Angelo's was not busy. John settled on his regular with a hum and closed the menu after a second or so. He drummed his fingers on the table briefly, then decided it was time to go into his caring mode. Sherlock watched him closely.
"You are not eating?" John said, and Sherlock's mouth twitched into a brief smile.
"You are having your regular, why can't I?"
"Clever," John nodded, looking out the window briefly. Sherlock watched his face.
"Not so caring then," Sherlock said deliberately softly, and John turned to him with questioning eyes.
"What was that?"
"You seem to have forgotten that I have not eaten in two days," Sherlock noticed.
"Ah, well, I have seen you go four without a bite, you should be fine," John said and Sherlock almost chuckled.
"Perhaps we should have some wine," Sherlock said, and in an instant the waiter appeared by the table, filling two glasses.
"When did you…"
"Phoned the restaurant while you were finishing with the groceries," Sherlock said, reaching for his glass.
"And why…" John looked at him, deep in thought, "You want me tipsy."
"Drunk," Sherlock corrected.
"So you wanted to make me drink on an empty stomach. Fine. I presume my food will be late as well?"
"Naturally."
John looked around the restaurant.
"We are the only table without breadsticks," he said, looking at Sherlock again, "So, what's the plan? I get drunk and tell you everything about my past?"
"That's the plan."
"Well then," John said, bringing his glass to his lips, "You are in for a very boring evening."
"I highly doubt…" Sherlock began, but was interrupted.
"Lestrade!" John called, and Sherlock turned around to find that the detective was indeed entering the restaurant.
"You did not tell me Lestrade was coming," Sherlock sighed, turning to look at John.
"To be honest I expected you to deduce it before we left the flat. Something else on your mind?" John winked, before getting up and greeting the detective.
It was not a completely crushing development; the first bottle of wine was finished before food arrived, and John was positively ruddy. Sherlock made his first glass last the whole evening, carefully watching John and letting him dominate the conversation. At first the doctor gave him knowing smiles, but soon he was too tipsy to keep up with the game.
It was nice to watch John uninhibited, Sherlock mused, settling comfortably in his seat. Tomorrow will be a blur for the doctor; he certainly won't remember Sherlock's searching eyes. Sherlock's foot slid closer to John's, and their knees brushed whenever the doctor turned to look at Lestrade.
"So," Lestrade was saying, jokingly, "Have you introduced Sherlock to your parents yet?"
"Parents," John laughed, closing his eyes, "If my father knew Sherlock – if he'd seen the bloke I was living with – he'd certainly have an aneurysm."
Lestrade laughed, tipsy himself, but Sherlock latched on to John.
"Why?" Sherlock asked, "Your mother seemed to like me."
"I bet my father was not in when you came 'round," John said, still smiling.
"True. Did you have some sort of falling out with your father?"
"'Falling out,'" John laughed, "The man hates me."
"Why?"
"I think I need to go home," John said, pressing his hands against his face, "We all need to go home."
The evening was not completely useless then, Sherlock thought, as John leaned heavily against him as they entered 221 Baker St. There was the unattractive smell of alcohol on John's breath, but there was also the streetlight illuminating his features, smoothing over his face and tangling in his hair. John was watching Sherlock with his lips parted and his hip heavy against the detective, and Sherlock was instantly reminded of the photograph pressed against his chest.
"Why wouldn't your father like me?" Sherlock asked quietly, looking at John.
John seemed confused at first, but in a second he was himself, and moving to lean against the wall instead of Sherlock.
"Bed," John breathed, "I need to go to bed."