"Hello, Irene," she heard faintly from behind her. She turned around and saw the man who must have said it, but she almost didn't recognize him. The evening's waning sunlight slanted through the restaurant's windows, surrounding him in a hazy orange aura. He took a step closer to her and he came into focus. A few days' beard growth lined his jaw, the bags under his eyes showed he hadn't been sleeping well, and he was wearing grey sweatpants. He smelled awful.
"You've really let yourself go," she said. "Sherlock."
A terse smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. "You've started wearing your hair differently," he observed. "The fringe suits you. However," he began, taking one of her hands in his, "I would never have expected that you would take up such a…conventional role. Happily married housewife? Most unbecoming."
Irene bowed her head slightly and chuckled. "Let me guess," she said. "My fingernails?"
"You've started wearing them short and your nail polish is cracked at the tips, as sure a sign as any that you've been washing dishes. I can even see bits of soil trapped under them, remnants from gardening. Not to mention—"
"What makes you think I haven't just been doing my own dishes?"
"There were eight tell-tale signs, but I won't bore you with the details," he said stubbornly. "But if you must know, I noticed your wedding ring."
Irene looked at her left ring finger, startled. The thin gold band sat there snugly, just where it always did. "Funny," she said. "It's been so long that sometimes I forget it's there."
"Umm, sir?" came a feeble voice as a young waiter approached them. "My manager says you have to leave if you're going to be harassing our paying customers."
"Excuse me, I –" Sherlock snarled before Irene interrupted.
"It's alright, he's with me."
The waiter looked taken aback. "You're with the hobo?"
"I object to the term 'hobo'!" Sherlock shrieked indignantly, at the same time as Irene said, "Yes, and we're being joined by one more person later."
The waiter raised his eyebrows suspiciously. "Umm…okay? I'll get you a booth in the back, I guess." He grabbed three menus from a hidden pile and led them through the sea of tables to a secluded booth in the back of the restaurant. "Enjoy your meal," he said, turning and walking quickly back to the front of the restaurant. "Fucking weirdos," Irene thought she heard him mutter.
Sherlock quickly glanced over his menu and set it aside. "So, to business."
"To business?" Irene asked, startled. "So soon?"
"Yes, I thought it best for us to get to the purpose of our meeting immediately, and –"
"Sherlock, I think you're forgetting something. Something we should discuss before we discuss whatever you called me here for."
"Oh, yes? And what's that?"
"You were dead!"
"No I wasn't."
"Well, now that's horrifically obvious, but it was on the news, they said that you'd killed yourself. I—I thought…"
"Yes, I know what you thought. But clearly, I am very much alive. I'm afraid I can't say the same for your friend Jim Moriarty."
"What makes you so sure Jim is actually dead? You aren't."
"I'm not sure I understand the question. He shot himself in the face."
"And you jumped off Bart's."
"And you were beheaded by an Afghan terrorist cell. Yes, Irene, I am well aware that people are capable of faking their own deaths. I'd even say that I'm rather well-versed on the subject, but you weren't there. He shot himself at point-blank range, and, in case you'd forgotten, point-blank range is called 'point-blank range' because at such a short distance, even a blank will kill you. The gunshot was very distinct, and whether what he fired was a bullet or a blank, Jim is dead."
Irene fell silent at that, having become unused to Sherlock's cold logic over the years they'd been apart. She didn't know what she'd expected, whether she'd hoped Sherlock had changed during his years under the radar, become more friendly or even just tolerable, but it was abundantly clear that he was the same man she'd known three years ago. But then again, she knew he wasn't all bad. It had been Sherlock, after all, who had saved her from certain death.
While Irene had been reminiscing, Sherlock had been reading the menu. Irene could see from his cheekbones (which were even more pronounced than usual; she could tell in spite of his beard) and his hands (in which each of his bones was clearly distinguishable) that he hadn't been eating well as of late. Granted, he did currently appear to be homeless.
A kind-faced waitress arrived at their table. "Are you folks ready to order?"
"Yes, I'll have coffee, thanks. Black. Two sugars," Sherlock rattled off, not even looking at the poor waitress as he handed her his menu.
"Um, sir? It's seven o'clock at night."
"Yes, it is."
"Alright, coffee," sighed the waitress, struggling to keep her fake smile glued to her face. "And you, ma'am?"
Irene looked at Sherlock incredulously but said nothing. "Erm, the Cobb salad, and a side of French fries."
"Any drink for you, ma'am?"
"Water, please," Irene said, smiling tersely, handing her the menu.
The waitress recapped her pen and made to walk away but hesitated, eyeing the menu that was currently lying on the table, untouched.
"We're waiting for someone," Irene said flatly.
"Ah, right." The waitress turned on her heel and walked away quickly.
"So, who's our absent guest?" Sherlock asked abruptly.
"Hm?" Irene said distractedly, glancing up from her watch.
Sherlock gestured at the menu with a long, skinny finger.
"Oh," Irene breathed. "Andy. I don't know what's taking h—"
"Ah, the husband," Sherlock murmured, smiling smugly. "I assumed as much. Why have you invited him?"
Irene rolled her eyes. "We were supposed to be having dinner together anyway, so when I said I had to cancel, Andy wanted to know why, and I said I was meeting with an old friend." Irene started straightening her silverware absentmindedly. "For understandable reasons, I've always been very quiet about my old friends, so Andy was curious about you and wanted to meet you. So I said okay. Didn't want to arouse suspicion."
Sherlock squinted his eyes as if trying to figure Irene out. She was used to it. In fact, the first time she'd been on the receiving end of that stare was the first time they'd met. Irene grinned at the memory. There was nothing quite like entering a room stark naked just to make your guests uncomfortable. She quite enjoyed having one up on Sherlock.
"Irene!" came a sharp voice from the front of the restaurant. Irene was at attention instantly, flagging down the source of the voice. Sherlock's reaction was much slower. His head turned so minutely and gradually that it almost looked as if it weren't moving. Irene could practically feel the gears in his brain whirring, trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong in his calculations. Irene smirked. Yes, it really was fun to have one up on Sherlock.
"Sherlock," Irene began, putting her arm around the new arrival's waist, "this is my wife, Andrea."
Sherlock's facial expression changed instantly from one of cold calculation to a more socially acceptable smile. "Hello, Andrea. It's nice to meet you." He extended his hand.
Andrea, to her credit, only cringed slightly as she took the disheveled and foul-smelling man's hand. "Andy, please," she said, taking her seat and glancing over her menu before setting it aside.
"So," she said apprehensively, "you're Irene's old friend from London?"
"Yes, you sound shocked about that. Why do you sound shocked? Why does she sound shocked?" he asked, suddenly diverting his question to Irene.
"Maybe because you look as though you've just crawled out of a bin," Irene responded aggressively.
"Irene!" Andy said sharply. "It's okay."
Andy looked as if she wanted to say more, but she was prevented from doing so when the waitress returned with Irene and Sherlock's food.
"Salad and fries for you," she said, setting down the plates gingerly. "And…coffee. Can I get you anything, miss?" she asked Andy.
"Yes, please, I'll have a slice of pepperoni pizza."
"Of course." The waitress took Andy's menu and left.
"Is that really such a good idea?" Sherlock asked.
"What?" Irene asked.
"All that cheese," he replied, eyes sliding down to Andy's stomach, which was spilling slightly over the top of her trousers.
"Hey!" she shrieked.
Irene placed a hand on her arm. "Just let it go."
Sherlock, oblivious to the exchange, took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. "There's no sugar."
Irene silently pushed the sugar caddy toward him. "Here."
Sherlock took two packets and dumped them into his cup angrily. Irene pushed the plate of fries toward him as well. "And here."
Sherlock looked up at her confusedly through his disheveled mop of curly hair. "What's this?"
"Your dinner."
"I'm not hungry."
"Perhaps not, but you need to eat."
"No, I don't. If I needed to eat I would be hungry."
"Aha! And maybe if I didn't know you I'd believe you. But I do know you, Sherlock. And I know that when you're thinking about something you can go without eating for days. And that was even with John looking after you."
"John wasn't looking after me."
"Yes, he was."
Sherlock pursed his lips as if he were holding words back by sheer power of will. He reached forward and plucked one French fry off the plate and took an exaggerated bite. "Better?"
Irene appreciated the gesture, even if his heart wasn't in it. "Quite."
The table fell into uncomfortable silence as Andy's pizza arrived. She looked down at it forlornly and then cleared her throat loudly. "Y'know, I'm just gonna go to the restroom really quick." She pecked Irene on the lips and left the booth.
"She seems nice," Sherlock said lightly, smirking.
"Oh, what is wrong with you?" Irene shrieked. "Do you get off on making people dislike you?"
"So Andy was a woman," he said, dodging the question.
Irene's mouth fell agape. "What a spectacular observation!" Irene groaned sarcastically.
"It's just –" Sherlock began haltingly, eyes narrowing, "you married a woman."
"Yes."
"I thought you fancied me."
"Oh, god, is that what that was about? You're jealous?"
"Jealous? Why would I be jealous? You fancied me. The feeling was never reciprocated. I just don't quite understand your…"
"Yes?"
"Well, it's just…I'm a man."
Irene rolled her eyes. "You realize it's not exactly a cast-iron either-or sort of situation, right?"
"Yes, right. Miss Andy is taking a while in the toilet, isn't she?"
"She's not coming back, Sherlock."
"She said she was just popping to the loo."
"She was trying to be polite. You know, you're extremely clever about a lot of things, but you are positively stupid about people. Speaking of which…does John know?"
"That I'm 'stupid about people'? Of course. He used to tell me that at least once a day."
"No, that you're alive, you twat."
"Don't be absurd," he said, eating another fry absentmindedly.
"You haven't told him?!"
"Of course not! Well, at least, not yet."
"So you plan to."
"Naturally."
Irene sighed. "Well I hope you've planned it out better than this little reunion," she deadpanned. "Gave me a bloody heart attack, that text did. I'm not dead, let's have dinner? What sort of God-awful poetic justice is that?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, chuckling. "You've gone soft, Irene. A couple years ago, a text like that would have hardly fazed you. What's happened to you?"
"I grew up. I got married," she said. "I'm not the Irene you knew anymore."
"Ah, yes," Sherlock murmured, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "You're Irene Holmes now, aren't you?"
"Piss off."
"In any event. Business."
"Yes, what mad scheme are you trying to involve me in this time?"
"I need to return to London."
Irene's eyes widened. "Honestly, that was not at all what I expected. Why?"
"Something's come up. An emergency."
"What sort of emergency?"
"Irrelevant. What is relevant, however, is that I need you to book a plane ticket for me, under the pseudonym Matt Smith."
"Why?"
"Well, you see, Smith is a common last name, but Matt is common without being suspiciously common, so it's the perfect alias."
"You know, it frightens me how similarly we think about certain things," Irene said, shaking her head. "But that's not what I meant. I mean why do I have to book you a plane ticket?"
"I told you, there's an emergency."
"Yes, but why do I have to book your ticket?"
Sherlock gestured to himself in explanation, but seeing that Irene wanted a verbal reply, he quietly admitted, "Because I have no money. I'm bloody homeless, Irene."
"Well how do you know about the emergency, then? You don't have a mobile or anything."
"Because I used every last penny I had to use some ruddy internet café computer for ten minutes and I did some research," Sherlock said poisonously.
"Alright, alright," Irene said. "Calm down."
"I am calm," Sherlock replied, viciously biting into a handful of fries.
After a brief pause, Irene asked, "Why can't you get back the same way you got here in the first place?"
Sherlock snorted. "It would take someone even smarter than me to hack into my brother's bank account on an internet café computer on this side of the Atlantic, and I'm afraid I don't have anyone of the sort on hand. No, I'm afraid this is the only way."
Irene sighed. "Fine. Okay. I'll get you a ticket."
"Thank you."
"And one more thing," Irene hedged. "When you see John…be gentle with him. The last thing he probably needs is a shock, so don't go, I dunno, jumping out of a cake or anything." Irene glared down at her salad. "And say hi to him for me."
"Don't be ridiculous; he thinks you're dead."
"Pot, kettle, darling."