"What do you want for your birthday, Sherlock?" I noticed the stares from the tables around us as I talked to my boyfriend. But I didn't care. I never cared anymore, never cared how many people stared, pointed or gaped at us. I was so lucky to get my Sherlock back after the fall, so lucky to talk to him, hold him, love him again. "A new skull would be adequate my dear Watson," He smirked, same old Sherlock.
"John! How are you, how are you holding up now? I hope you have been seeing the therapist, although I don't see the point, she only wrote 'still has trust issues' again." Mycroft. He never seemed to leave me or Sherlock alone anymore, constantly watching us as if babysitting for their infamous 'Mummy'.
"Aren't you going to say hello to Sherlock? He's sitting right there, just because of some stupid childhood issues doesn't mean you can ignore each other forever you know." I pointed out. People were often ignoring Sherlock, never acknowledging him at all anymore, or taking his orders, choosing instead to devote their attention to me. I never understood why. Sherlock was always the attractive one, the one that attracted all the attention, positive, and unfortunately negative, while I sat at the back and patiently waited for them to leave and our bubble of heaven to resume. But not anymore.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Of course…Hello Sherlock, have you spoken to mummy recently, she must be missing you dearly." There was something in his voice, tone and expression that hinted at pity and remorse, but in a flash it was gone, and the cold business-like demeanour returned once again. His attention focused back on me "I must be going, I hope you enjoy your... date." And with that, he scooped up his umbrella and strolled out the door, resuming his position as the British government.
"Well, that was unexpected, wasn't it dear?" I remarked.
"Quite. Although I would guess that he must be lonely. He is divorcing his wife soon judging by the state of his collar and knees. It always is such a shame when that happens." And there was my Sherlock, wistful expression briefly flashing across his features. It was now or never.
"Sherlock. Well, you see, I was wondering, if um…you would ever consider…perhaps.. m-m-marrying me?" I stuttered and stumbled through the sentence, peeking up through my eyelashes trying to gauge his reaction. I didn't expect what I saw. At all. His face was beaming a smile so wide I feared it would crack his perfectly sculpted face.
"Why, are you asking?"
"I..um- well – yes. Yes I am." Why did this man have such control over me?
"Yes." Oh no, I knew this would happen. Wait…what?
"Yes what?"
"Yes I will marry you." Still smiling that smile I so loved, his eyes twinkled. I stared in shock, my mouth agape in astonishment, then a grin began creeping across my features until it gained control of my whole face.
"I have a ring somewhere-" An amused expression glittered upon his features, whilst I frantically searched my pockets for the velvet blue box, relieved when I found it. I slipped it onto his ring finger, leaning forward and kissed him trying to signal the love and pure joy I was experiencing in that one sweet moment. I paid the bill and we walked out, me clutching his arm as we proceeded to exit the restaurant, feeling the masses of eyes sending us confused, and for some unexplained reason, pitying expressions. We caught a cab and headed back to 221B Baker street.
Meanwhile, Mycroft was standing in the shadows, watching John Watson walk out of the restaurant alone, seemingly hanging onto some invisible being, and catching a cab back to Baker street where Mrs Hudson could look after him. John had refused to come to the funeral earlier that day, rather visiting the diner where him and his love had their first date so long ago. He walked into the diner, and proceeded to the table where the two sets of food had been removed, one untouched. Lying on the table alone was a single gold ring. He picked it up and placed it in his pocket carefully. He always knew one day John Watson would go over the edge. If only it wasn't his fault. If only he hadn't died that day. If only Sherlock Holmes hadn't jumped.