"Good. Glad to see we're not being petulant about this," John says stiffly. He gives the menu an indignant look-over, trying to find something contrary to order but... ultimately finding nothing else that sounded even remotely appetising right now. With a heavy sigh, he waved his hand in Sherlock's direction. "What he said." Of course Sherlock wasn't wrong. He so very seldom was.

He's really not looking forward to getting back to the flat. Normally, it would be a fine thing to finally be able to relax after a rough night and with a full belly, but if Sherlock is this dead set on getting John to admit to some perversion of his, he doesn't anticipate much sleep until he can either placate Sherlock's desire to know this thing or he finds another suitable distraction. But it seems for now, John is the distraction, and he's none too happy about it, either.

Despite how jovial the meal had begun, the rest of it is spent in absolute silence, at least from John's end. He won't even make eye contact with Sherlock and would occasionally stab at his meal a little harder than he needed to to remind Sherlock that, yes, John was still very much upset with him. He'd ruined a perfectly lovely after-case victory meal, after all. That was unforgivable. He maintained his silence all the way back to the flat, where he immediately threw off his jacket an set his notepad on his armchair.

"I'm going to bed," he announces. It's not a request or even a friendly gesture, but his voice seems to suggest it's closer to a warning.