@dcntcommitsuicide liked for a starter
Sitting on a restaurant patio in the golden autumn afternoon shouldn’t be this fucking hard, but it is.
Feels more like getting teeth pulled than sitting here on this bloody gorgeous day, sipping on a pint and waiting for a friend to join him. Everything in John is telling him to run, to slap a tenner on the table with an apologetic note, and then be off to sit in the dull grey dark of his new flat until he falls into a numb sleep just like he’s done every other damn night for the past two months.
Everything is just too… pleasant. It hurts.
It’s either a blessing or a curse that John never gets the opportunity to seriously consider leaving. He spies Lestrade walking toward him from the corner of his eye, and throws on a smile, rising up to greet his friend. They hadn’t seen each other since the funeral - not for lack of trying on Lestrade’s part, which only adds to the guilt.
“Greg,” John smiles, and find that to some relief he doesn’t have to fake being happy to see the man as he thought he might. “How’ve you been?”
Admittedly, he thought by the time he’d get to the restaurant, John wouldn’t be there.
Not like he expected the bloke to stand him up, no. More like he had been afraid John would end up leaving without waiting for him if he took too long to get there. So the moment he finished with work, he rushed to their meeting place, not wanting to miss the chance of having a chat with an old mate.
And to think it had been so hard to get a hold of John Watson lately too.
But he was there, and relief washed over him. Good. He hadn’t left yet. He found himself returning the smile etched on John’s features. God, how long had it been since he last saw him? Days? Weeks? Months? Christ, it felt like it had been ages ago.
“John. Hey.” His grin turned a little sheepish. “Sorry, did I make you wait too long?”
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