John sits up, bleary and overwhelmed. "Sherlock? What? Is this a dream?"

Sherlock paces. "It's going to be a nightmare if you don't get up and help me."

"With what?"

"I'm going on a date with Lily."

John nearly falls out of bed. "You're what?"

"It just sort of happened and we're going to walk in the park around lunch and there's a bakery and I don't know what to wear."

John stands, grabbing his robe for extra warmth in the cold flat; Sherlock keeps the air up high in the summer. "Wear what you always wear."

"On a date?"

He starts towards the kitchen, forcing Sherlock to follow. "It's a casual thing, I wouldn't worry too much. Comb your hair, maybe shave, put on some cologne. Brush your teeth."

Sherlock has a heart attack on the spot. "Are you suggesting that I'm going to kiss her?"

"No! But your breath should smell not bad regardless." He gets a mug down from the cupboard. "I mean, you could kiss her-"

"I'm not ready for that."

John chuckles. "Okay, okay."

Sherlock runs his hands through his curls, messing them up.

"That's what your hair shouldn't look like."

"John, I am going to throw up."

"No, you're not."

"I am."

"Then you won't feel nauseous anymore."

"John, you are not helping."

He sets his mug down, quits making tea, and faces Sherlock. "Take some deep breaths. It's gonna be alright. You love her, right?"

"Yes, but she-"

"Said yes. She's probably just as nervous as you are. You both like each other, you get along fine anywhere else."

"But this is different."

"I know. But not that much different."

Sherlock rubs his eyes, takes a moment, and then sighs. "I'm going to put together some outfits and then you tell me which is the best one."

"Sherlock-" John starts, but he's already down the hall, rummaging through his closet.

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She should call somebody. She should really call somebody. How does she back out of this? Should she back out of this?

Probably, yes. But now that it's happening part of her doesn't want to. Why not just see what happens? Maybe this time it will be different — but this isn't the first time she's said that to herself.

She's not calling Liam. He's at work, and she's doesn't want to hear it anyway. If this goes horribly wrong, he'll never even have to know. She should call Raven. Raven will know what to do.

She answers on the fourth ring. "What's up, Lil?"

Lily twists the hem of her shirt with her free hand. "Um, I'm gonna on a date."

Something falls on the other end. "You're what? Is it with Sherlock Holmes?"

"How did you-?"

"Please, I've been reading every blog post. It's obvious. I just think you'd go for it so soon."

"Well, he did — sort of, I don't know."

Raven whistles. "He must really like you then."

"Yeah, he thinks he does."

"Is that why you don't sound excited?" Raven groans. "Lily, you're insane."

"But I-"

"No, you're insane. Delusional, in fact. You're great, and he knows that. Why else would he, Sherlock Holmes, ask you out? And even if it doesn't work out, it's his loss. You want it to work, right?"

"Well, yeah."

"Okay. Then you be yourself, and whatever he decides is what he decides. If he changes his mind, that his dumb decision — and his problem."

The panic in Lily's chest lessens a little. "Thanks, Raven. And here I was about to ask you how to back out."

"Absolutely not. Not with this one. Now, that one guy you went out with when we first starting working together, I begged you not to go. That guy was a clown."

"What was his name again?"

"Doesn't matter. Mr. Clown. But Sherlock Holmes, from what I know, is not a clown."

"He's the opposite of a clown."

"Yeah, he's a real bore."

"Raven-"

"I'm kidding. If it's all bothering you that much, though, why don't you just tell Sherlock?"

"Tell him?"

"How you feel and why, yes."

Lily sighs. "I mean... I could try."

"Great. So, what are you wearing?"

Lily's eyes widen. "What am I wearing?"

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Sherlock has been up and down all day, after picking out his outfit, fixing his hair, shaving, and brushing his teeth — although all of that did take some time. Thirty minutes has felt like thirty hours.

"Will you just sit down?" John says, half amused.

"I can't."

"Call her and ask if she's ready."

"No, I-"

"Okay, I will."

"John."

He laughs. "Come on, Sherlock. She's probably doing the same thing you are right now."

Sherlock sighs and sits heavily on the couch. "Where's Rosie when you need her?"

"You sent her to Aunt Harriet's. What could she do, anyway?"

"She simplifies things."

"Yeah, but she doesn't know anything about dating."

"She knows about Lily. And fairies. And talking."

"Not like you."

As Sherlock considers this, John types out a message to Lily. She replies immediately, and John reads it out to him. "'Yes, I'm ready. Is Sherlock? To be honest, I'm just sitting here nervous.' Told you. Go on. Have fun."

"Fun," Sherlock says, shuffling out the door. "Yes, these are supposed to be fun, aren't they?" His sweaty hands slip on the doorknob, and he has to dry them on his pants to get the thing closed.

When he gets downstairs, Lily's already waiting, and Sherlock doesn't speak for a moment. She's wearing a yellow sundress with daisies on it, and her hair is down, and she's practically wringing her hands, but she's just nervous, too.

"You look pretty," Sherlock says.

She smiles. "Thank you. You look nice, too."

He looks down at himself, even though he agonized over this outfit for at least an hour — button down, sleeves rolled up, slacks. "John told me to wear what I always wear."

"You're just always ready for a walk in the park." She walks over to him, towards the door, so he opens it for her. The park isn't far, so they walk the way there, too.

The streets are filled with the pleasant noise of people milling about. Sherlock slows his speed to stay in line with Lily. There's a breeze blowing her hair. They've been silent for almost five whole minutes before Sherlock realizes he ought to say something. But what?

"The weather is... nice," he tries.

Lily nods. "Yeah..." Her eyes are wandering, all around the street.

"Are you alright?"

She frowns. "Well... I suppose I should tell you."

"Tell me what?"

She takes a few moments, thinking, gathering her thoughts, and by the time she speaks again they're in the park. "It's just that... I haven't had much luck with... dating."

"Well, I haven't either."

"I know — I mean — I just..." She pauses again. "In the past, when I've gone out with guys, usually a couple dates in, and they're sick of me."

"Sick of you?"

"The last time I went on a date was a few years ago, which was bad from the beginning because he was just not a good person and the first date went bad, but before that it was in Uni, and I sat next to this guy in class for two months. One day, he asked me out, and I said yes, and I guess I got too excited because everything I did stopped making him laugh or smile or tell me I was cute or something. He started rolling his eyes and telling me to stop, and I tried, but I couldn't, and he got sick of it. Basically, I'm just..." she sighs again "... I'm worried you're going to get sick of me."

For a long time, Sherlock can't speak. He's too dumbstruck, too angry. "How could I- Why would I ever be sick of you? I don't know who that tosser was, but I'm not him. Lily, I-" He stops himself. Should he really tell her? Is it too early? It has to be too early. He can't even kiss her and he wants to tell her he loves her.

She doesn't seem to notice he cut himself. She smiles, then takes his hand — and it's even better than he thought. "Thank you, Sherlock."

She walks like she has wings, but they must be so fine that no one can clearly see them — but maybe if they were to catch the light just right, if he were standing at just the right angle, he could see their glimmer. He could see what makes her glide like that, from one thing to the next as if she's just happy to be alive.

They must play a part in that light in her eyes, the laughter that rests on the surface until it comes forth in a tinkling of fairy bells, or, if the joke is funny enough, a full ringing, loud and wonderful. And then she'll speak in her sweet song, just like a flower talking to another in a garden in a dream somewhere. She can say the most commonplace things, or the most amazing, but Sherlock will listen either way. No, no, in all actuality she can't truly say something commonplace.

He had thought before that she was normal, one of the only normal people in his life, really — just a schoolteacher who wanted to open a bakery, who came into his life with a cacophony of renovation and a plate of cookies. But she wasn't normal at all. She was a flower come to life, a fairy stepped into the human world. And he knows that he loves her, because he — the one who has always thought sentiment was a disadvantage, a chemical defect, and who thought that that had been proven to him time and time again — is thinking in such flowery metaphors. He could probably put them into a poem if he tried, but he doesn't. He simply watches her light walk, listens to her lilting voice, and relishes in the fact that the bright smile of a flower fairy — of a Lily, no less — is directed at him.