"Two, please."

Sherlock looked around. Victor was taking him to a restaurant? To eat? He shook his head, confused. This didn't make sense.

He followed Victor to a small booth near the back. It wasn't a restaurant Sherlock recognized, though he knew it was somewhere in central London, judging by the time and distance it took to get there. Victor sat down and pulled Sherlock close beside him, clutching the detective's hand tightly. To anyone else, the two of them looked like a couple desperately in love. But Sherlock knew that Victor was just keeping a hold on him in case he got any ideas.

Sherlock allowed his eyes and senses to wander, gathering information on the situation at hand. It was a small, cozy restaurant; obviously a popular place for couples to gather, as there were several seated all around him. It seemed to have some kind of a Chinese theme, judging by the decorations and wall hangings. It was a fairly new place, couldn't be more than 2 or 3 months old. A waiter passed by with a platter of food, and Sherlock sniffed deeply. Yes, it was Chinese, definitely. Orange chicken with sesame. His stomach gave an unfortunate growl, and Victor smiled.

"Oh, no, Sherlock," he said maliciously, "You didn't really think I brought you here to buy you dinner, did you?"

Just then a waiter popped up to their table. "Good evening, gentlemen." He spoke in a gentle Korean accent (fake, Sherlock thought, it wasn't his natural tone of voice). "What can I get you tonight?"

Victor scanned the menu. "I think I'll have the sweet and sour pork with fried rice." He closed the menu and handed it to the waiter. "And just plain water to drink."

The waiter nodded, smiling cheerfully. He turned to Sherlock. "And for you, sir?"

Victor interrupted. "No, he's not hungry." He stared at Sherlock, who saw malice in his eyes. "Are you, Sherl?"

Sherlock hesitated, then shook his head. "No. I'm not."

The waiter grinned. "Very well. I will be back with your dishes in a little while."

As the waiter left, Victor smiled triumphantly. "That's my Sherl," he said proudly, "never hungry."

They sat in silence, and half an hour later the waiter brought Victor his pork. He began to devour it, savoring the sweetness of the meat. Sherlock's stomach strongly objected at the smell of food. He hadn't eaten in days. He felt like he was going to be sick.

"Victor…" he whispered, hoping speaking wouldn't cause too much damage.

Victor looked up sharply from his food, glaring daggers at Sherlock. "What, Sherlock? Can't you see I'm busy enjoying this wonderful dinner?"

Sherlock sucked in a breath. "I don't feel very good." he swallowed his pride for the next part, trying to keep his dignity intact. "May I be allowed to use the loo?"

Victor nodded and waved a hand carelessly in the direction of the wash rooms. "Go, go. Be back in five minutes, though; no more, no less, or there will be trouble. Understand?"

Sherlock nodded, relieved. He left the table quickly, hoping Victor wouldn't change his mind.

As soon as he entered the bathroom, he darted to a stall and emptied what little there was in his stomach into the toilet. It was mostly bile and some water, and Sherlock moaned, his head spinning. He was miserable, and he was alone. What was the point of life, if it was going to be like this?

He rested his head on the edge of the seat and tried to escape to his mind palace as best he could for the time being.

…

"Look, Greg, I really don't know about this…"

Greg rolled his eyes. "John. I said, and Mycroft agrees with me, that you need to get out. Hanging about the flat waiting for news about Sherlock isn't good for you, mate."

"I thought you wanted to help me find him." John said coldly.

Greg sighed, exasperated. "I want to find Sherlock and bring him home just as much as anyone. But this…it's unhealthy. Sherlock wouldn't want you holed up in the flat waiting for him to come home."

John laughed for the first time since Sherlock's disappearance. "You know, I just bet he would, Greg. I bet he would."

Greg laughed too, glad to finally have gotten through to John. "Come on. Mycroft and I already have it planned; we're going to this new Chinese place down the block a little ways from the Yard. Heard it has pretty good pork."

John nodded, still anxious for his partner, though not as much now as before.

They took a cab to the restaurant, where Mycroft was already waiting, checking his pocket watch every so often.

The two walked over to his table, Greg almost tripping over a small child running about the place. John looked around. This seemed to be a popular place for couples, despite it's new status. He looked over towards the booths on the opposite side of the restaurant and, for one moment, thought he saw a man that looked vaguely like Sherlock (albeit much, much skinnier, and haggard-looking, and bruised, very bruised), but then he was gone. John shook his head. Greg was right; he needed to have a little down time, and stop worrying so much.

They reached the table, Mycroft flipping closed his pocket watch. "Gregory. So good to see you." He said coolly.

Greg laughed. "Ever the iceman, Mickey, aren't you?" he said in a teasing voice. He slid into the booth beside Mycroft and kissed his cheek gently. "Excuse me if my greeting is a little more friendly than that."

John had never seen Mycroft blush before, but the man lit up like a beacon at Greg's 'greeting'. John coughed uncomfortably, once again wishing Sherlock was here to lighten the mood with a few snarky comments at Mycroft's expense. "Right. Um, should I just go find another table, or is it safe to sit without having a floor show?"

This time both men blushed. Mycroft spoke up, trying to regain control over his emotions. "Sorry, John. Gregory has been very busy at Scotland Yard lately and we really haven't seen much of each other, so…"

Greg coughed, trying to prevent Mycroft from completing the awkward statement he had been about to make. "So how about we order some food?"

The waiter came and took their order, promising to be back momentarily with drinks for them all. John knew that the two were trying hard to include him, but it wasn't easy. After the fourth awkward third-wheel conversation, he excused himself to the bathroom, telling them to text him when the food was ready. Mycroft and Greg didn't seem to have any complaints, and John resigned himself to an evening of takeout in the toilets.

He pushed open the door to the bathroom and looked around to find a deserted stall. He was surprised to find that the whole bathroom was, eerily, empty. He walked towards the very back and noticed a soft sniffling sound coming from the last stall. It wasn't locked, and didn't appear to be all the way closed. Was it a child, he wondered? Maybe they were in trouble.

Now, John had never been a peeping Tom. But, if someone was in trouble, it was in his nature to help them, bathroom or not. He gently pushed open the stall, and saw, just as he expected, a person, lying face-down on the floor, in a puddle of bile and what he could assume must be the upcoming contents of the person's stomach.

He kneeled down. The person had black, wildly matted curls that reminded him of Sherlock, and was wearing a purple shirt that reminded him of Sherlock, also. Maybe they were right; he did need to get out more. He put his hand on the man's back. "Are you all right, sir?"

He heard a muffled gasp. "John?" the figure muttered. The person turned over, and John got the shock of his life.

"Sh…Sherlock?"