Sherlock was being in a foul mood. The case last night was barely six. And yes, his and John's pursuit of the suspect was exhilarating and they did manage to find to lost jewels - but the end of the night left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Because did the Yarders appreciate that Sherlock and John captured the murderer?
No. Not at all.
There was some complaining about taking off without informing them (Lestrade), name-calling (Donovan), sneering (Anderson) and demanding to stay for such a boring thing as paperwork (someone insignificant).
And generally, Sherlock was better at dealing with those idiots, but it was getting harder and harder to bear, and he saw that John was not happy about the matters as well, and now Mycroft was here to badger him about Sherlock's upcoming thirty-five birthday because it was supposedly a big deal and mummy desired to throw a big party for her son and what did Sherlock want from his big brother (being left alone was apparently not an acceptable answer) and urghhhh!.
The detective stood up, went to his room and slammed the door, leaving his brother to find the way from the flat (hopefully someone will lure him away with a cake or a war or something).
In his room Sherlock contemplated leaving London for some time (with John of course). Perhaps a case somewhere else? Here and now someone wrote to them - thanks to John's blog - and offered them a mystery in a faraway corner of Britain or even abroad.
That evening Sherlock greatly ranted to the skull (John was visiting Harry) about the Met and their non-existent thanks, about Anderson and Donovan, about Lestrade being too sure about Sherlock lending him a hand (more like a brain) and about Sherlock getting sick of it all.
After, the detective felt better. And it seemed that some deity had been listening to him since two days later they got an interesting call for help from the Australian government.
And so Sherlock Holmes and John Watson left London for four months.
Four months later
They were finally home!
The flat seemed the same or maybe a little cleaner since apparently Mrs. Hudson tidied a little bit (just this once since she wasn't their housekeeper!) and John immediately went for the kettle. His blogger was looking forward to have a proper cuppa in their cold english weather for some time since Australia was too hot to drink tea several times a day (though it needs to be said that John did it anyway).
Both men were well rested (despite being attacked with guns, machetes, snakes, kangaroos and on one particular occasion: a sheep) and tanned.
His blogger took one day to write the 'Case of golden but deadly kangaroo' though he had not much hope of people believing them this one. And no Mrs. Hudson, it was not a honeymoon.
The day after the case was posted on the blog Sherlock's phone rang. But it was all the way in the kitchen while Sherlock was restin- ehm, pondering a vital research on the sofa. And really didn't want to get up. But what if it was another glorious case? Decisions, decisions. Oh. "Joooohn!"
"Lazy git." mumbled his doctor fondly and got up from his newspapers. He even took the call. Someone he knows as well then. And not unwilling to talk to. Not Mycroft then.
"Hey, Greg." Greg? Sherlock frowned. Does he know a 'Greg'? Perhaps Lestrade? Wasn't his name something else though? Like Grant? Or Gerald? Gordon? Glen? That was it, wasn't it? Glen Lestrade. Then who is Greg?
He missed the most of the call and only caught the last: "Yep, we're on our way."
"Case?" Sherlock shot up suddenly energized. Perhaps Lestrade was not Glen after all.
"Yes." said John and kept frowning on the phone in his hand.
"What's wrong, John?" asked Sherlock while dressing himself (finally he got to wear his coat on a case after a long time! Australia was too hot for it and Sherlock missed billowing about).
"It was… weird." said the doctor slowly while he armoured himself with his beige jumper.
"Weird how? Details, John!" A case and another mystery concerning Glen? Brilliant.
"He was very... polite about it. You know 'if you're not busy' and so forth, but not in the sarcastic way."
That was weird. Lestrade always excluded the partial notion that he was doing Sherlock a favour letting him on crime scenes, and neither he was one for pleasantries. Something was going on with Glen.
After they got out from the cab they were greeted with an overjoyed detective inspector. "Sherlock! John! Oh God I missed you. Perhaps later we can grab a pint and you tell me about the details that are not on the blog, it sounds quite bizarre there. But come now, I think you will quite like this one, Sherlock. Locked from the inside, the murder gun missing. All the things you like." he said while smiling (smiling!) at them gesturing to go inside.
Sherlock and John exchanged looks and followed the detective inspector.
"Look who's here!" shouted Lestrade when they entered room.
"Sherlock!" was the unanimous cheerful shout back. A couple of people even gave the consulting detective a friendly wave.
"Holmes!" was another cry before Sherlock was assaulted. Wait. Not assaulted. Hugged. By… Donovan?! Why was he being hugged by Donovan of all people?! This was too surreal for a dream and too far for any practical joke.
He desperately looked at John whose jaw was dropped. At least he was not the only one bewildered here.
"Come, come." Donovan finally released him and led him by the shoulder to the body.
"Sherlock, hey. I didn't touch anything so far. But the mark on his hand looks fishy." said Anderson standing relaxed near the dead body.
There was only one explanation then. Somehow he and John must have crossed some kind of portal between parallel dimensions.
The surprises did not end there. Everyone kept acting friendly. When Sherlock gave his typical whirlwind explanation they only nodded and asked for some parts to be clarified. His arrogant exasperation with them not understanding was only smiled at as if it was somehow cute. Before him and John pursued the main lead, Lestrade only politely asked to be kept informed of any progress so he could provide a necessary backup.
After they caught the killer, they were thanked (thanked!) and fussed over. Lestrade also said to go home that he will prepare the paperwork and bring it the next day to Baker Street.
On the way home Sherlock and John debated the possibility of them being in wrong alternate dimension. After all, what other explanation there could be?
When the next day Lestrade brought the paperwork, Sherlock was ready for him. John was just in Tesco restocking their fridge (the empty, body parts free fridge had been tempting to do so for the last couple of days).
"Sit down, Glen." said Sherlock and pointed on the chair where usually their clients resided.
"It's Greg, Sherlock." sighed Lestrade but sat.
"Are you sure? Nevermind. I want to talk about the differences how your team is treating me. What is the purpose?" Sherlock steepled his fingers.
"Oh. Uhm." Lestrade reddened a little and scratched his head.
"Yes? Is it some kind of a joke?" That would be quite bad. He would rather prefer the parallel dimension.
"What? No! Jesus, Sherlock. I don't know how to… even..."
"Start at the beginning then."
"Alright. I can do that." He took a deep breath. "After you went away. You know, a week or so after, we got a difficult case and someone in the department got a brilliant idea to look if we could, well, try another consultant. And somehow, don't ask me how since I don't know, we got to actually borrow a guy from MI5. Bloody MI5! He consulted with us until last week and Sherlock, it was absolutely and utterly horrible! I mean, he was smart. Probably even more than you, but Jesus Christ dealing with him was such an utter, utter pain. He was always correcting everyone about the correct procedures, behaviour, or even grammar! He was always terribly insulting deducing everything from childhood traumas to breakfast, making sure that you know that he knows and can use it any time. When Donovan called him a freak, he made a speech and made her cry for fuck's sake! Her - cry! When Anderson called him that, he revealed his cheating to his wife. He made me to rewrite paperwork all the time finding some kind of miniscule error here or there - I had to spend hours and hours on it until he was satisfied. One guy spit in his tea and the next day he was on traffic duty! And since we actually had results we could not get rid of him! Thank fuck you came back! I could at least say that he was only a temporary substitute for you and we don't need him anymore! Please, do not ever leave London for such long time again. I worry somehow even if we didn't ask for him he would be back." Lestrade swallowed. "Uhm, so, yeah. We kind of realized that we didn't appreciate your help very much. So. Yes. There. Um."
Sherlock was mightily fighting off a smile. "I don't know, Glen, there are many interesting cases abroad."
"Jesus, Sherlock, call me Glen, I don't care, just don't make that posh, smarmy, umbrella wielding bastard come back."
"Hmm. Just out of curiosity, what's his name?"
"Cohl Emmy Frost. Probably made up since the background check revealed nothing, though he insisted on being called Mr. Frost. Quite fitting actually since he is such a cold-hearted bastard. But stay away from him, I have a feeling that he could be quite dangerous."
You have no idea. And, yep, he was losing the battle with the smile.
After Lestrade left, Sherlock took his phone. Cohl Emmy Frost have always been one of his brother's favourite anagrams.
In retrospect, that glorious abroad case came quite quickly after Sherlock had desired one. While he was usually annoyed about his brother's plots, in this case he honestly couldn't manage to mind.
Sherlock send a text to Mycroft:
You have made quite an impression, Mr. Frost. SH
The answer appeared soon after:
Happy birthday, brother mine. MH