Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine – no money being made – plot is mine.
AN – I promise I haven't abandoned this fic – RL has taken over once more. There are about three more chapters to go, which will include of course the great reveal of Sherlock being alive and the reunion as well.
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The Private collected him from Brigadier Pembleton-Smyth's office, John's single kit bag already in hand. John was too stunned to really take in anything other than the content of the conversation he'd just had, but he did hear the quiet,
"I've taken the liberty of altering the insignia's on the rest of your uniforms, sir."
The crown and pip on his shoulder seemed heavy to him. A promotion to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel had never been an ambition of his, but here it was for all to see. Pembleton-Smyth was effusive in his praise and emphatic in his insistence that John had earned this on his merits alone, 'not that there was ever any doubt, despite that old meddler trying to put his two bob in'. Sherlock would have liked to hear Mycroft called an old meddler, John was sure.
They walked through the base towards the front gate, John returning salutes as they went, his mind clearing with every step. Harry would be furious. She'd always been against his joining the Army, and when he'd emailed her about his last promotion the resulting alcohol fuelled tirade had been almost enough for him to declare all ties between them cut.
"Well sir," the Private said as they reached the outside world, "It's been a real privilege to meet you."
Odd phrasing, John thought, as the man opposite him was in Intelligence and John's dealings with them had ended with his last tour in Iraq. Never-the-less, he returned the salute that was offered.
"Thank you Private," John replied in a rasp, "A word to the wise, if you'll permit me to break cover for a moment. One should always ensure your tan matches the wear on your uniform."
Green, if that was even his name, looked startled and then laughed, the first genuine expression that John had seen from the man. He handed over John's kit bag and waved a hand at the road.
"Your car, sir," he said and John turned to see the ubiquitous black car pull up beside him. John had been expecting train tickets, not one of Mycroft's minions and before he could start in on a really cathartic tantrum, the back door opened and Mrs Hudson popped out. She was across the pavement and hugging him in what seemed like nanoseconds and before John knew what was what he'd been installed in the car with a blanket and a pillow while the driver put his bag in the boot and Mrs Hudson fussed over him, insisting that he get some sleep for the drive home. John knew a force of nature when he encountered one and leaned back, closing his eyes and resolving to put on at least a show of sleeping for a while.
He next opened his eyes outside Baker Street. Mrs Hudson's smirk could have rivalled Sherlock's on his best day, but John was a gentleman and didn't mention it. He got the bags inside and agreed to come downstairs for dinner. It was easy to bypass the front room, tossing his kit bag on the bed and unpacking it methodically. The things he didn't need went back into the bag; the rest was either hung up or put into the basket for washing. The shemagh was folded carefully away and then John couldn't delay any longer.
For a moment as he stood in the doorway he could see the ghost of Sherlock, gone almost two years now, sitting in his armchair, one long leg tossed over the other and his hands pressed together in that prayer like posture as he raked John with the typical deducing-what-you-have-done-while-away-from-me look. John took a deep breath and the ghost faded away. He gritted his teeth and headed for the kitchen and the first cup of decent tea he'd had since he re-enlisted in the army.
Mrs Hudson gave him two weeks off, and then put him to work. Just before Sherlock had died, she'd had builders in to get rid of the mould and take care of the structural issues that had made flat C unliveable. All that was left to do was redecorate and John had been pressed into completing this. He was grateful for this as Sherlock's ghost was quite persistent. It lurked in the kitchen when John was making tea, sulked on the couch when he went out for the shopping, tutted from the armchair at John's TV shows and lurked in the window as John went off for a pint with Lestrade.
There were days when John was certain his flatmate was just in the other room, and he was slowly becoming accustomed to the pang of disappointment whenever the ghost faded away.
Mrs Hudson's decorative tastes hadn't changed, but John found the challenge of papering, painting, plumbing and assembly of flat pack kitchen cabinets to be an oddly soothing task. Halfway through his leave, he'd finally finished, even managing to lay a floating floor over the rough concrete that had formed the basement floor that looked as if it had been laid by a professional. He watched Mrs Hudson show real estate agents around proudly, pointing out the careful attention to detail and the 'design features' that she's presided over like a dictator tending to her flock.
The real estate agents nod and suggest a few rental prices with an eye to a large commission. One of them mentions the 'old fashioned style' and is firmly escorted from the premises by John when Mrs Hudson's face falls. They manage to find the right fit though and two months into John's leave there are new tenants moving in to flat C. One is 'something in design' and dresses like David Tennant did when he was the doctor – skinny suits and trainers and scruffy hair. The other is 'something in IT' and wears chic Goth, all miniskirts and baby dolls with pointed jewellery, dark make up and long black hair flowing to her waist.
They seem nice enough, though John doesn't have a lot to do with them as they moved in using professionals and seem to leave early and return late. He's never had cause to knock on the door on Mrs Hudson's behalf to ask them to quieten down or something similar and nor has he had to borrow a cup of sugar. This leaves him free to go out with some of what Sherlock had called 'the hospital lot' – friends from Barts and Thomas' mainly as well as a few people from med school who'd moved to back to London while John was deployed.
He also has time to go out with Lestrade. Despite the fact that they had been introduced by Sherlock and had spent a lot of time standing around with a dead body or a ranting genius between them, they had a lot to discuss.
John could, and did, share the anecdotes from Bastion that he hadn't been able to mention through the email or in the communications tent. Sure, he was in the middle of a warzone and there were days when life seemed to be nothing more than a sea of dismembered men and women floating in a sea of blood, but there were also moments of pure hilarity.
In turn, Greg had anecdotes of his new team. Donovan and Anderson had transferred out of his unit when an anonymous tip to the media outed their relationship. Anderson had been embroiled in a bitter divorce, but with both parties proven cheats they'd come out about even in the end. Of course that didn't mean there wasn't a fairly interesting parade of dirty tricks, histrionics and nasty episodes. Donovan had by that point been well out of it, transferred out to Coventry – literally.
In their place, Greg had a new DS, a Scotsman by the name of Bradford, prone to the odd practical joke, though never anything that would interfere with a case, with a wickedly sharp tongue, a keen eye for the finer points and a mind for recollection of the minutest of facts. This was belied by his bulk – the man was tall and bulky, though according to Lestrade he went as quick as a 'rat up a drain pipe'. Anderson had been replaced by a very young pathologist by the unlikely name of Bernie Spilsbury. Bernie was earnest and a little clumsy when moving around the office, but on a crime scene he was focussed and as graceful as any dancer. He picked up a level of detail that Anderson had never achieved and was able to take the smallest of fibres and track them back to their source so quickly that he made Anderson's work rate seem glacial in comparison.
All well and good – the pranks and quips from Bradstreet gave both men many a laugh over their pint – but the one who gave Lestrade the most to talk (moan, whinge and even on rare occasions despair) about was the new Detective Constable, one Anthony Hopkins, or the 'Pup' as Bradstreet had promptly christened the young man on his first day in the office. Hopkins had boundless enthusiasm that had yet to be tempered by experience and in some cases, common sense. He asked endless questions and was thrilled to be working with Lestrade and his team.
"He would have driven Sherlock absolutely crackers," Greg said sadly, and John grinned. Sherlock was already crackers, imagining him even more so was beyond all human powers. Sherlock would either have seen the young man as a nuisance and run him off in quick order, or he'd have seen him as a potential acolyte and promptly brain-washed him. Either way, it would have been a sight to see.
"Pity they never met," Greg continued, his tone now wicked in a way that John had rarely heard when his friend was alive. John grinned in reply and toasted the sentiment silently.
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