dramatisecho:

He was nervous. This had to go well.

John Watson wasn’t a man who took commitment lightly, so yes, his first and only marriage proposal had to be successful. Mary was a extraordinary woman and deserved the best surprise he could possibly give her. He’d booked them a table in a posh restaurant (at least, the best one he could afford), got himself a new simple black suit-jacket and matching trousers, white shirt and even a tie.  The ring felt like a bulging, obvious weight in his pocket. He wondered if she’d be able to tell straight away…

Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself, taking a sip of water, No one would be able to tell from a glance that he was going to propose… save perhaps-

John stopped that train of thought immediately. Nope. Not going to think about him. It had nearly been two years, and that chapter of his life had closed. He was onto new horizons, and finally, had someone to journey with. He picked up the menu and continued to browse; Mary had said she would be a bit late, but he had no qualms with waiting for her.

“I’m sorry…” a deep baritone spoke close to his table.

Immediately, the doctor looked up at the familiar voice… and blanked. Really. What else could one do when confronted with a dead companion?

Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes was standing there. Next to his table. In a fancy restaurant. Where he was going to propose to his girlfriend.

“I wasn’t sure how else to approach you,” Sherlock admitted, clearing his throat and looking just a tad sheepish as he took a seat in the empty chair across from John. “I figured an apology would be the best place to start. As… I certainly owe you one.“

Sherlock’s familiar, icy blue eyes locked back onto John’s. The doctor was still staring at him; mouth slightly open, but completely at a loss for words.

"Indeed.” Sherlock sighed, “This may be easier if you don’t speak. I can explain what I need to.“ he glanced at the menu, casually, as if nothing - no death, no deception, no sorrow - had taken place over the past two years. “The fish looks good. You should order if you’re hungry. Mary won’t be coming.”

John pursed his lips together and huffed out a quick, short breath. His anger was clawing it’s way to the surface, “…Sherlock…” he grit out tersely.

“Don’t worry. She’s fine.” Sherlock waved off. “I explained the situation to her. She’s a remarkably accommodating woman, and I-…" the genius stopped speaking as his eyes settled on John’s attire. “Oh.“ he breathed, eyes locked on where John was keeping his ring (inside jacket pocket). “I’m… sorry. I didn’t realize you-… were…”

The ex-army doctor sighed and rubbed his eyes, already seeming exhausted after barely speaking a word. He lifted his hand, and gestured to the waiter. “I need a drink. Strong. The strongest. Whatever you have. Alcohol. I need it. Now. Please. Right now.“

This night had just taken a turn. And John wasn’t sure yet if it was for the worst… or best, yet…