"Watson, look how long the line is," Sherlock moaned, his breath turning to crystals in the air. "It's freezing out here today, can't we just come back another day? The Eye will still be here tomorrow," he said sarcastically.
"Nope," Joan said, grinning at him. "We didn't get to do any of this stuff last time we were here in London, and who knows how much free time we'll have before Scotland Yard needs us again. We have limited free time, and I intend to make the most of it." Without waiting for him to protest again, Joan took off to grab a place at the back of the line. Grumbling about not being able to feel his nose, Sherlock reluctantly followed her.
When they had finished up their most recent case and found they had a few days off, Joan had been determined to hit all the major tourist sites in London. She had employed Sherlock as her knowledgeable, if slightly unwilling, guide to the city. So far today, she had dragged him to the British Museum (where he had pretended to be bored, but actually enjoyed regaling her with all his knowledge of the multitude of exhibits), the Tower of London (where they had waited in a horrendously long line to see the Crown Jewels, with Sherlock complaining all the time), and the Tower Bridge (where Joan had insisted they take a picture together, despite Sherlock's protest that only the insufferable tourists do that). Now, as the sun was about to set over the frozen city, they stood in line to ride the London Eye.
Sherlock's stomach growled, and he grimaced. Lunch had been a long while ago. Joan heard it and laughed. "We'll get dinner after this," she promised, answering his unasked question.
"Let's get takeout and go back to Baker Street," he mumbled grumpily.
"Speaking of," Joan said, "have you managed to get everything set up yet?"
Sherlock nodded, grateful for the distraction from his cold misery. "For the most part, yes," he replied, a bit of the grumble gone from his voice now. "Although I'm not completely satisfied with my media room yet. I have not managed to make it as functional as the one back at the Brownstone. This one is a bit of a work in progress. How have you managed the move?"
Joan shrugged. "It's been fine," she replied honestly. "I still need to get some more furniture though. I have a lot more space now, and not a lot of furniture. The place seems kind of empty." Although she wouldn't admit it to Sherlock, the lack of furniture wasn't the only reason her new place on Baker Street felt empty. Even though Sherlock was just next door, it felt weird to walk downstairs in the morning to find the kitchen empty, or to go to bed to complete silence. It had been a long time since she'd lived alone, and it would take some time to readjust.
Sherlock nodded. "Mmm, yes, I have had the same problem," he mused. "My place feels a bit empty as well." Joan silently wondered if he had the same thoughts she did, or if he was enjoying his newfound freedom living next door instead of together. After an awkward pause, Sherlock added, "Perhaps we need to spend our next free day patronizing some furniture stores." Joan just nodded, turning her attention back to the line.
They continued to shuffle along with the line in silence for the next few minutes until, to Sherlock's relief and Joan's excitement, it was finally their time to board. Sherlock approached their compartment first, but he held his hand out to let Joan go first. Joan went straight to the opposite side of the compartment to look out and pulled out her camera to capture the views from the ride.
Chuckling, Sherlock came up beside her. "You know, Watson, it seems we will be staying here in London indefinitely for the time being. You don't have to capture everything on your camera like a tourist who will be leaving again in a few days."
Joan gave him a half-glare and rolled her eyes. "You grew up here," she protested, "London isn't exciting to you. It's like an adventure to me," she explained. With a mischievous grin, she added, "if taking pictures of the tourist sites is so lame, perhaps I can find a better use for my camera." She leaned away from Sherlock and pointed the camera at him, clicking the shutter button before he could grab it or turn away.
She only managed to get in a picture or two before he put his hand over the lens. "Watson!" he protested, making Joan laugh more. "You know I hate pictures of myself!" Sherlock tried to act furious, but he couldn't keep a slight grin off his face. "I already acceded to your ridiculous selfie request earlier. You've met your photo quota for the day."
Joan looked at him mockingly. "Fine," she said lightly, "If I promise to only take pictures of the tourist stuff, will you stop complaining about it?" She asked jokingly.
Sherlock resisted rolling his eyes. "You have my word," he promised.
"Good," she said with a triumphant grin, turning back to look out the window as their car rose up toward the darkening sky.
As Joan looked out, marveling at the view of the city in the feebly setting winter sun, Sherlock watched her. He watched as her eyes grew wide with fascination as they rose higher and higher, exposing more of the city to her view. He noticed how she unconsciously leaned toward the glass as she was transfixed by the view, and how she stopped taking pictures entirely as the city's beauty grabbed all her attention.
They were both so transfixed by the views they were absorbing that they hardly noticed when their ride came to an end. Reluctantly, they both exited the car. Stepping out into the cold winter air, Joan shivered and pulled her scarf closer to her neck.
"Well," Sherlock sighed when they were back on the street, "have you had enough tourism for the day Watson?"
"Admit it," she said, "you've enjoyed this."
Sherlock tried his best to look bored. "I assure you I have not," he promised with mock sincerity.
Joan shook her head at him before looking up at the sun that was almost completely behind the horizon now. "I suppose we've seen enough for today," she said wistfully. "Although we do need to find a place for dinner."
Sherlock grinned. "I know just the place," he said, walking briskly to the curb and hailing a cab. He opened the door for Joan to get in and clambered in behind her. He gave the cabbie an address that Joan didn't recognize. The cabbie gave the two of them a once-over, then looked back to Sherlock skeptically. "Are you sure that's the right address mate?"
Sherlock nodded. "Perfectly." He motioned for the cabbie to get going, and with one last questioning glance he turned back around.
Joan looked at Sherlock with a furrowed brow. "What was all that?" she asked quietly.
Sherlock waived it off. "Nothing, nothing," he murmured.
Joan wasn't convinced, but she shrugged. "So where are we going then?" she asked him.
Sherlock grinned mischievously, looking ahead and not meeting here eyes. "You'll see."
Joan squinted at him but gave up asking. She knew better than to press him when he was being stubborn. She sat back and looked out the window, content to enjoy the views of London flying by as they made their way to whatever destination he had in mind.
Finally, their cab pulled over to the curb and came to a stop. Sherlock handed some cash to the cabbie and opened the door, got out, and held it open for Joan to follow him out onto the curb.
Getting of the cab, Joan looked up at the building in front of them and gasped. It was a huge building with a regal-looking façade and a red carpet leading to the door underneath a golden canopy. "What is this place?" she asked, turning to Sherlock inquisitively.
He smirked. "My father's restaurant," he proclaimed. "One of many he had invested in over the years, that is. One of the finest restaurants in London." Joan couldn't quite tell whether that last remark was intended to be sarcastic or not.
Joan watched as patrons walked up the red carpet to the restaurant's gaudy door where a doorman held it open for them. Suddenly she understood the strange look the cabbie had given them: everyone walking into the restaurant was dressed in black tie attire. She looked down at her own outfit: comfortable walking boots, jeans, a loose cardigan, and her regular pea coat. Not exactly fitting for the location.
Joan turned to Sherlock, resisting a sigh. "Are you sure we're dressed appropriately for this place?" She asked, nodding toward the door where a couple in a black suit and floor length gown were making their way in.
Sherlock shrugged, clearly not put off by their lack of appropriate dress. He flashed her a mischievous grin and headed for the door, leaving her no option but to groan and follow.
The lobby of the restaurant was crowded with diners waiting for their tables, and Joan started to wonder how long the wait time would be for this place without a reservation. She started to ask Sherlock how they were going to get in, but he bypassed the whole line and went right up to the greeter stand. To Joan's surprise, Sherlock didn't even have to say anything. He just cleared his throat to get the man's attention.
"Mr. Holmes!" The man behind the stand exclaimed when he looked up, trying to hide his shock. "I didn't know you were back in London."
Sherlock said nothing. There was an awkward pause while the man looked at Joan, clearly wondering who she was, but knowing better than to ask. Sherlock caught his glance, following the man's startled and question gaze. Gesturing toward Joan with his hand, he said stiffly, "may I present my partner, Miss Joan Watson."
Joan smiled and nodded politely. The man was still clearly confused, but he hid his confusion by quickly gathering some menus and silverware from under the host stand. "Welcome, Miss Watson," he said stiffly before nodding for them to follow him. "I'll show you to your customary table, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock nodded, and they both followed the man through the dining room. Joan, following slightly behind Sherlock, marveled at the beautiful interior of the restaurant as they made their way toward the back. It was a beautiful, high-style, classic fancy London restaurant. Not the sort of place she would have expected Sherlock to frequent, let alone to have a "customary table".
While they followed the greeter through the winding maze of tables, Joan whispered, "how did you do that? Bypass the whole crowd? Are you a frequent patron here or something?"
Sherlock chuckled quietly. "I told you, it's my father's restaurant, Watson," he explained. "This is one of the few times that being my father's son comes in handy," he grumbled. As an afterthought, he added, "You'll find that the Holmes name has considerably more sway in London than it did in New York." Joan watched him incredulously as they followed the greeter to their table.
The greeter stopped in front of a table in the back corner of the restaurant. It was a circular table with a half-circle booth in a little alcove that afforded some measure of privacy in the crowded restaurant. Joan smiled to herself. This seemed more like Sherlock's scene.
As the greeter sat their menus and silverware down, Joan scooted into the booth and Sherlock clambered in behind her. When the greeter walked away, Joan nudged Sherlock, grinning at him when he looked over at her. "I thought we weren't partners," she said teasingly, "we're two people who love each other," she laughed quietly.
Sherlock frowned at her, trying his best to feign annoyance and keep from smiling back. "Once again Watson," he said in exasperation, "I only said that because I thought I'd never see you again."
Joan smiled and rolled her eyes. "Doesn't mean it's not true," she said, turning her attention to her menu but glancing at him out of the side of her eyes with a smug grin.
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but he paused. No ready protest was forthcoming. He found, on this point at least, he had no wish to argue with her.