Turning the Tables
The restaurant was reasonably crowded and as he walked in through the double doors he tuned out the hum of mundane chatter. Sherlock's mind was solely focused on the man sitting at the table in front of him. John looked well, he thought, older, but well.
He had rehearsed this over and over many times in his head but now, as he approached his friend at the table, he wasn't sure what to do. He went to awkwardly tap John on the shoulder but decided against it. Instead he took a deep breath and quickly sat down in the vacant chair across from his friend.
John had just taken a sip from his glass of red wine, and promptly spat it out all over Sherlock. "Sherl... sorry," he said slightly breathlessly. He handed Sherlock a clean napkin to wipe his face. To John he looked just about the same as he remembered him. Apart from the spots of red wine all over his white shirt that looked like a bout of particularly bad acne.
The napkin hovered over Sherlock's face for a few more moments than necessary before he set the napkin down on the table again. "John, Iā" he began to say. It was then that John realised the terrible truth about Sherlock's three year absence and the horrors he must have faced. His jaw went slack before he could stop it.
"Your face!" he exclaimed. He could not tear his eyes away from the moustache upon Sherlock's top lip. "What on earth is that?"
Affronted, Sherlock ā did he just stroke the moustache? "I must say, John, that your lack of tact shocks me. Do not say such things in front of Cecil."
"Who's 'Cecil'?" John asked, though he feared he already knew the answer.
On dark days when the loneliness of his three year task threatened to overwhelm him, Sherlock tended to Cecil's every need until he was an immaculately trimmed strip of perfection.
"Cecil's my moustache, John, do keep up."
Author's Note: Yay for moustache jokes! I love 'em. Cecil/Harold is my OTP. :)
