Sherlock Holmes and John Watson sat in 221B, Sherlock hopping about, trying to figure out some clue in the case they were currently working.

John was reading the paper, vaguely listening to Sherlock rant on about how some of the evidence made absolutely zero sense.

Sherlock had returned to London about four weeks ago, thinking John would be furious with him. John had been pretty angry, but much less so than what Sherlock had originally deduced. John hadn't even gotten all that angry when Sherlock had told him that Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mycroft, and Lestrade had known that he hadn't died long before he could've told John.

That was okay, though. It saved Sherlock from experiencing emotions he specifically attempted to avoid.

Mrs. Hudson bustled into the room, setting a cup of tea down next to Sherlock's chair, which Sherlock was perched on, his hands folded together in the classic Sherlock Holmes pose.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, clearly dismissing her.

"You're welcome, dear. Is there anything else I can get you two?" she said with a smile.

John's head whipped toward Mrs. Hudson, his face turning white as a sheet.

The thick newspaper hit the floor with a loud thud.

"You can see him too?" John whispered with a touch of horrified amazement.