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The day after John moved back into Baker Street, they went to have dinner in a nice and quiet restaurant. Sherlock had surprised John with the reservation, and by surprised John meant really gobsmacked him. Sherlock had never before made a reservation. Most times they’d gone to Angelo’s if there was something to celebrate. But tonight Sherlock had really made an effort and had booked a table at the one Italian restaurant John had always wanted to try but never gotten round to.
Of course Sherlock had known this.
Rosie was staying with Mrs. Hudson and they had all the time in the world. They’d ordered an incredibly expensive bottle of wine with dinner and both had been superb.
Now John felt stuffed, relaxed and simply great. Sherlock was in a good mood today. During dinner he’d made all sorts of fun deductions about other guests and more than once John had nearly spilled his drink, he’d giggled so much. Sherlock’s deeper chuckle had joined in frequently and John’s heart had warmed. God, he’d missed this.
John had just filled their glasses with the last bit of wine and was contemplating ordering a second bottle, when someone suddenly caught his attention. A man was passing their table on his way to the loo.
“Oh. My. That’s…” John’s mouth dropped open.
Sherlock’s hand with the wine glass stopped mid-air. He frowned and then followed John’s gaze. “Who is it?”
“Shht,” John had the audacity to shush him. He turned beet-red. “Don’t stare!”
“You’re staring,” Sherlock threw back and craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the person John was staring at.
Male, six foot two, in his late fifties, with greying hair and a beard that, although neatly trimmed, gave the man a roguish appearance. Dark suit, bespoke certainly. Although not classically handsome, he got many stares from the restaurant’s patrons. A celebrity then, obvious, though Sherlock couldn’t say whether he was an actor or a musician. Or a writer? He’d need more than the sparse glimpse he’d gotten. Not that he cared, only… John obviously did.
Sherlock turned back to his friend when the man had vanished behind the door to the restrooms.
John seemed to come out of his daze only slowly. “Oh my… Sherlock.”
“Close your mouth, John. You look ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed, “It’s not as if you’ve never seen a famous person up close before. This is London.”
“I know,” John shrugged and let his eyes wander. “I should be used to it by now. And I am, on a certain level. Only last week I ran into Bradley James in Regents Park and it was fine. Almost ordinary. I even talked to him a bit. But this… come on, Sherlock, it’s an entirely different dimension of famous that we’re talking about here.”
“Is it now?” Sherlock took a sip of wine. “Why? Who is he?”
“Bradley James? He played King A…”
“I know that he’s King Arthur, John!” Sherlock rolled his eyes. It’s not as if he’d deleted every TV Series he’d ever watched, especially not the good ones. “I meant this one now. Who is he?”
“You’re kidding, right?” John’s eyebrow shot up. “You didn’t recognize him?”
Sherlock simply waited for John to elaborate. “Sherlock, we’ve literally just finished binge-watching ‘Dr House’. And Mrs. Hudson’s been watching ‘The Night Manager’ whenever we’ve gone down lately. And you still didn’t recognize him just now?”
“No, I didn’t,” Sherlock gave back. “Doctor who?”
John had to suppress a snort. “Not Doctor Who.” That had been an entirely different experience. “Dr House!”
Sherlock gave it a quick thought. Then his eyes lit up. “Oh, the clever rude one with the unhealthy addiction to drugs?”
“Exactly,” John smiled and took a sip of his wine. It almost went down the wrong tube when said Dr House, or rather Hugh Laurie, passed their table again.
Sherlock waited till he’d gone from their view before he turned to John again. “I don’t know what you see in him. Why you like him so much?”
Now John really choked on his wine. He coughed and sputtered and when he’d finally calmed down again, he gazed at Sherlock, a fond expression lighting up his eyes. “I think you just answered your own question.”