The waitress set the plate before John. Sherlock looked at John's food.
"You want some?" John asked.
"No," Sherlock declined.
John looked at his friend with an expression of worry.
"I'm fine" the consulting detective assured his short friend.
"When was the last time you ate?" the ex-army doctor questioned.
"Honestly John, I'm fine. And I don't need you to take care of me. I can take care of myself."
"You didn't answer my question."
Sherlock sighed. He hadn't eaten in... Three days. It was no big deal to him. John was always worried about his friend's eating habits. He often tried to make Sherlock eat, but this time he didn't.
Sherlock looked across the table at his friend. He scoffed. "Really John?"
Someone had just come into the restaurant. Obviously a girl how intently John was looking at her. Sherlock scoffed again.
"Typical," Sherlock muttered.
John snapped out of it and looked at his friend. He grinned sheepishly.
"Are you going to ask her out or let her go?" Sherlock asked. "I think you'll let her go."
"What?" John asked. "Are you seriously talking about girls with me?"
"A girl. So are you or aren't you?"
"I dunno," John replied. He smirked. "Maybe you should ask her out. She seems more your type."
"I don't have a type. I don't date," Sherlock said.
"Why not?" John asked.
"Because it takes away from my work. And what do you mean my type?"
"She's mysterious."
"What makes you think of her as mysterious? And why would I want someone who's mysterious?"
"Well look at her. She's clearly trying to conceal herself. And Irene was mysterious."
"Irene was not my type."
"Whatever, Sher."
Sherlock wasn't going to look at her. Nope. There was no point. He considered himself married to his work. Curiosity got to the consulting detective and he turned.
She was standing at the counter. She wore large sunglasses and a black coat. Underneath the coat she was wearing black jeans. Not professional. Her dark brown hair was curled and framed her face. He continued to analyze her. He looked at every detail he could find. He could only figure out one thing. There seemed to be something else. Something he felt like he should know but couldn't figure out.
"I suppose I will ask her," John said.
"She's a detective. Not a professional one. Freelance," Sherlock told his friend.
"What is she here for?" John asked.
"I'm not sure," Sherlock said. He squinted his eyes in focus.
The girl tensed. Sherlock looked away as she looked toward him and John. She frowned and then her face lit up.
"Sherlock?!"