SHERLOCK OMG SHREIKING
Disclaimer: I blame moffat and gatiss. For everything.
Sherlock has been hearing John in his head for two years. He is so used to muttering to the voice in his head he finds it odd to be back and talking to the man in person.
And being punched.
Really, he has had quite enough of being punched and tackled.
No one he encountered on his travels cared that every now and then he would tell John to shut up, or to pass the thumbs, or that he turns to shoot a disarming grin at someone who isn't there. Most of them didn't even speak the same language anyway.
The Serbian who beat him to a pulp while his brother sat and watched didn't care.
The little Spanish lady who made him carry her groceries while he figured out who killed her son didn't care either.
And it is peculiar when Molly and Lestrade shoot him puzzled looks as he tells his John voice to shut up.
"What?" He rumbles. They shrug and he goes back to inspecting the skeleton, in its, frankly, disappointing faux victorian clothing.
Anderson. Really, the man can be a complete idiot. Did he really think this would fool him?
At least he isn't here to distract him. Ugly tosser.
He rattles off an explanation to the boring people, not telling them a thing of the truth of who is stringing them along this time, and leaves.
The John voice still won't shut up.
Except then real John is there and the voice is real, and laden with human emotion and warmth and quite a soupçon of anger.
He really ought to make some kind of apology.
But he never could resist a bit of dramatics. Double apologies it is.
John used to say the voice in his head is his conscience. He wonders what he would say if he knew it was him?
Short. But um. I don't know how much sense it makes. Let me know, I guess.