off it. "But now... I haven't really thought much about it. Maybe a stroke or a heart attack when I'm old."

"I don't think about my own death," Sherlock said, "Not out of ignorance, of course." He waited until John looked at him. "Spending your life in constant fear of the unknown, how can you ever expect to live?"

John smiled. "You have a good point Sherlock. Dinner's ready."

The two sat down across from each other. John pretended to eat and watched to see Sherlock's reaction to his cooking. Sherlock took his fork and pierced the centre of the fish, using his knife to cut through the rest of the way. John could hear the crunch of the fish and felt glad that it turned out okay. Sherlock took a bite and John couldn't tell if he liked it or not.

"So?" John asked.

"What?" Sherlock looked up from his plate. "Aren't you going to eat, John?"

"How is it, Sherlock?" John asked, trying to hide his anticipation.

"I-" Sherlock could taste the crispy exterior of the chips. He took another bite of the fish, rather liking the taste and a bit surprised as to how well John could actually cook. "I don't know why you're asking. It's food; it definitely adds nutrition to the diet. The fish is fresh, not under or overdone, and the potatoes are obviously organic because you bought them-"

"No," John said. "How does it taste?"

Sherlock sort of froze in his seat, his jaw open but his lips closed, not sure what to say. "It's moderate," he said. "Good for... staying alive..."

John sighed and rolled his eyes. "Do you have no opinions on anything?" he asked, and Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"That question wasn't on the list," he said.

John threw his hands up into the air. "This is not a question from the list, Sherlock! Honestly..."

"I only have opinions on Mycroft and Anderson, if you haven't noticed. Food is a biological need, so it's unnecessary to have an opinion on it," He sat back in his chair, crossing his arms and staring down at his unusually empty plate. "But, for convenience, I wouldn't mind you making it again. Because of our... busy schedules..."

John nodded. "For science?"

Sherlock nodded. "For science. And... logic. And health."

John crossed his hands under his chin, his eyebrows raised as he smirked, mostly out of annoyance. "Fine," he said. "Good to know that you liked it."

Sherlock squished his face up into an awful expression and inhaled sharply. "I... enjoy its... contribution to my digestive system..."

"Mhm," John smirked. "You ate all of it. I can tell you enjoyed the meal."

"Question number eight," Sherlock said, immediately changing the subject. "Name three things you and your partner have in common."

John coughed. "Partner?" he said.

"Well, you know, that's what it said on the list."

There was an awkward silence as they stared at each other. John cleared his throat.

"You didn't bother paraphrasing it, now did you?" he asked, and Sherlock furrowed his brow and shook his head.

"Unnecessary," he said. "You get the gist."

"Well then," John said. "I know that we both liked the food-"

"Oh god... enough about the fish," Sherlock interrupted. "Think of something else."

"How about you go first this time." John rolled his eyes. "I don't know my answer yet."

"Well... I suppose we're both Caucasian males, born in London, and have a sibling," Sherlock told John.

"Not with logic, Sherlock. Like emotional things. Please just try your hardest. I know you can think of something."

Sherlock sort of frowned down at the table until he remembered that they were supposed to sustain eye contact, so he pouted at John instead, who was not amused.

"Sherlock," he said flatly. "You are able to think quickly literally all the time except for when you have to say something emotional. I don't think that's a coincidence. I'm opening up to you, so you'd best do the same."

"Fine," Sherlock mumbled, dragging out the f. "Number one: both of us are sick of Mycroft."

John couldn't argue with that one. "What else?"

"Number two," Sherlock added, "We both know far too many Queen songs."

John furrowed his brow. "And how do you know that?" he questioned almost accusingly, and Sherlock diverted his eyes for a short second.

"I," he began, his mouth hanging silently open for a moment before continuing. "Have excellent hearing."

Nodding, John made a mental note to make sure Sherlock wasn't standing with his ear to the plane of his door when he was singing I Want To Break Free in the morning. What did he get out of listening to him? Amusement? He stifled an annoyed grunt as he realised it was really a likely possibility.

"Number three," Sherlock announced, his eyes still bright in the darkly lit room. "Both of us like to run away from our problems."

John, who had taken a sip of water, coughed slightly, swallowing and staring back up at his flatmate. "Where the bloody hell did that come from?"

"The Sound of Music, John. It was a problem in there and I thought that I may as well identify with-"

"Please be serious."

Sherlock pursed his lips for a moment or two. "Alright," he hesitantly agreed. "I solve other people's puzzles for an excuse to not solving my own. You are actually too fed up with the world that you have no choice but to ignore the legitimate issues in your life. And that, my friend, is what we have in common."

"Colleague." John corrected, reminding him of the fact that, oh, right, he didn't have friends. It must have slipped his mind.

Sherlock broke eye contact again, his lips a bit strained as he started it up again. "Your turn," he said.

John sighed in what felt to him like a desperate sort of disappointment, and he shrugged. "Um, number one," he said, scrambling to think of something to say. "We both like children."

Sherlock clenched his jaw and glared down at the table for a moment before turning back and glaring at John. He didn't like admitting to that.

"Two," John listed, suddenly feeling like he had control over the situation. "We are both lonely."

"I'm not lonely," Sherlock scoffed, crossing his arms. John raised his eyebrows in slight irritation.

"And how would you know?" he questioned, moving on to the third fact. "Number three: we are both awful at this game."

The detective couldn't argue with that one. Although he personally felt that John was more of the problem. John, however, thought it wasn't going well because Sherlock Holmes was too closed-off.

"Next question," Sherlock listed. "For what in your life do you feel most grateful?"

"That's easy," John piped up, crossing his arms and giving a little huff of triumph. "My friends."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, his brows furrowing together as he repositioned himself on the chair. "Your friends?" he asked. "Why your friends?"

John chortled softly, shrugging and only half-joking when he replied, "Because my family is terrible."

Sherlock smirked, resting his chin on his fist and nodding. "In that case, I'll have to say I'm most grateful for friends as well."

There was silence for a moment, until John asked, "Aren't I your only friend?"

The detective's facial features hardened and he stood up abruptly, breaking eye contact and pushing in his chair. "Goodnight, John," he said monotonously as if he were commanding it. "You go to bed at an average of 21:36, which was one hour and precisely three minutes ago. And it's best you leave me alone. I need to think." He plopped down in his chair, crossing his legs and resting his fingers together, and John reluctantly walked up the stairs to his bedroom, turning the light off as he went so that the consulting genius detective sat alone in the room, not even noticing that there wasn't any light.