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Two weeks after the--after, John decides it's safe to go to the pub. He'd stayed away, mindful of a family tendency to find solutions in the bottom of a bottle, but it's been two very hard, very long weeks, and he can't stand the flat anymore. It doesn't hurt to look at the two armchairs by the fireplace or the depression in the sofa, but only because it hurts all the time, and so there's no difference between one moment or the next, or the one before.
So he puts on his jacket and goes down the pub.
Lestrade is there. John takes a step back, thinking to find some other pub, some other street, some other city, but Lestrade catches his eye and shifts on his seat, gaze sliding off to the side. And John sees (observes) the stubble on Lestrade's face, his wrinkled tie, the bags under his eyes, his crumpled sleeves. John lifts his chin, squares his shoulders, and marches into the pub as if he might never see London again. He takes the seat next to Lestrade without asking if it's taken and says to the bartender, "I'll have whatever he's having."
They sit in a not-quite-companionable silence until the bartender comes back with John's drink. He takes two sips of the lager before saying, without looking at Lestrade, "So, how've you been?"
Lestrade shrugs somewhere in John's peripheral vision and scratches his stubble. "Oh, you know. Been better. I'm suspended," he adds. "Under investigation."
John looks down at his drink and realises he hasn't the energy for animosity. Right now, he just wants to have a pint, and he wants--he wants to be able to look Lestrade in the eye.
"How about you, then?" Lestrade asks.
"Oh, you know." His throat closes up, and so he takes another drink instead.
Lestrade takes a deep breath and lets it out again. "Yeah."
-----
"It's been simply ages since I've been to a pub." Mrs. Hudson adjusts her hat in the mirror. "But I could do with a night out, it's no good to be cooped up all the time, wouldn't you agree? How do I look?"
"You look fine, Mrs. Hudson." John jingles his keys by the door. He's not sure why Mrs. Hudson is suddenly so insistent on coming with him, but--well, it's not like he can deny her. She's been taking it hard, too. He can count it in white hairs and new wrinkles.
Lestrade is there too, much to John's nonsurprise. And--John blinks.
"Hello," says Henry Knight. He's got a healthy flush in his cheeks, and he seems to have put on a bit of weight. His hair is a little longer, too, so that his ears stick out less.
"Hi. What--I--It's good to see you. Henry." John shakes hands, mechanically. Henry smiles at him in the slow, careful way of someone who's trying not to make any sudden movements.
"Yes, I." Henry clears his throat. "I thought I'd..." He glances away for a moment, puts his hands on his hips, and then takes them off again. "Well, I. You and Mr. Holmes helped me, so much, and I...I just wanted to say, thank you. And to, to offer my condolences."
John has to swallow several times before he can speak. He takes a perch on the seat next to Lestrade, who doesn't look up. "Thank you."
"I don't believe it, you know," Henry says, suddenly, with a confidence that John wouldn't have believed from the timorous young man wringing a napkin in their sitting room, just a few months ago. "Nobody in Dartmoor does. Nobody who met him."
Mrs. Hudson leans over the bar and waves one hand above her head. "Yoohoo! Bartender! We need drinks over here! On me!"
-----
"Dr. John Watson." Helen Stoner wraps her arms around his shoulders and pecks the air above both his cheeks. John is so startled by the familiarity that he doesn't speak, at first, and Helen pulls away to give him a sad smile. "Percy and I thought we'd come and offer our support." The stocky, bearded Percy Armitage waves without smiling. "I know--" She clears her throat. "It must be hard."
"I...yes." John blinks. "Yes, thank you." He looks around, bewildered. "Erm. Everyone, this is Helen Stoner and Percy Armitage. Helen, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. This is Henry Knight, and this is Chris Melas. They were both clients."
"This is so strange," Helen admits, as she shakes hands. "I read about you all on the blog, but never had any idea what anyone looked like."
"Same here," says Henry. "You're from the Speckled Blonde case, aren't you?"
"Yeah." She wrinkles her nose. "What a name. You got a much better one--the Hounds of Baskerville?"
John retreats to his usual seat next to Lestrade, who's hunched over his drink as usual. "All these people just decided to show up, did they?"
Lestrade shrugs and scratches his chin. "Sherlock's helped a lot of people."
A drink appears at John's elbow. He takes a gulp and licks his lips. "Funny how they all seem to turn up on the same night."
Lestrade doesn't reply. John blinks down at the bar. He takes another drink.
Finally, he says, "Thank you." Lestrade slides his glass across the bar to tap against John's.
-----
Angelo flings his arms around John and squeezes him tightly for long, long moments. This long, silent hug from the normally ebullient man is somehow devastating, and when he finally lets go John is shaking, just a little bit. He takes a deep, long breath and manages to get out, "Thanks for hosting us," without his voice breaking.
"Anything, anything, for friends of Sherlock." Angelo shows them to the largest table in the restaurant, a ten-top in the back corner. "You pay for the food, but drinks are on the house. Drink as much as you want. For Sherlock!" He raises his fist in the air.
"For Sherlock!" the crowd choruses.
It is a crowd, by this point: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Henry Knight, Helen Stoner (but not Percy, this time), Sally Barnicot, Chris Mela and his girlfriend--even Jacob Sowersby, clad in a scarf and long coat that makes John's heart leap whenever he glimpses it out of the corner of his eye. Angelo brings them endless bottles of wine: Pinot Grigio and Sangiovese and Barbera, and other wines that John knows nothing about--he's a beer bloke, really--but Sherlock probably knew volumes. His glass never goes empty, and somehow a plate of risotto turns up in front of him, and for the first time in a year John can taste his food. His stomach unwinds.
Halfway through the night Henry and Helen exchange glances, and Henry smiles and stands up, fiddling with the stem of his wineglass. "I, I don't know if this is appropriate, but." He takes a deep breath and looks down at Helen, who winds her fingers around his and gives them a squeeze. Henry grins, and it transforms his face into that of a glad little boy. "Well, maybe some of you have guessed." He looks around the table, and sure enough Mrs. Hudson beams expectantly. "Yes. Helen Stoner and I are engaged."
The table erupts in cheering. Sally and Helen hug and shriek into each other's shoulders, while Jacob Sowersby pumps Henry's hand and spills enthusiastic congratulations. Angelo comes over to see what all the fuss is about, throws up his hands in delight, and brings a bottle of sparkling wine. He manages to quiet the table long enough to propose a toast: "Salute! To Henry and Helen!"
"Cheers!" cries the table.
Not long after that, John excuses himself from the table and weaves his way to the loo. It takes Lestrade fifteen minutes to come and find him locked in one of the stalls, leaning against the wall, sobbing silently.
-----
"Are you ever going to tell us about the melting laptop?" asks Chris.
"I'd much rather know about the time Sherlock stole a bus," says Helen.
"Oh, Christ." John rubs his hand across his face; he can see Mrs. Hudson watching him from between his fingers, and he lets his hand fall to the table. The smile feels stiff and unfamiliar on his face, like the corners of his mouth might split open to show all the sorrow, but he can speak without his throat rebelling against him. "All right. Um. Well, flip a coin, then. Heads, melting laptop, tails, the bus."
The coin comes up tails, but nobody seems really disappointed as John launches into the story. And after that, since the crowd is already wound up, he tells them the story of the melting laptop, too. And then after that it's late, and there are trains to catch, and everyone shakes hands and says goodbye until next time, same place. Angelo waves goodbye to all of them from the doorway of the restaurant, and Mrs. Hudson and John begin the walk back to the flat together.
"Those were good stories," says Mrs. Hudson.
"Mmm," says John. In retrospect, the bus one is rather...funny. Well, John wishes some of the tourists on the second level had bothered to help him whilst he was grappling with the knife-wielding assassin instead of taking pictures, but Sherlock's tour commentary had been amazing. He wonders if he has many international readers, and if one of them could be persuaded to send him those photographs, and then he remembers that he has no readers, anymore.
"Are you going to write your blog, ever again?" she asks, while John's fumbling with his keys at the front door.
"I don't know, Mrs. Hudson." He finds the right key and lets them in. "It doesn't seem like there's much point."
"Oh, but there's loads of stories about Sherlock you haven't told," she says. "I'm sure everyone would love to read them."
"Everyone thinks Sherlock's a fraud." John begins to mount the stairs, but Mrs. Hudson stands at the bottom and looks up at him until he turns around.
"We don't," says Mrs. Hudson.
John rubs the back of his shoulder and cracks his neck. Mrs. Hudson waits, holding her hat in her hands.
"All right," says John. "All right. I'll think about it."
"Good boy," says Mrs. Hudson. "Run along, then. I'll see you in the morning."
-----
"He just turned up on my doorstep one day," says Mrs. Hudson. "I remember thinking, how's he not dying of the heat? He was wearing all these clothes! In Miami! Can you imagine?"
Lestrade frowns and taps one finger against the side of his glass. "Did he even own a pair of shorts?"
John nearly snorts beer up his nose at the mental image.
"He used to call the anonymous tip line," says Lestrade. "They'd broadcast something on the six o'clock news, and before it was even over the line'd be ringing off the hook, and he'd yell something like, 'How do you even get your trousers on in the morning? It was obviously the butler! Look at his fingernails!'"
His impression of Sherlock's accent is deadly, and laughter ripples around the table. Even John smiles, though he notices how Henry and Helen and Sally look at him as if he might break.
"Didn't actually meet him face to face 'til I arrested this bloke for public indecency, though," Lestrade goes on. "He was pissed off his face. Threw him in the cells and next morning he'd solved the Pinkerton case. Turned out there was something hidden there that he needed, and the whole thing was a farce to get in."
The stories roll on. Mrs. Hudson doesn't know how Sherlock knew she was back in London, but she came home more than once to find him in her kitchen, eating out of her refrigerator and leaving the milk out to spoil. But he brought her gifts, too: fruit, chocolates, and once, a pet canary.
"Least he never left any toes in the crisper," she sighs.
And Lestrade, oh, Lestrade has stories aplenty. Sherlock licking evidence. Sherlock setting himself on fire with a cigarette. Sherlock deducing that one of the lab technicians was stealing cocaine from the evidence lockers. The phone call from Mycroft Holmes, suggesting that New Scotland Yard take Sherlock on as a consultant, and he would do everything within his (not inconsiderable) power to make sure that things went as smoothly as possible.
John soaks them up. There are so many things about Sherlock that he didn't know. So many things that he might never have known, if they hadn't started meeting like this. He doesn't know which one he prefers.
No; that's a lie. He knows which one he prefers. But that has no bearing on what he actually gets.
-----
"Molly!" Lestrade exclaims.
John looks up. Molly hovers on the threshold of the restaurant, just come from work, judging from her clothes. She threads her way through to their table, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and ducks her head. "Um. Hi. Can I, um, is there a seat? For me?"
Of course, of course, they reassure her. Chris fetches another chair, and everyone scootches to make room. Molly hangs her purse on the back of her chair and takes her seat timidly. "Everyone," says John, "this is Molly Hooper. She works at Bart's, in the morgue. She's one of Sherlock's friends."
"Oh, I'm not--" Molly stammers, but everyone's already started introducing themselves, and those closest to her reach over to shake her hand.
"Have you got any good Sherlock stories, then?" Jacob asks.
Molly worries her bottom lip, and John watches her, concerned. He might have been disingenuous in introducing her as a friend. Her only memories of Sherlock must be unhappy ones.
But Molly only says, "No. No, not really."
-----
John sees Lestrade look up and freeze, and then Chris picks up on his lead and does the same, and before long the entire table is staring at the doorway with their mouths open, silent. John feels more than sees Sherlock stiffen behind him and grabs him by the sleeve before he can dart away.
"Come on," John says, quietly. "You're doing this. We're doing this."
He nearly has to drag Sherlock in by the collar, and he can tell, when they're standing by the table, that he's not what they expected. This isn't the masterful man in the funny hat. This Sherlock is nearly gaunt, his hair is longer, and there are lines in his face that weren't there before. He looks over his shoulder too much.
"Everyone," says John. "This is Sherlock. He came back. Yesterday. Sherlock, I believe you know everyone here."
Sherlock's eyes dart from face to face at the table. He stops at Henry Knight and Helen Stoner, frowning. "You got married," he says, incredulously.
Henry lets out a high, nervous little laugh. "Yes."
Sherlock continues to regard them with a little line between his eyebrows before finally saying, "Congratulations," with some dubiousness.
And like that, the spell is broken. Everyone starts talking at once, asking what happened, how he did it, demanding answers, explanation. Lestrade shouts for more wine. Mrs. Hudson, who'd already known of course, laughs and flaps her hands and laughs, telling anyone who'll listen--and that's everyone--how Sherlock had given her such a fright she thought she'd never recover. John puts Sherlock in a corner seat, facing the door, with his back against the wall, and feels Sherlock relax.
"What is this, John?" Sherlock wonders, looking at the faces all round the table. Angelo's brought out two bottles of champagne. "Why're they here?"
"They're your friends," John answers. He squeezes Sherlock's hand under the table. "Our friends."
"Oh," says Sherlock. "Oh."