When there were only a few people remaining, they relocated the interminable game to the kitchen table. John was by then noticeably impaired. He'd also fallen silent about his marriage, instead undertaking to ask questions of the aged guests. These tended predictably towards war and work. The elderly men and women found his profession endlessly impressive, and the subjects spanned generations.

On the way to the kitchen, he'd leaned firmly against Sherlock's back, his warmth amazingly close. They used to touch like that on strange mornings after long cases when they'd each been too tired to deny the depth of their intimacy. The contact left Sherlock buzzing, incensed, unstable. It felt cruel. John had said he missed him. Brilliant. It sounded like something more, but literally promised nothing. Anyone could miss anyone, it was just words, it floated off like smoke.

John seated himself on the other end of the table.