a man on the small, makeshift stage at the front of the bar grabbed a microphone and began shouting over the crowd. "Alright, ladies and gents! It’s time for The Balloon Date Game! Who’s ready to meet our first brave soul?"

Sherlock immediately frowned.

"Perfect! You, sir!" the man on stage bellowed, pointing directly at Sherlock.

For a moment, Sherlock was certain he’d misheard—or hoped he had. But no, John was already laughing, clapping him on the back.

"Go on, mate," John said, almost laughing.

Sherlock shot him a sharp glare. "Absolutely not."

But before he could protest further, the man on stage was beckoning him up with exaggerated enthusiasm, and the crowd, fueled by alcohol and the thrill of public embarrassment, was egging him on. John, of course, did nothing to help.

With a resigned sigh, Sherlock stood, buttoned his jacket, and strode to the stage. The audience cheered as he took his place under the glaring lights.

"Fantastic! What’s your name, sir?" the man asked, shoving the microphone in his face.

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied flatly, already regretting this.

"Ooh, fancy! Alright, Sherlock, here’s how it works. Lovely ladies in the audience are gonna take turns asking you questions. If they like your answer, great! If not, they pop their balloon and the next one steps up. Got it?"

He got it, alright. He just didn’t like it. The idea of parading himself in front of strangers, answering banal questions, and being judged like some sort of exhibit was... undignified.

But the crowd was watching, Sherlock realized he wasn’t getting out of this without a fight.

"Let’s get started!" the man announced.

The first woman stepped up, a brunette with a mischievous smile. She twirled her balloon string around her finger and asked, "Alright, Sherlock, what’s your idea of a perfect date?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "One where I’m left alone to think in peace."

There was a beat of silence before the woman burst into laughter. "Bold. I like it." She kept her balloon intact.

This was ridiculous.