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It's another glumy day in London, you're sitting on a sofa in 221B Baker Street mindlessly skeeming through a magazine while your friend Sherlock is pacing back and forth in front of you, desperate to find a date to John's wedding and meticulously analyzing his options before crossing them out immediately.
"You'll be my date for the wedding." It doesn't sound like a question. You've come to find out, he doesn't ask, he demands. "You don't have a date and I don't have a date, it's perfect."
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