Saving Grace(A Sherlock/BBC Fan-fiction)

Chapter Twenty-Two: Trying to Understand

        We left Mycroft and made out way through the London streets.

        "Hey, I'll meet you at the restaurant tonight, ok?" I told him.

        "Where are you going?"

        " I'm going to see Greg. I haven't talked to him in a year now." 

~~~

        I knocked on his office door. Greg looked up at me.

        "Grace!" He stood up and I hugged him. "When did you get back?"

        "About an hour ago."

        'You died your hair brown again!" He said. I nodded.

        'Yeah. It's really good to see you." 

        "Yeah, you too. Hey, I'm not busy right now. Are you up for lunch?" 

~~~

        "And then there's Anderson, who's got all these stupid theories about..." He trailed off.

        'Greg, you don't have to be careful around me. I've come to terms with Sherlock's death." If he was really dead, I probably wouldn't have. 

        "Well, he's got all of these stupid theories about how Sherlock faked his own death." I laughed. Hmm, maybe Anderson isn't as stupid as I thought. 

        "If only, right?" I took a drink from my cup. 

        "So...how are you?"  I nodded.

        "I'm good. Great actually. How are you?"

        "I'm good, things are good." 

        "How's the wife?" I asked.

        "Well...things could be better I suppose."

        "Can't they always?"

~~~

                I met back with Sherlock and we entered the restaurant.

        "Ok, go sit at that table near by and watch carefully." He whispered in my ear. I did so, hiding behind a menu. John was waiting for someone. Mary I hope. A year ago, while I was still in London, John told me he was going back to work at the same place Mary Morstan, a good friend of mine works. I had set them up, but never got the chance to see the outcome. I almost burst out laughing when I saw Sherlock, now sporting a bow-tie, glasses, and a mustache drawn on with eye liner, standing by John's table.

        "Can I help you with anything sir?" He asked in a French accent. I remember when he trained me to prefect mine.

        "I'm looking for a bottle of champagne, a good one." He didn't look at him. I strolled over and stood behind him, covering my face with my menu.

        "Sir, assuming you would like to charm a certain jeune femme, I would go with this one." I pointed to the last one on the list.  Benoit, May I speak to you for a moment?" I pulled him away. 

        "What are you doing?" 

        "Can't you tell what he's doing here?" I asked.

        "Eating?"

        "You're slipping Sherlock. I deduce a square shape in his blazer pocket. He's been repeatedly rubbing his thighs due to the presence of an accumulative amount of dead skin, and he is in a fancy restaurant ordering champagne." I wanted as a blonde woman sat down. "It is Mary!" They talked for a few minutes before Sherlock got his bottle of Champagne and started mumbling. "Sherlock!" I hissed. John looked up and his smile fell. I walked over.