Just the two of us against the rest of the world
"The salmon fillet, please," John said to the waiter, handing him his menu. Mary had just gone to the loo, and he was waiting for her to return. Their wedding was five days away, and John was happy. He was always the kind of person who was calm until three minutes before the special event he was waiting for happened.
He sat quietly, fiddling with the edge of his moustache and looking around the restaurant.
"John?" a low, familiar voice said behind him, slightly shyly.
He turned around, his eyes widening as he saw the man standing behind him; tall, dark haired, the worlds only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. He got up, his chair falling to his left.
"S-Sherlock." He said, his voice shaking slightly. He felt numb.
"John, I can explain…" Sherlock said, reaching out to him. John swatted his hand away.
"No… you, you were dead." He said, pointing at the dark haired man.
"John, if you'll just calm down, we can go somewhere and I'll explain everything-"
"NO!" John yelled, stepping back and bumping into his table, shaking it. His glass of wine fell, shattering near Sherlock's foot.
"John? What's wrong?" he heard Mary's small voice behind him and felt her palm on his shoulder, soothing him.
"This, Mary," he said, poking Sherlock in the chest. "Is Sherlock Holmes, the GREAT consulting detective who supposedly died almost three years ago!" he was screaming now, making a scene. Sherlock's face looked guilty pained. He seemed not to know what to do, so Mary stepped in.
"This is very curious, but I think, it would be slightly smarter if instead of yelling in here we could go outside, eat later. Would you like that?" she asked, curling her arm around his hip. John nodded, turning around silently and walking out of the restaurant, Sherlock at his heels. Mary stayed inside, apologizing to the waiter and paying for their wine.
Sherlock pulled his coat collar up against the chilled air. A slight mist was rising around them, leaving their feet just a dark shadow. Sherlock stepped closer.
"John, thank you for talking to-" he was cut off by a hard punch to his face, then another to the chest, knocking him to the ground. John got on top of him, legs on both side and punched him relentlessly.
"You," he said between punches, "were- dead- on- a slab!" he said, stopping for a moment to take a breath. Sherlock raised his hands above his face.
"I know, John, I know! And if you just give me a moment I'll explain myself!"
John felt himself being pulled back gently by small hands.
"John, please…" Mary said from behind him, "you forgot the cane."
"It's-" he began, "Psychosomatic." Sherlock finished his sentence.
John got up, dusting himself off. Sherlock followed.
The smaller man closed his eyes, putting his palms up to keep both Sherlock, and his wife away.
"No. I- I can't handle this at the moment." He said, walking away to hail a cab. Mary stayed behind.
"I think you just caught him off guard," she said to the detective sweetly. "I'll call you tomorrow and we'll talk about when the two of you can meet?"
"Mary!" John yelled from the awaiting cab. Sherlock nodded to her, turned away and walked into the rising fog,