Saturday Morning

Lestrade still calls John in for cases. Not always. Just a few ones here and there. John doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know why he comes, either.

Some officers are new. They don’t know him. But they know Sherlock’s story. At one crime scene one of them says, “If we still had that freak, I’d probably be having dinner now.” John doesn’t even think about the punch he lands instantaneously.

He’s sent out, but he’s the one who gets an apology. His fist is still shaking when he makes it past the crime scene tape. A familiar voice makes him turn around. Too familiar, after all this time.

“And you wonder why people always talk.”

Everything about Sherlock looks the same and John wonders if it’s his mind playing tricks on him. Even the coat is very similar, but it can’t be that one. He has it hanging at the back of his wardrobe.

The man’s very close now. John turns away but when he looks back, he’s still there. Sherlock is standing in front of him.

“You kept the flat,” he said.

“Well, yes, it’s true.” His voice is steady and he’s thankful. “Mrs. Hudon, you know. I, I couldn’t—”

“I missed you, too.”

He stares and Sherlock looks back. It’s too much and John tries not to smile. He moves, walks away. And for once, Sherlock’s the one who follows.

(via thedalekcrucible)