S N A P P E D
When Lestrade walked into the flat that was still, three years after the detective had died, John-and-Sherlock's, and saw the dead man sprawled on the sofa, his first thought was:
Oh, bugger. John's finally snapped and dug the poor bastard up.
Granted, digging up a corpse and leaving it casually draped across the sitting room furniture was more Sherlock's style than John's, but ever since the mad genius had taken a nosedive off a five story building, John had been growing increasingly…peculiar. There were times that the doctor absently pulled Sherlock's mind-reading trick, and it had grown common for him to slip Holmesian deductions into normal conversation. Sherlock had left John his not inconsiderable bank accounts in his will, but Lestrade sometimes caught himself worrying that the detective had somehow managed to leave the poor doctor his intellect, as well. John still turned reflexively to his left, where Sherlock had usually stood, to comment on things he would have found interesting. He usually caught himself before he said anything and embarrassed himself, but Lestrade was concerned that the reality of Sherlock's death hadn't sunk in. John wasn't coping well.
But exhuming his friend and putting his body on the couch as if he'd just wandered in and flopped down? Lestrade hadn't expected that. He hadn't known John was doing that badly.
But…the body didn't seem nearly decayed enough to have been buried for three years. He'd seen enough bodies to know what a dead-three-years corpse looked like and Sherlock wasn't it. In fact, he seemed nearly…alive.
You're going crazy. Lestrade thought. Sherlock's been dead for years, you saw the body, he's dead, he's…breathing.
Oh hell, he's breathing.
"Took you long enough." That deep voice rumbled through the room, one silvery eye open. Sherlock Holmes was alive.
Not going to faint. Not-going-to-faint-not-going-to-faint… Lestrade thought desperately. He'd never let me live it down.
Instead, he dropped bonelessly into John's armchair. The other one had always been Sherlock's, and woe betide any fool who dared sit in it. For three years, the chair had sat empty, but now…
"You're alive."
"Brilliant deduction, Lestrade." Sherlock snarked, sitting up.
"You're— Sherlock, I—I'm sorry, for-" He stammered, looking for the words he'd said to Sherlock's headstone.
"Really, you flatter yourself. Moriarity was brilliant—nearly as brilliant as I am. You didn't have a chance."
John stepped in from the kitchen with mugs of tea. "What he means, Greg, is that he forgives you and it wasn't your fault."
He accepted the drink gratefully. "Thanks," he said, to both men.
Sherlock snorted. "John said you called with a case. I hope it's a good one. I'm bored."
A/N: Two 221Bs. I was going to do it in one, but it got away from me.