Three Is Company

Good To Finally Meet You

When they pulled into the parking lot Sherlock scrambled out of the car as quickly as he could, having to nearly dislocate his hips in order to wiggle free from the tight confines of the Watson's mini mobile. As he stretched upon the pavement Sherlock heard many things popping within his legs, sounds which did not give him much comfort given his age and inactivity. John exited much more casually, locking the car with a single beep of his clicker before starting his way into the diner, not looking back as if he knew Sherlock would follow soon enough. When they got their seat Sherlock hated to see that it was crowded. While they were safely tucked into a booth there was no one to block the sides, and so Sherlock felt exposed from both angles. One from the clientele, all who would probably start staring at the recluse and what could only be assumed as his boyfriend, and one from the window where the cars were passing by. Sherlock buried his head into his menu, trying to use the oddly sticky laminated pages as a barrier between himself and his companion. John was a gentleman and kept his menu upon the table, though like any good mental health ally he didn't comment upon Sherlock's unorthodox and rather rude method of reading.
"Have you been here lately?" John wondered.
"No of course not." Sherlock muttered. He wasn't even reading the menu, he was merely staring at the pictures long enough for the hamburger buns to become animate and move shakily across the printed text.
"Do you cook most of your meals then?" John presumed.
"I cook what I can. Photosynthesize the rest of the time."
"In the house?"
"I have windows." Sherlock pointed out. John merely laughed, to which Sherlock could only smirk in some self-congratulation. He had attempted a joke, and by all means it seemed to have gone well. Did John think he was funny? Oh, he hoped so.
"Well when you're not photosynthesizing you're always welcome over to our house for dinner. I'm sure Mary would like to meet you properly." John pointed out. Sherlock swallowed hard, probably audibly even from behind his raised menu.
"I'll...I'll keep it in mind." Sherlock promised. For a moment he stared upon the text, though for a moment he began to feel bad. He was being rude, wasn't he? John might have been smiling and he would have missed it all together. Sherlock tapped his feet anxiously against the ceramic tile, though at last he began to lower the menu back to where it belonged on the table. John's face slowly came into view, his expression soft and thankful.
"There you are." John chuckled. Sherlock gave a quick grin, one that might have looked more like a wolf threatening its prey. Nevertheless he was feeling more like the prey at this moment in time. More like the hunted than the hunter. Their small talk continued throughout their waiting period, though when finally their food arrived (Sherlock had panicked and ordered some strange fish, having pointed to a random item on the menu after realizing he had spent more time hiding behind it than actually reading it) John dared to look up, interrupting his elaborate buttering of pancakes to ask his first personal question.
"Can you tell me about your roommates?" John asked, his words casual but his meaning profound. Sherlock hesitated, having been busying himself trying to skin the smoking fish that was settled disgustingly upon his plate.
"Well they're...they're just like any old roommates I suppose. Rather reclusive."
"I met Irene the other night." John admitted.
"Irene? Really? Well that's good." Sherlock stammered. "I suppose she's the better bet. She does leave the house a lot."
"And the other one, Victor?" John presumed.
"I'm not even sure Victor's alive. Every time I knock on his door I get no response."
"Sure he didn't move out?" John wondered, perhaps his best attempt at a polite continuation. Sherlock found the question a bit insulting, as if the man wasn't just questioning his hospitality but instead his sanity. Was John somehow connecting this back to the amnesia pills? Oh he knew it was a bad idea to allow John into his personal matters! Into his medical matters!
"I remember important things like that, John." Sherlock snapped.
"That's...that's not what I meant." John defended. Sherlock was silent, staring down at his fish and the distasteful little eye that was staring back at him. "I just meant if he's not responding he might be home. Left in the night, perhaps."
"I've long since decided that Victor's business is none of my own." Sherlock admitted. "He's a strange man, allusive, mysterious."
"I know someone like that." John admitted. Sherlock was almost stupid enough to ask for more information. Instead he raised his eyes towards his neighbor, staring into the familiar hazels and trying to remember what they looked like when stored in a slightly smaller head. He tried to remember those eyes hidden under the brim of a baseball helmet, or hidden behind a pair of goggles in the backyard sprinkler. It became unexplainably impossible. John's eyes now had changed so much, no so much in color, more so in what they stood to represent. Back then he had been alight with adventure, with excitement. He had a mischievous gleam in his eye, the sort that, if maintained too long, could perhaps lead you to rash and unwise acts. Like jumping off the back porch, convinced you could fly. Now he was staring with wisdom, unprecedented knowledge. Those were college educated eyes. Married eyes. Fatherly eyes. Sherlock doubted the same change had been made within his own gaze. He was sure that his childhood fear had only manifested along with his growth, rendering him pathetic and almost undeserving within his adult frame. Sherlock bothered himself with his fish. John entertained himself with the pancakes. For a respectable amount of time they were silent.