It had been four months since Sherlock's resurrection, as John liked to call it. Before that happened, it had been two years.
Two years of believing that his friend was dead.
Of telling himself he could have stopped it.
And during all that time, Sherlock let him believe it.
Now here they sat, listening to Lestrade as if the ordeal of the last two and a half years never happened. Except nothing was the same.
When Sherlock returned, John left 221B Baker Street. How could he have stayed in the same house of the man who didn't care enough to mention that he was not, in fact, dead?
He came back through Scotland Yard, Sherlock did. Managed to convince those at the top that he had an excusable reason for faking his own death, no doubt his brother helped.
The whole department thought they would be able to wash their hands of Sherlock Holmes after they legitimized his unexpected comeback.
But another case would baffle them. Waiting for more evidence meant losing time which meant losing time which meant more people getting hurt. They couldn't afford that happening.
So Sherlock had to be called. It really was only a matter of time.
This had to be kept quiet, of course. Chaos ensued the last time the media got a hold of Sherlock Holmes and it couldn't be allowed to happen again. Not after how foolish the department looked after putting their trust in a "fake genius."
The work he did for them was now kept in the most confidential of files.
It was on these occasions that John hated being called in to work. Honestly, it was as if Lestrade chose to be ignorant of the history he shared with Sherlock.
John worked for them now. Examining bodies at crime scenes, running the autopsy, hypothesizing with the officers the cause of death.
Today was the second time since Sherlock came back that John had been in a room with him. It hurt less than the first. Now he knew what to expect.
Oh, there it was. The bitterness, sadness. The sudden increase in heart rate as he entered the meeting room this morning to find Sherlock seated at a large oak table. There were others at the table. John saw none of them.
Sherlock's green eyes found John's brown ones which immediately looked away as he struggled to keep a façade of calm and professionalism. But it seems that the universe is working against him, as lack of options forces him to take the chair nearly opposite Sherlock.
Everyone in that room knows the story of the world's only consulting detective and the doctor he took in.
Took in, as if he were some kind of pet. But to Sherlock, few people were anything more.
"Thank you all for coming," Lestrade said, his hands shoved in his pockets as he looked around the room. His eyes lingered on Sherlock who was ignoring him, for his eyes were looking somewhere else.
"There are two reasons I've gathered you all. One is because the head of the department has decided to allow Mr. Holmes resume working independently with Scotland Yard. Second-"
"Are you kidding me?"
"Ah, Inspector Anderson, still speaking are we?" and John thinks that it shouldn't affect him the way that it does whenever he insults the Anderson.
Anderson, turning red, ignored him, "The last time we employed this lunatic he almost brought down the entire department.
"Once again Anderson, I am a high func-,"
"Sherlock!" Lestrade was getting upset, "This brings me to the second reason I have for gathering you all. There has been a series of unsolved assaults in central London."
There was a general pause, vacuum-like, in the room. John chose to break it.
"And, what is so different about these assaults that you felt the need to assemble such a group, Lestrade?"
Lestrade turned to John, he breathed out heavily, "This man draws on his victims, strange symbols. We've been able to identify a few symbols but many of them continue to elude us,"
Sherlock huffed a quiet sort of laugh that did not escape the notice of anyone in the room. John struggled to hide the smile that threatened to show. He had to remember that he was not on speaking terms with the man across the table.
Lestrade glared at Sherlock, barely pausing as he continue, "and we need to know what they are if we are to figure out who this mad-man is."
Anderson emerged from his chastened state and raised his hand, "Do we actually have any leads? Or are we relying on the whims of a charlatan once again?"
An uncomfortable sort of silence descended upon the room. Sherlock's scandal and subsequent disappearing act last year had not yet been forgotten. Many of the officers were still, and always had been, against using such an odd method of solving cases. But Sherlock got them the results they needed.
Lestrade cleared his throat, discomfort evident.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes will be assisting us in this case seeing as he does have a history of deciphering such codes."
"The ancient Chinese numerals was a completely different-" John started to protest the comparison when Lestrade interrupted.
"Yes, John I know, but I'm sure you two will figure it out."
"I'm sorry?" John was blinking rapidly, squinting his eyes, his confusion grew. "I thought you just wanted me to look at the body, Greg?"
"What? You guys are a team!" He said hurridly as he began to gather documents from the table. "Okay everyone, that's it for today. We will be meeting again tomorrow. 8 a.m."
"Wait, Greg?"
John attempted to reach the inspector, but lost him in the rush of officers eager to leave. With a sigh, John slapped the table and began gathering his things. The creaking of a chair alerted John to someone else still in the room. But he didn't look up, he didn't have to, he knew who it was.
"…John."