"So you still come to Angelo's," Sherlock says, slipping in the seat in front of me.
Of course I do. You know that. You always slip in the seat in front of me and don't order anything. Just like our first time eating here. Same table, same chair, same window. I even order the same dish. I don't like it as much as I used to. Everything tastes the same since…
Angelo doesn't bring me a candle anymore. It's just sad when you're eating alone.
"You're angry with me," Sherlock says.
Of course I am. I'll always be angry with you and nothing can change that.
"I can explain," Sherlock continues.
You're very chatty tonight, Sherlock. What do you want to explain, anyway? Why you jumped off that bloody roof? Why you made me watch? Why you left me alone?
You usually just stare at me until I'm finished eating. You sometimes complain about me having to eat so much to sustain my transport, but we can't all be some kind of superhuman who can survive on one toast a week.
"John?"
You try to catch my hand but I take it away. I know that if we touch, the illusion will be broken, you'll disappear, fade into nothingness and then I'll have to wait for who knows how long before you visit me again. I can't be alone again. I can't wait anymore, I miss you too much. Say something witty, Sherlock. Entertain me. Impress me.
"You've lost weight," You say a bit sadly.
Good observation, I suppose, but it's not brilliant. Any idiot can see that. Even I saw that. But since you're only a figment of my imagination, it's probably my fault if you can't come up with something better. Something more...flamboyant.
"Won't you talk to me?"
In public? No, Sherlock. I might have gone off the deep end but I am not so far gone just yet that I've forgotten what talking to my dead flatmate in public will get me: a one-way ticket to the loony bin, and maybe a straight jacket if I'm unlucky, and let's face it, I usually am. I lost you, after all. You were my good luck charm. You made my life better, you made it worthwhile and fun, you made me want to have a tomorrow.
Now... I don't know. I eat and everything tastes of ash. I look outside and everything is grey, but maybe that's just London in winter, I don't know.
"John. Please."
Your eyes aren't grey. They're that beautiful mix of blue and green. And they're moist. My imagination is being quite creative tonight. I didn't even know you could cry, for real I mean, not for one of the shows you put up when the need arises for a case, but there it is, a pearly tear rolling down your face. I almost reached out to catch it. Silly me.
Do fake tears and real tears taste the same? I wonder if you did an experiment on that. You probably did. It might be important for a case. Maybe I'll find it on your website, buried between two incredibly boring articles that read like the phone directory.
I know my tears taste bitter.
"John. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
Sherlock Holmes, apologizing. That makes me laugh. Well no, not laugh. More like a puff of air escaping my mouth by surprise, but that's as close as I've gotten to a laugh lately. Yes, I'll call it a laugh. I'm laughing, alone at a restaurant. Maybe Angelo will have me committed now.
You smile, just a little and you're so beautiful and you'll never change.
I'm sad again. I should go before I break down and start crying right here, right now. Embarrassing. I push my plate away. I only ate half of it and I hope Angelo won't take it personally. He comes to my table and tuts at the leftovers, but he takes the plate away without a word. He knows I don't talk much now.
He comes back, but not with the check. He sets a desert in the middle of the table: a chocolate mousse with two spoons. I don't understand. Does he want to share it with me? That's...weird. It's weird, Sherlock, right? You say nothing, you look amused.
Then he sets down a candle and lights it.
A candle.
I see its flame reflected in your eyes, dancing there. It shines in your curls and shadows your face. It's too real, I can't be imagining all this, can I?
Angelo doesn't bring me a candle anymore. It's just sad when you're eating alone.
But Angelo brought a candle and he's smiling at you. You. He sees you, Sherlock. I'm sure of it. Almost.
"Sherlock?" I ask when Angelo has left.
My voice is quivering. It's feeble. I grimace.
Your face lights up. Because I said your name? I could imagine that. I would imagine that, wouldn't I? There's only one way to know for sure, so I reach over the small table and touch your hand. Solid, warm, moving.
Sonofabitch!
I snatch my hand away. My heart is beating fast. It's beating so fast it hurts. It wants to leap out of my chest, run up to the highest tower and howl at the moon. My head is spinning, I'm dizzy... Spots cloud my vision... Oh, right. Breathing. Breathing is important. I have to breathe. In... out. In... out. That's better.
No. It's not. Sherlock is sitting in front of me. A very alive Sherlock. Not the parody of a vision that visits me, mocks me, taunts me, stares at me... This is the real Sherlock. My Sherlock.
Or did I imagine it? Did I? It felt real. Maybe I should touch you again, just to be sure. I reach over and put my hand over your heart. Not very efficient. Symbolic. You would scorn the sentimentality of the gesture, only you don't.
But I can feel you, the firmness of your chest, the texture of your shirt, your body heat, and I can feel your heart beating under my fingers.
"You're really here," I hear myself saying.
It's a damn good deduction. I'm proud of myself.
And then, I punch you in the face. Hard.
You didn't see it coming. You didn't even have the time to look surprised. But you do, now, looking up at me from where you fell on the floor. See, Sherlock, I can still surprise you.
I leave the restaurant. Everyone is watching and I hate making a scene. You can pay the check for once. You owe me, Sherlock. You owe me so much more than that. You owe me for the last three years I spent mourning you and losing my mind, one day at a time. You played with me, Sherlock, with my life. You played with me and you broke me. And I'm not sure I can be put back together again this time.