6 months later John sat in a rather fancy restaurant, despite him dining alone, but it had become a bad habit of his to indulge on expensive food purely because it was more flavourful. Unfortunately the portions were small, resulting in his ordering several dishes at a time. The staff had seated him in the far corner, hidden from other customers, but they could still see the silhouette of a rather larger man and it spiked their interest. He occupied two seats and had finally invested in a new wardrobe, there was no denying his size now but, apparently, he still thought himself to be thinner than he was as the shirt he wore rose up at his hips and strained to remain buttoned.
As the doctor dug into his various meals, a male figure approached. He was out of place but managed to fit in well with his suit, almost as if he were waiter and that was how he intended it to be. He had snagged a bow tie from an unhappy, soaked customer, along with a pair of glasses and an eyeliner to construct a uneven moustache atop his upper lip. Once he had accomplished all this, he made his way to the back corner, the feeling of nerves unusual to him. He saw the bulk frame and the mass of food that accompanied it, he could expect no less.
“Can I help you with anything, sir?” he feigned a French accent, his face half-hidden by a menu.
John pulled his attention away from his food, fork still in hand.
“No, thank you.” He scarcely even looked back at the supposed waiter.
“Would you not like a glass of champagne to accompany your meal…s?” he spoke again, reluctant to give up his façade. “Might I recommend this one,” he pointed to a random word on the menu before removing his glasses. “It’s like a face from the past…..”
John didn’t give much thought to it, merely shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll have that one then, please.”
Sherlock would not give up. “er.. it is familiar but with a quality of surprise,” he wafted his
arms around in an odder manner whilst speaking, glasses still in hand.
“Well then, surprise me,” he answered, wanting nothing more than to return to his food.
“Certainly endeavouring to, sir,” Sherlock mumbled, his French accent fading as he took the menu away and wandered off.
He returned to his feasting, his once white shirt splattered with various sauces. Again the waiter returned with the champagne and began to ramble in the same French accent, John content with eating did not look up.
“… staring into the face of an old friend,” Sherlock ended his rambling, removing his glasses as John rose his gaze to instruct him to shut up only to come face to face with his old friend.
He swallowed his unchewed food and stared up in great shock, his blue eyes wide. How could this be?
“Interesting thing a tuxedo,” Sherlock commented, able to observe the tension arising between them. “Lends distinction to friends and anonymity to waiters.” This did not help the situation.
John struggled to his feet, grunting with every movement he made. This made the whole situation more awkward as it took him several attempts to stand, his body quivering as he did. His stomach almost hung to his knees and his arms and legs were encased in thick layers of fat. He was unlike the man that Sherlock had once known prior to his death but he had expected some change in the man, he had experienced a trauma after all, but none like this.
Once John stood before him in all his bulk, he spoke, “Well, short version; not dead.”
John’s teeth clenched, his jaw locking, but it could not be seen because of his double chin that had only thickened over the last months. The anger in his eyes could be seen all too well though, along with the distress of it all.
“Didn’t mean to spring it on you like that.” Sherlock awaited a response from the fattened soldier. “Could’ve given you a heart attack”, he left the last bit unsaid, how the food would probably do that for him anyway.
Sherlock was very much aware of the eyes that bore into him but did all he could to relieve the tension as he dipped a napkin into a glass of wine and removed the eyeliner from his upper lip.
“I realise I probably owe you some form of apolo-“ his words were cut short when John’s meaty fist met with the table, the platers clattering.
“Two years,” John said between breathes, his fist remaining balled. “Two years,” his voice was a whisper. “I thought..” the words would not roll from his tongue so easily. “I thought… you were dead. Now you let me grieve, how could you do that? How?!”
“Wait, before you do anything that you might regret.. One question, just let me ask one question,” a humoured smile took form on his cupid bow lips. “Are you really gonna keep that?” his gaze was directed at his hanging stomach. There was an awkward laugh before John through his whole weight forward and pushed the detective to the floor. More people were made aware of the commotion as John’s whole body pinned Sherlock to the floor and his meaty hands clasped his neck, choking him. It took several waiters to pull the fat man from the skinny detective and they struggled greatly, unsure of where to grab hold of him, cautious that they might grab a roll of flesh.
Once they had pried them apart, they were escorted from the building and Sherlock managed to coerce John to a takeaway with the premise of food where he explained everything to the unknowing soldier. He was seated on a single chair, but it held him just fine, despite its audible groans with every movement he made. As Sherlock spoke, his elbows resting on the checked table cloth, his fingers under his chin, John shoved the food into his mouth.
After learning that Mycroft had known about this, John lowered the food from his mouth to question Sherlock. “Who? Who else knew about this?”
“Molly,” he replied reluctantly.
“Molly Hooper and some of my homeless network, and that’s all,” he assured the begrudge man sat across from him.
“Oh, okay. So just your brother, Molly Hooper and a hundred tramps,” he scoffed, his arms folding over his sagging chest.
“Noooo,” Sherlock mocked. “25 at most.”
The scene from the restaurant was repeated again; John leaping across the table, knocking over food in the process. He took him by the throat before his fist met with Sherlock’s nose, causing an instant bloody mess. John was obviously not pleased with how the night had unfolded and Sherlock would be hard to forgive. That much was certain to Sherlock as he held his hand to his nose John settling back in his seat, his breaths heavy as he had strained too much from leaning over the table. Sherlock was not eager to see how the rest might go so demanded that more food be brought to the table. Immediately.