~~Three Months Later~~
Sherlock Holmes is back.
The cunning, self-centered, brilliant, frustrating, beautiful, threatening, ingenious Sherlock is back. He doesn't sleep with me anymore; he sleeps on the couch. 221B looks an even worse mess now than when the bomb went off. He is absorbed in every case; he plays violin in the ungodly hours of the morning; he hardly eats a thing. He is once again cocky, ignorant, and unfeeling.
I love it.
I missed the thrill of the chase. I missed Sherlock's annoyance at my ignorance. I missed the danger.
But a small part of me pines for the vulnerable, loving, tender Sherlock I knew for a short while.
I often ponder this, simultaneously stealing glances at his perfect silhouette. If he ever looks at me, I don't know it.
"John, I've got it!" he shouts one say, springing up from the armchair and clasping his hands. "It was the gardener's wife's cousin, obviously, I mean he had traces of Worcestershire sauce on his lapel… And he and the gardener were best friends, so of course he would have access to the shed and thus the keys and tools…"
"Shall I call Lestrade?" I ask.
"Yes, yes, please. Wait no, ask him to come over immediately. Yes, that'll do. And put on the kettle, will you?"
I stand up without reply. After calling Lestrade, I fill a kettle and heat the stove.
I lean against the counter and wait for it to boil.
I wonder if it's my imagination, but the part of me that wants the other Sherlock back might be growing louder.