Alone
A tall figure stood outside the double doors of the restaurant, his head high as he removed his coat. Two receptionists opened the doors courteously, and the man stepped inside.
The restaurant was busy, the tables crowded with couples enjoying a romantic evening. Wine glasses sparkled in the candlelight, their contents glowing picturesquely. Waiters darted from the kitchen to the tables bearing loaded platters and wine bottles; the scent of sizzling steaks, crisp, steamed vegetables, and fresh, buttery fish fillets wafted through the air. Sherlock observed it all in a single glance and strode purposefully towards the back of the room.
He breezed by a table where a man sat alone, sipping white wine—Riesling 2008—and perusing the menu. He seemed, however, to be waiting for someone, as Sherlock could see by the way he glanced around the room, eyeing the entrance to the ladies' room. He was short, sporting a slightly carelessly trimmed moustache; he had slight shoulders and seemed to have gone through a harrowing emotional experience in the past 18 months—
He stopped.
It can't be, he thought. Not here, not now.
But it was… he was sure of it.
John. John, his best friend, the one who had watched him die and had lived in the dark, unaware of the truth… John, who had adamantly remained faithful to Sherlock's legacy… now sitting at a table less then ten metres away.
He wanted to turn around, to see John's face, to show him he was still alive. He felt himself starting to turn, beginning to look over his shoulder.
But he couldn't show himself, not yet. It was too dangerous; a single glance held far too much risk. He had to keep moving.
A lump formed in his throat and his eyes stung as he forced his rebellious feet to keep walking forward, away from John, away from his best friend and confidant… back to loneliness, back to work.
