At The Funeral


John Watson had just opened the front door of 221B Baker Street when Mrs. Hudson barreled into him. She took one look at him and grabbed him into a bear hug, one John never thought her capable of giving.

"Oh thank the Lord, you're back!" Mrs. Hudson cried, voice somewhat muffled by John's leather jacket. "He's been in a right state- shooting practice in the middle of the night, screeching violins, and such vile-"

"Alright, alright," John said soothingly, "It's alright Mrs. Hudson, I'll deal with him. Why don't you make yourself a cup of tea?"

After he had managed to get the babbling woman back into her flat, he stalked upstairs, already dreading what he would find. His suspicions weren't wasted. The moment he opened the door, smog drifted out, the smoke so heavy he could barely see. "SHERLOCK!" John shouted, rushing in and anticipating a fire. The smell of various chemicals hung heavy in the air. He managed to get to the curtained windows, throwing them open and letting the sunshine in and the smoke out.

"Argh!" Sherlock groaned from the sofa where he was curled up, "Easy! Go easy on me John-"

"The hell!" John shouted, ignoring the relief he felt at Sherlock being alright and focusing on the fright and anger. "What are you playing at—Oh God!"

He stomped out the fire that had escaped from the fireplace, Sherlock having stuffed it with papers, which he no doubt wanted, to dispose of. Once the smoke cleared, he glared down at the man-child he called best friend, "What do you think you were doing, you overgrown brat?"

Sherlock blinked up at him blearily through one eye. "Experiment. Why did you have to open the windows?"

"Because it's unhealthy and the smoke alarm—oh joy, you shot the smoke alarm. Where did you get my gun?"

"Nicked it from your drawer, I was bored."

John scowled and made a mental note to take the gun with him next time he went to Dublin. "Sherlock, it's been two weeks. You have to get out."

Sherlock looked at him, eyes wide open and said in a why-are-you-still-talking-I'm-bored-entertain-me tone, "Lestrade won't let me take any cases, even though my name is completely cleared. And there's nothing on the blog, just insipid morons-" the way he said 'morons' it sounded to John like he was saying 'mortals'- "Gushing on about how they always believed me, and asking me to help them find their lost mobile phones! Is this what my practice has dissolved to?!" Sherlock finished melodramatically.

John sighed, used to Sherlock being theatrical. "How about St. Bart's? Molly-"

"Is still avoiding me." Sherlock finished for him. "And none of the other pathologists—there-not a patch on Molly, all a bunch of idiots— will let me in the labs without clearance! Clearance, John!"

"Couldn't Mycroft-" John started to say but broke off when he caught sight of the detective's face. "Alright, what do you want to do, Sherlock?" John said, speaking to him as he would to a child. "Play ring-a-ring-a-roses? Blind man's bluff? Tag?"

"Or the Raggedy Doctor," Sherlock mumbled. John stared.

"What? I'm sorry, what?"

Sherlock was saved from answering by his mobile going off. He lurched forward, going on his knees to get to the phone on the coffee table while John looked on bemusedly. "Sherlock Holmes," he answered and John pondered on the fact that Sherlock liked stating his name wherever possible. "Of course. On my way. Text me address and details."

Judging by the look of utter glee on Sherlock's face, John said, "Murder?"

"One of the best kind!" Sherlock replied joyously, bouncing towards his room. "Body found in the library, apparently no one knows who the victim is! Best part, old English country house, all sorts of musty secretive motives there!"

John barely had time to grab his jacket when Sherlock, with those remarkable burst of energy, ran out of the room, still tying up his scarf around his neck, pushed him out the door. "We're off Mrs. Hudson! The game is on!"

John could have sworn Mrs. Hudson said something along the lines of "Thank the Lord there's been a murder!" 221B Baker Street was a very morbid household indeed.


"How are you holding up, Molls?" DI Lestrade asked as she handed him a mug of steaming coffee. Both of them along with Mary were sitting in Aunt Christie's upstairs kitchen, just a small space with a counter top and a kettle, solely built for the purpose of making tea. Aunt Christie, an incurable tea addict, didn't want to walk down the stairs every time she had wanted tea, hence the kitchen.

Molly found herself missing the old woman more. Her aunt had been the Miss Marple type, she was pretty sure she could have solved this case. Her guts clenched when she thought of the person speeding their way from London right at this moment. "I-I'm fine Greg. I heard you got promoted again," she said lightly.

"Oh yes," Lestrade smiled at her. "Ever since our zombie detective came back from the dead, and gave us Moran, I've been the talk of the force again."

"Seems to me, Sherlock should be the talk of the force," Mary observed.

Greg Lestrade had the grace to turn scarlet. "Well, Miss Morstan, as much as I would love for Sherlock to get all the credit he deserves, the Superintendent is far less lenient. He is still against the very idea of Sherlock working for us." He sighed, "Besides, Sherlock gets his fair share of high profile private cases. He's famous by his own right."

"Speaking of which," Lestrade continued, "Where's that charming nephew of yours, Molly? The one who wanted to be like Sherlock and Doctor Who?"

"The Doctor," Molly corrected automatically. Lestrade grinned at her.

"Oh yes, I've been wandering that as well. Where is he, Molly?" Mary asked.

Molly blushed, and tried to think up a lie, quickly. "Oh um…He…He is-"

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes is here, Inspector." Arthur came into the kitchen area. "And a Doctor Watson."

Molly jumped, her heart thudding erratically as they followed Arthur down the stairs. She hadn't spoken to Sherlock in a month. And before then…the whole entire he-got-turned-into-a-three year old-fiasco. What do you say to a man for whom you were a nanny for three months? "Did you tell Sherlock I was here?" Molly asked now.

Lestrade bit his tongue. "Uh…oops? I was in the middle of a-"

"Is there a problem, Molly?" Mary asked.

"No not at all," Molly lied and Mary's brow furrowed.

They turned around the corner and the moment Molly's eyes met those cat-like green eyes of his, she could tell he hadn't been expecting her at all. Sherlock took a step back, bounced off of John and knocked against a decorative futon in an uncharacteristic show of gracelessness.

"Well then," John said, raising his eyebrows as Sherlock straightened himself, "That was certainly new."


A/N: Hello all! Long time no see! Missed you loads, and I hope you like this chapter! A bit transitional, but it was needed. Now I have to go to college, so thank you all for reviewing, faving and following! And see you very soon ;)

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Adi xox