So, Greg came around the other day.
The rain pattered gently on the hood of the taxi. The wipers squeaked as they swished back and forth in a futile effort to keep the windshield clear. The driver hemmed and hawed, occasionally guffawing at the radio and coughing up dark yellow phlegm. Piggy bloodshot eyes squinted at the passenger through the rearview mirror as fat sausage fingers brough a cigar to his lips, puffing out streams of smelly gray smoke.
Everyone was there...except Sherlock.
The passenger was...well weird. Most fares either attempted to engage him in useless conversation or jabbered away at their phones, friends, or drunken hallucinations. This man hadn't said a single word; he'd simply handed him the business card of some sort of detective and pulled out his phone. Ehh, he wasn't going to complain. He could have been one of those weirdos who had sex or puked all over the back seat.
But I'd forgotten just how funny he could be. He was so charming. So... human.
He couldn't say he'd missed London. Not the city itself, anyway - or the people. The city was dank and smoggy, and so loud. The people in it were simplistic dolts who could stand to take a few lessons in the complexities of common sense. Of course, there were the occasional bright sparks in the darkness - like Jim - but they were so few and far between that it was more satisfying (and less soul-crushing) to relish the memories of days past than to waste his time searching for a suitable replacement.
And now it's time for me to be honest. I need to properly move on. I need to put it all behind me and move on.
He returned his attention to the top of the blog, scrolling aimlessly with his thumb until the stern stare of the doctor was the forefront. The picture hadn't been changed in the past two years, but that wasn't a problem. John couldn't have changed that much in two years, could he? Those stubborn eyes, those soft pink lips so often wrinkled into a confused pout, curly sandy-blonde hair that smelled like pine trees and sweetly refreshing country rain. He could see the man now - sitting so straight at the table, the poster child of perfect posture, as his short yet elegant fingers tapped away at the keys, as he made public details that he would rather keep confidential.
His eyes flicked up to the name, in simple bold typeface. 'Dr. John H. Watson." John H. Hah! It sounded pretentious. He'd often told John so, but the doctor had just smiled and ignored him. Once, he'd even had the audacity to hint that the only reason he was so upset by it was because he had yet to guess what the H stood for. Hah! What an absolutely ridiculous notion. He really couldn't care less what John's middle name was. I mean - well, yes, he had worked on that particular puzzle for months, and yes, he had technically broken into John's private possessions to steal his birth certificate just to find out that H stood for Hamish - what a ridiculous name, Hamish - but that didn't mean not knowing upset him. He just liked having a little puzzle to entertain himself between cases. Lord knows the little citizens' "cases" weren't keeping him very stimulated.
God, he missed Jim.
"Oi!" His eyes flicked up to the cabby's beet-red face and squinted glinting eyes. "We've arrived." The passenger didn't move. "Been going on five minutes," he added as helpfully as a cranky man with a rough Cockney slur could be. "The longer I sits waitin' on ya, the less fares I git and the less money I takes to me three hungry children and me poor bedridden wife."
"Don't be ridiculous." His voice came as rather a shock. It was deeper than his thin face and lanky frame suggested, and smooth as silk. It flowed like fresh cream, with the hint of superiority one might hear from a duke. "Any children unfortunate enough to spring from your loins have long since grown up, luckily never knowing who their real father is. Your wife realized the error of her ways years ago and left you for a more sophisticated man, perhaps a lawyer. Of course, this didn't bother you, since you'd been cheating on her since the night before your wedding, which was just a quickie in the courthouse since you were too cheap to give her the wedding of her dreams. I really should sue you for lying about how long ago we arrived and drinking a beer - Coors, wasn't it? - before flipping up your sign. Driving while intoxicated is still illegal in this country, after all." He smiled brightly at the confused cab driver, watching the confusion slowly turn to anger as his words sank past the stink hovering about his hairy ears. "Luckily for you, I am in a rather generous mood and won't even begin to mention the other code violations and personal hygiene issues you are very clearly struggling with. Now for your fare. Twenty-three kilometers at a dollar a mile - yes, I caught what you did there, very crafty - is fourteen pounds, thirty pence. Here's twenty pounds. Get yourself a meal other than fish-and-chips and for god's sake, take a shower. You postively reek of cyphillis and stale beer."
The passenger flicked the note at him, slid his phone and both large hands into his pockets, and stepped out into the pouring rain. He ignored the roar of the engine as the cab sped away (but stepped forward so the wave it splashed through didn't ruin his coat) and gazed up at the apartment with a faint smile about his lips.
Welcome home, Sherlock Holmes.
