"Molly, what have you done with my conditioner?" Sherlock bellowed out the bathroom door. Molly had offered him the use of her flat to clean up a bit before he went home.
"It's been three years, Sherlock, I've thrown it out. Use mine, I don't mind," Molly's muffled reply came through the thick wooden door. Sherlock huffed in annoyance.
"Yours never does the right thing to my hair, Molly Hooper. Go get me some of mine." Despite his sometimes reserved demeanor, Sherlock could certainly get someone's attention. He bellowed like a fishmonger when he wanted something, and unfortunately poor Molly was seemingly always getting the brunt of his yells. It didn't bother hear nearly as much as it should have.
"Greg, you don't mind if I pop down to Tesco quickly, do you? He's so fickle about that damn conditioner, if I don't do it he'll be in such a way I fear for John's safety, not Sherlock's."
Lestrade looked up from the file Mycroft had handed him on Sherlock's maneuvers in Europe over the past three years and nodded vaguely.
"Yeah, yeah, do whatever his majesty requ –," Lestrade stops himself short of finishing his well-used nickname, eyes glazing over slightly. "I still find it hard to believe he's here, for real."
Molly smiled pityingly at the policeman, putting a small hand on his shoulder.
"I know, and I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. Tonight when everyone's gone I'll explain everything, okay?" When she leaned down to kiss him on the cheek, another of Sherlock's shouts came from the depths of her flat.
"Molly, if you don't leave within the next three minutes, the water heater will have run out by the time you've returned and it will have been in vain. Go now!"
Molly scoffed and headed out the door, making sure to shut it loud enough so Sherlock could hear it over the shower.
Lestrade, having finished both his tea and the case file, stood up from the table and walked to the kettle, turning over the content of the manila folder in his mind.
"I can't imagine what he's been through," said the DI, filling his cup again.
"No," said Mycroft simply and smoothly. "Neither can I."
"And he's been doing this for the past three years? Trekking across the Continent, searching for and finding each of Moriarty's lackeys and killing them?"
Mycroft only nods, gripping his brolly handle tighter, shaking his head when Lestrade gestures to his cup and then the kettle.
"Does he seem to be experiencing any adverse effects? To, like, isolation, the acts themselves… Anything?" Lestrade sat back down, glancing at the clock in passing.
"Not that I can tell, no. I think he's divorced himself so far from feeling anything other than the need to do that it'll be a long while before we see any of his actions' effects in his demeanor. Normally I'd ask someone closer to him than I've been to watch him carefully, but there isn't anyone else. For the past three years his only contacts have been Dr. Hooper and I." Mycroft settled himself further into the uncomfortable table chair, crossing his legs at the knees. "I do worry that he will slip."
Lestrade looked startled.
"You mean, back into the drugs? Do you really think he would survive it this time? We got him out just in time with the last bout. Are you that afraid he's going to slip, sir?"
"I don't know. He seems fine for the moment, but I don't know how he's going to be after tonight… Dr. Watson might be the one piece missing; whether he'll force Sherlock to stay clean or slip is a mystery at this point." Lestrade nodded vaguely, praying that tonight would go well.
"Well, sir, for our sake I hope that they don't kill each other. I don't want to do any more paperwork than I have to already. How are you going to present him to the public? As far as they're concerned, he's still dead, even though Moriarty's scheme collapsed in on itself."
"Hmm, that is something we are not altogether certain on. In fact, whenever I bring it up, Sherlock refuses to speak on it. He's quite stubborn. I think perhaps we'll address the matter after this present debacle is dealt with, seeing as there may be no point to schedule press conferences or interviews if the good doctor kills him."
Lestrade laughed once, running his rough hands over his even rougher face.
"I still can't believe he's here. Three years ago today. I was at his grave earlier, you know? Left some flowers. Wait, who's buried in the grave, then?" Lestrade looked at the other man skeptically.
"James Moriarty." Mycroft said a little smugly; it was his idea, after all.
"Shit… John really is going to kill him, now. You know, I've had to collect him from sleeping at that bloody cemetery more times than I'd like to admit these past years? And for all his grieving, the man who strapped a vest of Semtex to his chest is lying in the grave he thought held his best friend…" Lestrade heaved in a weighted breath, praying even more fervently that John would see reason.
Mycroft only hummed a little dismissively, gripping the handle of his umbrella tighter.
"It was appropriate and necessary at the time. Burying Moriarty in a grave marked with his name was not advisable, considering at that point James Moriarty was Richard Brook and completely innocent, though we know better now. Moriarty did not exist and we needed a body to bury." Mycroft looked like he'd just eaten a lemon, his face scrunched in disgust. Lestrade stepped back from the situation, knowing better than to anger him.
"I'm just saying, John is not going to be very happy about this," Lestrade said, putting his hands up defensively.
The door to the flat opened and Molly walked in, carrying a plastic bag filled with hair care products. She dried her feet as quickly as she could, bustling her way past the men in the kitchen, heading back toward the bathroom.
Lestrade laughed at the picture she made, bundled up tight against the London chill, breathing heavily from probably literally running to Tesco and back.
"Sherlock, I have it here," she called through the door. A long, pale arm shot out of the door and grabbed the bag from her, quickly disappearing back into the steam. Lestrade laughed loudly, Molly trying to stifle her own giggles. Mycroft just looked mildly annoyed.
"Molly this isn't the same, it's got different chemicals in it," Sherlock hollered from the other side of the door.
"It's the same brand and type Sherlock, it's not my fault if they changed the composition!" Molly huffed in annoyance but the smile remained on her face.
"John might not kill him after all, he is exactly the same." Molly shook her head in amazement, walking away from the loo door.