2 years.

2 years since that phone call. 2 years since those words.

2 years since the death of Sherlock Holmes. Your brest friend.

You'd moved on, you moved out of 221B, being surrounded by all his old things, the memories, you couldn't handle it. Now you'd moved into a small suburban house, you were...happier? you wasnt paticularly happy. You'd hadn't been happy since you were last with sherlock.

For the past 2 years, you'd been grieving, waking up in a cold sweat and tears of having nightmares of that god-awful day.

You'd tried therapy but it didnt help. Nothing was changing , You'd tried drinking which just made the memories more painful in your drunken state.

And now here you were. a restaurant, waiting yet another date that was probably going to end up ina. one night stand and back to sleeping alone. being alone.

A waiter walked over , a French accent. "can I help you with anything , sir?" you looked at the drinks. "what do you recommend?" he thought for a second. "my personal recommendation...is probably this one. You could say it has an element of..." he paused. "surprise." his accent dropped.

you looked up. It wasnt a waiter.

It was Sherlock.