My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. Sherlock stood, hands in his coat pockets, under the awning of the restaurant, watching. Staring through the window. He stood just to the side of the door as people bustling about, in and out, hailing their cabs or their limos. He didn't seem to notice the cold, even as his breath steamed out in a silvery cloud in front of his slightly parted lips. He didn't even notice the chill his exposed skin had taken on. All of his focus was on the figure sitting and purusing the menu within at a table alone. Where do I even begin?
It had only been a few days ago that he'd made the decision to present himself to the living world once more. Things had turned out mostly as he'd deduced they might. Molly was easy enough. After helping to fake his death and fool Moriarty's assassins, Sherlock had gone into hiding away from the world and even away from Molly. Three days ago he waited as she had entered the ladies dressing room at St. Bartholomew's to exchange her lab coat for her peacoat after a long day in the morgue. She'd swung open the door and gasped as she noted his silhouetted reflection within the mirror on the locker door. "Sherlock?!" She'd squeaked as she turned, banging into the lockers as she did so, a hand flying to still her heart. "You scared me to death!"
"Quite an amusing analogy." Sherlock had smirked, but he'd come close as Molly had approached him, pulling him into a frantic hug as she did so.
"So glad to see you're doing alright." Molly sighed as she hugged him close, taking in the scent of him. Sherlock allowed it, patting her a bit on the back in an effort to return the hug. Thankfully soon after she released him. "Do the others-"
"Not yet." Sherlock frowned once more, but his tone was soft as opposed to his usual. Molly seemed to note the change.
"You'd best get on with it then. Is there something afoot?" Molly asked, backing up a bit and palming her long ponytail as she did so.
"Perhaps, but I'm not completely sure yet...Hence my sudden reappearance." Sherlock stated. They looked at each other momentarily. "How is he?"
"He's making it." Hesitancy could be hinted in Molly's voice. Sherlock couldn't quite pick up on what it may have been in reference too, and he thought it better not to ask. "Who's next on your list of hellos?"
"Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade." Sherlock's frowned deepened and his brow furrowed. "Mycroft perhaps."
"Good, good." Molly nodded enthusiastically.
"I'll be around." Sherlock leaned forward, placing a chaste kiss upon Molly's cheek. You still count, Molly. Thank you. Sherlock straightened, turned, and exited the locker room. He didn't know how long Molly stood staring after the door as he closed behind him. He didn't know that Molly swallowed hard within her dry throat as she watched long after.
Lestrade had taken it as Sherlock had imagined he would. He'd sent his infamous texts to Lestrade's phone from a new and unknown untraceable number. Lestrade had been in press conference from a new murder case, one Sherlock already knew the answer to. After being texted the lead that had led Lestrade to arrest the killer, Lestrade had received the text to meet him near the Oxo Tower Foreshore, beneath a nearby abandoned building. Lestrade, out of sheer curiosity obliged. Sherlock had waited a good while, watching Lestrade standing about in the cold, checking his phone, before he slunk out of the shadows. "Lestrade."
Lestrade had turned, his eyes had widened. "No fucking way." Lestrade had mumbled in shock as the man in the blue scarf and the long coat had approached him. "Bloody hell."
"How have you been, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, testing the waters, hoping the Detective Inspector wouldn't try to pull his firearm in the confusion. Lestrade merely put away his phone and approached the consulting detective.
"Is it really you?" Lestrade sounded far away, as if he was in a daze. He looked Sherlock over long and hard.
"Yes. In the flesh." Sherlock had answered. The right hook had been a surprise. Sherlock's lip was cut on the left side, seeping the salty, iron taste of blood into his mouth. Well deserved. Sherlock pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, a parting gift within his coffin from an unknown woman. The I embroidered upon it could only mean it was from Ms. Adler. Sherlock hadn't parted with it since. He pressed it to his bloodied lip and watched Lestrade intently.
"Sorry." Lestrade shook his head, dismayed. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. But bloody fucking hell." Lestrade seemed almost distraught once more. "How did you-"
"No time to explain at the moment, but I'll make a note of it to tell you in length soon." Sherlock answered, his lip stinging as he spoke. "There is something afoot...I've an inkling of trouble ahead, and let it be known that it isn't Moriarty."
"I could have deduced that myself, Sherlock." Lestrade sneered. "Or perhaps not. I mean, you are alive and well and you jumped off a bloody building." He met Sherlock's stare. "I examined Moriarty's corpse myself within the morgue. He was deader than a doornail."
"This doesn't involve Moriarty or his web of deceit. I believe it's something entirely different. I'll need your help." Sherlock stated, almost as if things were returning to normal almost as quick as he'd hoped.
"I mourned you, Sherlock." Lestrade sounded distant once again. Sherlock had no reply, he only halted his own thought processes. "I cried at your funeral. I'm sure you were watching the whole bloody time too."
"I did this to save you, Lestrade. To save you, Mrs. Hudson, John..." Sherlock trailed off. The worst was still yet to come. Molly and Lestrade were cake compared to his reveal to his old flatmate. "If I hadn't had schemed such an elaborate plan you three would be dead with a bullet in your head."
"Sodding-" Lestrade's mouth fell open. "Moriarty?" Sherlock nodded. "Rat bastard..." Lestrade shook his head once more, but his look was softer. "Well, I'll say I've missed having that brain of yours to help out about Scotland Yard. Hopefully once you get sorted I can commission it once more." Lestrade gave him a small smile and Sherlock relaxed a bit. Lestrade was on board once more. He'd have more time to repair the connection there at a more convenient time.
Mrs. Hudson was perhaps the most emotional reunion he'd had to face as of yet. He'd approached her flat after picking the lock to 221B Baker Street and had frightened her without meaning to. She'd apparently been doing a round of dishes in the kitchen when he'd appeared. She opened the door with a rolling pin in hand, read to assault him. He'd caught her thin wrist and simply stated "I've come home, Mrs. Hudson." He'd thanked heavens she hadn't fainted or died of shock at the sight of him. She merely burst into tears and beat upon his chest where she met him at height for a few minutes before enveloping him in a motherly hug. Sherlock had accepted the maternal lecture that had follow for a good half hour afterwards during which she'd provided him with a warm cup of tea and the pastries she'd made up earlier that day.
Mycroft had merely accepted Sherlock's reappearance with a passing raise of an eyebrow and a scowl. "Welcome home, dear brother." He'd snidely remarked as he put down his paper and took up his whiskey in the tumbler next to him.
"Well met, I suppose." Sherlock frowned right back at his brother has he entered the room.
"Mind telling me how you were able to pull this off?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows once more as he took a drink of the whiskey and swallowed it down.
"You've got some mundane powers of deduction, brother. I'm sure you put this one together a long while ago."
"On the contrary, no. I really believed you'd lost your marbles and jumped to your death from the top of that hospital. Hell of a cover up, I must say." Mycroft folded the paper upon his lap and placed it on the table.
"Glad to see I've yet again disappointed you." Sherlock scoffed. "I've come to say my hellos as well as goodbye. Hoping you can keep this under wraps for a while as I sort things out." Sherlock spoke. "I knew if you found out by other sources this thing would be blown out of proportion." Sherlock turned heel, nodding to his brother disdainfully, and exited Mycroft's study. Mycroft stared after him a long while, his look softened, his heart beating with the warmth of relief. He'd never admit it, but he was rather glad to see his brother back from the dead.
Now it all came down to this. This restaurant that Sherlock had tailed John Watson to. He had been following John since he revealed himself to the others, but had never found a proper moment to approach him. Why he thought now was the best time he couldn't fathom. Perhaps he was merely tired of waiting. The guilt of watching John's face fall as he had tossed that phone to the roof and fell off of the top of St. Bartholomew's. The heartbreak in John's speech to him at his own grave as he looked on. The pain was palpable and the nervousness of reintroducing himself to his closest friend after all of the heartache he'd singlehandedly caused was eating away at his insides. He couldn't stand outside and wait forever. He would eventually have to enter and take matters into his own hands. The crowded restaurant will perhaps stall his anger somewhat. John's not one to make a scene. Sherlock thought of the possibilities of how this meeting would go, how they could all play out. Sherlock inhaled deeply, relishing the cold sting of the air as it was sucked into his lungs. Now or never. Sherlock stepped inside the restaurant.
John sat at a table, alone in his thoughts, looking about the menu and enjoying a glass of wine as he sat. Bit fancy of an eatery for John's taste. Why is he here? Sherlock wondered as he walked slowly through the people that went this way and that, his focus all upon John as he floated through the restaurant. He seems to be alone. What is that? He's grown a mustache? He always was so military, so clean shaven...Now it occurred to Sherlock that surely some things had changed with John Watson. He hadn't kept very close tabs on anyone when he'd gone into hiding. The pain was too fresh, the guilt too plenty to face them and spy on them in their mourning. He was surprised he was mourned at all. After every "sod you" and "piss off" he'd received from so many he only figured nothing much would change. The world would go on without the great Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps that's how it should have stayed. But duty calls, and he needed his compatriots to keep them close, keep them safe.
Sherlock felt his heart within his throat as he approached the table. There was no turning back now. Any minute he felt John would glance up and about his surroundings and note the tall, lean man with the unruly dark curls, the expertly applied blue scarf, and the long coat covering his frame with the collar turned up. John kept his nose within the menu, not feeling any interest in the outside world.
Sherlock was nearly to his table. The thoughts bombarded his brain to the point it nearly hurt. Wait...what if he is angry with me? Surely he will be, I'm sure Lestrade's reaction was soft compared to what John's might be...but surely he will still have a place for me...surely he could forgive? After I explained to him what happened he would understand why I did what I did...I did it for him. For all of them. Sherlock swallowed. Hard. His throat was cotton. But...what if he's so angered he wants nothing to do with me again? Sherlock had to consider the possibility. It was that realization that staggered him, that frightened and terrified the usual unwavering Sherlock Holmes. More so than even Moriarty had.
He was merely feet away. Sherlock opened his lips, prepared to speak John's name, when...
A blonde, well dressed woman appeared from the opposite side of the table and took hold of the chair across from John Watson. Only then did John Watson glance up. His eyes met with the woman's, and he smiled as she sat down across from him. Hands went across the table to take hold of each other in a loving squeeze. John's entire body language emoted love. Love? Sherlock was taken aback. He stood within the restaurant staring at the two of them. John hadn't even noticed him. John was fully immersed in the company of his lady friend. Sherlock merely stared. Now he was faced with another decision...
Go forwards with his plan...or turn heel and walk back out the door?
I was inspired by the series 3 trailer to write this. All of that emotion in Sherlock's face when he's walking towards that table...I couldn't resist.
If anyone wants me to continue on with what happens, reviews would be appreciated and loved. Let me know! Perhaps I'll post another chapter if enough people like this.
Thanks for reading! :)