Disclaimer: I have already said I don't own Sherlock. I truly thought I was done with Sherlock and company for a long while, but I'm back. If anyone here has read Blood Is Thicker Than Water, that actually wasn't supposed to be a reunion fic. It just kind of ran away with me. Evil plot bunnies! Anyway, I decided that Bond Holmes was just too interesting not to write about again, and I'm honestly not sure if this will have Johnlock or not. Ah well. Read, review, and enjoy, precious people!
"What are you doing here again?" Doctor John Watson asked, folding his arms across his chest. "I know this isn't a drugs bust, Detective Inspector, because I don't do drugs."
"We don't know that," Sally Donovan said. "You were living with the Freak for a while. Some of its bad habits might have rubbed off on you." Anderson laughed meanly.
"Sherlock was a good man," John said. "And I would be ever so grateful if you addressed him by name, not as if he was some sort of device that went wrong." Greg Lestrade held up a hand, and John smirked to himself. He knew something the rest of these buffoons didn't. Well, Lestrade wasn't a buffoon. Donovan and Anderson were. It had been a month since the trial of Kitty Riley, and nine weeks since the "death" of Sherlock Holmes.
"We need your help with forensics on a case," Lestrade said apologetically. "I know you don't work on those anymore, but I would appreciate your help John."
"I would love to help Greg," John said good-naturedly. "But why do you need me?"
"There isn't any evidence," Anderson said. "No finger prints, no obvious cause of death, nothing." He shuddered. "Like a ghost."
"Anderson, the appalling lack of intelligence you possess is making my head ache," a voice droned from the doorway. "Stop talking before I make John whack you with his unnecessary cane." Sherlock Holmes glided through the door, pulling off his scarf in one fluid movement, and draping his coat over the chair.
"Do you have the milk?" John asked his flat mate. Sherlock nodded, running a hand through his dark, curly hair.
"It's with Bond," he said. "She just stopped to say hi to Mrs. Hudson. The blasted woman is giving her food now. Says she looks underfed."
"She's a Holmes," John argued. "You all look underfed." Sherlock snorted, and ruffled John's hair affectionately, before walking into the kitchen.
"Why do you need my help again, Lestrade?" He called over his shoulder. Anderson, mouth agape, had drifted over to Sherlock, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock flinched visibly, and turned to scowl at Anderson. "Get your hand off of me Anderson. I don't want your stupidity to permeate through my clothing and infect me." In another time, Anderson would have snapped back at the detective, or even punched him in the mouth.
"Sherlock Holmes," he whispered. "You're not dead."
"Your powers of perception are astonishing Anderson," Sherlock said. He walked over to Donovan, and lightly slapped her across the face. "Now, a ghost would be unable to slap Ms. Donovan over here. Therefore, I am very much alive. I don't see why you should be relieved."
"We thought you were dead!" Donovan cried. "We were all depressed after it. We didn't understand why you would do such a thing?"
"Don't you?" Sherlock asked quietly. "Your name slandered and dirtied, the world turning against you. Be called a liar, a kidnapper, your reputation destroyed, everyone you ever cared about doubting you? Realizing how quick people would throw you to the dogs because they hated you? Wouldn't it make you want to jump off a building?" John realized (and he only knew this because he knew the detective so well) that Sherlock was shaking ever so slightly with barely suppressed rage. Anderson and Donovan had been the very first people to believe the false story that had ruined him, and he wasn't a forgiving man.
"I think the two of you should go," John said quietly. The two quickly scuttled out, until it was just Lestrade, John, and Sherlock left in the room.
"Was this some sort of joke?" Lestrade finally asked. "To show how easily we were all fooled?" Sherlock shook his head. Once again, John felt astonished by the color of his eyes. Mint green was the only description for them.
"Moriarty," Sherlock said simply. "Three gunmen, three bullets, three victims. Three people I couldn't let die." John leaned forward slightly. This was the most he had ever heard Sherlock talk about the incident that had led to the fake suicide.
"Who were they?" Lestrade asked quietly.
"Three people that would make the world a much colder place once they were gone," Sherlock said. His voice was so low and quiet John had to strain to hear him. "That's all I can say. I got rid of them as soon as I could, in order to come home." Something tugged John's heart. Home. Sherlock had never called the flat home, but it was apparent that this was the place he associated with home. With comfort and security and love. Lestrade nodded.
"It's good to have you back," he said. "I'll expect you at Scotland Yard tomorrow." He tipped his hat and strode out the door, making room for the slight girl who was entering the flat.
"Watson," Sherlock's niece said politely, flopping down on the couch. John had forced Mycroft into a deal the minute he found out the other Holmes was leaving his daughter alone for long periods of time whenever he had to go somewhere on government business. Every time Mycroft left, he would drop Bond off with Sherlock and John, who would take care of her until he returned. John knew that Mycroft was secretly relieved that he didn't leave his daughter alone anymore.
"That was anticlimactic," John remarked, grabbing the milk and sticking it in the –for once! - head free fridge. Sherlock laughed.
"It was at that," he said.
"Anderson is an idiot," Bond said suddenly. "You can just tell."
"I can't," John said.
"That's because you're also an idiot." It had become a sort of joke for Bond, reminding John that out of the three inhabitants in the flat, he was the least intelligent. Of course, she always said it with a smile on her face. And not the ironic little smirk she had worn through Kitty Riley's trial, but the genuine smile of a child. John sighed, shook his head, and went to start up dinner. Sherlock took out his violin and started to play. And John could only describe his feeling as one of deep and utter contentment.