(Third-Person POV: )

EVENING. THE LANDMARK HOTEL, MARYLEBONE ROAD

Sherlock approached the door to the restaurant, handing his Belstaff to a member of staff. Waiters opened the doors for him and he walked in. The maître d’ stepped forward.

“Sir, may I help you?” He asked quickly. Having only glanced briefly at him, Sherlock had gone into full-blown deduction mode:

Expectant Father

He seemed to hear a woman crying out in pain, and then the man’s phone beeped a text alert.

“Your wife just texted you. Possibly her contractions have started,” he said confidently. The man fished his phone out of his pocket, looked at the screen and hurried away. Sherlock smiled smugly to himself.

Nearby, John was sitting alone at a table, checking the inside pocket of his jacket before taking a drink from a glass of water. Sherlock looked across the room at him, and then hesitated. A waitress picked up some menus from the bar and walked across in front of him.

“’Scuse me, sir.”

Sherlock’s attention was drawn to the bowtie she was wearing as part of her uniform. He looked to a nearby table where a couple was sitting. There was a glass of red wine and a glass of water to the man’s left. The man had his back to the door but Sherlock could see him reflected in the water glass. As John picked up the wine list and started looking at it, Sherlock smiled to himself again and walked over to the side of the other couple’s table where he picked up the glass of water and poured it down the man’s front. The man – wearing a white shirt, black jacket and a bowtie – recoiled and cried out in shock.

“Sorry! I’m so, so sorry!” Sherlock exclaimed, perfectly acting as usual. The man lifted his napkin from his lap and started mopping himself with it. Sherlock stepped behind him, pulling the napkin higher up the man’s chest.

“Please, let me just go to the kitchen and, er, dry that off for you.” With one smooth tug, he pulled off the man’s bowtie and walked away, tying the bowtie around his own neck.

Continuing across the restaurant, he saw a man at another table taking off his glasses and putting them down on top of the menu he had just been reading. Sherlock walked to his side.

“Finished with that, sir? Allow me to take it for you.” Not paying much attention, the man waved him away. Sherlock picked up the menu and the glasses and walked away, putting on the glasses as he went. At a nearby table, a woman’s small handbag was open beside her. Sherlock saw that there was eyeliner on the top. He stepped close behind her, offering her the menu he was holding with his right hand while simultaneously taking the menu she was holding with his left hand.

“Madam, can I suggest you look at this menu? It’s, er, completely identical.” She automatically took the menu from his right hand and he instantly pinched the eyeliner from her bag and stepped away, turning his back to the bulk of the restaurant and lifting the eyeliner towards his face. When he turned back, he had drawn a small pencil moustache on his top lip.

He stepped over to John’s table, standing to his left and one step behind him. He addressed John in a French accent.

“Can I ’elp you with anything, sir?” He asked politely.

“Hi, yeah. I’m looking for a bottle of champagne – a good one,” John replied, not looking round at him.

“Mmm! Well, these are all excellent vintages,” Sherlock continued, leaning closer and trying to get him to look at him.

“Er, it’s not really my area. What do you suggest?” John asked, still not looking.

“Well, you cannot possibly go wrong, but, erm, if you’d like my personal recommendation...” he began, his French accent becoming a little Captain du Creff-esque*.

“Mm-hmm.” John still didn’t look.

“...this last one on the list is a favourite of mine,” he finished, still with the French accent ad gesturing at the list with his eyeliner pencil. John nodded, still not looking up at him.

“It is – you might, in fact, say – like a face from ze past,” he continued, standing up straight. He took off his glasses and waited expectantly. John still didn’t look round.

“Great. I’ll have that one, please,” John confirmed, finishing his glass of red wine.  Sherlock looked startled that John hadn’t recognized him yet.

“It is familiar, but, er, with the quality of surprise!” Sherlock continued, almost lapsing into his own voice on the final word and he gestured grandly. John grimaced at the taste of his wine, and then handed the wine list to the man he thought was the wine waiter.

“Well, er, surprise me,” John mumbled.

“Certainly endeavoring to, sir,” Sherlock replied tetchily, in pretty much his own voice.

He walked away. John reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small red velvet box. Opening it, he looked at the three-stone diamond ring inside, then closed the box and put it on the table in front of him.

Nearby, a woman walked down the stairs. John fidgeted with the box, turning it this way and that in an attempt to make it look perfectly placed.

He blew out a nervous breath as his dinner date, Mary Morstan, rejoined him, patting his shoulder before walking round to her own seat.

“Sorry that took so long,” Mary apologized. John snatched the box off the table and shoved it back into his pocket. She sat down and smiled at him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Me? Fine. I am fine,” John confirmed, stuttering like he always did when he was nervous or flustered. She smiled sweetly. John chuckled and gazed at her with a delighted look on his face.

“Now then, what did you want to ask me?” she asked politely. John’s smile faded and he looked nervous.

“More wine?” John offered.

“No, I’m good with water, thanks,” she answered, wanting him to get to the point.

“Right.” He briefly looked away.

“So...” she hinted.

“Er, so... Mary. Listen, erm... I know it hasn’t been long... I mean, I know we haven’t known each other for a long time...” He looked down, clearly struggling.

“Go on,” Mary encouraged.

“Yes, I will. As you know, these last couple of years haven’t been easy for me; and meeting you...” He looked at her for a moment, and then nodded. “Yeah, meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened.”

“I agree,” Mary commented.

“What?” John asked, looking up at her.

“I agree I’m the best thing that could have happened to you,” she replied cheekily, smiling. John laughed. Mary screwed up her nose apologetically.

“Sorry.”

“Well, no. That’s, um...” he began. He paused, and then looked at her. “So... if you’ll have me, Mary, could you see your way, um...” She giggled. He cleared his throat.

“...if you could see your way to...”

Just as he was about to go for it, Sherlock glided over to the table, still with the glasses, the ridiculous fake moustache and the ridiculous fake accent, but now with the added bonus of a bottle of champagne which he showed to John.

“Sir, I think you’ll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking,” Sherlock interrupted, still with the accent.

Mary shielded her face with her hand so that the ‘waiter’ couldn’t see her as she giggled silently at John.

“It has all the qualities of the old, with some of the colour of the new,” Sherlock described.

“No, sorry, not now, please,” John insisted, his eyes locked on Mary.

“Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers...” Sherlock continued, keeping up the accent. Mary pulled a face at John.

“...suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of an old friend.” He took off his glasses.

“No, look, seriously…” John finally lifted his gaze to meet the waiter’s eyes. “...could you just...” His face dropped. His entire body jolted and he stared with an expression of utter disbelief.

“Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Lends distinction to friends, and anonymity to waiters,” Sherlock said in his normal accent now. John turned his head towards Mary, and then his eyes filled with tears as he ducked his head momentarily before he stumbled clumsily to his feet.

“John?” Mary asked worriedly. John straightened up, briefly locking eyes with Sherlock.

“John, what is it? What?” She insisted. John looked down, clearly still in shock.

“Well, short version...” Sherlock began a little awkwardly. John raised his eyes to him again.

“...Not dead.” John stared at him, his face full of pain, shock, and growing anger. Sherlock finally seemed to catch on and looked a little guilty.

“Bit mean, springing it on you like that, I know. Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will. But in my defense, it was very funny,” he laughed nervously, not meeting John’s eyes, which was probably for the best because John’s gaze was slowly turning murderous.

“Okay, it’s not a great defense.”

“Oh no! You’re...” Mary began.

“Oh yes,” Sherlock answered, glancing at her.

“Oh, my god,” Mary said, quite shocked.

“Not quite,” Sherlock replied cheekily almost.

“You died. You jumped off a roof.”

“No.”

“You’re dead!” she insisted, quite appalled.

“No. I’m quite sure. I checked. Excuse me,” Sherlock said flatly, picking up a napkin from the table and dipping it into Mary’s glass of water and then started to rub off his moustache.

“Does, er, does yours rub off, too?” Sherlock asked John, trying to sound nonchalant as he met John’s furious gaze. The tight smile which John directed at him bared absolutely no humour at all. Mary’s anger was clear in her voice as she spoke.

“Oh my god, oh my god. Do you have any idea what you’ve done to him?” Mary asked viciously.

“Okay, John, I’m suddenly realizing I probably owe you some sort of an apology,” Sherlock said, looking down nervously. Clenching his left fist, John slammed it down onto the table. It was a credit to the manufacturers of the table that he didn’t shatter it. He hunched over his fist.

“All right, just... John? Just keep...” Mary began calmly. John pulled in a deep shaky breath before looking up at Sherlock.

“Two years,” he began in a whisper. He shook his head, dragging in another long breath and blowing it out again before starting to straighten up.

“Two years,” he repeated, still in a tight whisper. He moaned and slumped down over his hands again. Sherlock had the decency to look awkward. John glanced up at him momentarily.

“I thought...” He groaned, unable to continue and gesturing helplessly. Mary stared at him in sympathy. John finally straightened and turned to Sherlock.

“I thought... you were dead.” His face began to fill with anger again. “Hmm?” He breathed rapidly and shallowly.

“Now, you let me grieve, hmm? How could you do that?” Sherlock looked down, biting his lip.

“How?” John demanded, softly but furiously.

“Wait – before you do anything that you might regret...” Sherlock said cautiously as John’s breathing became more intense. John half-groaned again.

“...um, one question. Just let me ask one question. Um...” He continued cautiously as John looked at him, his eyes still full of fury.

“Are you really gonna keep that?!” He asked, almost giggling as he gestured towards his own top lip. He grinned as he turned his head to look at Mary. She laughed in disbelief. John drew in one more long breath, then hurled himself at Sherlock, grabbing his lapels and bundling him back across the floor until Sherlock lost his footing and they both fell to the floor, John on top of Sherlock and trying to throttle him. Mary and various waiters ran to pull John off.