Hey guys!

So, probably like all the rest of you, I stayed up to watch the Series 3 promo. I pretty much did O_O, all the way through it. Although it was incredibly short, it was still amazing, and I've rewatched it several times now. And after seeing John's moustache all over tumblr for at least three days, I got the idea for this fic.

I hope you like it, and that it

Megan :)

tumblr: personyourparentswarnedyouabout (It's an Ear Hat, John!)
twitter: NamesNotDorris
YouTube: sherlockian13

It was seven o'clock in the afternoon, and the London air was bitter and cold. It was mid-September, and the wind whistled down the quiet streets. The sky was only just beginning to go dark, when a taxi pulled up outside a restaurant in central London. The passenger muttered a hurried thanks to the driver, handing him the fare. The driver accepted it hastily, eager to get the day over so that he could get back to the warmth of his home. The passenger opened the door, stepping out of the taxi. He adjusted his long, dark coat, and took off his scarf, closing the cab door behind him.

The cab drove off back down the surprisingly quiet street, as the man made his way to the restaurant.

It was odd, to not have to hide anymore. He'd expected somebody to stop him, and to have him carted off to Scotland Yard by now. All day, he'd been wandering around the streets of London, through bustling crowds, and yet nobody noticed him. But he supposed they must've forgotten him by now. It had been three years, after all. People had their own lives, they'd moved on. Nobody cared anymore about the suicide of a consulting detective, a "fake genius". He was old news, and there were much more interesting things going on in the world now. They had no reason to remember him, of all people.

And yet, despite everything, one person had.

The closer he got to the door, he found, the more his heart sped up. It was beating so hard it felt as though it might burst right out of his chest. He was well aware that his hands were shaking, and he felt as though he were going to pass out. His whole body was tingling, and he felt extremely lightheaded. It was odd, as he'd never experienced anything like this before. And certainly not to this level. It didn't make any sense, as he felt nervous, excited and a little bit sick all at the same time.

He reached out a thin hand, and pushed open the door to the restaurant.

Sounds of music and general chatter filled his ears, and his eyes were suddenly assaulted by fluorescent lights. The tingling feeling and light-headedness was amplified, and he could feel a headache coming on to accompany them.

"May I take your coat and scarf, sir?"

He turned to look behind him, where a young man stood. He held out his arm for the coat, and the man nodded absentmindedly. As the employee helped him shrug the jacket off of his shoulders, the man looked around, his eyes scouring the busy restaurant.

As he handed his scarf to the employee and he went to hang them up, that was when he saw him.

He was sat in the corner of the restaurant, right at the back. He never was one for sitting out in the open. He preferred for things to feel as private as possible, and he had no doubts that he'd asked for that table in particular for that exact reason. There wasn't a lot of light in that corner of the room, so someone had placed a candle in the middle of the table, casting a warm glow across the man's small frame.

He was wearing a black, expensive-looking suit, nothing like he would usually have worn. Clearly, this was some sort of special occasion. Fancy restaurant, candle-lit dinner, expensive suit . . . except for the fact that the seat across from him was empty.

Taking a sip from his wineglass, the man's eyes scanned the menu. He was sat at such an angle, that only a small fraction of his face could be seen from the front of the restaurant. And how different he looked. Of course, it had been three years. Change was to be expected. But this was different. This wasn't just age. His hair was greying, and his eyes looked sunken. There were heavy, black rings underneath them, and it looked like he hadn't slept for weeks. Nightmares, most likely.

He was still John.

Though . . . he wasn't his John. This wasn't the John that had watched him jump from that rooftop. This wasn't the John that had shot a cabbie to save his life. And it wasn't the John that had tried to save him from Moriarty in that swimming pool. This was the John he'd met that day at St. Bart's. The broken, lonely, fresh-out-of-war John. Except, he clearly hadn't been back to Afghanistan. Or indeed, gone anywhere. Actually, he knew for a fact that John hadn't left London for three years.

Mycroft had always said, that when you walked with Sherlock Holmes, you saw the battlefield. Well John hadn't just seen the battlefield. He'd been thrown right back into it, headfirst. And now, he was dealing with the consequences.

He was fresh out of war, but not from Afghanistan.

He was fresh out of his war. Sherlock's war.

And as his eyes travelled over the table, trying take in even the smallest of details, Sherlock noticed something. And he felt time stop altogether. He felt sick, and his eyelids felt heavy. It was like everything was happening in slow motion, as he stood there, watching. He wanted to run over there, right that second, and show John that he was back. He wanted to make it better. He wanted to make everything better.

Because at John's side, poking out from under the tablecloth . . . was his stick.

"Have you made a reservation, sir?"

A young employee asked him, interrupting his thoughts. Sherlock turned to her, tearing his eyes away from the stick. He feared that if he ever had to look at it again, then he might just break down. Because now, he finally knew and understood what he'd done. He composed himself, giving her his best attempt at a smile. (John always said he looked more approachable when he smiled.)

"No need," Sherlock replied, and the woman looked confused, her brow furrowed. He leaned over the table, and pointed across the room to where John was sitting. He tried not to look at the stick, as he whispered; "He's my date."

The woman smiled, nodding, and let him through.

As he made his way over to the table, there was a moment . . . just a moment, where he thought he might not be able to do it. Where it seemed almost easier to just leave immediately, and not look back. John had probably moved on now, he'd already moved out of 221B, though he still owned it. He went back there every once in a while, but that didn't mean anything. He probably just needed to get a few things. He didn't need Sherlock crashing back into his life again, and messing everything up.

But then he remembered the stick.

Before Sherlock and John had met, they were both incredibly unhappy in life. Sherlock never would've admitted it, because he didn't think it was worth mentioning. Alone was just who he was. Alone protected him. Until he met John. And when John was around, everything was just . . . better. And he was better. His mind was sharper, his deductions more on-point. And he was more human.

He needed John, though he never would have told him so.

Even though Sherlock had been unhappy before though . . . it was nothing compared to what John had gone through. He'd been through hell in the war. And coming home had been hard for him. He'd been shot, he had nowhere to live, no friends or family he could go to, and no job. He was totally, and utterly alone. He had little money, and every day was as dull and boring as the next.

And then Sherlock came bounding into his life. And without even knowing it, he changed John. He showed him things . . . things he couldn't even have imagined. He brought something back into his life that he hadn't even realized he'd been missing.

Then he'd ripped it all away from him, in the cruellest way possible.

Yes, he needed John, but nowhere near as much as John needed him.

Standing before the table, just behind John, his chest began to tighten. Though his breathing was perfectly regular, he felt . . . an ache. Deep in his chest, it was as if . . . as if something was pulling him. Pulling him back to John. He'd missed him. He hadn't realized how much until now, but he'd missed him. He turned and walked around the table, stopping in front of the empty chair. He looked down at John, whose face was hidden by the menu he was currently reading.

Already, Sherlock was noticing several things that he wasn't sure he wanted to see.

Trying not to notice the glaringly obvious signs of John's trauma, he pulled out the chair across from his friend, and sat down. He leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands on the table. He knew he had to handle this as delicately as possible, but then, he'd never really been that good at delicate. He wondered, absentmindedly, if John was expecting someone . . . likely. The suit he was wearing looked extremely expensive, and he'd even bothered to do his hair.

"You're late," John said, keeping his face behind the menu. So he was right then, he was expecting somebody. A woman, probably, as John seemed to be dressed for some sort of date. He was a little disappointed in John's deductions though. He would've expected John to notice that the shadow cast over the table and the form sat across from him in no way resembled a woman. But maybe ever since Sherlock had gone, he didn't need to deduce things anymore. Or maybe that part of his brain had just closed itself off.

"About three years too late, I'd imagine." Sherlock replied, and John stiffened.

He recognized that voice. God, he'd dreamt about that voice so many times. But he didn't believe that . . . he wouldn't let himself believe that he was back. If he got to hoping . . . even for a second, that it might really be him . . . the realization that it wasn't would hurt so much more. It was probably just his mind playing tricks on him, like the many times before. He saw Sherlock everywhere nowadays. His face in a crowd, the back of his head in the background of some stupid, pointless TV show . . . and now he was hearing his voice in restaurants.

John shook his head, breathing deeply. He looked down at the floor, as he lowered the menu. He didn't dare look up, not yet. He was trying to prepare himself for the disappointment that would inevitably come when he did.

"John . . . what is that on your face?" Sherlock asked, squinting, and John's head shot up.

It was him.

He'd often wondered, if maybe he'd begun to forget what Sherlock looked like. He wondered if maybe, he'd started to forget even the most minor details. He wondered if he'd forgotten what he sounded like, or the colour his eyes turned under fluorescent lights. It scared him to think he might've forgotten these things, because those were the things he loved the most. And he'd never know if he had forgotten them, or if he'd remember them exactly, because he'd never see him again.

But he hadn't, he hadn't forgotten. And Sherlock was now sat before him, looking (and sounding), exactly like he'd remembered.

"You - it's . . . how?" he choked out, his voice catching in his throat. He'd thought about this moment so many times . . . but he'd never actually believed that it would happen. And now that it had . . . he was angry.

How could he? How could he do that to him? How could he let his best friend believe that he was dead? For three years! And why? Why had he done it? He could understand going into hiding, he could understand that. Maybe Moriarty had people after him? Maybe Moriarty wasn't really dead at all? But why . . . why hadn't he at least told him?

"It's like a ferret has decided to sit on your lip . . ." Sherlock interrupted, tilting his head to the side. John clenched his fists, trying to keep calm. But with Sherlock sat there, almost completely ignoring him, it was getting harder by the second.

"How . . . no, why? Why, Sherlock?"

"Is it even your real hair? I mean . . ." he mused, and it seemed he was just thinking aloud now. He was completely ignoring John's questions, and whether that was down to nervousness or complete ignorance, he couldn't tell.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, slamming his fist on the table. Sherlock jumped, leaning away from the table. Everyone in the restaurant was looking at them now, and even some of the kitchen staff had poked their heads round the door to see what was going on. John turned, suddenly feeling very embarrassed. "Sorry, I am . . . so sorry. Please, continue with your meals. Sorry."

"John, I . . ." Sherlock began, but he found that he was at a loss for words. He'd spent so much time thinking about what he was going to say, but none of it seemed quite right now. He could try and explain himself, but he had a feeling that John wasn't quite ready for that right now. Besides, it wasn't relevant.

"You what? Go on. Tell me!" he half-whispered half-yelled. He leaned over the table so that only Sherlock could hear, bracing his hands on either side of the table. But then he saw the look on Sherlock's face.

It wasn't as if he'd never seen Sherlock show emotion before, because he had. Sometimes there were these . . . moments. Moments when Sherlock didn't think John was looking, and he looked . . . sad. John never spoke about those moments, because he didn't think they were worth mentioning. They were private. They were theirs.

This was different though. Because Sherlock never usually let John see him showing any emotion. But now he was. And it felt . . . incredibly personal. His face was a mix of anguish and happiness, and yet still full of apology at the same time. His eyes were flickering, as though he were trying to take in as much of John as possible. And John could tell that Sherlock had missed him just as much as he'd missed Sherlock.

And for a moment, it felt as though nothing had changed. It was like they were back in Baker Street, and Sherlock was simply apologizing for contaminating the fridge again. None of that was true, of course. Everything had changed. John was simply a shadow of the man he'd been three years ago, and it was all because of the man sat in front of him.

"Do it." Sherlock muttered, sniffing and looking off to the side. He was clearly trying to act indifferent, but John could see the beginnings of tears in his eyes. He ignored it though. He didn't want to think about that right now. It wasn't as if Sherlock would have talked about it anyway. "Do it, I know you want to."

"Sherlock . . . what are you talking about?" John asked, his voice softening. It felt so good, to be able to say his name again. To be able to say it, and not have people give him looks of pity, or to have people telling him what a "brilliant man" he'd been. It just seemed wrong. To have all these people telling him how brilliant he'd been, and amazing . . . when they would never have said it to him if he were still alive. And to be honest, they probably only said it to make John feel better.

"Punch me."

"I'm sorry . . . what?" John said, leaning forward. Had he heard him correctly? He wasn't sure. It reminded him of four years ago, when they'd been stood in an alleyway outside Irene's house. Sherlock asked John to punch him to give them a reason to get in. Except John hadn't known that at the time. Sherlock had asked John to punch him, and he had. No questions asked. He never asked questions when it came to Sherlock. He didn't need to. He'd do anything that Sherlock asked him to. Anything.

"Punch me. In the face."

"Sherlock, I'm not going to -" John began, unconsciously clenching his fists. He was angry, but not for any of the reasons he should've been. Before he could protest again however, he was interrupted by the sound of someone approaching their table. The clicking of heels got closer and closer, and John saw Sherlock look up in confusion.

"Sorry I'm late, I -" Sherlock stared at the unfamiliar, (and quite beautiful) blonde woman standing behind John. She looked only a few years younger than John, and was dressed in a fitted, black dress. It was clear from the shaping of her hands that she wasn't a doctor, so John hadn't met her from the surgery . . . she was smart though. He could tell. The way she was looking at him . . . full of curiosity and wonderment. She placed a hand on John's shoulder, looking down at him. "John, who's this?"

"Mary, this is . . ." John began, but trailed off. He couldn't just introduce his best friend, who'd been dead for three years, without an explanation. Luckily, Sherlock cut him off anyway.

"Not important." he said sharply, his eyes fixed on this . . . Mary. She wasn't like the others, he noticed. And already, he liked her more than any of John's past "girlfriends". It was clear from their body language that that's what she was. But then Sherlock looked down to the hand that was placed on John's shoulder, on which, was a silver, clearly very expensive engagement ring. "You're engaged? . . . So are you responsible for that monstrosity on your fiancé's upper lip?"

Mary bit back a laugh as John glared at his so-called best friend.

"No, clearly not. It seems you despise it just as much as I do." Sherlock added, dismissively. John looked up at Mary in disbelief. She'd never mentioned his moustache before . . . she looked at him sympathetically and patted his shoulder. He sighed, shaking his head. "Clearly though, you haven't yet realized that John is actually gay."

"I . . . what?" John cried, his voice maybe a few octaves too high. He hoped to God that no one as listening. Mary bit her lip, a small giggle escaping her lips. She had a feeling she knew exactly who this man was. She didn't need to be told anymore, she'd heard many stories about him and his brilliance. He really did not disappoint.

"Your tie, John." Sherlock said simply. Mary raised an eyebrow, challenging him to explain. "Well it's -"

But he was cut off by John's fist colliding with his face.