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Summary
“Sherlock?” John asks, and it makes Sherlock look up from his mobile. “What are you smiling at?”
“Is everything okay?” Mary has put her fork down, and the corners of her mouth seem to be trying to join it down by her salad.
At first Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He tries to picture what it would look like explaining everything in this open-air cafe to JohnandMary: oh I’m fine, just texting that lovely Moran chap who used to kill people for Moriarty--you know the one. But there’s something in the scraping of chairs as they move in and out from under tables along with the clatter of ceramic that convinces Sherlock any explanation would end up misheard and misunderstood.