John Watson sat waiting, rather impatiently, in The Landmark of London, right in the middle of the city. He was sipping his wine, doing his best to keep his heart from racing on the rather big night, however his hands shook with nerves and no matter how much wine slipped past his mustached lips they wouldn't stop. It'd been two years since Sherlock took his life and it had taken John that long to finally try and put his life back together, well, at least as much as he could. He picked up the wine menu and examined his options. If he was honest he didn't actually know what he was looking at; champagne was never his specialty.
"Can I help you with anything, sir?" one of the waiters, a tall man with dark curly hair, glasses and a little black mustache, stopped to address him, his French accent came through strong. John thought it made his voice sound a bit pitchy and almost wheezy but he had more things on his mind at the moment than this man's vocal cord problems.
"Hi, yeah, I'm looking for a bottle of champagne." He told the man, glancing over the menu again, "A good one."
"Hmm, well, these are all excellent vintages, sir."
"Oh, it's not really my area, what do you suggest?"
"Well, you cannot possibly go wrong but, uh, maybe if you'd like my personal recommendation." He pointed to one of the choices lower down on the page, "This last one on the list is a favorite of mine. It is, you might in fact say, like a face from the past."
He slid his glasses off his face and John fidgeted in his seat. He was getting more nervous by the second and he downed the rest of his wine in one gulp, "Great, I'll have that one, please."
"It is familiar but with the quality of surprise!"
John handed him the menu, clearing his throat, "Well, surprise me."
"I'm certainly endeavoring to, sir."
The waiter ran off with the menu and John pulled a small, red velvet box from his inside jacket pocket, prying it open with ginger fingers to examine the ring inside. He couldn't believe he was actually doing this, really actually going to do this. He set the box down on the table, turning it every which way; it had to be perfect. With a deep breath he glanced at his watch wondering where she'd gone, just as someone placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Sorry that took so long." She said, taking a seat across from him. Her earrings dangling about her neck, clearly seen with her blonde hair cropped short and styled in delicate, retro waves. She had a beautiful smile and sly, blue eyes as John hurriedly stuffed the ring box back into his pocket.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah, yeah. Me? Fine. I am fine." He replied a bit too quick, his nerves getting the best of him and they both laughed.
"Now, then, what did you want to ask me?"
He hesitated, "More wine?"
"No, I 'm good with water, thanks."
"Right." He paused and she looked around awkwardly.
"So?"
"Uh, so, Mary. Listen, um…I know it hasn't been long and I know we haven't known each other for a long time."
He stopped and Mary bit her lip, "Go on."
"Yes, I will. As you know, these last couple of years haven't been easy for me. And meeting you," he stopped, holding her gaze before the corners of his moth lifted up in a genuine smile, "Yeah, meeting you has been the best thing that could've possibly happened."
"I agree."
"What?"
"I agree, I'm the best thing that could have happened to you."
John laughed and Mary shook her head, "Sorry."
"Well, no, it's, um, so…" John leaned on the table, "If you'll have me, Mary, could you see your way, um…If you could see your way…"
He sighed and Mary sat giggling, watching him struggle through his endeavors, a stuttering mess. The waiter suddenly came back, a bottle of champagne in his hands, trying his hardest to sell the bottle to John and Mary's eyes went wide, the biggest smile plastered on her face. She bit at her nail, trying her hardest not to burst out in a fit of laughter.
"No, sorry, not now, please." John said, but the waiter continued, completely ignoring his pleas for him and Mary to be alone.
"Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers, suddenly one is aware of staring into the face of an old friend."
The waiter pulled the glasses from his face and John looked up, having every intention of telling to basically fuck off but with one look at the man's face he was rendered speechless. He face fell and he looked at Mary to make sure he wasn't dreaming. His world went silent.
"Interesting thing, a tuxedo." Said Sherlock, "Lends distinction to friends and anonymity to waiters."
Mary was undoubtedly confused and John stumbled to his feet, eyes bloodshot and breathing heavy through his nose like he did when he was upset. Mary was starting to get worried.
"John?" she said, "John, what is it?"
John stared Sherlock in the eyes, tearing himself away to look at Mary, eyes dark and glazed over as Sherlock spoke.
"Well, the short version," Sherlock explained, "Not dead."
There was a short silence while John looked up at him through his eyelashes and Sherlock thinned his lips, "Bit mean springing it on you like that, I know. Could have given you ha heart attack, probably still will. But in my defense, it was very funny."
John was shooting daggers at him with piercing eyes, clearly lived and boiling with anger. Sherlock cleared his throat, "Okay, it's not a great defense."
"Oh, no." Mary breathed, staring up at him, "You're…"
"Oh, yes." Sherlock inclined his head to her.
"Oh, my God!"
"Not quite."
"You died, you jumped off a roof."
"No."
"You're dead."
"No, I'm quite sure, I checked. Excuse me." He dipped a napkin into her water, wiping his mustache away, "Uh, does your rub off, too?"
John was unmoving, stiff with anger and Mary looked between the two men frantically, "Oh, my God! Do you have any idea what you've done?"
Sherlock wouldn't lie, he was starting to get the idea, "Okay, John, I'm suddenly realizing I probably owe you some sort of an apology."
John slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the glassware and forcing Sherlock to go silent. Mary was doing her best to calm him down but it seemed he was past the point of help.
"Two years." John said, sucking in a deep breath and exhaling sharply, doing his best to keep calm. Sherlock blinked, taking in John's words, "Two year! I thought. Mmm…I thought…You were dead." Now, you let me grieve. How could you do that? How?"
"Wait," Sherlock stopped him, "Before you do anything that you might regret, one question, just let me ask one question."
John looked at him, reluctantly letting him speak.
"Are you really going to keep that?" he chuckled, gesturing to John's mustache and suddenly John's hands were around his neck, throwing them both back onto the floor. Mary and the staff had to pull them apart kicking and screaming and a few hours later, after having been kicked out of two other places after the Landmark for public disruption, Sherlock stood on the sidewalk outside a small ice-cream parlor with Mary while John hailed a cab. He had a napkin held to his nostrils to try and stop the bleeding from where John had head-butted him a half hour ago in the parlor behind them, accompanied by a cut lip from the diner before that, both results of John's anger after having found out that Molly Hooper and some of Sherlock's Homeless Network knew that he was still alive. Sherlock leaned his head back and held the bridge of his nose.
"I don't understand. I said I'm sorry, isn't that what you're supposed to do?" he mumbled. Mary looked at him with pity in her eyes.
"Gosh, you don't' know anything about human nature, do you?"
"Hmm, nature? No. Human? No."
She smiled, "I'll talk him round."
"You will?"
"Oh, yeah."
He eyed her carefully, taking in everything that he could deduce about her and storing it away. So many words came rolling off of her, some of it got jumbled but he simply stored it away for later. It wasn't important now. He continued to nurse his nose, "I'm glad I didn't go to Lottie first. She probably would've had an anxiety attack."
"Who?"
"Between the three of us, we should be able to stop the attack."
"Three?"
"Sure – me, John, Lottie."
Mary furrowed her eyebrows, "Lottie? You mean Lottie Blakely?"
"Yes, of course. Sure you know Lottie. She must be around John constantly."
The look in her eyes told Sherlock that something wasn't right, "Sherlock, John hasn't seen or heard from Lottie in over a year. No one has. I've never even met her."
Sherlock looked at her, completely taken off guard. The ache that he'd been trying so hard to ignore in his chest, the ache that he was excited to be rid of now seemed to grow even more. What did she mean no one had heard from her? She couldn't be dead, no, someone would've contacted him if she was. John called out to Mary and she scanned Sherlock's face before moving to step into the cab John had called for them. He watched the two of them go, letting his mind run rampant. If Lottie wasn't with John, then where was she?
