John looked at his watch, frowned, and rubbed his hand over his face. He looked around the small restaurant again just to make sure he hadn't missed him. It was stupid, because even if he'd missed Sherlock, Sherlock would not have missed him. Confirming that his husband wasn't sitting at another table waiting for him, he took another sip of the wine. He'd ordered the bottle – a very expensive bottle – and he'd had two sips.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and verified the time. His watch wasn't wrong, the clock on the wall by the maître d' wasn't wrong, Sherlock was 45 minutes late.

He opened the text program on his phone and sent, "Where are you?" He checked his watch again and grabbed a piece of bread the waitress had brought over. He spread the butter over the slice and ate it.

He checked his watch again. It had been three minutes since he sent the text. He scrolled to Sherlock's name and hit send. He counted the rings and wasn't surprised when after the fourth on the voicemail picked up. It was possible that he'd turned it off, or that somebody had turned it off for him. John knew it was more likely that he was still at Bart's, in the lab, where he had no signal.

"Sherlock, where the hell are you? I'm sitting at a table all by myself." He left the message even though Sherlock never checked them. The phone was tossed down and John reached for another slice of bread. He stopped himself, he wasn't hungry anymore.

"You've been to Bart's every night for the last 2 weeks."

"I am aware of that. Jacob has been able to obtain several corpses and is allowing me access to them." Jacob, the new lab technician at Bart's, John hated him. Sherlock was fascinated by him, or rather by Jacob's intelligence. John was tired of hearing phrases like, "Jacob's potential" and "his above average deductive abilities."

"You are usually at Bart's during the day?"

"Jacob doesn't work during the day."

"But I do and I'm home at night and you aren't anymore."

Sherlock had stopped buttoning his coat in that moment and sighed in exasperation. His expression softened as John shifted uncomfortably in front of him. "I believe I could postpone the experiments I have scheduled for Friday evening."

"Dinner?"

"Certainly."

John had verified with him again that morning, Sherlock had promised that he'd be at the restaurant at 18:30. John looked at his watch again, 19:23 and still no Sherlock. John rubbed his face again, he couldn't decide whether to be pissed or worried. He did know that he wasn't going to sit and continue to be the recipient of all the looks of pity. He stood, opened his wallet and tossed more money than he cared to think about on the table. He knew they'd put the cork back in the bottle and let him take it home, but he didn't want that. He didn't want the waitress to keep looking at him like the guy who'd been stood up. He put his wallet away and grabbed his phone. He was just reaching for the door when his phone alerted him to a text message. He stopped dead in his tracks and read it.

It didn't take long. It was from Sherlock and it was only 1 word, "Bart's." Fingers tightened around the phone. He pushed through the door and started to pound out a reply with his thumbs. He stopped just before he sent it. He wanted to be pissed off in person.

He held up a hand watched a cab pull up in front of him. "St. Bart's," he said as they pulled back into traffic. He stared down at his phone and the message that he'd typed out. He frowned, deleted it, and turned his phone off. He put it back in his pocket, and began to mentally organize the argument he was going to have with his husband.