a/n: I have nothing to say for myself. I had a thought and I just went with it. Smashed it out in about ten minutes. I did delete most of the porn... it didn't really work.

Reevew dudes, dudettes.

slash, yo!

John Watson is sitting alone at a table when Sherlock spots him. It's the first time he's seen him in almost three years and he doesn't look well, especially with that ridiculous bit of fur on his face doing an impression of a limp mouse. It made him look more worrisome, and well, old.

The first thing he was going to do when they got back to 221b was insist John get rid of it. Actively get rid of it if he had to.

He looked at John for a minute longer, trying his best to compose himself. But for a second he hesitated. Something was niggling at him. Something glaringly obvious.

There was no time for that. His John was just there.

His John?

He determined the best way to make his way over there quickly,. Mycroft would substitute the word best for 'most dramatic'. Sherlock dismissed the thought about the fat cake eater and went about the necessary tasks he needed to partake in for the ruse.

It took longer than it should have, but eventually John Watson recognised him and momentarily was stunned into silence.

"Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Lends distinction to friends, and anonymity to waiters."

The man before him kept talking but John couldn't hear any of it. Now was not the time to have a psychotic break; he was about to start the rest of his life.

He looked around to see if any of the other patrons could see what he could; to see if Mary had seen what he did. She did. She was confused, but it was very obvious that the man stood before them was VERY alive and was VERY real.

Tears filled his eyes and he ducked his face for a second to try and make sense of it all. Unable to focus on a singlular thought, he rises from his seat, stumbling a little.

Sherlock kept talking. Just saying nothing.

John straightened and slammed his fist on the table, not yet having said a single word.

John breaths, and then abruptly throws himself at Sherlock, grabbing him and forcing him across the room until they two fall to the floor, John landing atop Sherlock, straddling him.

"Enough," the shorter man whispers... John pulls his Browning from the back of his trousers and situates it between the eyes of the other mans'. "One Word, Sherlock. That's all I would have needed. One word to let me know that you were alive." John closed his eyes and breathed heavily. "Give me one good reason, Sherlock." His voice cracked. "Just one." Sherlock lowered his eyelids and bowed his head. "I don't have one."

John lowered the gun, and in favour of shooting him, simply threw a right hook at Sherlock's jaw.

"That's for being dead."

John rose to his feet and proffered his hand to the formerly deceased man in front of him, amd helped him to stand swiftly. But before Sherlock could blink, John had already pulled back his fist and struck him once again.

"That's for lying to me."

"And this, is for coming back."

John pulled Sherlock by the lapels, spun them both around and crashed Sherlock's back into the wall.

"What about Mary?" Sherlock whispered.

John growled and crashed his lips to Sherlock's.

"Fuck Mary."

"Oh, John. I thought I rather had that honour," Sherlock chuckled.

With one hand one his chest and the other on his zipper John traced Sherlock's jaw with kisses and begun to trail his hand down the Consulting Detective's chest. He tore at a Sherlock's jacket and ripped it apart. John dropped to his knees and unceremoniously unzipped the Detective's fly and was surprised to find that Sherlock wasn't wearing any underwear under those ever-tight pants. If Sherlock wasn't going to shut up before John had the inclination to land another punch on the great git's face, then he'd give him something to say.

Or, you know.

Scream.

Which was a perfect idea in theory. The practical application however was a wee bit different, especially since , as Mary coughed, the pair froze in place as they realised that they weren't exactly alone.

"I don't suppose," she mused, smile wider than a crocodile's, whilst holding the box that had removed itself from John Watson's pocket sometime during their 'disagreement', "that you'll be needing this?"

Suffice to say, they weren't ever allowed back in that restaurant again.