A/N: Firstly, I am on a writer's block for a few of my other stories. So it will take a while.
And secondly, this is my baby steps into Sherlock fandom. It isn't as good as I expected it to turn out. But oh well… I can't be good at every fandom's fiction. But anyway, I got this idea after watching Sherlock Season 3's teaser trailer. Hope it is satisfactory. Now carry on.
And please be gentle! It's my first Sherlock fic. I still have trouble thinking in the line of the characters. (It's easy for Harry Potter though. I guess because it's my One True Fandom.)
Disclaimer: I own only the following formation of the alphabets.
Note: No offence to be taken by anything said in the story. It's just for some fun. So take it light heartedly.
"But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be… dead. Would you do that just for me?"
"What do you need?"
"You."
"I don't understand why I must go on a blind date Mrs Hudson." John said irately to his old landlady.
Ever since the death of his best friend, John was far from cheerful. He was quiet, most of the time deep in thought and far less social than what he had been before. It hurt his landlady that he was wasting away.
And so with good old Molly's help, she had set up a blind date for John. It had all been Molly's idea really. She had informed that she had a good friend who had been single for so long and had been planning to set them up on a date. She not so subtly had hinted John's name for the date and Mrs Hudson had agreed. After Sherlock, John did need someone to keep him company and she didn't like to see him getting lonely like this.
After many pleadings and emotional blackmails later, John finally gave in. He would go to restaurant Molly had told him about.
"I need your help again Molly."
"What do you need?"
"John. I need to contact John."
John sat in the private room of the very posh restaurant. He had dressed in a suit and sat at the designated table. He pulled a chair and sat on it feeling rather self-conscious of him.
He thanked the waiter who poured him a glass of wine and bowed graciously and left. He slowly sipped it, appreciating the feeling of the liquid seeping through his throat.
He took the menu and browsed it looking at the various choices of food.
He checked his watch wondering who his date to the evening was and how long the person was going to take.
His eyes scanned the whole restaurant as many people arrived and left. He observed and deduced conclusions about their lives. They were all quite transparent to his logistic eyes.
But today, he was fidgety. He didn't care about these people. He just wanted to see John. It had been months. He had been on hunt for Moriarity's men and had successfully done his job. He still suspected there was something more to Moriarity's death. So he still had to be under cover. But he missed his friend. Yes, he missed his friend. He did feel things. He wasn't just a machine. (As John had so clearly stated.)
And so he had arranged this plan after making sure that everything was under control. He still stayed in his disguise though.
He found a secluded corner of the restaurant and scanned the place with his hawk eyes. And after a good fifteen minutes, he found John, his good old John. He was dressed in a formal wear and- he had grown moustache.
Sherlock decided that he didn't like the aforementioned moustache.
With an exaggerated sigh, he made his way in, a few seconds after the waiter came out.
John had been browsing through the menu when he heard the door open. His hearing picked up the heavier footsteps confirming it was a man. (Sherlock had rubbed off on him)
John frowned.
A man? Sure the gender of his date wasn't specified. And John was no gay, (At least he thought so) so he hadn't expected a man to show up.
He cleared his throat and looked up to greet him and maybe politely refuse.
The moment his eyes made contact with- the person that stood there, the menu slipped from John's hand and fell to the floor.
Can't be. He couldn't be hallucinating things again.
It had been just a few months prior that John had been out of his hallucinations. Now again.… No. No. This he couldn't bear.
With wobbly legs, he got up and walked towards 'Sherlock'. He did what he always did when he had hallucinated.
He walked to his so called 'best friend' and poked him experimentally. Like every time he did the ritual, John had expected the 'Sherlock' to disappear.
But this one did not.
It (John still couldn't bring himself to address 'it' as his best friend) stood and stared at John with those same calculating eyes his friend had. (Has, a part in his brain corrected but John ignored it.)
"Are you real?" he asked.
"As real as any Human being can get John." Sherlock answered him.
Realisation slowly dawned on John. Of course. Sherlock couldn't be dead. He had had a plan up his sleeve. He was alive. This was all a set up.
For what?
He had no bloody idea.
His brain was a mixture of thoughts and Christ! It made no sense right now. It was all so very confusing to him right now.
But one comment from Sherlock had his fist aiming to Sherlock's nose.
"I don't like that furry thing on your lip John."
Half an hour and a black eyed Sherlock later, John wore a smug expression of satisfaction as he walked (with a swagger) out of the restaurant with Sherlock in tow.
Mycroft stood in front of his car as he leaned on his umbrella.
"Just one eye?" Mycroft asked. "I thought two black eyes would give him a perfect impression of a panda." He said to which John burst out laughing and Sherlock just continued to huff and sulk further.
After all, he had missed the tables and the cutlery but not John's ever so powerful fist.
A/N: Er… Liked it? If liked, please review. Review even if it's disliked.
But… please no FLAMES!