"Why not?"

Sherlock looks wholly unperturbed as he glances at a menu.

"Isn't that what people do with their dates?"

John feels his face warm with being called Sherlock's date, as it's still so new, but he exhales and leans back to peer over the menu himself.

"Maybe not like this."

Sherlock looks up at him with his brow furrowed, trying to figure out where he went wrong. Why John is uncomfortable.

"You don't like it?"

"No, it's not like that. I--" John scratches a spot below his temple and his eyes follow a server walking by.

"It's just. You look like you fit the part."

John makes a small gesture to him, at the black suit with the dark, blood red shirt underneath and the fine italian leather shoes in black. No tie still, which surprises John, but he figures that celebrity is allowing him to bend what is likely an otherwise strict dress code. Sherlock always looks nice, always fits the part of posh, wealthy man, but here John feels like he sticks out badly.

Sherlock had even bought him the outfit he wore tonight, so it isn't a matter of fashion choice. A midnight blue suit, tailored, with a white shirt underneath that had a very thin, almost imperceptible, charcoal grey pinstripe. A tie (even John could admit, celebrity aside, that he looked better with one) of terra cotta pattern that complimented the warmth of his skin perfectly, and deep brown leather shoes. Oxfords.

Both men wear watches, tie bars, pocket squares. The works.

Sherlock casts his gaze over John's outfit for the hundredth time this evening.

"So do you, John."

John grimaces slightly at the discomfort of him not understanding, but isn't going to press the matter too deeply.

"Fine. Thank you."

Sherlock's eyes stay on him for a few extra seconds, though he says nothing.

"This isn't even the most expensive restaurant in the UK," he says finally.

John smiles wryly.

"Then what are we doing here?" He jokes.

For a second, Sherlock looks like he wants to stand up to leave.

"That was a joke," John added quickly, placing a hand out into the space between them. "This place is great."

"Oh." Sherlock swallows, shifting in his chair. John thinks it's cute how nervous he is. How badly he wants to get this 'right'.

"Sherlock, it doesn't matter where we go," he tries to explain gently. "Okay? Could be takeaway and an evening of telly for all I care. I just like to be with you."

Unfortunately, Sherlock looks even more unnerved at this. Like he's settling into the realization that he'd made the wrong choice.

"Hey. No." John nudges his foot against Sherlock's under the table, watching him closely to see if he should reach out to offer a steadying hand.

"Listen to me, love. This restaurant is gorgeous, okay? And it's really sweet that you want to impress me like this. I'm just not used to this much... money, is all."

Sherlock offers a very small, grateful smile. In the candlelight, with his curls swept and carefully placed just so, he looks truly stunning and John struggles to breathe for a second.

"You deserve all of it, you know."

"Yeah? Am I gonna have Mycroft breathing down my neck on suspicion of me stealing the family dynasty?"

Sherlock smirks, not caring in the slightest what Mycroft thought.

"Maybe. But you deserve it anyway. Really."

He straightens his spine, taking up the menu again but looking at John.

"Please. Order whatever you'd like to have, no restrictions. You'll need to get used to a life of luxury, John Watson, because you'll be getting it for the rest of your life."