That night, John was laughing.
Sherlock was nowhere near his thoughts, focused solely on the beautiful woman in front of him. She was older than most of his dates, but then, so was he.
"You should have seen the look on his face! He thought he was going to be fired," she said, bringing the story to an end.
"That's the funniest thing I've heard all week," John said honestly, wiping a tear from his eye. He picked up his wine glass as his date, Mary, leaned forward.
"So, any work horror stories from you? What's the weirdest thing you've seen?"
John cleared his throat, brushing droplets of wine from his moustache. "Well, I'm a doctor, so I'm not sure we want to discuss it over food." He pointedly took a bite of his pasta as Mary snorted.
"Please, I'm a nurse! Hit me with your best shot." She followed John's example and began eating again, dipping a breadstick in the sauce on the table.
"Well, there was one man who came in-" John started.
Unbeknownst to the couple, a black car had pulled up outside the restaurant. Anthea emerged, walking inside the restaurant. The waiter immediately recognized her and led her to a table near John and Mary. They were too caught up in their stories to notice.
For once, Anthea was alert, phone locked on the table in front of her as several waiters brought her a glass of dark wine and a plate of pasta. She ate slowly, ears trained on the couple behind her.
John and Mary were laughing loudly when a tall man approached their table. John looked up as Mary took a drink of her dwindling wine, and dropped his fork. His eyes were glued to the man's face, body frozen.
"John?" Mary asked. "What's wrong?"
She joined John in staring at the newcomer. They looked up at the man with expressions of confusion and rage.
Sherlock smiled softly, only able to see John. He wanted to say something but wasn't sure what. Growing up, Mycroft had always told him to stick to the basics. So he did.
"Hello, John."
John stood forcefully, jarring the table and knocking his wine glass over. The few remaining drinks left in the glass spread over the white tablecloth like a bloodstain. Mary quietly slipped her knife from the table and into her lap. Sherlock spotted the movement out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing. It's fair if they want to use it on me, he thought.
"You." John's voice was only a whisper, but it echoed in Sherlock's ears like a gunshot. He didn't even notice John beginning to lunge for his throat until an umbrella barred his way.
"Now, now, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said slowly. "We are in public."
Anthea stepped away from her table towards the group, pressing a button on her phone that would automatically pay for the meal. John fumed as he realized he was outnumbered, and his grip loosened on the umbrella still across his chest.
"To the car, boys," Anthea said, pressing more buttons on her phone. In a few clicks, the car was prepped, the GPS set, John and Mary's meal paid for, and Mrs. Hudson told to make tea for her guests. "You know the drill."
John stormed out of the restaurant, followed by Sherlock and then - less eagerly - by Mycroft as Anthea took John's seat at the table across from Mary. Sherlock overheard a few of her words before they left the quiet restaurant.
"Miss Morstan - may I call you Mary? - this is a matter of national security. You are to speak to no one about who you saw tonight..."
…
The car ride to Baker Street was silent and tense, waves of rage coming off of John Watson's small frame. He was shaking slightly, and Sherlock's fingers trembled in sync. Sherlock kept his hands folded in his lap, concealing his nerves.
John and Sherlock sat on one seat in the back of the limo, Mycroft across from them, hands folded over the top of his umbrella.
Sherlock dared to speak. "How are you, John?"
John said nothing, only exhaled, long and loud. Mycroft shot a warning look to his brother, but Sherlock kept going, unable to stop himself.
"What have you been up to? Did you go on many dates?"
John's fist clenched on his leg. He was close to punching Sherlock.
"Did you miss me?"
The question was quiet enough that it could have passed for a thought not meant to be spoken, but John heard it all the same. He turned toward Sherlock, twisting his legs against the seat, and Mycroft leaned forward, ready to block him again.
John stared at Sherlock for a moment, hating that innocent expression on his face. It had been a genuine question, and he hated him for it.
"How could you?" John asked. When Sherlock looked confused, he said it again, this time louder. "You - you bloody bastard, how could you?"
A look of resignation and intense regret crossed Sherlock's face, and he spoke softly, trying to contain John's anger. "I know, John, I-"
"I had to bury you. Do you have any idea what that's like?" He scoffed, voice cracking. "Of course, you don't. You don't feel, don't have to deal with sentiment like the rest of us." The venom in his words physically struck Sherlock, rocking him back in his seat.
"John-"
"No!" John was shouting now, fists balled and eyes fiery. "I buried enough friends during the war, and then you had to go and make me do it again!"
This was worse than the emotionless soldier that Sherlock had seen in times of danger. This wasn't detachment. This was fury.
"John, please, I'm sorry-"
"I don't want your apologies!"
Sherlock snapped. "You act as if I wanted to do this! To leave you behind, I thought for good!"
John was stunned into silence, and Sherlock softened his voice. There was a note of true pain behind his words. "You forget, I died that day. And every day after!"
John tucked his head, eyes glistening, and Mycroft stared out the window. The driver stayed focused on the road, and so no one saw the single tear run quickly down Sherlock's cheek.
The rest of the drive to Baker Street was silent.