10:27, December 31st, 2015

"We should call Lestrade."

Molly, John, and Sherlock were all in John's flat, Susie sleeping up in her room, Gladstone lying on the floor, resting his head on top of John's feet. It had been several days since Sherlock's reappearance, and while John was somewhat anxious to make it known his former flatmate was alive, they still needed to figure out how. He couldn't just waltz into Scotland Yard and ask if there were any cases available.

"Why?" John asked, taking a sip from his glass of wine. It was New Year's Eve, and Molly had insisted on being festive. They actually had reason to celebrate this year. Sherlock opened his mouth to deliver some sort of retort, most likely on John missing the obvious or something similar, then sighed.

"Because I owe him several apologies," he replied. "Phone?" John glared, but tossed his phone to Sherlock, who dialed a number before frowning. "No, you talk, he can't hear me." The phone was tossed back to John, who somehow managed to catch it without dropping the glass and held it to his ear just as Lestrade picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hi... Greg. It's, er, it's John."

"John! Hello. Um..." Lestrade trailed off awkwardly, a traditional greeting of how've you been? or how are you? being miserably useless.

"Are you- doing anything for New Year's?"

"...No. Sitting round and watching telly, really." Awkward was mixed with confusion.

"Why don't you drop by? Molly's over, and she brought a friend. You'd probably like to meet him." Both Molly and Sherlock were grinning.

"...Yeah. Okay, sure. Sounds good. I'll just drop by, then. Happy... belated Christmas."

There was a click and then the dial tone, and Sherlock laughed before sobering quickly.

"Do you think he'll try to punch me?" he asked after a pause.

"Probably," John said. "I'll ask him to do it twice since I can't bring myself to."

He managed to maintain a straight face for about a second before dissolving into snickers. Sherlock didn't look particularly amused.

11:03, New Year's Eve, 2015

Molly was the one to get the door when the bell rang. Sherlock was holding his violin, absent-mindedly drawing the bow over the strings in what started as a tuneless melody before morphing into the first few strands of a funeral march, although he didn't seem to notice. John gave him a sharp look, and it quickly turned into We Wish You A Merry Christmas.

"Good to see you, Molly..." they heard coming from the hallway. "So it's just John and your friend, then?"

"Yeah, I really do think you'd like to meet him," Molly replied. "He's really into the whole the investigation sort of thing, considers himself to be a detective, you know." John nearly choked on his wine. "Here, let me take your coat, John's been putting them over in the closet. Everyone's over this way."

"Hello, John, happy New Ye..."

Lestrade trailed off as he stepped into the living room, Molly following behind. Sherlock smiled, finishing the song with a flourish and waving at Lestrade with the bow.

"Hello, Lestrade," he said. "Any interesting cases?"

The DI responded by collapsing in a faint.

Not entirely surprised by his reaction, Molly caught his head before he hit the ground, and John got up to help her move him to the sofa, handing his wine to Sherlock. The consulting detective paused, glancing between his violin and the glass before setting them both down in his chair and snatching Molly's glass of wine from the nearby table.

"Sherlock, you can't just give him alcohol!" John shouted in protest. Lestrade began to stir on the couch, and Sherlock handed Molly the glass back.

"It worked, didn't it?" he countered, handing Molly the glass back. "Hello, Lestrade. I believe you passed out before you could answer my question."

"Bloody hell," he mumbled sitting up. "How- how the- did I just have too much to drink?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "No, I assure you the only drinks you have consumed would be the frankly repulsive coffee handed out at the Yard and the wine I just poured down your throat in the hopes of reviving you."

Almost as if in a trance, the DI sat up, accepted John's offered hand and stood up, all the while staring at Sherlock.

Approximately three seconds later, Lestrade pulled his fist back and sent it flying into Sherlock's face. The detective stumbled backwards, one hand flailing about in an attempt to regain balance and the other cupped under his nose in an attempt to prevent blood from splattering on John's carpet. Lestrade flexed his fingers, breathing heavily.

"Do you have any idea what you did to us?" the DI said furiously. "To anyone?"

"Thank you, Lestrade," John said calmly, patting Lestrade on the shoulder. "But I do believe I've managed to guilt trip him enough in the past week, so by this point the punching wasn't really necessary."

"...You've known for a week?" Lestrade said, watching as Molly pulled Sherlock to his feet and dragged him into the kitchen, then went in search of the first aid kit.

"Yeah," John said, drawing out the word. "Christmas Day. Nearly gave me a heart attack."

"What- what did he do?"

"Sit down, first," Molly pushing him towards the sofa. "You look like you're about to pass out again. Here, I'll go and get you something to drink." She walked towards the kitchen, and the three sat in silence.

"You nearly lost me my job," Lestrade muttered. Sherlock had the decency to look abashed. "But... how?"

"Molly helped me fake my death," he replied, sitting down. "It was... Moriarty. He had snipers, three of them, trained on John, Mrs. Hudson, and you, Lestrade. And then he told me I had to jump or you would all die, then shot himself before I could, ah, persuade him otherwise. The past three years were spent taking out Moriarty's web until I could come back."

"Yes, and then you made me think I was hallucinating," John said with an eye-roll, but there was no animosity as the two laughed. "Here, look at this." He tossed Lestrade his phone, who blinked a few times at the text message on the screen.

"'To John Watson, Subject: Error, I'm not dead? That's how you tell your best friend you faked your suicide?!"

The two were still chuckling, but Sherlock sobered.

"Well, it seemed prudent," he shrugged. "And, Lestrade... I, ah... owe you an apology. For making you almost lose your job, and... other things... I have done on occasion."

Lestrade didn't respond for a while, glancing down at John's phone, and then between the two men.

"I can't promise I won't hit you again," he finally replied. "But I do want to say that I'm already desperate to see the Superintendent's face when you make this public."

It was Lestrade and John who laughed this time, but Sherlock remained serious.

"So you're not going try and arrest me?" he prodded. Lestrade snorted, still chuckling, and shook his head.

"No, you daft git," he replied fondly. "Although if you ever do this again I will kill you for real."

"I said the same thing," John snickered.

Sherlock still remained stoically calm.

"I have no intention of planning anything of this magnitude again," he said. "But anyway, now that we have sentimentality out of the way, I have a brief confession to make."

"Can't be any worse than what you did before," Lestrade mumbled. Sherlock ignored him.

"I told you that I spent the last three years taking out Moriarty's web," the detective said with a sigh. "And that I only returned to London because it was safe. That is not entirely true. There is one man left, in London at this very moment. Moriarty's right hand, the closest thing to a friend he ever had. And I need your help to catch him."

Molly walked into a silent room, holding a glass of wine. "Okay, what did I miss?"

Bells began to chime midnight in the distance, and Sherlock began to play Auld Lang Syne as though nothing had happened.