Waiter in a suit - A Johnlock

19. oh yes

The cab pulled up to the restaurant. John tipped the cabbie and climbed out the cab. The wind was sharp against his back, and John tightened his jacket more firmly around himself. The wind was like ice against his skin. He hated the weather sometimes... or no. Always.

He sighed and looked through the restaurant windows. The windows were big, almost replacing the walls. You could almost see the whole restaurant through it. To John's disappointment, he didn't see Sherlock. But he was sure that Mr Holmes was somewhere in the back, screaming at some employees about thinking too loud.

John didn't go inside, because he hadn't the faintest idea what he was going to say. He couldn't just go inside and tell Sherlock about his feeling. What if he rejects him. The whole restaurant would be looking how John's heart would break in pieces. John crossed the street and sat himself down on a wooden bench, having the perfect view from the restaurant.

The sky rumbled ominous, and John could taste the faintly lingering dampness in the air that suggested rain. He grunted. He really wasn't in the mood to be soaked. He was thinking about what he was going to say to Sherlock. He wasn't sure if he was going to have the guts to say anything at all. He had three options. 1. Tell the truth. 2: Let Sherlock deduce him or three telling Sherlock that he randomly wanted to sit there. He knew he'd say the last option. He sighed hopelessly. If John didn't make a move then. Then he might never get the chance to confess his feelings.

Suddenly, John felt something damp on his shoulder, and looking up, he noticed rain falling down out of the night sky. He grumbled in annoyance. Great.

Five minutes later, John's heart jolted as he saw Sherlock approaching a table with three people. John felt his steady heartbeat pick up speed, thumping ever so loudly. After a couple seconds, Sherlock left again, not noticing John sitting in the rain across the street. The rain was slowly but surely quickening, and was now falling to the point where John could feel it seeping through his jeans. Water droplets clung to the tips of his hair, his nose, running down his cheeks. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to warm up.

Forty minutes later, John was still sitting on the bench, waiting patiently to be noticed by Sherlock. John was shivering. His fingers had gone numb and he couldn't feel his toes. His jacket was soaked, clinging to him, just like his jeans were. He thought that his teeth were going to crack from chattering the whole time.

John saw Sherlock a couple times. And every single time it felt like his heart was going to explode. It frustrated him how his body reacted, though it was a good feeling. He had been waiting thirty-two years for a feeling like this. He read books, saw movies, heard stories from friends. He hated himself for not being able to love someone. Until he met Sherlock Holmes. The ridiculous man he recently met.

Robin gave John hope, telling John that Sherlock loves him back. But what if that's not true. What if Sherlock rejects him. What then? It took John million years to find feelings. Not sure if he ever will find it back with someone else.

And then it happened. Sherlock was again ordering a table when suddenly he lifted his head, his piercing blue eyes somehow immediately locked with Johns.
John had well-functioning eyes, but from these distance, he couldn't see Sherlock's expression clearly. He assumed that Sherlock was frowning. The waiter then excused himself from the table and walked to the back of the restaurant, out of John's sight.

John was dying inside, feeling insecure. What if Sherlock thought that he was stalking him. John grumbled, letting his head hang low, holding it with his hands, cold water dripping down the small of his back.

"John?" A too familiar voice said. John snapped his head up, watching as Sherlock crossed the street, not wearing his trench coat but only his work uniform. There was a deep frown plastered on the detective's face. John didn't say anything. "What are you doing here?" Sherlock wondered, stopping in front of John, scanning the small man who was thoroughly soaked and also shivering. John felt like his lips were glued together, he hated himself for not speaking up. "You've been sitting here for more than an hour, what's wrong?" Sherlock asked tenderly. John had the urge to roll with his eyes, after another brilliant deduction.