There really could only be one reasonable explanation for the sight before him. But the logic was refusing to cooperate with his brain.
Impossible, he's dead.
He reached for his cup and peered into it. What the hell did they put in my coffee?
"No, Lestrade," but the voice wasn't sharp and cutting like glass per usual. It was terribly soft, coaxing even, "No one's drugged you."
A cold comfort indeed.
Greg was having a difficult time catching his breath. All those damn stairs. He loved the view from his office but those damn stairs were going to be the death of him.
Funny, he used to say that about—stop.
"You know it wouldn't be the first time I thought I saw you. 'Cept you're never so…solid. I'd be at a crime scene and turn to ask you something but… I once saw your coat flick out of the corner of my eye. And that stupid scarf. The barista almost gave me a heart attack. Had your same ridiculous hair 'cept it wasn't. It was too light—it wasn't— "
Suddenly he was on his feet. His eyes stung and he was touching a ghost. Except it wasn't because you can't touch a ghost. It—he was warm and breathing and so very alive.
Lestrade was hugging him, clutching him and damn it all to hell he might just be crying.
"Sherlock Holmes you idiot bastard don't you ever, ever pull a stupid stunt like that again because so help me God I'll—I'll…"
But he stopped, because the world's only consulting detective, resident genius and favorite sociopath was sliding one whip cord arm around his back and applying pressure.
Two grown men, embracing in the middle of New Scotland Yard with an open murder case on the desk and the added challenge of raising a consultant from the dead…
Life is far stranger than anything we could possibly dream up.
Because there is no way Lestrade could have possibly believed that Sherlock Holmes would actually, voluntarily return a hug.