"John," Sherlock greeted as he sat on the empty chair.
"Sherlock," the doctor replied, not looking up from the menu he was holding.
A waiter arrived just then, and John immediately ordered for both Sherlock and himself. The former made no complaint, strangely enough, but John brushed it off as unimportant. "It has been a while, hasn't it?" He ventured as his friend stared at him unblinkingly – now that was characteristic of the younger Holmes.
"Yes. It has. A very long while." Sherlock agreed as he looked away and around at the people surrounding them. "That man, in the red shirt," he pointed subtly to John, who nodded, "he's planning to propose tonight. And he wants to tell her he's to move elsewhere in Europe."
As testament to how well John knew Sherlock he knew the man had deduced it rapidly. Still, to appease him and indirectly recognise his abilities – the detective seemed to want recognition from him – he asked.
"Well, he's close enough that I could clearly see the small bulge in his suit – it's a small box the right size for a ring – and even without that I noticed he frequently reaches to check it's still there. And when he opened his wallet – to bribe the waiter for the best wine – I could see various ten euro notes. Too many for them to be leftovers from a recent holiday." Sherlock frowned, turning his head to face John. "Do keep up – that was elementary. Surely you were able to deduce that as well."
John simply kept mute, choosing to thank the waiter who gave them their food. "Eat Sherlock," he insisted as his companion glared at his plate. With a roll of his eyes, the consulting detective did as he was told and gradually began emptying the plate at an alarming speed. He soon finished – much earlier than John – and sipped at his wine.
He tapped his foot impatiently. It was irritating but John was just glad the man wasn't full on whining in the middle of the restaurant – he knew very well how Sherlock got when he was bored and the man was fully capable of getting them kicked out in record time.
Finally, John set down his knife and fork, even though the plate wasn't entirely empty. Still, he stared at it as if it held the answers to everything. The glass of wine sat beside the plate, still untouched.
After a while, during which Sherlock just stared at him quizzically, he raised his head. "This is just a dream, isn't it?" His voice was sad and sounded defeated, and the question was more rhetorical than not.
"It is," Sherlock confirmed with a curt nod.
"You're not alive."
"Indeed."
Even with the clear confirmation that this was just a figment of his imagination, John stretched out his hand to Sherlock's, desperately wanting to feel the man to confirm that he was there, regardless of what had been said.
He was but a fingertip away from the pale hand before he woke up suddenly, rolling off the mattress and onto the ground. He didn't bother lifting himself up and just let himself cry a bit, mourning the still raw pain he felt at the loss of his best friend.
...
Written: 4th August 2013
Words: 541