I went in to meet Sherlock. He looked... absolutely stunning.
He was dressed nicely, more so than usual. For a while, that fact didn't register with me because here was one of my childhood best friends, whom I hadn't seen in, what, two and a half decades? And I'd spent the last two of those years mourning his death.
The owner, some connection of Sherlock's, served us himself, bringing out a candle to the table as soon as I sat down. Soon afterwards, he delivered our food. Sherlock had apparently strongly suspected I'd show up, and had ordered for us.
And he even remembered how I like my fettuccine.
Since Sherlock knew the owner, we were able to stay past closing without realizing, catching up on old times.
Over the cheesecake we had for dessert, Sherlock correctly figured that because of my recent bout of depression, I'd lost my job and would soon be out of my flat due to my lack of income.
What Sherlock couldn't figure out was why. He looked so guilty when I told him, "Of course I've been depressed these past two years! First we lost Victor ages ago, and then I thought you were gone, too! Death seemed to be the only way I could rejoin my two closest friends!"
And then Sherlock offered to work something out with his landlady to let me stay with him in his flat, even though John and John's fiancée had moved back into the second bedroom. He also asked me to be his date to the wedding, where he'd be the best man. I agreed.
Sherlock smiled. Then he brushed his hand against mine. I was reminded of that time in the library when we were teenagers. And Sherlock knew it.
He moved his chair closer to mine, leaned in towards me, pulled me towards him, and kissed me. And then I realized why Sherlock went to the trouble of dressing so nicely, having the owner do so many favours for us, and ordering my favorite foods.
This was a date.
Sherlock had gotten the nerve to ask me out on a date, and I'd be going home with him afterwards.