For LR for being my friend, and not letting it get awkward.
For AG for being my BFF.
And for LE, even though you'll probably never read this, because I miss you.
"... suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of an old friend." The waiter said, taking off his glasses.
"No, look, seriously ... "I said, moving my gaze to meet the waiter's eyes, "... could you just ..." Oh my god. Oh my god. What in bloody hell was this? Two years. Two god-damn fucking years. Oh god. Oh god!
"Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Lends distinction to friends, and anonymity to waiters." He said, that smug smirk still plastered on his lips. Tears started to fill my eyes. The world spun, and I stumbled to my feet, gripping the table for support.
Mary's voice cut through my haze, her tone worried. "John?"
I caught myself on the table, trying to keep my balance. As I steadied, I noticed a hand held out towards me, and I looked back up into his unusually warm grey eyes.
"John, what is it? What?" Said the woman, who until a few moments ago was all set to be my fiancée. I couldn't hold his gaze, and my eyes broke away from his to stare at my shoes. Ah, I had never noticed that my laces didn't match before! Nor that I still had a stain on the left toe from when I tried to use brown shoe polish on the blatantly black leather.
"Well, short version ..." Finally, he had the decency to sound slightly nervous and unsure of himself. That smirk, that I had thought was immovable, had faded slightly from his slender lips. I once again looked up into those eyes that were like a summer storm. Beautifully breath-taking, yet so deadly that one wrong move could end up with you dead in more ways than you knew existed. "Not Dead." Anger built up inside me. There had been an undertone of humour in his voice, one that usually painted a smile so bright on my face, that it was no wonder thought we spent all our time at it like rabbits. But not now. I had cried and mourned him. They say there are five stages of grief (well Elisabeth Kübler-Ross said it first as he once pointed out after a mug of hot chocolate and *cough*nevermind*cough*). But what they don't tell you is that each one seems to last a lifetime.
Denial stretches through the weeks, and you stand there numb at a cold grave, wondering why everyone's so damn sad, why they don't realise that he just went off on a jaunt like he often does. Until it hits you one night, when you were half naked in a strangers bedroom, and you just think 'oh god, he's gone'. Then anger, and you just can't stand still whilst the whole world is moving on and forgetting. Don't they know that you can't forget?! That he was too unique to be left to fade into history. Things break and smash and no one knows how to deal with you. Bargaining, and you're at every place of worship you can find. Asking each and every god for the only thing in the world you want. Him back, alive and in your arms. When religion fails, you look into scientific trials, searching for something, anything to help. And then you stumble into it like a lamppost on a drunken night out. He's never coming back, there's absolutely nothing you can do. That's when you start to want the blade. Want the release that comes with it, along with the punishment. He's dead and it's your fault. And you just sink. Into the depths of a sadness that you can't even begin to describe. Eventually, you reach acceptance. I couldn't do that on my own. Without Mary I would still be bleeding. She saved me, and I loved her for that, but she could never compare to his sheer...magnificence.
And now he was back. Quicker than a snap of the fingers. It took eighteen months before I even started to think that I could escape. And now he was back. And I didn't know what to do.
He started to speak. His voice as clear and eloquent as always, "Bit mean, springing it on you like that, I know. Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will. But in my defence, it was very funny." A nervous laugh stutters it's way out of his usually confident mouth. I can feel my ire growing with each and every passing second. He couldn't even meet my eye. "Okay, it's not a great defence."
"Oh no! You're ..." Mary exhaled, her breathy tone displaying her shock.
"Oh yes." He glanced at her, and replied as if he were simply telling her that he remembered to get the semi-skimmed milk, instead of the full-fat.
"Oh, my God." Took the words right out of my mouth, I thought, and the tune to the old meatloaf song echoed in my head.
"Not quite." So fucking cocky.
"You died. You jumped off a roof."
"No." Great mate. That's all the answers I needed, thanks for that, I thought. The sarcasm extreme even in my head.
"You're dead!" Even Mary, sweet, strong, unshakable Mary was sounding actively appalled by this point.
"No. I'm quite sure. I checked. Excuse me." His ego was so huge it was unbelievable. He picked up a napkin and dipped it into Mary's water glass, wiping off the fake moustache he must have drawn on earlier.
"Does, er, does yours rub off, too?" Fake nonchalance resonated through his voice as he tried to meet my practically murderous gaze. A tight smile formed on my face, as I desperately tried to stop myself from doing either one of two things...
"Oh my God, oh my God. Do you have any idea what you've done to him?" Said Mary, sounding almost as angry as I felt.
He stopped trying to make eye contact. "Okay, John, I'm suddenly realising I probably owe you some sort of an apology." Oh my god, that had crossed the line. 'Some sort of apology'? I hadn't thought even his arrogance could stretch that far. Involuntarily, my fist smashed into the table. I tried to catch my breath, which I hadn't realised had sped up significantly, and hunched over my now aching hand.
"All right, just ... John? Just keep ..." I could hear the worry that coated her voice. The last time I had heard that much worry was when she found me in the bathroom with a razor blade in my hand and blood on my hip. I pulled in a shaky breath, and I raised my head to catch his eye. Torn between anger, joy and the twitch in my fingers.
"Two years." I shook my head slowly, still trying to catch my breath. "Two years." My voice was tight, and filled with a pain even I could hear. I moaned as the realisation seemed to hit me a new. Unable to stay up and looking into those slate iris', I slumped back down over my still aching hand. I could almost hear the tension in the air. After a few moments I raised my eyes to meet his once more. "I thought ..." I groaned, helplessness over taking the anger and showing through my movements. He had always done that, made me feel helpless, like I was drowning. But it was always because he belonged to a different world. A world were brothers killed sisters and a new coat meant you were starting to go through a mid-life crisis. He had never, not once, brought that feeling into my world. I had never floundered in my world, until that day. "I thought ... you were dead." My helplessness once again gave way to murderous rage. "Now, you let me grieve, hmm? How could you do that?" All five stages of grief. He must have just stood by and watched. I had been to hell and back in those two long years, and here he was. It must have dawned on Sherlock that this might not have been his best ever idea, as he looked to the floor and bit his lip. As he did this, part of me thought 'I wish it was me biting those lips' and another wanted him to bite his lip so hard that he bled. "How?" My breathing sped up again as I waited for his reply. Hoping for some sense. For something that gave me a reason. 'To save your life' being one of the more hopeful answers.
"Wait – before you do anything that you might regret ..." Came his voice, still relatively collected. I gave a groan. That wasn't the beginning of a 'because I love you' answer. "... um, one question. Just let me ask one question. Um ..." I held my eyes on his delicately flushing cheeks, still filled with fury. He gestured to his top lip, a giggly tone in his voice as he spoke, really GIGGLY. "Are you really gonna keep that?!" He grinned as he turned his head to look at Mary, who laughed in disbelief.
I drew a breath as options weighed in my head. I wanted to hold him. To love him and never let him go. But I was so angry. I wanted to kick, and scream, and punch until there was nothing left. I leapt towards him, all my strength in that one action.
And that was the first time that night I had to choose between kissing and killing Sherlock Holmes.