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The door dinged, as a new costumer entered Angelo’s restaurant. When he turned to welcome the newcomer, he realised it wasn’t a new costumer at all, but rather an old one.
“Mr Holmes!” he almost shouted through the room.
He hadn’t been here in over a decade; Angelo could barely recall the last time he saw him. But he did remember a sad, malnourished manchild who didn’t have anything to lose. Standing in the entrance, the man was wearing the same coat as twenty years ago when he told the entire police force how to do their job and saved his reputation. He was looking at his mobile, and didn’t seem to have heard him. When he lifted his head, Angelo saw an adult, a healthy man with responsibilities, who knew what life had in stock for everyone and knew that caution wasn’t a weakness. He went a long way in twenty years.
“Sherlock Holmes,” he said again, nearer this time, not as loudly, but still enough for him to be heard above the restaurant’s chatter.
Sherlock had heard him, Angelo saw it, but he wasn’t responding, instead he was looking expectantly at the door.
“Sherlock?” Angelo tried one last time, he had arrived near the man.
“Oh, Angelo. Great to see you here, I knew you wouldn’t have left the restaurant, but I didn’t know your schedule anymore.
“All day, every day, young man! How are you? I saw your name on the papers, but I haven’t really followed the adventure of the great Sherlock Holmes, s…”
“That’s not my name anymore,” not-Sherlock-Holmes cut him before he could say anything else.
“Really? Is that why you didn’t answer when I called you? What’s the new one? So I can know what name I put on the bill you won’t see,” he joked.
“Sherlock Watson,” he smiled.
Angelo realised it was the first time he saw Sherlock smile. He had seen him grin in self-satisfaction after deducing him, he had seen him laugh bitterly at the police’s incompetence. But he had never seen him beam like two words were the source of all the joy in the world. To think of it, it was the first time Angelo saw someone exhibit such joy at their own name.
“Is it for undercover work? Because, you know, Sherlock is much more uncommon than Holmes, maybe you should have changed that instea…”
“Papa! Dad says I can’t take the lasagna because it’s an adult portion and I won’t finish it. You know I always finish my plate! Please tell him I can get the lasagna!” a young girl exclaimed as she entered the restaurant. She was about nine years old, dressed somewhere between stylish and practical, as if her older self wanted to run a marathon after going on a date without having to change her clothes. Like Sherlock’s style, really. That’s when it struck him. She was talking to Sherlock. She had just addressed Sherlock as ‘Papa’.
“What did we say about running to the other when of us said ‘no’, young lady?” said the man coming in after her. He had a kind face, a bit more stress wrinkles than most men his age, but the laughing lines were still prominent. He was wearing a soft cream jumper that Angelo knew but couldn’t recognize clearly.
“Come on, John, she’ll finish it. She even finishes my plate half the time, growing sprouts and all that,” Sherlock did a little hand gesture.
“Thank you! See, Dad?”
The young girl was speaking like a teenager, but Angelo was sure she wasn’t more than a decade old, especially for her father to think she won’t finish her plate. She had the eyes of the man in the jumper and Sherlock’s attitude. Angelo was still a little bit dumbstruck by the whole situation.
“Sherlock… what did we say about her asking you something after I said ‘no’?”
“That I shouldn’t spoil her or give in every time, but she is right here, she’ll finish the lasagna, even I used to finish them before you were here to force me to eat.”
“You didn’t eat the last time we were here,” the man in a jumper argued.
“I was on a case; I don’t eat on cases.”
Yep, it was Sherlock, without a doubt.
“So, can I get the lasagna? Please, Dad,” she begged her dad like the kid she still was, almost vibrating.
“Of course, you can, miss,” Angelo finally found his voice and senses. If Sherlock’s daughter wanted some food, he was going to give it to her. “Just tell me what size you want. Do you want to come see in the kitchen?”
“Yessss!!!” she cheered and almost lounged at him for a hug.
“Thank you, Angelo,” Sherlock smiled at him, keeping his daughter from strangling him in excitement by keeping a hand on her shoulder. “Would you get us the window table?”
“You forgot to say ‘please’, Papa.”
“And you to say ‘thank you’, honeybee” Sherlock reminded her, smiling down at his daughter.
“Thank you, Mister Angelo!” she sing-song-ed.
“You are very welcome, Miss Rosie, is that right?”
“Oh! I forgot the presentation,” Sherlock could have face-palmed, the effect would have been the same. “Angelo, this is my husband: John Watson, the reason why I changed my last name, not undercover work,” he hid his laugh when he saw the daggers in his husband’s eyes. “And this is our daughter: Rosie. She’s very excited to come here after we told her about the serial suicides case and the cab-chasing.”
That was the last time Sherlock was here! Angelo remembered now. He had only ordered something for his date (who claimed he wasn’t, silly what people say), they left before his date finished his plate, and he forgot his cane, so Angelo went to Sherlock’s new flat to bring it back. They were breathless and smiling like idiots when the man had opened the door. And he was trying to say they weren’t on a date… Did they think Angelo was blind?
He looked at Sherlock’s husband, and recognised the man who had opened the door to retrieve his cane. Not his date, my arse.
“‘Arse’ is a bad word,” Sherlock’s daughter chimed in.
Apparently he had said the last part out loud. John Watson was half blushing from embarrassment half laughing at his younger self. Sherlock was trying to hold back giggles as he looked at his husband, with an astounding amount of love in his eyes.
“I’ll go get that young lady her lasagna and you lads tell me what you want.”
“We’ll begin with some champagne, please! We are celebrating,” Sherlock declared.
“Really? What are you celebrating?”
“We met 16 years ago, today. And we moved in the next day, when we were here, on the first night.”
“Full circle, then?”
“Full circle indeed,” Sherlock smiled.
“And don’t forget the candle!” John called out.
Angelo smiled at John. He had also come a long way in 16 years apparently.
“It’s more romantic.”