It was over a month before they returned to Baker Street.

John had told the truth when he said he couldn't remember his last holiday. Other than a handful of family trips when he was young, he had worked through school breaks, and his leaves from the army had never been what you could call relaxing. Then, once Sherlock entered his life, events had rushed at such a full-on pelt, the idea of a break longer than the rare Sunday afternoon just simply wasn't possible.

The long, dark hours during Sherlock's three year "hiatus" didn't count, of course. Those hours of doing nothing had been anything but relaxing.

So, these weeks in the English countryside had been a revelation. No midnight calls out of bed. No crime scenes to dash to. No toxic experiments in the kitchen.

The most amazing thing to John was how much Sherlock had thrived. He had fully expected him to be begging to come back to London by the third day, but Sherlock had depths he hadn't expected. Unlike John, Sherlock had grown up in the country and knew its rhythms. His frenetic pulse had modified to the slower pace and, to John's astonishment, he had actually relaxed.

That in itself had been a revelation.

They had taken long hikes during which Sherlock expounded on birds and plants and bees. Especially the bees. John was tickled to learn that his flatmate was fascinated by them.

Really, it had been idyllic. John thought Sherlock might actually regret their return as much as he did.

Not that he wasn't eager to be back to work. John simply couldn't sit still and do nothing indefinitely. He needed a purpose to his days no less than Sherlock did, and as they got closer to London, both of them had been leaning forward as if urging the train to go faster, faster. And now they were here, eager to go.

#

John paid off the taxi. (Something he'd noticed Sherlock was letting him do much more often these days.) He turned on the pavement and looked around, trying to stifle the sense of glee. This was a crime scene, after all. There was a person lying dead; it wasn't a happy occasion.

Still, for John and Sherlock, it was normal, and therefore a relief for both of them.

They had barely been at the Baker Street flat for an hour, had barely had time to unload their bags and gift Mrs. Hudson with the jars of honey Sherlock had insisted on bringing her, when Greg had called.

"When do you think you'll be back from holiday," he'd asked, and John had been as eager as Sherlock, flying out the door not a minute later, calling for a taxi.

John held his hands behind his back (it was more dignified than rubbing them in joyful anticipation), and ducked under the police tape after Sherlock. His flatmate was in rare form, eyes snapping with interest as he swept forward, scanning and absorbing details from the street, the buildings, utterly ignoring the policemen

John, on the other hand, couldn't help but notice the stares. It seemed that the entire Met was staring at him, whispering behind their hands. He didn't look that different, did he?

In fact, he knew he didn't. The only thing he had bought (other than rent) with his new income was food, train tickets, and taxi fares. He was still trying to get used to the idea of owning any house, let alone two of them.

But the point was that he hadn't exactly gone on a wild shopping spree. He might invest in a warmer jacket when the weather got cold. (He'd always secretly been envious of Sherlock's coat, not that he could pull that off at his height. But the idea of a really good jacket that kept him warm was appealing.) And he admitted it would be nice to be able to replace some of his clothes when they got destroyed, rather than trying to mend them. He was actually quite good at mending, but it got boring. But, really, it's not like he needed anything … so why was everyone looking mildly disappointed that he looked the same?

He stifled a sigh and headed after Sherlock. One of these years he'd get used to being stared at.

He wasn't as successful at hiding his second sigh. There was Sally Donovan, playing gate keeper again. She had obviously been taunting Sherlock about something, John could tell by the way he was holding his shoulders. John might have salvaged something like a working relationship with her after the Reichenbach fiasco, but she and Sherlock were both still holding grudges. Their interactions had gotten more acidic, to the point where Greg had needed to separate them more than once. When Anderson was in the room, it was even worse.

Sally saw him coming. "And there's the millionaire, now. When are you going to kick this one to the curb, John, and get a flat of your own now you can afford it?"

John raised his eyebrows but merely said politely. "You don't discard friends, Sally."

"Yeah, but you can't possibly want to live with the freak, do you?"

John's eyes narrowed. "All these years and you still can't remember how many times I've asked you not to use that word, Sgt. Donovan?" He was perfectly calm, but his tone carried years of military authority with it.

That was uncommon enough to have caught her attention, but Sally had also been one of the officers in the room when John had faced down Andy Littleston several weeks ago. She hadn't forgotten the waves of cold menace coming off of mild-mannered little John Watson, and while he was being perfectly polite right now … She cleared her throat. "I just meant, congratulations, now you've come into money, John."

"You mean congratulations that my father is dead?" he asked sharply, not giving an inch. "Thank you so much. May we go through, now?" Without waiting for a response, he marched through the doorway. He glanced back when he realized Sherlock wasn't with him.

Her face was stunned as she stepped aside. She didn't notice the small smirk of appreciation as Sherlock paused at the door. "You really should remember not to underestimate him. You'd think even you would've learned by now."

And with matching grins as they both tried to stifle a giggle, they walked into the house.

#