". . . and suddenly one is aware he is staring into the face of an old friend."
John looked up at the annoyingly persistent waiter, with the annoyingly fake French accent, intending to send him on his way, but instead found that he was looking up at his old friend Sherlock in disguise. But the word 'friend' didn't seem like enough, didn't quite convey all that Sherlock had meant to him, how he had brought the spark of life back into him after the dreadfulness of war, shown him there was reason to go on living in this world, not just exist. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd imagined it to be true, or found that some familiar feature in a stranger's face or manner brought him to mind. Could it really be? I thought you were dead. You let me grieve for you and said nothing. Oh God. Surely there was a reasonable explanation, but John wasn't feeling very reasonable right at this moment.
"Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Lends distinction to friends and anonymity to waiters."
Sherlock's droll remark was intended to lighten the moment, soften the blow and shock, but this time sounded hopeful and unsteady at the end of it, almost schoolboyish, and his lips quivered ever so slightly, giving away a lack of composure that was unusual for him. It took you enough time to recognize me. I was beginning to run out of ideas.
And suddenly the entire world fell away from John, the din of the restaurant, and Mary, his newly intended sitting across from him and any plans for the future, with only Sherlock seen clearly, and he stood up and made a lunge at him, fists clenched, crowded restaurant be damned.