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John has a stupid mustache. Molly has stopped dyeing her hair. They’re both on the verge of toppling from heavy into downright fat territory.
In short, the couple that he approaches with the wine menu look very comfortable, very loving, and more than pleased with themselves. This is good. Mycroft has assured him that they’re well, but it’s pleasant to see the evidence right there in front of him. They’ve been getting by in his absence.
Sherlock completes the final passage of his transformation, swiping an eyebrow pencil to draw a silly mustache on himself - it’s a spontaneous gesture and he’s not entirely certain why he’s bothering, except that he suddenly feels mildly self-conscious about his presence here. John is exceptionally nervous, and when he catches a glimpse of a ring box the man is fingering in his pocket, the cause is evident. After a few desultory conversational gambits, it’s obvious he isn’t paying a particle of attention to anything except his bride-to-be. Well, that and his bœuf bourguignon. Nothing’s wrong with John’s appetite, at least.
But Sherlock does observe a twinkle in Molly’s eye, the same as when she’s preparing a particularly morbid gag in the mortuary, and he realises suddenly that if John doesn’t know who he is, she does. She even betrays herself with a giggle.
"If you could see your way to…what is it?"
Molly points, wordlessly.
"I said he’d turn up one day. At the least convenient moment possible. You’ve done this on purpose, haven’t you, Sherlock?"
"What…oh god. No. Not here. Definitely not now."
"Afraid so," Sherlock says, pumping enthusiasm and wry amusement into his voice. "Didn’t intend to crash your proposal, of course, that was just a happy coincidence.”
John very deliberately turns away from the detective, and looks at Molly. “You know, all this time and I’d been thinking you couldn’t be right. He’d never have done this to us. Not for a whole two years, surely.”
"It’s Sherlock. First rule and last rule of dealing with him is that he’s an absolute twat."
This is not going the right way. He’d been intending to pull this off with a smile, a bit of levity, something light-hearted, meaning to sacrifice his dignity on the altar of good fellowship if necessary, but set things back on the right note with the two of them whatever it takes. It’s beginning to look like a mistake confronting both John and Molly at once; if it’d been either alone he’s positive he could have had that one eating out of his hand by now.
But that hadn’t seemed quite fair, treating them like Moriarty’s henchmen with the same old psychological manipulation tricks. This was supposed to be a pleasant reconciliation.
"…it’s what’s in the middle that makes it worth it, John. Evidently he’s decided we’re worth being around again."
John just slumps. “I suppose so. Hello, Sherlock.”
"Hullo. Both of you. Nice to see you again and all that, but I have to ask, before you do anything you might regret…John, are you really going to keep that mustache?"
It’s the make or break moment - if he can just pry a smile, any kind of relaxation of tension out of the situation, the ice will have been broken - and he immediately can see it’s backfired. John lets his self-control snap and raises his fists, and Sherlock, stunned, is prepared to accept whatever comes of it, but Molly hangs on to her fellow doctor at the last second.
"No, don’t," she hisses, and Sherlock feels a stab of hope for a second before she adds, "we don’t want to be banned from the restaurant for life, do we? Remember the chocolate cake."
"Fair point," John admits, sinking back into his seat. "The chocolate cake here is the best in London, I’d swear. They’re supposed to bring it in a second, with a candle on and everything. For us," he says, looking fondly at Molly.
The significance of the look doesn’t escape the detective, even as it abruptly comes home to him that they are in a restaurant, which is primarily for the purpose of purchasing and consuming food, and he’s not eaten since the morning’s briefing on the plane home. HIs transport’s usually capable of tolerating more than this, but after two years of eating irregularly and the last few weeks of deprivation in particular, he is a little quicker to appreciate food when it’s available. Sherlock forces the thought down; just now, that is about the least helpful line of inquiry possible.
"Maybe I’d best just pop out for a moment. Seeing as I’ve interrupted something rather important? Yes, that might be less awkward for everyone-"
"Stuff the chocolate cake," John says, and punches him anyway. It’s quick, and efficient, and without actually doing him much damage surprises Sherlock enough that he bites through his lip. Torture on surreptitious missions is one thing, but he was expecting that and not this.
The manager bustles up. “Having trouble, gentlemen?”
"There’s this man pretending to be one of your waiters," John says hastily. "See, him over there."
"With the silly drawn on-mustache and the wine menu."
"We’re very offended on your behalf."
"Ruining your good name and everything."
In the name of Edward Henry’s monograph, they’ve become a double-act, Sherlock thinks grumpily. He sacrifices a handkerchief to the dubious cause of not dripping blood all over this tuxedo, though it’s tricky to speak around. “Sorry. Old friends. We were just catching up.”
"Ah," the manager says, as if he’s heard this story before. "Shall we just escort your old friend out, then?"
"No, no, best not. We’ll just pay the check now and take him with us," Molly intervenes hastily. She slips him a winning smile and a note that probably would pay for the meal twice over.
There are times, Sherlock has to admit, when she has more common sense than he and John put together.
They remove to a caffy, because it’s freezing cold outside and a caffy is neutral territory. None of them want to go back to Baker Street at the moment.
Molly goes off to do the orders while John and Sherlock gravitate towards a table, which is how they always did it in the old days; John’s tastes in drinks don’t run much past builder’s tea, whereas Molly considers it a waste of a good outing if she doesn’t try at least one exotic new beverage or foodstuff. That they’ve fallen back into the old style so easily seems like a good sign, though his heart sinks when he sees she’s forgotten to order him a drink at all, let alone one with two sugars. He struggles to remember what he was talking about.
"Second was a system of Japanese wrestling…."
"How the hell would a system of Japanese wrestling help you with jumping off the roof of St Bart’s?"
"It was one of the ideas I came up with in the few seconds I had to invent them. I didn’t say they were all good," Sherlock says defensively. "But if you must know, there’s a technique of bone relaxation that’s useful in cushioning the force of a long fall…"
"Whatever. I’m really not interested in how you survived right now, all right?"
"John, I’m disappointed. How decidedly uncurious of you."
"Oh, I’m not saying I’m not curious. There’s a lot of things I’m curious about. Like this. How many people knew about you still being alive?"
"Ah. Well. Mycroft, obviously. It was his plan in the first place…"
"Don’t you dare blame this on your brother," Molly says, coming back with the two cups; she passes John his tea and sips her own beige concoction, making a face at its taste. "You’re perfectly happy defying him the rest of the time, if you’d put your foot down and insisted we should know he’d have gone along with it. What I want to know is, who did we bury?"
"It was a mocked-up corpse, naturally. Actually I was going to have you help me obtain a body, Molly, but after thinking it over that seemed like too much of a security risk."
This time it’s Molly who hits him. Her punch isn’t as powerful as the ex-soldier’s, but she fights dirtier to make up for it.
At the kebab shop, Sherlock’s hoping rather desperately that he can get something to eat this time, cut lip be damned. John and Molly were about to start the dessert course when he showed up, which is all very well for them, but he’s starving. There’s no question now that this was entirely the wrong tack to take. He ought to have gone back to Baker Street, raided the refrigerator and been there to greet the happy couple on their return. Or perhaps not. Interrupting a night of wild passion to blather about the aerodynamic qualities of the Belstaff or lack thereof might have gone down even worse.
"He might have a point about the mustache. I keep telling you, it looks silly. If you’d go all the way with a beard it might work."
"I don’t shave for Sherlock Holmes."
"You could shave for me, though. Your affianced bride and all?"
"…I could think about it, if you’re seriously asking."
"Of course I’m seriously asking. You hadn’t even reached the proposal yet when he showed up."
They’re ignoring him. Sherlock pulls out his final trump card.
"There’s an imminent terrorist attack and I need your help."
"Wait. Now? And you’ve just been letting us stand here blithering at you, while all of London’s in danger?" Molly bellows.
"Well, yes. Do shout it a bit louder just so they can hear it down in Essex, would you?"
This time they both hit him. The most upsetting part of this is that the owner throws them out before they’ve even had time to order anything.
"I’ll just go home. Back to Baker Street," Sherlock says, daubing his nose as best he can. "Let you have your night out and we can talk in the morning. It’s not actually as imminent as all that. We have a few weeks to go around investigating and that sort of thing, probably."
"Hang about, you can’t. The room’s occupied."
"What? Mycroft promised…"
"It’s like this," Molly explains. "Mrs Hudson thought it’d be ridiculous to throw us out when it technically was still John’s flat, even though he moved in with me."
"So she let it to us."
"Only, it seemed a bit stupid to just leave it empty like that when we weren’t using it, so…we’ve been subletting it the last few months."
"Don’t blame John for it. It was my idea." Molly meets his gaze evenly. "I sort of had this superstitious idea that if we made it inconvenient for you to come back, you’d show up immediately. And you know what the London property market’s like these days. Mrs Hudson’s a nice old lady but she isn’t stupid."
"So who is in my room, then?"
"Um…" John says, looking embarrassed. "Anderson. We felt a bit sorry for him. Because he lost his job, and everything and it was mostly because he’s been spending all his time these days trying to prove that you’re alive."
"Which puts his life on your conscience, or what passes for one with you," Molly says.
"Ah," Sherlock says, brightly as he can manage. "So you were subsiding him, while he worked on looking for me. Intelligent subdivision of labour if you can trust Anderson to get anything right, which he very rarely does. I suppose he’s remodelled."
"Oh no. She had told Mycroft that the room would be completely untouched. So the skull and everything’s still there."
Right. John and Molly are getting married without him, Anderson is sleeping in his bed, and he’s so famished he can’t even think straight. This is about the worst homecoming he could envision.
"It’s getting late. Think the Tube’s still running?"
"We might be able to catch the last one back to Baker Street if we’re quick." John breaks into a trot. Molly follows.
Sherlock grinds to a halt before realising it’s not a joke, and they are in fact running for the train, even though from here it’d be quicker just to walk home. They know he can’t stand the Underground. This is not fair.
If it wasn’t for them both being slightly out of shape these days, he’d never be able to keep up, but while John and Mary are chatting as they go, he’s having to focus all his attention on running. The day’s been too much, and he’s definitely pushed his transport much too far lately. He stumbles after them down the stairs and down into the car, blessing the homeless of London that none of them have seen fit to occupy the set of seats closest to the door. Sprawling across the colourfully-padded seats, he gasps for air and clutches at the sudden ache in his gut; it’s not quite that he’s dizzy, or fainting, just that he’s in too much pain to faint.
The couple are looking down at him, he knows, though his eyes are closed. Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to see them stare.
"Are you all right?"
That’s John’s voice. He forces himself to say, “Yes,” and feels a great relief when the task of rendering the syllable is over.
"Oh, Sherlock, this is just cheating. Yellow card for inappropriate appeals to feeder sentiment."
"Not sure it’s that simple. Look at the cheekbones, Molly. If he’s worked himself in a state for attracting sympathy, he’s been practicing for a month."
"Well, the next stop is Baker Street. We have to get off in a minute."
"I’ll just stay on." He gauges his internal resources and cringes at the sum; it’s well past the point where he can be bothered to care about anyone’s opinion of him. Some rest, that’s what he needs. Rest, and eventually some calories. "Never mind me."
"We’re going to have to take him with us, aren’t we?"
"It’s what we do. Never let it be said that two doctors ever disgraced the good name of St Bart’s by abandoning a patient in need."
When the train stops, the two of them support him out and up the stairs, as though they’re helping out an intoxicated mate. It’s only a step to the flat after that, but the flights to 221C are unendurable. How he gets up them and into the sitting room he’s never sure.
"D’you want to look after him, while I go and fix something?"
Sherlock flinches away and buries his face into a sofa cushion. That way he doesn’t have to look at anyone.
"Don’t do that, you need to breathe," Molly reproves him. She turns him over towards the light.
"I seem…to have upset John, a bit." The voice was cool, and hard, hardly recognisable as John’s at all. Good lord, he’s inspired both his deepest friends to punch him out tonight. He has completely bungled everything.
She starts plumping the pillows, fetching a duvet, those sorts of soft nursing things. “It’s not fair, staggering in and making us worry like that. Maybe it’s not the most rational reaction on his part, but we went to so much trouble trying to make sure you’d be at a healthy weight. And now look, you’re as thin as ever and fainting on the Tube. Not healthy. You could have at least taken care of yourself when you were away, it's like you were rejecting us.”
It was not a faint, Sherlock wants to say, but there’s an edge to Molly’s voice. He decides he’d best not press his luck. “I did say sorry.”
"No. You didn’t. You just mumbled something about how you thought now would be a good time for an apology, but you never actually did."
Ah. That may have been a tactical error. “Sorry?” he tries.
She sighs. “It’s a start.”
It seems ages before John’s back with the soup, a thin chicken broth. He gulps it down in minutes and asks for more.
"I don’t know that you should. Too much food too fast might not be advisable, medically speaking. We can try something heavier at breakfast."
But he’s famished, Sherlock wants to say. That bit of liquid’s never going to last him until the morning, with his stomach already churning for more.
"Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put you through the last two years, and it was a bad mistake, and I shouldn’t have been so selfish as to not want both of you to get killed, and now can you please think about supplying me with a decent meal?"
"Dunno. Think he’s being sincere, John?"
"Not sure about the rest of it, but I think he’s being honest about his tea. Yeah. Alright. But some ground rules."
"Or just ground rule. Don’t ever do this to us again," Molly says.
"I did have to travel abroad and chase down desperate criminals."
"We’d have come."
"It would have meant giving up your jobs at St Bart’s."
"Well, that’s easy to say now, but that would have been a lot to ask you then, in addition to the danger, and the chaos, and the travel…" he stops, seeing their expressions. "I should just promise I’m not doing it again, shouldn’t I."
"Exactly," John says. "Now let’s order in pizza. I’ve found a new gourmet place that delivers."
And then finally, finally, he gets something to eat, slice after slice of greasy, terrible, London pizza, and Mary and John are competing about which one can feed him fastest, and it’s more food than he’s had in him in ages, and it’s wonderful. The sofa is oily and his stomach bulging by the time they’re through.
Shortly thereafter, he’s cuddled up in the bed, contentedly full and ready for a long sleep. The other two have taken edge; normally he finds this position a little suffocating but just now it’s fine. Absolutely fine.
"So how was the reconciliation, dear brother?"
"Lavish," Sherlock says, toying with his jam tart. "Fatted calf and everything. We’re going to be working together again, same as always."
"Yes. I notice you’re looking rather heavier these days." Mycroft pours them both more tea, adding sugar with wild abandon as is his wont. Sherlock watches with mild dismay.
"Does everyone," he mutters, "like me fat except me?"
"There’s a difference between fat and well-fed," Mycroft says. "And a certain amount of tolerance for what John and Molly enjoy is worth keeping in mind. You’re not going to find another set of partners like that. Look after them."
"Odd to hear sentiments like that coming from you." He eyes his brother’s newly plump profile, and a horrific thought comes. "Have you discovered sentiment while I was away?"
"Funnily enough," Mycroft says, as a woman strolls into the office with a casual air quite unlike the frenetic behaviour of the government servants who habitually haunt the place. Her voice is cool, collected. "Sherlock? Hello. I’ve heard so much about you."
Sherlock shakes her hand, looking on in wonder. “Well, you must be quite a character to have made an impression like this on Mycroft. What’s your name?”
"Mary. Mary Morstan."
There is something curious about her smile.