"Excuse me, you don't happen to have a light do you?"
John jolts out of his silent contemplation, head snapping round to the figure by the door. Sherlock steps outside, shivering slightly as the chill of the evening breeze hits him. "Filthy habit, I know," he says apologetically. "Never could manage to stop."
"I know." John means to say before he stops himself. He doesn't understand what the rules are now if there are any, if it will cause Sherlock harm if John makes himself known. He fingers the card in his pocket absently, tracing round the gilded edge, wishing he'd researched this place more thoroughly before he came here instead of climbing hot-headed into the first available cab.
But then he would have missed this, whatever 'this' is.
Sherlock frowns for a second, rummaging in his trouser pockets and pulling out a battered box of safety matches. John huffs a little at the irony. "Never mind," Sherlock smiles warmly, "Although I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to have these, but I can't quite recall why. Arson do you think?" He winks, so fast John doubts the evidence of his own eyes, strikes one against the side of the box and cups his hand around the cigarette in his lips. The tip glows red and he shakes the match to extinguish it. Smoke curls into the night, he slips the spent match into the box, and slips the box back into his pocket. The hand stays there, fingers flexing against his wool-clad thigh and John can't tear his eyes away.
He looks so damn beautiful. The mist-like rain sits like glitter in his wayward curls, catching the light that streams from the large leaded windows of the dining room. John can barely breathe. No spark of recognition in those ethereal eyes, but no corresponding guarded suspicion either. This is a Sherlock he's never seen before, a Sherlock that might have been. Without the hurt and the lies and the gulf that had grown between them in recent months. All easy grace and sensual charm; it's frankly unnerving. And horribly seductive. John tries not to think too much about what that means for both of them.
"You staying?" says Sherlock, taking another drag and nodding his head back towards the building. He leans back casually against the outside wall. "Only got here this afternoon myself, but it seems rather nice don't you think?"
John feels frozen, can't think what to say, caught between the wildly inappropriate thoughts that have chosen this moment to swirl around his head and not coming off like some ignorant prick. He nods in the affirmative, a sharp bark to clear his throat, praying his voice won't betray him. "Er, yeah…came down to see a friend of mine, but I think he forgot me or something."
Sherlock smiles. "Can't imagine why." His eyes are appraising. "Was it business or pleasure – this little visit?"
"What?"
"God, sorry, I'm an idiot. That was a little presumptuous of me. Look, what I meant to say, was if you're at a loose end, I thought maybe we could have a drink….just while you wait for your….friend, no pressure or anything, seems a shame to come all this way for nothing."
Jesus Christ, thinks John. He's flirting. Sherlock bloody Holmes is bloody flirting with me. And apologising for being a nosy dick. Old Sherlock, his Sherlock would never say sorry, because he works under the automatic arrogant and entitled public school-boy assumption that he is never under any circumstances ever in the wrong in the first place. Every question serves a purpose no matter how intrusive. Never mind a memory cleanse, he's had a full personality transplant. But the evidence is irrefutable now, Sherlock hasn't the slightest idea who John is, he's just essentially propositioned a stranger (he thinks) while having a fag outside a hotel bar. It's ridiculous and surreal.
Unless this is some sort of test, a joke.
Okay, he'll play along, the only way to see if this is real or fake is to see just how far Sherlock is willing to go. John's not entirely sure if this is best or the worst damn idea of his life, but if Sherlock hates the memory of John Watson so much, perhaps there's still time to overwrite it somehow, with something new. And it's a damn big line to cross. John knows this, and still he can't, he won't walk away.
"Yeah, why not?" John answers, though in reality, which John will ignore for now, there are a million and one reasons why this could go spectacularly wrong . He steps a little closer, invading Sherlock's body space a little more, hoping the man can't tell how hard his heart is thumping, how much his palms are sweating, the urge to wipe them down his leg overwhelming.
This is quite possibly the most terrifying thing he's ever done in five years of knowing this ridiculous man and that really is saying something.
Sherlock parts his legs unconsciously. John pitches his voice low and steady. "It was business by the way," he adds, head cocked to one side. "But I was hoping it might have been pleasure one day. You know how these things are, I'm sure."
"Mmm," Sherlock hums in agreement, "Yes - UST in the workplace, nothing worse."
"Oh, I don't know," John smiles, "Sometimes that's half the fun."
"Indeed." Sherlock takes a final drag, stubs the cigarette out on the side of a plant pot. "Sherlock," he says with warm, genuine smile. He holds out a hand for John to shake.
"John," he answers, even though it feels beyond ridiculous, when they've lived together for years, worked, eaten and even platonically shared the same bed on occasion. Not anymore. A large warm palm wraps around his smaller hand Sherlock squeezing for a beat too long.
"John." The most common first name in the western hemisphere (probably) and Sherlock rolls it around in his mouth as if he's never even heard it before. Does it work like that too? Not just this John, but all John's erased? But then he smiles, seems pleased, pushes up from the wall and says, "Shall we?" He gestures back towards the warm, inviting sanctuary of the hotel bar and the muted hum of voices, the clink of glasses the comforting smells of good food and alcohol.
Half-hearted drizzle turns to full-bodied fat soaking drops that bounce off the tarmac surface and they both start to laugh. "Guess that decides it then." Sherlock steps back inside as John holds the door. By the time it swings shut again, Sherlock is already at the bar placing an order for a bottle of red and two glasses. His phone buzzes accusingly and he fishes it out of his pocket, half expecting it to be Mary with some sanctimonious rant about duty and commitment, his responsibilities as a husband and father. As if she isn't responsible in the first place for ripping his life to shreds and trampling it underfoot as if it meant nothing.
It's not Mary. Not Mycroft either. John came he with his blessing, if he'd had reservations Mycroft never would have told him where Sherlock had gone.
An unknown number.
Don't do anything rash Dr Watson
Who is this?
A friend.
I seriously doubt that. What do you want?
There's nothing you can do John. The process has already begun.
What process? His hands shake as he types.
Irreversible erasure.
John is still staring at the screen when Sherlock strides back over and touches him on the arm. "Bad news? Friend unavoidably detained for the night?"
"Um, yeah, something like that," John mutters. He thumbs the screen, typing quickly and biting his lip in concentration while Sherlock looks at him quizzically, but uncharacteristically says nothing. Why feel the need to warn me then?
It's a challenge. But the phone stays ominously silent as he slips into the corner booth beside Sherlock. John can't tell if that's a good sign. If the messages are from Lacuna Inc, and if this process is as permanent as they claim it is then why be concerned he's here?
"So," Sherlock smiles, "if that's business taken care of, why don't you tell me a little about yourself."
He takes a gulp of wine to quell the ache in his chest at those words. It warms his throat and he meets Sherlock's curious gaze as the germ of a plan takes root. He'll fight this, with everything he has. "I've got a better idea – why don't you tell me what you see?"