"Entirely."

"Ah," he says, grinning. "Breakfast."

"Breakfast," agrees Bella. "How goes fridge-getting? I confess I don't know how one goes about obtaining fridges, I think most places just come with them."

"Poorly. I don't have the money to buy one and I have not yet come upon an opportunity to steal one."

"Well, if Charlie makes too much of a fuss about the blood in ours anytime soon, we do have squares," says Bella, "and if Charlie evicts your breakfasts, that would pretty soon become an emergency, I think."

"I don't actually know if I can starve," he says, "but I'm not inclined to test it the hard way."

"Yeah, that sounds like a terrible idea, and unless we're going to resort to emergency squares that leaves few options. I can only sustain so much blood loss. Although I confess I do not know how much and am interested to find out."

"Also not something I'd like to stress-test," says Sherlock, "but some experimentation is certainly in order."

"The wound was all gone the next morning after last time, and I didn't feel dizzy anymore, but I know the Red Cross insists on waiting months between donations and I'm not sure how much of that is them being paranoid about their blood supply, how much of that is them being paranoid about avoiding lawsuits, and how much of that is information about baseline human blood-recovery ability."

"Pay close attention to your physical condition," he suggests, "and let's not try it twice in a night."

"After practice, then?" he says lightly.

"Why not," he says whimsically.

"Well, there's probably going to be a ghost there that likes to murder people who go stag," says Juliet, "so if you were going to dump me in the middle of the dance that'd be a reason why not. There's a very stern warning about it on the flyers." She has one of these in her messenger bag, folded up; she takes it out and hands it to him.

"How charming," says Sherlock. "I solemnly swear not to dump you in the middle of the dance."

He gets a peck on the cheek for that. "I'm gonna attempt to pacify or disperse the ghost, of course, because even an all-caps warning on the prom flyer in Sunnydale probably won't have everyone so obedient, but that might not take all night. Pity I don't know how to dance. Time was trying would've been a trip to the emergency room."

"I could teach you," he offers whimsically.

"You know how to dance? As well as cook and figure out facts from itty-bitty wisps of evidence and lurk like you don't exist and beat the Slayer in a fistfight half the time and dodge crossbow bolts and all this with you only technically seven years old."

"That's about the size of it."

"I feel so inadequate by comparison. Most of my interesting abilities were implanted overnight by possibly-divine entities, and half the rest are gifts from distant cooler versions of me."

"Ah, so half your waking hours were never devoured by mediocre public schooling, lucky bastard."

"Indeed."