You sit down at the restaurant. You are alone. But not for long. You received a text earlier from your date tonight, explaining to meet them there for dinner. It is a nice place, and everyone is nice to you. But you can feel they're just putting on the smiles. There's something in their eyes they can't hide. A certain knowing, of 'Oh, you're him. I know who you are.' And then there are the stares they give you. They're pitiful stares, but for either of two reasons. Either: I'm so sorry for your loss, or: I'm sorry you had to put up with all that. You wonder to yourself why they do this. Why they stare at you. You also wonder what if almost 3 years ago you were never shot. You were never sent back to London.
You never met him.
You clench your hand into an angry ball at the thought of him. You stop yourself from thinking about him. It brings back too many memories, all of them too painful to bear at the moment. Perhaps you might think about them later, with privacy, and a glass of whiskey in your shaking hands. But the thought floats back into your mind. It would have been one year today. One year of pain and loss and anguish. One year of wishing the shot that wounded you had killed you instead. You were so close to being tipped over the edge. You figured that if he didn't come back to you, you'd come to him. You remember writing so many goodbye letters. And you remember scrunching them all up; with only word written on them.
Sorry.
But there was one person who fixed that. Mostly. But you know that without her you wouldn't be here anymore. But you would be with him. You don't exactly remember how you met her, but it wasn't that long after the incident. You plan to propose to her soon, but you don't know how or when. Perhaps if he were still here he could help you. No, he was the furthest person from knowing what love was. You were sure he had never truly felt it. You did love him though, not in a romantic way of course, even though there were certain points where you were sure he was flirting with you. The memory of the first dinner you had together comes back. Angelo's restaurant. The candle. The waiting. The cabbie. The awkward conversation. Him. It was your first case together. A Study in Pink.
You feel yourself almost tearing up so you clear your throat and quickly down the glass of white wine that the awkwardly smiling waiter placed there a couple of minutes ago. That was something else that happened. Grief took over you and you needed something to cope with. Against everyone's wishes you turned to drinking. The very reason you needed a flatmate. Because you couldn't stand to live with your alcoholic sibling. You despise yourself, but then she makes it better. She comforts you and you can almost forget everything bad. But you still need him.
You wonder how long you've been reminiscing. You check your watch nervously. It's been almost 15 minutes since you arrived. You worry about her and send her a text about her whereabouts. A waiter asks if you would like to order, but you decline and pick up the menu to pretend to read it. You check your phone every couple of seconds to see if you have a reply. You don't. You run a hand through your hair and then continue to pretend to read the menu.
All of a sudden you begin to hear nervous whispering but you ignore them. You started ignoring people and what they thought of you a long time ago. You do notice some camera's taking photos, but you never look up from the menu. You hear the chair opposite you being pulled out and sat on. You put your menu down to ask why she's so late. You feel every drop of blood drain from your face. It's him.
'Hello John. I do have to say, I love the moustache.'
No. It can't be. That voice and that face and that hair and those eyes and that body and that person doesn't exist anymore. That person hasn't existed for exactly a year.
Before you can stop yourself, you stand up and throw a punch directly into his nose. That gathers attention. His nose is already gushing with blood, but he simply wipes some of it away with his hand and looks back at you like he expected it. A smug grin creeps onto his face. The smug grin that you used to love.
'Now John, was that really–'
You dive over the table and tackle him to the ground, your hands wrapped firmly around his neck. You shake your head violently. This is impossible.
'You're supposed to be dead!' you shout, tears rolling down your cheeks. You can't contain your anger.
'John, I–' he chokes out before you cut him off again.
'Nobody could be that clever!' you yell, throttling him. You hear security guards being called over.
'I could.' He whispers, barely making a sound. Another memory comes back to you, from exactly a year ago, when you almost said those precise words. You see that there are tears in his eyes too. Security pulls you off him and they drag you away from him. They shove both of you out the door, throwing your coats out with you, and shouting to never come back to the restaurant again. You put your coat on and lean against the wall, before sliding down to sit on the cold footpath, your head in your hands, shaking with shock, tears streaking down your face.
You had wanted this to happen. You wanted him back. You prayed that there would be some small miracle that he would come back to you. But not like this. There was some part of you that knew that if he was going to come back it would be like this. Brash. Unexpected. And yet highly brilliant. Just like the man himself. He slides down to sit next to you and he takes a deep breath, his eyes brimming with tears.
'I'm so sorry John. I'm so sorry. I left you alone and I shouldn't have. If there was any other way, I would have taken it, if it meant not hurting you. There were snipers on you and... Oh Christ, John I'm so sorry.' He chokes out. This is one of the only times you've seen him show any real emotion.
You are undone. Sobs rack your chest and you shout unintelligible insults at him. He caused you so much pain, but with a simple apology he has almost won you back. But you don't forgive him. Some part of you tells you that you never will.
Once you calm down you manage to start speaking again.
'It was a magic trick. Just a magic trick. It was all a lie. Mrs. Hudson being shot. The jump. Your... death. The funeral. All fake.' You quote him. It was one of the last things he ever said to you. He clears his throat before nodding gently.
'Yes, I... I had to jump. I knew I had to. Long before Moriarty announced himself as an "actor". I did originally plan it so I didn't have to fake my own death, but he outsmarted me. The first person aside from my own brother to outsmart me.' he states, emotionless. It's like he's his regular self again, 'Having to stay away from you almost drove me insane. Occasionally I would follow you into large crowds just so I could see you.' he gives a nervous laugh. His face turns serious again and he apologises to you, over and over again. You cut him off.
'There's one thing, just one thing you need to tell me.' you pause, 'How? How did you do it?' you ask, the question muffled through your hands covering your face.
'I will tell you soon. But not here. It's too open.' He mutters to you. You uncover your face and give a nervous little chuckle. You look directly into his shimmering blue-grey eyes.
'You will always remain a mystery to me, Sherlock Holmes.'