A/N: Keep safe, keep strong. -csf


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'Sherlock, what are you doing?'

'I'm dressing up to amuse myself and fend off the ennui, John.'

'How's that any different from what you already do?' I'm finding this too odd.

After a second he returns, a mix of surprised and suspicious:

'What do I usually dress up like, according to my blogger?'

'Like... like...' what am I calling it? 'Like Sherlock Holmes!' I blurt out. 'With the violin and the deerstalker and the pristine suits and the cold rationality aloofness!'

He blinks. 'Do you reckon I need a make over then?'

We both dedicate a couple of seconds to mull it over.

'Nah.'

'Nope.'

'Just... carry on', I say, a bit speechless.

'Thank you, John', he retorts sarcastic, but fond.

I look around me, surprised at finding myself in Sherlock's bedroom (and yes, I knocked!) 'Oh, right, Lestrade is going to video call us later, if you'd care to join us.'

'Sure', says the unaffected detective trawling through his trunk of disguises.

He's still wearing the turban though. I don't think he means any cultural appropriation, certainly not disrespectfully. He once told me part of his haul was bought from a traveller passing by his family's home when he was still a teenager. Again, he's also mentioned most had been donated by a theatre company that was downsizing their costume department. And once he fleetingly mentioned almost all of it had once been his brother's, before Mycroft got too fat to wear them. Whatever the true origin of the strange collection, Sherlock has been adding to it over the years, like another man could be chasing rare items to a stamps collection. Sometimes the disguises, aka costumes, come handy on a case. Just not as much as Sherlock would have me believe.

As it turns out, as an actor, Sherlock replies more heavily on social clues to make his journeys into characterisation believable. Actual tears on a grieving best friend (who was never introduced to the wife), a fluorescent vest on a city worker (who wears really expensive leather shoes), or a folded up piece of paper to portray the innocent priest's collar (but that one didn't fool Miss Adler).

I think the trunk full of costumes, aka disguises, just appeals to Sherlock's showmanship.

It might get a laugh out of Lestrade too, later.

'Sherlock, I'll call you when Greg rings', I advise, leaving the bedroom.

'Aye-aye, captain!'

I stop myself short of a last double take, or I know I wouldn't be strong enough to pull away from Sherlock's eccentricities. They amuse me too.

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The electronic greeting of a phone app fills the living room with its sterile cheerfulness.

'Hey, there!'

'John, mate, how are ya?'

I sit up straighter in my chair, the awkward outstretched arm holding up my phone for the camera to fit me in the small square mirror, forcing myself to look normal and instead focus on the eager face of the more tech savvy detective inspector.

'I'm absolutely fine, Greg. How are you? Any symptoms? Have you been eating and sleeping right? How's everyone at the Yard, are they alright?'

'Whoa there, John! I'm not calling you for a doctor. I'm just checking up on you.'

'Same here.' Check mate.

'I asked first, John.'

He's getting me peeved now. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. 'I already answered, I'm fine.'

'Well, it's not just the virus that worries me. We're both busy, you've got a high pressure job right now at the hospital, while I deal with the morons who think they can flaunt the rules, and on top of that you've got Sherlock to deal with, speaking of unreasonable idiots.'

I shake my head with a smirk, knowing Greg is only too fond of the younger detective. 'You've got it wrong. Sherlock is the one keeping me going. I couldn't do what I do without his support. He keeps me motivated, he follows the rules, he distracts me when I can't wait to go out again normally and enjoy the London I miss. He's as much of a hero as I am', I declare solemnly.

'Oh no', the old inspector groans.

'What?' Too mushy? I didn't expect that reaction.

Greg points behind me. I turn to look over my shoulder. Sherlock has come up to join us silently. He's leaning over the back of my chair, dressed in some pantomime warlock costume that can simultaneously offend any Wiccan and various fans of magic shows, and a plethora of film and book lovers. It's disturbing to so many folks it's almost laudable in its universality and inclusiveness.

'Sherlock?' I ask silently all the questions I can't word right now.

'What? This old thing? It's just what I wear to do the dishes', he alleges.

I glare at my friend. It might as well be a factual statement as, in fact, no one has ever seen Sherlock Holmes do the dishes.

Because Sherlock never does the dishes.

But I'm assuming he just wants to mess with the inspector. And, true enough, Sherlock protests: 'Lestrade, I'm bored. Can you get me some better cases? Something new?'

The inspector sighs.

'I'll see what I can do', he says at last. Sherlock grins in success.

How did I not see this coming?

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'That was rude, manipulative and unnecessary', I state, as Sherlock and I take our usual chairs after the video call. My flatmate is back in his normal clothes as a small saving grace. Any other time I would have walked off the flat, to cool down. The current lockdown has put a damper on my usual coping strategy.

'That was needed, creative and you are still refusing to recognise my genius, John.'

Good grief, he said that with a straight face!

'You're not Bafta material just because you can deceive me, Sherlock.'

'I will forgive you for your appreciation of my talents on account of your missing on some of my best performances.'

'Mate, I'm your blogger, I know it all.'

His steely eyes flutter their attention across the room. 'You've not been there all the time, John.'

'Oh, really? When was I not—' Oh.

When he was gone, leaving me to mourn a fake loss.

We both fall into uneasy silence after that.

I wish I had gone outside instead.

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'Sherlock, when you were hunting down Moriarty's criminal web... did you ever—' I choke a bit and hastily look away to the fire in the hearth. Unusually frosty nights have been falling on London. Spring is arriving only by day.

'Yes, John?' he softly incentives me, a soft promise of answers – he'll answer enough – if I just ask. But asking is the hard part.

'Did you ever miss me? A mean us, this?' my words thin out as a barely audible whisper.

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Perhaps it was an inevitable dance with destiny. How could it be otherwise? Neither Sherlock Holmes nor doctor Watson are good communicators, generally speaking. Sure, I write a blog and he has posted monologues on 243 types of ashes and how quickly 747 types of beer go flat; but real talk, about feelings in those years apart? It's unspoken consensus not to address feely things, because I still get angry (raw sentiments of betrayal and abandonment still too close to the surface) and he gets defensive ("just trying to save your life, John"). We're locked in our positions as opponents. I know I'm the one who is being ungrateful, I'm the one who must take the first step, talk about the trivial life I lead without him, so that he can tell me all about his adventures, the exciting and dangerous life he had, all I missed out.

I'm not entirely sure I'm ready for this, but 24/7 confinement to 221B (apart from my work shifts at the hospital) is about to force us to talk, express our inner feelings and recount the life events not witnessed by the other.

Either that or we take up hiding in our rooms until the end of this virus, maybe longer.

We'll talk. It only took a ruddy pandemic, endangering too many lives outside 221B, our lives too.

Sometimes, less now, I still wake up believing it's been a bad dream, the last few weeks. All the infections, the deaths, the social measures; all a weird delusion because I ate too much cheese before bedtime.

I'm quite sure some types of cheese can make me a bit paranoid.

I'm yet to find out what the other types of cheese do for me.

They sure don't put London back together again.

And so I wonder if this is a chance to catch up with undealt issues from our past.

Right now there's an elephant in the room.

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'Well, did you? Miss us, I mean?' I dare to repeat.

Sherlock looks mildly shocked, green eyes frozen wide, trembling in their orbs. He then shrugs, jittery, almost a roll of the shoulders to pull up the ghost of a long wool coat, his usual armour with the collar flicked up. For a moment I think I won't get anything out of the emotionally stunted detective. Then he surprises me, like he always does.

'I missed you all the time, John.'

'Really?' I snap, getting shocked with my own bitterness.

'I came back, didn't I?' he snaps back.

'How do I know you had a choice?'

He smiles mysteriously to his own memories. It's a strong, confident smile that I want to scrub off his cocky face, because I was, for my own part, absolutely wallowing in grief for the loss. Sherlock quickly reigns in his smile to more acceptable standards.

Our disconnection has only deepened so far. So much for talking.

We need to dive in deeper.

'John, have you ever heard of the Baron Maupertuis?'

'Yes, naturally. It was all over the papers. Had some weird dealings, died in suspicious circumstances a few years ago. Some said he was at the centre of a colossal ring of art forgeries, others say he just lived the fast life on drugs and luxury yachts, there was even word he had command over his own private army and owned a few private islands in the Pacific... Shall I research him?' I ask, unsure where Sherlock is getting at. A new case, an exit to the failing conversation?

'No need, John. You can just ask. I was the Baron Maupertuis for the last six months of his life. Nearly cost me mine too.'

I stare hard at my friend in utter shock. Suddenly all too human, he blushes shyly and looks away.

'Yeah', I say, flatly. 'Tell me about it.'

'I will not, until you calm yourself considerably. You've got a worrying vein popping in your forehead, John. It would be unwise for me to cause you a stroke, you being the medical man in our team.'

'Sherlock!' I snap, and it comes out as an old captain Watson command; thunderous and effective.

My friend's eyes sharpen, losing that touch of humanity in them.

'Be careful with what you wish for, John. I will tell you, you may not like what you hear.' He reclined back into the comfortable Bauhaus chair. 'It might take a while, John, and by the end of it you might see me differently. But I assure you I followed your counsel all throughout.'

'I wasn't in Europe.'

'The Netherlands', he specifies. 'And in a way, you were never far off. Except for a couple of days in the beginning, we all make mistakes, and you were nagging me mentally for being around drugs again, but you were definitely a constant presence by the time I had been shot and took to hiding inside the draining systems under the city.'

'Shot? Sherlock, why didn't you ever tell me that?' I worry. 'Where? How serious was it?'

'Serious enough to spend several days fending off a high fever from an infection and weakness from the blood loss.'

'I should have been there', I'm sure. I feel guilty I wasn't there, when he needed me the most.

He smiles fondly, as if I just confirmed his expectations. 'Just drop it, John. I was trying to keep you safe, remember? I made you believe I was dead, because nothing less would keep you from finding me and helping me.'

'You were shot and didn't get proper medical attention!' I accuse him, angry, hurt.

'John, listen for once. You may find you were there in spirit if not in actual presence. You were certainly the reason I came out of there alive, and managed to defeat Maupertuis's men, after then pinned me for a con.'

I lean back on the worn-out upholstery of my chair.

'Tell me about it, Sherlock. We've got all the time in the world right now.'

He nods, honest green eyes locked in mine.

Perhaps there's something good in this giant Pause Button we're all being submitted to right now. There are wrongs to be righted, and old stories to be shared.

London can wait outside our windows.

I'm getting to know my best friend a bit better. Sherlock Holmes will always surprise me.

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maybeTBC