There is a photograph John Watson keeps tucked away in his drawer at work. If you were to stumble upon it you would find nothing remarkable. It's a photograph, work with age and faded at the edges from much holding, but it's nothing extraordinary. He sits with three people, all of them smiling brightly, drinks in hand. By the décor you could probably tell it was Christmas time.
To John's left is the man you know as Sherlock Holmes. John called him his best friend. He sits cross legged, brandy balanced on the arm of the couch, the other looped around John's shoulder. His eyes are bright with feline like attention and his grin is wide, showing slightly crooked teeth, watching the people next to him. Moments later he would disappear into the night, off to view the body of one Irene Adler, brilliant mind ablaze with the closest thing to grief it could manage.
That man is gone now.
To John's right is the indomitable Mrs. Hudson. Perched on her head is a pair of reindeer antlers she'd tried to put on Sherlock to no avail. She'd been laughing at the moment the photo was taken, head thrown back as she laughs, hands clapping in front of her. She's a bit tipsy too, if the two empty champagne glasses at her feet are anything to go by.
Always happy to spend time with her boys.
To her right is the stalwart and true DI Lestrade. He's choking on his beer, hand caught mid motion flying to his mouth, eyes bright with mirth. His glass is held away from him, the golden amber inside sloshing about and falling onto his shoes. His wedding ring is back in place; he's happy his wife is back. He's on top of the world. Nothing can bring him down.
The first man to believe in Sherlock Holmes.
And there amidst it all is John Watson himself. The calm at the center of the storm he leans in to the arm around his shoulders and smiles straight at the camera. Ordinary man with not so ordinary friends he looks amazingly happy to be where he is, despite the madness that rages around him in a constant tempest. Loyal. Strong. Caring. You could always count on John Watson.
He'd give anything to be that man again.
And there they are. Residents and guests of 221B Baker Street, forever trapped in a moment of unguarded happiness, as they should be. No lies. No betrayal. Long before Richard Brook ever showed his face to that mealy mouth reporter and set them all on a journey they would wish they'd never taken.
What could they have been laughing at, you wonder? How could they have been so blissfully unaware that in six months' time one of them would be dead, one left with an empty flat she doesn't have the heart to rent out again, one the man doubted and all but helped the other jump, and the last alone in the world and half mad with grief. Again.
But let's not tell them that. Look at the photograph. Really look at it. Can you see them, popping about 221B, warm light from the fireplace lighting up their smiles? Are you still looking?
Don't they look glorious?