Data Doesn't Lie (Johnlock)

Chapter 17

  He didn't have time to process a lot of what I said, but I assumed he'd gotten the gist. Brushing swiftly past him I ducked into my own bedroom, which we'd been sharing.

  "Something nice, something nice...Aha!"

  From my wardrobe I yanked my purple button-up, the one John liked so much. Of course, he'd never said it, but I could tell. And if my blogger liked it, the fit couldn't possibly bother me.

  Thank heavens John was familiar with rushing to get ready, as he was knocking on my door by 6:30. I, on the other hand, wanted to make an impression. I was so busy trying to make my hair lay flat I almost missed the time, pulling a yelp from my lips as the hot red letters of the clock burned into my sight.

  "Sherlock?" came John's muffled voice from the other side of the door. He would have said something else, had I not thrown the door open in his face. My breath caught in my throat when I saw him.

  To any other, he probably looked no different. But I saw everything, naturally. He'd used a new brand of mouth wash, a stronger one at that. His hair was combed and laid neatly, his shirt ironed and folded to perfection beneath a black sweater vest. His pants were tidy and shoes dress-like. "Perfect..." I mumbled absently to myself, unable to think of anything else to say.

  He raised a brow in question. "Pardon?" I had to shake my head clear, a faint warmth filling my face when he smiled at me. I could not find the words I needed, so he spoke instead, a grin plastered on his face. "You look great." I could only nod. He knew what I meant. He always did.

  A cab was passing just as John was about to ask where we were going, I could see it from the window. I had to grab his hand and whisk him out the door, my coat over one shoulder and his in my other palm. The wind blew my hair about,but it was still fairly warm.

  I had to shout to the cab twice before it stopped, as it was almost around the corner. The address came as mutter so John couldn't hear. "The Rose Garden, central London, 42 Westmore. I'll pay you a good reason to hurry." The cabbie complied, though looked a bit shaken. The streets of London whizzed by dizzyingly, and I assured John that tonight would be spectacular. Nervous butterflies fluttered around somewhere, and I made good haste to digest them. We arrived fifteen minutes late.

JOHN

  I was taken aback at first, from the sheer gleaming wonder of the building before us. Everything seemed to be in shining gold, from the flittering tapestry beds to the perfectly waxed floors to the tableside candles strewn as far as I could see. Sherlock was busying himself with conversation to a haughty looking doorman, while I myself could hardly speak.

  The domed rooftops, adorned with elegant carvings and paintings, watched us from above as my detective's hand found mine. Men and women chattered merrily like birds in solid gold nests. Tables waited expectantly, asking me which one of them could build my very night. Music played from somewhere, but Sherlock's song was the one dancing in my heart. Or perhaps it was my pulse; then again what was the difference?

  "John?" Sherlock's voice broke my whirlwind thoughts and I speechlessly let him lead me to a table in the center of the floor. A candle was already lit, wafting a vanilla scent through the air and lighting up his face perfectly. "How-how did you?..." My voice could not work properly, but he shushed me anyway. "It's all arranged," he assured. A bouncy waitress shimmied table after table over to us, setting down two menus and mumbling something I couldn't hear. I was too focused on my detective, anyway, as the dim candle light flickered over his face.

  "This is...beautiful, Sherlock," I breathed incredulously. I could hardly register where we were, it all felt like a dream. "Only the best for you," he insisted softly, gesturing to the menus. For a moment, I was discouraged, as it was mostly in what was probably Dutch dialect. I let Sherlock order for me, lord knew he knew what was going on.

  We rambled endlessly waiting for our food, having a fair deal of fits of laughter that earned us plenty of disgruntled staring. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was like he'd never left. It was almost like we were still just best friends, perhaps because we were. Except now, and I registered this with pride,we were so much more.

  Our food arrived under a silver dome, confirming where we were. My own meal was pasta-like, exploding with vibrant flavor that was much opposed to takeout and biscuits. Sherlock's was a sort of breaded meat, which he nibbled at contently. Conversation passed like water; cases, memories, business, and even talk of Sherlock returning to the public eye. The bill was put on a numbered tab, and a peaceful laughter blew out the dying candle between us.

  "This was wonderful," I told him quietly. He flashed a grin, any tension left in his shoulders relaxing. "I knew you'd like it."

  It was late into the night, which had been such a wonderful night indeed, and only reluctant homage made us leave the silk-covered round table just as the unseen upfront band played a slow farewell. Sherlock thanked the doorman heartily, more peaceful and calm than I'd ever seen him. If only it could have lasted forever.

The temperature had dropped, but it was no obstacle to us as we walked in a huddle. "Perhaps I should call for one of Mycroft's cars, as that was the original plan," Sherlock suggested. I shook my head, leaning against him slightly. "We can walk, just for a bit."

Silence enveloped us, every streetlight bringing us back to cheerful illumination. I hadn't been this thrilled in months, ever since he'd "died."

  One streetside lamp brought a sliver of white to my attention. Some sort of paper stuck put from Sherlock's coat pocket, and I pointed to it without suspecting. "What's that?" To my dismay, he seemed just as surprised to see it there. Slowly, gingerly, he managed to pull it from its confines into the light. What was scribbled so eagerly in blood red ink could have blown every lamp in London to dust and glass. The calm and gladness of the night shattered into a million pieces, and for a moment I thought I would faint.

  Inside the folded paper was a picture, one I knew very well. It was myself, thin and cold and worn to nothingness, huddling over Sherlock's grave. Scratched on the paper signed a name too cold to forget.

"Lucky number 7~JM."