London Fog

Le Prince Charmant

John Watson knew this was coming since a long time ago. He sighed, wisps of cold air curling off his mouth at the sight of a very familiar umbrella. The man perched on the door of the small cafe beneath 221B, it turning into the place where their sporadic meetings were held. The middle table, closest to the back wall. He'd gone out and already ordered for himself, not really expecting the man to eat anything. The occasions he saw either of the Holmes eating were rare, now that he thought about it, even if it was clear than Mycroft had more than his fair share of nourishment. They'd only drink tea in presence of another person. What a ridiculous bunch, really.

"Let's skip formalities, doctor Watson. I've a meeting in an hour, and would dread to miss it," he smiled, and John swore he'd never understand his ability to look so pissed off while smiling "As it seems, my dear brother is spending most of his time with someone lately," A bit more repulsed than the usual, he added "A new friend, I'd guess"

It felt bizarre to hear it, even if he was sure that it had to be that. It was impossible not to notice it, really, even if the detective hadn't said a word about it. It had started since the case of a french political kidnapped by her own twin sister, a few months ago. They'd snook into the birthday dinner of the sister's ex-boyfriend, an innocuous business man, pretending to be late cousins of prince Harry. It had been more than a fun night. To absolutely nobody's surprise, Sherlock could do quite a good posh accent.

The case in itself hadn't been particularly long or dangerous, as strange and awkward as it was. It had been their arrival to their hotel that had spiraled into the confusing puzzle they seemed to be in now. Someone had slipped a note in Sherlock's pocket. It wouldn't have been much of a consternation if it weren't for the fact that it had been in his front pocket, and he hadn't been high for the entirety of the case. He quickly became engrossed by this, giving the situation far more thought than he should've, in John's opinion. He couldn't expect to notice everything. Less so, in a case filled with persecutions and quick thinking. High or not, there hadn't been time for details. But of course, the great Sherlock Holmes always paid attention to everything, so how could he commit the human error of letting some freak slip a note in his pocket without his consent?

"Trouvez-moi, prince charmant"  is what the note read in messy calligraphy. It was apparent that it had been written in a rush. Sherlock's eyes had widened when he found it, just a bit. After, he sat down and observed it. He didn't speak in almost two days. John wasn't too surprised, he figured he'd probably move on after a while, figure out how some maniac put it there, track them down, solve another case. In the mean time, he took advantage of the situation to go sight-seeing with Rosie. At the end, he solved it, or at least that's what he'd told John. He hadn't actually let him get involved with the note, except for the brief look he had at it. He hadn't complained, being pretty busy with Rosie after all. And that was it.

Except it wasn't. After returning to London, Sherlock seemed glued to his phone. Typing while meeting clients, at dinner, the morgue, while playing with Rosie. After two weeks of it, John noticed he was texting someone instead of mindlessly tweeting. He ruled out the possibilities of him talking to either Mycroft of Lestrade, since his communication either of them through messages was limited to monosyllabic words. The alarm notification was also different to the Woman's. John found himself quickly running out of prospects as he ruled out his web of vagabonds and Molly during the third week, when he smiled while replying to a text. He ended up guessing the note was somehow connected to the person texting him.

It had gotten almost worrying when he started getting out of the apartment much more often, not offering any explanation and returning suspiciously cheerful. And there were the other days as well. Days in which he didn't even look at his phone, locked himself in the flat. Didn't say a word. He just seemed a bit lost, burying himself in experiments and work. And after a few days of this, he was back: brighter, sharp-tongued and as obnoxious as ever. Coincidentally, these days he texted again. This had been going on for three months now; he was almost surprised Mycroft hadn't asked earlier. It was a shame, Christmas was coming up in a few weeks, and he'd hoped they would be free of work by then.