John woke in the late morning of Sunday, and his first thought was: I'm meant to be at work. He leapt out of bed, and tugged on his smart trousers hastily, falling around the room in his urgency. His shirt was on his back in an instant, and his fingers fumbled at the buttons as he raced down the stairs to the bathroom.

He raced through the living room, his shirt till half-open, barely seeing Sherlock, who was sat at his desk, tapping away on his computer, updating The Science of Deduction. John's toothbrush was in his mouth when he emerged, and he swooped around the kitchen, snapping the kettle on and pouring an unmeasured amount of coffee granules into his mug. Unable to be still whilst he waited, John paced around the flat, running around madly, picking up random items, then returning them to their original places after a lap of the room.

The kettle finished boiling, and john was there in an instant, pouring the hot water into the mug and beating the mixture until the granules were in solution. Realising that his toothbrush was still stuck in his mouth, John hurried over to the kitchen sink and spat into it, accidentally dropping the brush into the dirty water as he did so.

"Shit!" John swore as he slid back to his coffee mug, the contained liquid he then attempted to down. "SHIT!" he howled as the coffee scalded the entire inside of his mouth and throat. And then he continued to gulp the coffee, irrespective of whether or not it damaged his oesophagus.

Sherlock had turned to watch him quietly as John failed to put his shoes on quickly enough for his liking. "John," he said softly. "I've already excused you from work. What are you getting ready for?"

John halted, and spun very slowly around to look at Sherlock with an expression of pure fury. "You what?" he snarled.

"Excused you from work," repeated Sherlock. "You were late anyway."

"I burned my mouth because you didn't have the thought to tell me before I almost walked out the door!" John said, incredulous and fuming.

"Mm." Sherlock turned his back again.

"One day, Sherlock, I am going to kill you," John said darkly.

There was a pause, and then Sherlock turned his head to look at John. As soon as their eyes met, they burst into simultaneous bouts of laughter. Chuckles shook their sides, and as soon as they calmed, their eyes would greet each other again, and the fits would continue.

"Alright, alright," John gasped. "Calm down, now. Oh, God."

"John," breathed Sherlock as his composure returned. "Dear John, you couldn't kill me if you tried. Not even I could kill me."

A snort of hysteria burst from John. "I said stop, Sherlock! Damn you!"

"Ah, John," Sherlock chuckled.

Their smiles were identical as John went to the sofa and collapsed upon it, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes and clutching his aching ribs. All the laughs they'd had together flashed before his vision, and he could see the same thoughts in Sherlock as he watched nostalgia creep over his face.

"What's all this noise, then?" Nina asked as she bounced into the room, her hair untidy from sleep.

"John was just getting ready for work," Sherlock said with a perfectly straight voice.

"Apparently he doesn't have to go," Nina smirked.

"Not today," Sherlock said. "I have need of him here."

John looked at Sherlock quizzically, but Sherlock didn't look his way. His eyes were fixed on Nina.

"What sort of need?" Nina asked impishly.

"I don't think that's any of your business."

John's eyebrows shot up his head and his eyes widened. The only meaning he could take from that caused him to cough once and he said "Sorry, what?"

"I need your help today," Sherlock replied, as though the answer was obvious. "And I need to keep you in my sight."

"Right. Okay," John said. "What do you need help with?"

Sherlock did not deign to answer him, and instead rose from his seat at the desk and approached Nina. He towered over the twenty-six year old woman, who was still in her pyjamas and fluffy slippers. He was almost intimidating as he leaned very close to her ear and said in a low voice "You should be painting, little girl."

She drew back warily, alarm filling her expression as she stepped away from the dark man in the purple shirt. With a flick of the end of her ponytail, she sped from the flat, and scurried up the stairs like a mouse.

"What was that for?" John demanded furiously. "What did she ever do to you?"

"She needs to know her place. She is just a child, after all," Sherlock answered coolly.

"What do you mean, Sherlock?" John said hotly.

"I mean," Sherlock snapped. "That she needs to know that I don't really date people who are that much younger than me, and I especially don't date… Well… Women."

"She fancies you?" John said in shock.

"Isn't it obvious? Honestly, John. Are you really that unobservant?"

John didn't speak for a minute, and then resolutely decided to change the topic. "So what are we doing today?"

"We," smiled Sherlock. "Are spending the whole day wandering around London."

"And how does that involve any 'help' that you say you need from me?" John asked.

"I'll be with you, and people will see us together."

"How does that help?"

"Well, I am meant to have risen from the dead, John. May as well get the 'big reveal' over and done with."

John nodded, understanding. "So do you want to go now? I'm ready."

"I know you are, John," Sherlock said gently.

He stood then, and made his way over to the door, where he plucked his coat and scarf off the hook. He wrapped the length of blue material around his neck, and shrugged the great coat on, tugging the collar up. John just watched, absorbing the moment, remembering how much he'd missed that. His cheekbones and his coat collar. The two things that defined Sherlock Holmes.

"Come on, John!" said Sherlock earnestly as he swung out of the room and thumped down the stairs.

Without a backwards glance at the flat, John Watson followed his Holmes onto the streets, to face the day, to face the crowds, to face the world together once more.

Sherlock walked beside John through central London. Wherever they went, people stared and whispered as they passed, recognising the dead man walking next to his blogger, and trying to fit the puzzle pieces together in their heads. Gapes were a common sight for John as he fell into step with Sherlock, but he wasn't bothered by all the attention they were getting. He was wrapped in a cloud of hazy bliss, and nothing could blemish the fact that he was rambling through his city with the love of his life. His Sherlock.

John barely took his eyes off him.

Evening came, and they were still walking, not saying a word, just wandering, their companionship overruling any thought at an attempted conversation. Eventually, though, the silence had to end, and it was ended by the grumbling of John's stomach as he discovered that he hadn't eaten all day. Sherlock seemed startled by the noise, but he smiled at John's petrified face as the rumble caused several nearby couples to turn their heads.

"Dinner?"

"I'd love to, Sherlock."

The restaurant they picked was a nearby Italian, and they were seated by a waitress who put them on a table by the window. The candle at the table was already lit when they sat down. Sherlock hung his coat on the hat-stand, alongside his scarf. "Your coat, John?" he offered as John removed his own.

"Yep," beamed John as he passed it over. Sherlock hung it on the neighbouring peg.

John took his menu, and he scanned over the list quickly, looking up at Sherlock to see if he would finally be eating with him. And to his great surprise, Sherlock's eyes were skimming his menu for the first time since John had met him. "You're eating?" John couldn't help but blurt.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I'm hungry."

John looked at his friend, scrutinising. "You've lost weight, Sherlock."

"I have."

"You haven't been eating, have you?"

"Well of course I've been eating, John. If I hadn't eaten, I'd be dead," Sherlock said dismissively.

"You've gotten so thin, Sherlock. It's not healthy. Jesus Christ, couldn't you have at least eaten whilst you were gone? Did you really need me to pester you? Couldn't you have eaten well, just for me?" John's voice was despairing as he looked at Sherlock.

"I've disappointed you," Sherlock said with dismay.

"You need to eat, Sherlock," John replied.

"Fine. I'll eat now, I'll even get a dessert," Sherlock decided. "Is that better?"

John sighed. "Much."

Sherlock gave a sharp nod. And then the waitress came over. "Do you know what you would like to drink?"

"Yes, I think we do," said Sherlock authoritatively. "Bring a bottle of your best champagne over, would you?"

"Of course, sir," the waitress smiled as she strutted away.

"Champagne, Sherlock?" John queried.

"Yes, John. Champagne. I don't usually drink, but I hear it makes you fat."

"You just made a joke."

"Did I? I suppose I did, yes."

The waitress came back with the champagne, and she poured the sparkling liquid into each of the glasses she set down on the table. When she'd finished, she pulled out a small notepad and a black biro. "Have you decided what you'd like to eat?"

"I'll have the Ravioli di Capra," Sherlock informed her without taking his eyes off John, who looked up from his menu briskly.

"I'll… Err… Have the same, please," John said, eyeing Sherlock bemusedly.

"Right you are. I'll bring your food over as soon as it's ready." Neither man watched her walk away.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" John asked.

"Like what?"

"Like… I don't know."

"Hmm."

Sherlock took a sip of his champagne, and rolled it around in his mouth, sampling its flavour. "It's good," he noted.

"Well you did order their best champagne," mumbled John into his raised glass as he, too, took a taste. "Mm. It is good."

"Glad you like it," Sherlock said, averting his gaze so that it trailed out of the window, watching the passers-by. John stared out too, into the nighttime, but seeing nothing of interest, he turned his eyes to absorb Sherlock.

The candlelight lit Sherlock spectacularly. The softness of the glow took away all the harsh edges to his starved face, filling all the deep hollows and making his face younger, healthier. His lips looked fuller, more curved, as though there was an ever-present smile upon his mouth. His eyelashes flicked light in all directions as they brushed across his lower lids when he blinked. The green of his irises was barely visible, but the small fraction that John could see flamed with the dancing flame of the candle, beautifying Sherlock's whole being with their delicate magnificence. The splendour that was his dark curls framed his cheekbones, and like an ethereal presence, Sherlock brought nothing but glory to any room that he happened to be in. And John knew it now, as he hadn't fully known before he had lost him.

A bowl was set down in front of him. "Here you go. Would you like any parmesan on that?" The waitress' voice snapped him out of the trance he had been in.

"Oh. No thank you," he said. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock was shocked back into reality. "Erm… No? No."

John looked apologetically at the waitress as he thanked her once more, and she left. John studied his friend. "What's on your mind, Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Napkin?"

"No, Sherlock," John exhaled before picking up his knife and fork and digging straight into the meal. His face screwed up in pleasure.

"Good?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded enthusiastically. "Great. Try it." He motioned to Sherlock to begin eating.

With raised eyebrows, Sherlock took his first forkful, and chewed thoughtfully. After apparently deciding that his food wasn't poisoned, Sherlock ate with zeal, and even seemed to be enjoying it. John couldn't help but wear a satisfied expression as he watched him eat. Sherlock noted this expression with some humour, but did not speak. He would finish it for John.

For a full fifteen minutes, the couple sat, unspeaking, as they dined. John finished first, but he refused to say a word until Sherlock's plate was empty. They sipped champagne until their glasses were empty, at which point Sherlock picked up the bottle and poured until they were full again.

The waitress came to take their clean plates away, and asked if they wanted to see the dessert menu. John didn't give Sherlock a chance to say no. The small menu was placed in John's hands, John, who instantly passed it over to his friend. "Here. You have to choose something and you have to eat it. Doctor's orders."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said as he glanced over the small piece of paper for anything that he might wish to have. Eventually he set the menu down.

"What are you having?"

Sherlock chortled quietly. "It's alright, John. I have chosen something. I don't have to tell you straight away, do I?"

"What are you having?" John repeated with determination.

"Tiramisu," Sherlock replied. "Is that alright?"

"Yes," said John in a sigh.

They waited.

Suddenly Sherlock's entire demeanour changed, and he was the alert consulting detective once more, rather than the softer man who'd just had dinner with his companion. "Look out, John," he said quickly. "Lestrade's here."

John looked around desperately, seeing danger in this arrival. "What can we do?"

"We don't have to do anything, John," Sherlock said. "Sit tight."

Lestrade came round the wall that had separated the main body of the restaurant from the smaller annex where John and Sherlock were sat. His mouth dropped open in astonishment as he saw with his own eyes the resurrected man who sat opposite John Watson at the dinner table. Speechless for a second, Lestrade composed himself.

"Sherlock Holmes," he stated.

"Detective Inspector," Sherlock responded.

"You're alive."

"Evidently."

"Any chance you could tell me where you've been for three years, or are you going to leave me in the dark?"

"I'd go with the latter."

"Right," Lestrade said, looking like a lost lamb before this collected figure. "You're going to have to come with me, Sherlock. For questioning."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I have just come back from the dead, and you insist upon arresting me halfway through my dinner. I haven't had dessert yet, and John did insist."

"Sherlock –" Lestrade began.

"For once in your life, Inspector, sit down and have a glass of champagne. I am not letting this bottle go to waste. Besides, I'm not going anywhere. You can arrest me when I've had my tiramisu." Sherlock then raised his voice slightly to call for the waitress. "Excuse me, but could you bring over another glass for our friend? Thank you."

The glass was filled with bubbly and passed over to Lestrade, who stared, stunned, between the two men at the table, then accepted the glass and pulled up a chair to sit down with them. He took a long sip of the beverage, and made an appreciative noise. "This is good," he announced.

"Yes, John and I have already concluded as much," Sherlock said dryly. "Would you mind informing me as to the reasons why you interrupted my date?"

John choked on his champagne, but Sherlock ignored him and inclined his head for Lestrade to speak.

"Well, erm… You were dead. And now you've come back," Lestrade said slowly.

"Yes. Hurry up and get to the point, Lestrade. My patience is wearing thin." Sherlock spoke sharply.

"Alright, calm down," Lestrade said and then continued. "You were a fake, Sherlock. That's how everyone sees you. You killed lots of people to prove that you were a genius, and you hired an actor to be your enemy. You were a criminal, and nobody's proved your innocence yet, so I have to treat you like a delinquent and arrest you."

"What do you mean, no one's proved my innocence?" Sherlock demanded. "Have I not just proved my genius by simply existing? I jumped from that rooftop, and yet I didn't die. Nobody knows how I did it. So how could I be alive, Lestrade, if I was a fake who killed himself because he couldn't stand the thought of being in prison?"

Lestrade thought for a moment. "It doesn't make any difference, Sherlock. I'm still going to have to arrest you. It doesn't matter whether I believe you or not. You need sound evidence and a brilliant explanation to get you out of this one, because there are several million people out there who do not feel safe because they think a psychopath is freely roaming the streets of London with no repercussions whatsoever!"

"I've told you before, Lestrade. I'm not a psychopath. I am a sociopath."

"People don't see it like that."

Sherlock gave an almighty breath. "Fine, Lestrade. I'll come. After dessert, though. I promised John I'd have one. Excuse me, waitress! Can I get a tiramisu over here please? Thanks again."

Lestrade shook his head. "You're unbelievable."

"I have promised to keep." Sherlock regarded him, then asked "Does John have to come, too?"

"No. He's done nothing wrong. His name's already been cleared. He can go back home," Lestrade informed him. "Unless he wants to come with you to the station. But that's his choice."

"I'll come," interjected John.

"No," Sherlock protested. "You're going back to Baker Street. I'm not having you waiting around for me. Besides, you've got to tell Mrs Hudson what's going on and you have work in the morning."

"I'll call her. And I can miss work," John countered.

"Two days in a row? Not likely," Sherlock retorted.

"I'll call in sick."

"That won't work, considering that today I told them you were going to a funeral, and then you want to take the next day off."

John gave a bitter laugh. "You planned this," he said. "You knew this would happen."

"Of course I did, John," he said with an indignant huff. "Ah, tiramisu. Thank you. Could you bring the bill over as well?" He said to the waitress as she set the dessert and spoon down before him. The bill was on the table within ten seconds.

Sherlock took his first spoonful, slicing off the corner of the cuboid of pudding, and he slipped the spoon into his mouth, pulling off the creamy dessert with his lips. All eyes were on him as he rolled the food around in his mouth, his eyes wide as he swallowed. He scooped up another spoonful quickly, and shoved it into his mouth as her savoured it. His face was a picture of pleasure. "John!" he exclaimed. "You have to try this!" And his spoon dove in for another mouthful, which he passed over to John's mouth.

John thought very briefly, and then opened his mouth and accepted the tiramisu from Sherlock with trusting eyes. His reaction to the dessert was very similar to his friend's, and he smiled with delight. "Wonderful," he said. "Absolutely divine." Lestrade stifled his laughter beneath a gulp of champagne as he watched the interaction. Sherlock's glare was enough to make him stop.

Sherlock finished his meal, finally, and drained the last drops of his champagne. Lestrade grinned to himself as he slid out a pair of handcuffs. "Is that really necessary?" John inquired.

"Last time he got arrested, he threatened to kill you and he ran away with a gun," Lestrade said.

"He's not exactly going to do that again, is he, though?" John reasoned.

"I'm not going to give him the chance to," smiled Lestrade maliciously as he tugged Sherlock out of his chair and slipped the handcuffs onto his outstretched wrists. "Have a good night, John."

"Don't leave the flat, John," Sherlock instructed. "Stay safe."

"Sherlock –"

"I'll see you tomorrow, John," Sherlock called as he was led away to the police car that was waiting outside.

John grabbed his coat from the hat-stand, and realised that Sherlock had left his and the blue scarf on the neighbouring hook. He was stuck in a moment of indecision, but resolved that he'd take it home for him, to await his return. He threw the coat around his shoulders and the scarf around his neck, and began to dash off.

"Excuse me, sir!" The waitress stopped him. "You need to pay the bill."