Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.

Reunion

by

thedragonaunt

John

John Watson took a large gulp of his ridiculously expensive wine, to calm his nerves and provide some Dutch courage. Tonight was The Night. He had bought the ring, worn the suit, booked the restaurant. This was Mary's favourite restaurant. He'd only been here once before – to celebrate the first anniversary of the day they met. He really could not afford to come here for anything but very special occasions since a starter cost the equivalent of a week's wages and this bottle of wine, that he was guzzling far too fast, had a price tag that matched the GDP of a small developing country. But he wanted this night to be special because, tonight, he was going to ask Mary to agree to become his wife.

As he sat, now sipping his wine – feeling much calmer, with a faint hum of alcohol in his brain – he reflected on the last three years and marvelled over how much his life had changed. After The Fall, he had gone completely to pieces. It was the guilt that did it. He felt so bad for deserting his closest, dearest, most precious friend in his hour of need, lured away by Moriarty's fake phone call, rushing off on a wild goose chase, parting on such bad terms. What had he called him? A machine? What would he not give to be able to take back that comment?

And then, when he realised the subterfuge and rushed back, he was too late. His friend's mind was made up. And nothing he could say could prevent him from hurling himself off the roof of St Bart's Hospital. He could only stand and watch him hurtle to the ground, like a stricken bird, arms and legs flailing, coat flapping in the up-draught. John squeezed his eyes closed, even now, unable to get that stark image out of his brain.

That was the problem. He had forgotten the sound of his friend's voice. He even found it hard, now, to recall the image of his face, but the vision of him plummeting from that roof top would stay with John until his dying day. And had it not been for Mary, that day might already have come.

Everyone had been concerned. All his friends – their friends – had done everything they could to support him, even though they were grieving too. Mrs Hudson had been an absolute angel, cooking him meals, making sure he ate them, not allowing him to sit and brood alone. Greg Lestrade had been very solicitous. He felt guilty, too, though the false arrest, on a spurious charge of kidnap, was not of his choosing.

He had called round no end of times, invited John out to the pub, to the pictures, to the lap dancing club. Molly Hooper, whom he knew had loved the man at least as much as he did, had left message after message – none of which he had returned. Mike Stamford, his oldest friend and the man who had introduced them in the first place, had bullied him into going out and put up with his sullen silences, talking enough for both of them. The problem was, all these people just reminded him too much of the one who was no longer there.

But Mary had saved his sanity and his life. She was fresh and new and had never even heard of Sherlock Holmes. She came into his life when he was at his lowest ebb and rescued him from his own melancholy. She was warm and bright and funny. She was charming and flirty and sweet. And, when their eyes met, across that crowded room – cliché though it was – there had been such a powerful mutual attraction, it really felt like a lightning strike. He was so grateful to Mike Stamford for dragging him to that party, despite him having used every excuse in the book, to wriggle out of going.

And now, nearly two years on, he was going to propose. He was fairly confident that she would accept. They had talked about marriage and Mary must appreciate that they would not be dining at this restaurant unless there was something special on the cards. John glanced at his watch. She wasn't late. He was early. He had arrived early on purpose, to give himself time to relax, to rehearse his proposal in his head and to make sure that everything was arranged perfectly. He didn't want anything to go wrong.

He took another gulp of wine – yes, he was back to gulping. He reminded himself to sip. From the corner of his ear, he heard the double doors open but the person who entered was a tall man, not his sweet, petite, dainty Mary. He paid the man no mind. He was deep in thought again, rehearsing his lines, practicing his moves, checking that he had left nothing to chance. The new arrival was crossing the floor. There was something vaguely familiar in his height, his gait, his shape. A shadow slid across the table, as the man approached and stopped right in front of him. And just stood there, staring at him.

John glanced up, wondering what this person wanted and hoping he would go away before Mary arrived. He needed it all to be perfect.

'Before you ask, no, I'm sorry, I won't give up this table. I booked it weeks ago and specifically asked for this spot,' John declared, as he looked up into the man's face.

'What the fuck?' he yelped, pushing back his seat, which tipped over backwards, as he jumped to his feet.

The man held up two placatory hands and said,

'John, I'm sorry. Please, don't be alarmed.'

John stood rooted to the spot, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish, his brain whirring, trying to reconcile his sure and certain knowledge that this man was dead with the undeniable fact that he was standing right in front of him.

'I'm not dead, John. I didn't die. I'm alive,' Sherlock enunciated, slowly, clearly, emphasising each word with a movement of his hands.

John Watson's heart rate, which had escalated dramatically, began to steady and his breathing was returning to normal but his eyes still stared in disbelief. He reached out over the table and placed a trembling hand on the other man's arm. It was solid, it was warm, it was most definitely alive.

'You fucking bastard. What the fuck is this?'

'John?'

Unbeknown to John, Mary had entered the restaurant and was now standing next to the table, between him and his resurrected former best friend. He turned and looked blankly at his future bride, his face a map of confusion.

'Mary? Mary! Oh, thank God you're here!' he gasped, grasping her hand and clinging to it, like a drowning man. Mary moved quickly to put John's chair upright and then urged him to sit down since he looked as though he might fall down at any moment. She then turned to Sherlock and gave him an appraising look.

'And who are you?' she asked, in a curious tone.

'This, Mary, is Sherlock Holmes, my dead friend, who it would appear is not dead after all.'

Mary looked from John to Sherlock and back to John again, as she processed that most unlikely of statements.

'We need to talk, John, please,' Sherlock said and shot an irritated glance at Mary.

'Too bloody right, we do! I'm just dying to know – if you'll pardon the pun – what could possibly be so important as to justify you disappearing off the face of the earth for three whole years and letting me and all your other friends – and family - believe, all that time, that you were dead!'

'John, have a sip of water, darling. And just try to calm down,' Mary urged, stroking his hand, with concern.

Sherlock breathed in, rolled his eyes and heaved a great sigh then turned to Mary and said,

'Would you mind? I really need to speak to my friend and I would greatly appreciate it if you would go away.'

Mary looked at him, with a strange smile on her face, both shocked and amused by his extreme rudeness. John, however, reacted very differently. Jumping once more to his feet, he drew back his right shoulder, bunched his fist and threw a roundhouse punch right at the other man's face, catching him square on the nose.

Sherlock staggered back and crashed into the table behind, upsetting all the silver cutlery and lead crystal glasses with which the table was set. At that point, mayhem ensued. Waiters rushed forward, the manager came out, other guests complained, Sherlock staggered to his feet, blood pouring from his nose and Mary put a restraining hand on John's arm.

After a short but heated debate, during which John swore a lot – mostly at Sherlock – Mary apologised profusely to the restaurant manager and the other patrons and Sherlock declared that he would pay for any damage, the three were asked to leave the premises.

John grasped Mary's hand and stalked out, as Sherlock handed his credit card to the manager and followed John and Mary through the door. Once outside, John rounded on his ex-friend and uttered another string of expletives, the gist of which was, if the damn dickhead ever spoke to his future wife in that manner again, he would give him more than just a bloody nose. Then he turned and marched off, down the road. Mary reached into her clutch bag and withdrew a clean tissue, which she handed to Sherlock, to stem the crimson flow that was still pouring freely down his face and dripping from his chin. He took it, gratefully.

'Well, Mr Holmes, it's a delight to meet you, though rather unexpected. I'm Mary.' She offered her hand, which he took and shook, politely.

'Your timing is impeccable. I think he was planning to propose to me tonight. You have really put your foot in it, I'm afraid.'

Sherlock did not know what to say. He stood with his head tilted back, holding the tissue to his nose and looking like a kicked puppy.

'Mary!' John called, impatiently.

'Oh, well, gotta go,' she shrugged, giving the dejected detective a sympathetic smile. Just as she turned to follow her future husband, Sherlock asked,

'Do you think he'll ever forgive me?'

She pursed her lips and pondered the question for a moment.

'He loves you. Just give him time,' she replied then turned and walked away.

Sherlock stood in the restaurant doorway for a moment or two, debating whether or not to go back in, settle the bill and retrieve his credit card but deciding that would keep until tomorrow. Things had not gone at all how he had hoped they would and he wasn't really sure why but, with nothing more to be done, he turned and walked off, slowly, down the road.

ooOoo