The flat was normal again. Well, maybe tidier than usual, but still…normal. Sherlock's belongings had been moved back in: his coat was on a chair; the Union Jack pillow was on the bookshelf, which was now crammed to nearly bursting, papers starting to spill out and books stacked sideways so as to maximize efficiency. The infamous Baker Street Filing System was back in business.

"Well?"

He turned around. Mrs. Hudson was standing in the doorway, beaming. "I asked them to put your things back just like they used to be. Do you like it?"

He forced a smile. It faded as he looked around the room again, realizing that in a few weeks all of John's stuff was going to be gone, along with the man himself. Out of his life.

The scary thing was that he wasn't quite sure how he felt about that.

"I…" He snapped out of it with a shake of his head. "Yeah. They did a good job."

"Are you alright, Sherlock? You seem a bit distracted," she said, with a maternal concern.

"I'm…fine."

Mrs. Hudson had always had a certain intuition for when he was lying about his well-being. He didn't know how she did it; there was nothing he outwardly projected that could give the merest suggestion he was lying. He didn't believe in woman's intuition. There was no such thing. Even so, she was looking up at him skeptically.

"I know you two are going through a bit of a rough patch," she said, lowering her voice. "Don't worry. It'll pass."

"We're not going through a rough patch, he's just being ridiculous! It's not my problem, anyway."

"He's rather fond of you, you know. You should have seen him pining when you were-"

"That's enough, Mrs. Hudson," he snapped, spitting the words. She looked hurt. He didn't care; what he said was true. Come next Friday it would be final; John was leaving. Mrs. Hudson was never one to let wounded pride stand in the way of saying what was on her mind. Instead, she crossed her arms and planted her feet so resolutely in the doorway that he didn't want to slam it in her face; the door would have shattered.

"Now, Sherlock, you're being childish. John's getting married. Don't go out of your way to spoil it for him. Just make up! You obviously care about each other-"

All right, he was done here.

"Goodnight to you too, Mrs. Hudson." He stalked off to his room and really did slam the door this time. It was incredibly satisfying.

Hours later, after he had missed getting a crumpled up piece of paper in the bin exactly seventy three times and had gone over his fake identity thrice, he heard the door open and John's footsteps thump unsteadily up the stairs. Drunk, he thought to himself idly, sitting up and nearly knocking over a book about card counting on his nightstand. But not too drunk. Drunk enough that I'm probably going to regret this.

John was leaning against the sofa, eyes reddened slightly, face flushed. Interestingly, his muscle coordination seemed to be only slightly sub-par. He had sat on the left hand side of the bartender, given the stain on the outside of the cuff on his right sleeve.

"Er," Sherlock said, a little too loudly. "Um. Hi."

"Hi."

They stood in silence for a few seconds, before John lurched forward in the general direction of the bathroom, went in, and closed the door. After a minute there was a loud splattering sound. s

Okay. Fine. Whatever. They could talk later, after the poker game. He had found Adair frequented the International Club, a notoriously exclusive place. They had fake IDs and disguises all ready to go. The game was on.

He wouldn't get much sleep tonight, he mused, oddly placated. Good. If he didn't sleep, he couldn't dream.