Still working on Wise Child, but I'm sorting my older fics meanwhile. Have a spot of crack!Reichenbach, written before S2 broke all our hearts and left them sniffing and believing.

... And the Last Shall Be First

"Oh, fuck" is Lestrade's cry of soul at the sight of the dripping, grinning, teeth-texting young man intent by all appearances on turning his doormat into a model mud bath. Then "You're in for a sound spanking, you walking disaster scene" as he pulls Sherlock into his arms and inside his flat, followed by the classic coda, "I need a smoke".

"Wrong order," Sherlock riposts before he tilts his head and places a literally dirty kiss on Lestrade's mouth corner. "But your priorities never were logical where I'm concerned."

"Don't smartlip me, you. You've got a lot to answer for. What happened? Where's he? Are you hurt? Are you hungry? Are you —"

"I'm wet." Sherlock is heading to the bathroom and his trail is certainly easier to follow when he leaves big floppy footprints all over Lestrade's biscuit-coloured rug. But that's the way the biscuit breaks, as his oh-so-British CS loves to quip, and Lestrade couldn't give a damn. He sits heavily on the toilet seat as Sherlock pulls off a pair of mud-coated trainers.

"Jesus, don't tell me you fell in too."

"Greg, focus. Of course I didn't fall in, I'd hardly be in a huggable state if I had. Plus, observe my SmartWool socks. They're merely damp. No, Mycroft kept me waiting half an hour in the rain for the 'copter, then said he'd left his brolly behind in his zeal to rescue me. As if."

"Your brother scores. Now, into that shower with you, then I'll want a full report on the why and how and, more to the point, the what. You texted John en route, right?"

Sherlock opens his mouth, but Greg's ancient showerpipes are shaking and chattering mightily in turn, and the dim staccato of water over the tiles drowns his next words. Probably "Figures", or "Obviously", or even "Tell you when we've dealt with your first priority".

By the time Sherlock has been cleaned, fed, questioned and cajoled into sleep, and Greg is digesting Sherlock's new masterplan, or How to Catch Your Tiger-Eating Man with a Zombie Sleuth, neither remembers to ask what that was about John.

"... and I trust that in view of the sad circumstances, and because we were very, very lucky to have him at all, each and every of you will attend the service and show the proper attitude, Anderson I heard that "Bless the Mountain". That's all, folks, back to the grind. By the way, Sally, I want you to liaise with Counter Terrorism and get everything they might have on Sebastian Moran and the Tankerville gang. It could prove useful. For a - for a case."

"Oh, sweet baby Jesus on toast." Sally checks that the last officer is gone before she sweeps down the blinds on Lestrade's glass door with a curt tug of wrist. "What's the use of him surviving if he's the death of you?"

"... Sorry?"

"Implicating you in a terrorist wing-ding now. Why can't he take you out to dinner to celebrate, like any normal guy?"

"Sergeant —"

"No, sir, it's no use pulling rank. You and Freak have been carrying on ever since the Wilson case. Who d'you think I was photographing that evening? You were holding his hand right there under that blanket."

"Taking his pulse, Sally, taking his pulse. A man in shock –

"Pearls to the swine if you ask me, which you won't. But with all due respect, sir, if he was dead I'd be holding your head over this bin right here and wrestling you for a bottle or two."

"Sal —"

"Tell me the truth, sir. We both know this office is soundproof. Is he...?"

Lestrade sighs. "He is. But no one is to know, and I want your word as a lady and an officer that you'll keep your mouth shut. If John or Sherlock hear there are rumours —"

"Speaking of which, why hasn't Watson popped up yet? You'd expect him to play the game, sneak down here for us to pat his sandy bangs. Half the Yard think he is the bereaved spouse."

"Looks like he's playing the game abroad. When I went to check on Mrs Hudson the flat was empty and he'd left a note for her with a month's rent. Sherlock must have sent him on a mission. Or something."

"Hmmm. I'll get that file for you now. But I'm telling you straight up, sir - if Freak's next big idea is to wrap you up in gun-cotton as a bait "or something", I'm selecting the next cataract myself. And cuffing both his arms in his back before I kick him in."

"Don't let him hear that, he's never resisted a challenge. That file, now - and remember, Mum's the word."

"Mum-MUM-mmm..." Sally is wriggling under the gag as Anderson carefully ghosts her naked sole with a peacock feather. The game is on, and it is a win-win gambit - if she laughs, she has a forfeit, but the forfeits usually leave her hot, bothered and ecstatic. The feather is visiting her inner thigh in tingling slow torment when she finally utters a high-pitched cry and dissolves in giggles. Quickly, Anderson releases the gag and gathers her in her arms.

"Winner takes all!"

She laughs, throwing her head back to let him kiss the soft column of her neck. "What shall it be, then?"

Anderson stretches out at her side, mouth pursed in mock-meditation, then narrows his eyes at her. "What did Lestrade tell you yesterday, after he'd bullied us lot into attending Freak's funeral?"

Her laughter stills. "I... can't tell you, Andy."

"You stayed ten full minutes with him. With the office blinds on." His gaze is shifty now. "And you were all flushed when you came out."

"Oh God, Andy - you fool - you can't possibly think -"

"Why not? He's a piece of hot fuzz, allegedly. With a better reputation than I'll ever have." She can sense the unspoken words in his defensive stance. And a non Catholic wife who agreed to the divorce. The anger is dying out in her, blending into the protectiveness twhich has been the cornerstone of their affair ever since the day PC Denver spoke of "contaminating the ranks with their fucking quotas" and Anderson slapped him. Hard. Twice.

"All right, I'll tell you, but you must promise not to tell. He was telling me Freak is -."

"Oh God, no. Please don't tell me he's still there."

"Yeah, I know. But – yeah. Alive and incommunicado, and now there's you and me and Lestrade in the know."

"And Watson?"

"Obviously. But he's back in Kadul interviewing Moriartists. Or something."

"Oh."

"And now I've told you, can we - ah. Ah. Oh yes, right there. Oh!"

"I say, Dim, d'you think we should slap up a collection? You know, flowers, banner, an engraved skull? Holmes wasn't one of us, officially I mean, so I doubt the CS will make a gesture. Remember how Holmes deduced his little bladder problem when he threatened to cordon off the coffee machine? Those were the days."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry, Toby. He's not dead, to begin with —"

"What?"

"Anderson just told me. Well, technically, he's deadalive."

"News of the day. So Lestrade knows?"

"I assume everyone in the detecting business knows by now. And Watson."

"And Watson. He's back in London, by the way. Spotted him roaming Tesco's the other day, grim as a constipated reaper. You'd think he'd be relieved to have Holmes off his hands for a while. But then, he probably misses that too. According to Radio Met, they've been boffing each other ever since that Pink case."

"Really, Tobias -"

"Chill, mate. I'll spare your virgin ears if you can spare a fiver - pub is just around the corner. Just a pint, and I'll tell you all about that sweet little girl at St Bart's singing a certain DI's praise to all and sundry after he rescued her cat from a refrigeration cell."

"... You're on."

The ceremony is as tastefully twisted as the Holmes and Mother Inc. could be expected to make it. To Lestrade, it looks as if Tim Burton and Sir James Ivory had suddenly ganged up to make a screen version of The Garden Party, and he must remind himself not to sniff the pearlescent rose he was given, and every other attendant, to throw on the empty coffin. There's a French buffet propped to the graveyard wall and a Three-Continent Renowned violinist stringing up funeral marches, though Greg could have sworn he heard "Tea for Two" when he stepped forward with his rose. Sherlock is incorrigible.

Everyone is behaving in tip-top style. Mycroft's umbrella sports a black satinette favour around its handle and Mycroft leans on it as he supports Mrs Holmes, who is dabbing her handkerchief over her eyes while she sizes up young Dimmock under cover. Next to Greg, Mrs Hudson has gone for a good cry.

"Always when there's music, dear, though I have a peeled onion in my handbag. To be on the safe side. Tell me if you want a slice."

"I'll manage, thanks. Is the lady in purple a relative? She looks familiar."

"Oh, that's Marie Turner. She unlocked the door for you on your last bust, remember? When I was at my Ikebana Club? You see, she'd just got that new hat she planned to wear for the royal wedding, on our telly night, so I asked Mr Holmes if she could come too and he said the more the better. Of course, I had to tell her the truth or it wouldn't have been much of an outing, would it? Oh my, d'you think that's caviar caviar?"

"Mrs Hudson, we must be very careful —"

"Don't fret, dear. Marie only told her tenants and they're both sworn on the Bible. Or Mrs Rowling, well, whatever young people swear to these days. Oh! Look at dear John over here, isn't he amazing!"

"Yeah, isn't he? Anyone else would have given up on the scowl by now. Probably got himself a jaw cramp, but no, keep grim and carry on. Splendid old chap, John. Acts like a pro."

"I wish he'd come back to Baker Street instead of staying with that sister of his. More realistic, I know, I know, but, dear, I can't help thinking she doesn't quite know how to take care of a man. Look at him, he must have lost five pounds over the last three months."

"Ah, well, that's method actors for you, Mrs H. Come and have some bubbly with me?"

And so the months pass, which is what months do, to quote the late Moriarty before he was punished by where he had first sinned.

"Guess who I sat next to at the Criterion?" Doctor Stamford asks Doctor Hooper as they share a latte in her lab, prior to a conference on Bioethics they're both required to attend. "Old friend of mine - John Watson!"

"Oh, how's he? Funny, I don't think I've seen him since the, well, that funeral thing. And I couldn't really talk to him, could I, because Eugene had just told me about Sherlock to cheer me up, and to be very hush-hush because you never know who might be listening behind the chrysanthemums."

"But you told me on that day!"

"Oh, yes. But we were the very first to arrive, and you Sherlock's only friend before John... it didn't feel right to leave you in the dark. Anyway, how's John doing? He must be thriving if he can afford the Criterion."

"Well, I can't say he looked very chirpy. But that's part of the game, I think."

"The game?"

"Yes, he was dining with Mary Morstan, the heiress. Telling her all about Sherlock and what a loss he'd endured, while she held his hand and told him to eat up his beans. Farandole de haricots a la Bocuse, that is, with a balsamic sauce I'd kill to know the recipe of. When I left, she was feeding him chocolate truffle in a spoon and he was telling her how he appreciated her kindness. I winked, but he looked as stony as if I'd pinched his ladyfriend's b-t-m."

Molly frowns. "He's using Sherlock's death to win himself a rich girl? That sounds - very callous for John." There is a soft quiver to her voice and Mike pats her arm good-naturedly.

"Well, I don't know, Molly. Could be he was spying for Sherlock. Didn't Eugene tell you he was after a man named Moran? Sounds pretty close to Morstan."

"None of this sounds right to me. But if there's one thing I've learnt, is that you can never tell a man's heart from his manners. Especially the gentle, genial sort."

"I take exception to that remark," Doctor Stamford rejoins with a genial chuckle.

"No, Mike, you are the exception." Molly lobs her styrofoam cup at the paper basket in a long-practised sleight of arm and hops down from her desk. "You and Eugene. Come, we're going to be late."

"I don't getta it." Angelo's native accent, which he knows to tone up or down according to his customers' expectations, tends to resurface when he's puzzled. He is looking at the crisp new bill held between his plump fingers as if he had just retrieved a dried-up sardin from a dish of prosciutto.

"Whewww." Billy's pert whistle conveys his admiration as he pours the evening's last cappuccinos. Midnight has come and gone, with the customers trickling out of the place two by two. "A hundred quids? What did you do, slip a benny into the lady's calzone?"

Angelo cuffs his nephew absently on the back of his head. "No, I come to get their orders and Mr John, he is speaking about Sherlock, how it is an anniversary date and this was where they first had dinner. The lady, she doesn't look very captivated, but I think: Haha! Here's a signal for you, Angelo." Because Maddie, the bag-lady in Dark Lane, she'd come in yesterday to say that Sherlock was just back from abroad." So I think, Ha. And I think, Ha. And when they're finished, and Mr John is asking for the bill, I come back to blow the candle and ask, zitto zitto, "Anything you want to pass on, sir?"

"And?"

"And he says, "Er?" "

"... And?"

"And so I wait. And then he... gives me this. "For the staff", he says. But the staff is just you and me!"

"Yeah, I don't get it eith — oh, wait! Zio, I've got it! Invisible ink! They say all it takes is some lemon juice and – here, light the candle again. Jeez, I hope the message won't spoil the bill."

"Ah, Sherlock. That boy, he always remembers when we can do with a new pizza oven."

"You're unbelievable." Lestrade's hands settle carefully on the slender foot in his lap as he speaks, stroking and squeezing in turn. North of the foot, Sherlock is humming throatily under these ministrations, one white arm anchored to Lestrade's long-suffering couch. "Twelve mercenaries breathing down your neck, not to mention the Chinese State Security, and you book the Dalai-Lama for an exclusive interview?"

"The man says he's never been bored, not one day in his life. Word to the wise, all that."

"Oh?" Lestrade's thumbs knead the callused flesh slowly, drawing little moans of ecstasy from Sherlock that send a shiver down his own spine. Pity it has taken two dapper psychos and their countless hirelings to make them realize the merits of foot massage. "And what did His Holiness say?"

"Hmm? Oh, that the boringness of boring hours passes. And the pleasantness of pleasant hours passes. Also, tantric yoga is a bonus - no, Greg, not what you're thinking, obviously, though I don't mind giving your version a go. Do that corkscrew move again? God."

"Focus, man." Greg can't repress a vengeful grin as he tucks Sherlock's foot into the crook of his neck, nuzzling his cheek to it before he moves on to Sherlock's inner thigh. He is rather hoping to up the tantric ante there. "And I still say it was a cretinous move. Nearly gave me a heart attack – Christ. You on the eight o'clock news for everyone to see. Why didn't you text your brother first? Or me, or John? Whole sorry business could – hmmph - have been wrapped up six weeks ago."

Sherlock's answer is another patented deep-lunged huffs – yet one that ends suspiciously close to a whimper. Greg smirks and keeps palpating Sherlock's calf muscles.

"You were taking enough risks as it was, letting me on to – aaaah – classified information. John I knew I could rely on to help me the best way he could - by doing absolutely nothing, and giving a – a – a – a first-class show of turning our page. Best premise for my plan B, in case your flat – oh yes, this... - was blown up."

"Why, thank you, Sherlock-Sensei. Did B include the Bride in your calculations?"

"Please. Surely you don't believe John is legally married to this woman?"

"Sherlock."

"It's John we're speaking of! Afghanistan John, not your mainstream ignoramus when it comes to camouflage tactics."

"Yeah, right. Renting St Paul's for the nuptials is certainly going the hard way to cover up one's celibacy."

"..."

"Unless the Archbishop was in the know. Can't say, never got an invite. He still blames me for the bubbly, I think."

"The champagne?"

"At your funeral. Singing "Call up the locksmith" with Mrs H. – well, the two Mrs H. – was a bit not good in his eyes. I think. Though your bro was the first to join up, with little Molly. Felt like a high tenor on a high by the time Dimmock chimed in."

"Hum. I think you'd better text John to come out of hiding now. I'd be lost without my – without – my – oh, my..."

"... Handler? Lover? Masseur? Funeral crooner?"

"Greg. God. It's been – so long. I think —"

"Nah, don't. It's annoying. I swear I'll text God the Father first thing tomorrow if that's what you want, but right now, come over here and show me a tantrum or two. Quite your thing, tantrums, if I remember right."

"Greg..."

Ever since he took the Hippocratic oath, Doctor John Watson has been aware that his chances of enjoying his early morning coffee to the dregs – even Mary's strong-scented, rich Ethiopian brand – are very slight. But now that he's left Baker Street for her Chelsea townhouse, a few impediments have been removed. Poisoning by snake semen, for one (and how Sherlock procured the semen, John still wonders with a fond pang). Or entering the kitchen to find his flatmate and DI Lestrade reconstructing a nudists' crime scene with professional gusto.

Speaking of which, there's a text from Lestrade on his phone. John looks at it with distant distaste. He hasn't tried to keep up with the DI after the funeral – hasn't tried to keep up with anyone involved in the funeral, to tell the truth, though his Afghan years have taught him that all is fair in grief and loss. No, he himself has soldiered on with the love of a good woman, and if he sometimes – sometimes, mind – logs furtively onto his blog (his readership has kept dwindling now that the deductions are all his, though he'd have them know it's not given to everyone to infer vestibular ataxia from a dilated left pupil), it's just for old time's sake.

Clearly.

And not because his new battlefield consists in learning the bloody salsa so that he can escort Mary to Annabel's on Saturday nights.

John shudders vaguely and presses on the button on his phone. What's on, Doc? are the first words he reads. Really, you'd think Lestrade had at least learnt to brush up his puns. Long time no see, etc. Time for you to show up at the den and meet Sherlock.02! High-functioning brand new version, already kicking sparks! Come when convenient. GL.

Oh, that's too much. That's really too much, and John punches his screen back to blank with righteous indignation. You'd expect the Yard to think higher of Sherlock's unique history with them instead of naming some sort of new computer system after the dead man and passing flippant comments on it. He's sorely tempted to go, if only to give them a piece of his mind. Low-functioning though it may be, now he's on his own.

In fact, that's exactly what he's going to do.

John slams his half-quaffed organic Sertao down on the pristine kitchen table and grabs his coat.

He is entering the Yard with a Yeah-Armaggedon-I'm-speaking-to-you scowl when Gregson steps out of the glass doors.

"Hey, Doc! Come to see Sherlock? Lestrade's office, they're quizzing him on Japanese mangas, I think."

The Armaggedon frown makes it to John's hairline. John makes it to Homicide Section. He'll manga them all right.

"Oh, John!" Molly's happy hail stops him momentarily in the corridor as she untucks herself from young Dimmock's proprietary arm. "Guess what? I'm engaged!"

John coaxes a smile out. He's always had a fond spot for Molly, probably some vicarious brotherly love to compensate for the whole Harry debacle.

"I'm very happy to hear that, Molly. Marriage – marriage did a lot for me, you know."

"Oh yes, Sherlock was joking about that just now! The silly boy went on and on about the boringness of boring hours. But he did ask after Toby."

"Our cat", Dimmock adds helpfully. "We must really find Gregson a pet name, Mollycuddle, it's very confu – Doctor, is anything wrong?"

"Sherlock is here?"

John's voice, contrary to the best-worn clichés of European literature, is anything but wan in his hours of qualm. It is in fact loud enough to lure Gregory Lestrade out of his office, his smile a beacon of hospitality as he gestures to John.

"Ah, John! Come on in, man, what are you lagging for? We're all going for a celebratory pint, time to reacclimatize our bright boy with the British ale after all this butter tea... and..."

But Lestrade is shoved aside as John all but breaks and enters the DI's office. Perched on Lestrade's desk, his arms craddling his knees in unfeigned nonchalance, his face hardly less pale than when he last saw him in a Swiss hotel three years ago, Sherlock Holmes is gazing at him with mock-severity.

"Really, John. Forty-five minutes from Mayfair? My turn to say "late", I thi —"

Sherlock's head snaps back mid-verb as John's straight punch sends him flat out on his back, paper sheets flying right and left. Lestrade's goal reflexes are not quick enough to block the blow or prevent Sherlock's blood from dotting his paperwork all over, adding a Barthesian effet de reel to his latest murder report.

"You fucking moron," John is saying slowly. "You fucked-up excuse for a human fucker, why the fuck didn't you tell me you're alive ? Why did no one here think of telling me?"

Sherlock does not answer at once, either because his mind is still processing John's forceful repetitions or because he's too busy clasping sheets of paper to his nose and mouth. The Met officers present in the office are slowly but surely regrouping behind the desk ; Anderson, an unforeseen Samaritan, is slipping the big office key down Sherlock's back to quench the blood flow. Donovan, a lesser Samaritan, is taking pictures.

Lestrade's voice can be heard next, and to say that it is tainted with disbelief would be euphemism of the year.

"You – Sherlock, don't tell me you – bloody hell, I clearly remember you telling me that you'd texted the man that night!"

Sherlock's upper face, or what can be seen of it, attempts a refuting shake. This sets the blood flowing afresh, and Anderson clamps Sherlock's face between his palms none too gently. "Didn't," Sherlock croaks. "I remember dow. Did mean do, bud..." He twists his face to John with what, in anyone else, would pass for a penitent gaze but makes him look at best like a cross-eyed magpie. "Slib of de mind, John."

At these words, Lestrade all but jumps between his boyfriend and Afghanistan John. But John, though still outraged, seems to understand that Sherlock means the words literally, as the best version of humble pie that he's capable of. Still, as he bends over the prostrate form, John sends Christian forgiveness to Coventry and procceds to exact an eye for an eye.

"You will come to my place next Saturday and apologize clearly and properly."

"Yes, John." Sherlock, with Lestrade and Anderson's allied support, has managed to sit up and force the blood back down his sinuses.

"And you will congratulate my wife. Properly."

"Yes, John."

"Good. Then you will escort her to Annabel's and take every care that she amuses herself. They're having a cha-cha evening."

Sherlock tries to turn his head and give Lestrade his first explicit SOS in three years, but Anderson's hands are claw-like in their grasp.

"Gentlemen. Molly." John's voice is icy. "See you at the pub – Saturday night."

He spins on his heel and makes for the door, the little group of bystanders parting in two before his stride like the Red Sea of yore. On the threshold, he turns around. Lestrade is taking advantage of Sherlock's temporary paper gag to remonstrate in hushed but fervent whispers. John clears his throat loudly.

"In fact," he says sternly, eyes to his target, "I might as well make this a long-term arrangement. Say, every Saturday for the next... three years?"

He won't. He's not that cruel. But Sherlock's yelp of distress is balm enough for now as he emerges from New Scotland Yard and flags a cab on his own. Time to meet Mary at the Savoy and tell the dear girl he's found the perfect escort for her little outings. Fate and Sherlock Holmes may have ensured that John Hamish Watson was kept lagging behind three years running, but he'll be damned if his are the only toes that get crushed in the process.

FINIS