[insert standard disclaimer here]

A very short conversation between two of our favourite boys. Set post-hiatus.

Enjoy! :)

It was Greg who pointed out, very sensibly, that John didn't have to take Sherlock back.

"Oh, don't say that," John complained from where he was sprawled against his best mate's side on the couch, "You make me sound like a bleeding fifties housewife who's just found out that - that her husband's been off having an affair or something."

Greg made a thoughtful noise, "Not so far from the truth, though, is it?"

John looked quizzically at the older man.

"I mean, you knew each other, what, eighteen months?"

"Mmm," John took a swig of his beer.

"And Sherlock was gone a good three years, off doing whatever it was that he was doing. It'd be a weird sort of an affair, but that's the genius for you. And whatever it was you two had in that eighteen months - and I know, John, I know it was nothing sexual, you're John Girlfriends-On-Three-Continents Watson, and he's Sherlock I'm-Married-To-My-Work Holmes, but believe you me, you had something - and whatever it was, that spark, that - " he waved a hand vaguely, "blowed if I know, that je ne sais quoi - you two were as inseparable as any decades-married couple."

John pondered this for a minute before conceding the point with a sigh, letting his head fall back to settle against Greg's shoulder, "Yeah. We were best friends for eighteen months. But he's been dead - gone, he's been gone - for three years. Three years, Greg."

"It's a long time," Greg agreed.

"It's a sodding long time. You've been my best mate for twice as long as he was, now. He only had eighteen months, you've had the rest of it."

There was a thoughtful silence, John sipping at his beer and Greg staring abstractedly at the game on the television.

"He's changed," John said finally. "It's been three years, we've all changed, but - he's changed more."

"How d'you mean?"

"He's sort of... softer and harder at the same time. Groceries appear in the fridge, or he'll make us both coffee. I fell asleep in my armchair the other night and when I woke up he'd draped a blanket over me, things like that. But then sometimes something will happen, and it's like it - I don't know, it trips a switch in his head, and he just... goes away in his mind for a second. His eyes go all dark and hard, and his face..." John shivered, "His face could be chiseled out of rock for all the expression it shows. He still hasn't told me what he's been up to these last three years, but if that's any indication, I'm not sure that I really want to know."

Greg frowned, "I would've thought he'd have told you by now, I mean he's been back for two weeks."

"Nope. Hasn't said a word."

"Huh," he made a thoughtful noise, "Didn't think you two had many secrets."

John snorted, "That was before. It's different now."

"It's like I said, mate - you're under no obligation to take him back. What he did hurt you - it hurt us all."

"It hurt us, yeah, but... I think it hurt him even more," John murmured, lost in thought. "That phone call, before he jumped... he was crying. Crying, Greg. Because of what he had to do, because of what Moriarty had forced him to do. It hurt everyone, directly and indirectly - suicide does that, even faked suicide." He shrugged, "What we have, what we are... it's changed. But that doesn't mean we can't get it back."

"So you are going to take him back?"

"I have to," he said quietly, "If there's any possibility that we can get that - what'd you call it? that spark - if we can get that back somehow, or even create something new out of this mess... I have to try. I can't just abandon him, not now. He was the best thing that ever happened to me."

"Yeah," Greg agreed, "I know that feeling."

More contemplative silence, and then John sighed, "Alright, that's enough sentiment for one night. Who's going to win the game, do you think?"

And life went on.