.

Notes: Hello! I'm so so so so so sorry for making you wait all that time, there, I shoving my face on the floor, just to show you how sorry I am.

At first, the plan was to let my britpicker brtipick all the work before publishing it, as I hate being late when I promess a rythm of publication, hence the hiatus. But she had to deal with school and finally, she found herself busier than ever. She had to give up britpicking, as she didn't have time anymore, and I had to take a decision.

So I took upon me to start publish again. It won't be as regular as before, as I'll have to beta/britpick the thing myself, just for it to be as perfect as I can manage. But I consider it as a good exercise.

Still keep in mind that it isn't britpicked.

For those who were there before, hi again! For those who join us, welcome!

.

.

.

Chapter 5

.

.

Several weeks passed by without any case worthy of the name would show itself. Indeed, they had some cases, two robberies and a kidnapping, but nothing really valid according to Sherlockians standards, and John had to endure his flatmate's frustration more than once. He had to hide and change more often his gun of places to save the wall even if, unfortunately, one shot wouldn't make any difference anymore.

That morning, John woke up on the right foot. He loved those mornings because he was in a good mood. Sherlock was dead to the world, plunged into the sofa and in his thoughts, a string of newspapers piled up on the floor. John ignored him, putting the kettle on, noting the alarming lack of butter in the fridge. He thought then that he must certainly go to Tesco.

Glad to escape the idle atmosphere of the flat, John dawdled in the street, nose in the wind. He wasn't in a hurry, they had no ongoing cases, and unless, by some miracle, a criminal made the decision to commit a double murder, he had plenty of time.

He loved to go to Tesco. Despite his liking for adrenaline, he enjoyed the quietness of the shop, wandering through the departments looking for new meals, to finally and invariably return to those he usually chose. It was also one of the rare moments where he could escape the stifling mood of his equally stifling flatmate, even if he never lost the opportunity to know him gone shopping to send him a text asking him to buy detergent or, on a memorable time, canned lychees. John had never known what happened to the lychees, and he didn't want to know.

At this hour of the day, there weren't many people, but the space was occupied by a crying baby in a stroller. John couldn't repress a smile at the thought that Sherlock would have certainly grinned and listed everything he deduced about the mother to point the fact that she was a bad mother. He took a basket, starting with canned foods. Nobody paid attention to him, which he didn't complain about.

Appart from the fact that he missed their former situation, there was one thing that he never missed in the least, it was the ability of people to recognize him. This was probably one of the reasons why Sherlock never go shopping with him. More than once, he had to bear the stares of customers or passers-by, some even daring to approach to submit to him problems as boring as insignificant. Only once he had enjoyed talking with a "fan". An eight years old little boy who claimed to want to become doctor-detective later.

Then there had been the Reichenbach events, as the press had been pleased to call it, their disappearance and "resurrection". Meanwhile, interest in them had faded. Their return had been made without making a song and dance, and if journalists had still published their getaway, it hadn't brought them their lives back. The counter on John's blog wasn't as high as before, and Sherlock's mobile phone almost never rang, except when it was John calling. It happened sometimes to the latter that, without really thinking, the memory of the little boy came to resurface, and John then wondered what had happened to his sweet utopian dream.

Today, he walked around through the departments without anyone noticing him. At first, he had wondered if people deliberately avoided looking at him, or if they just didn't recognize him. Then he had gotten used to this new peace, so that now it would be being recognized that would surprise him.

He stared at the rows of cans. He thought they had eaten a lot of takeaway recently, mainly with rice and noodles. Some vegetables would certainly not hurt…

Then his mobile went off, telling him he received a text. He didn't need to check the sender, he already knew who it was.

"Sodium bicarbonate."

.

Lestrade's life was a daily routine.

He always bought his coffee in the afternoon at the same time, at the same place. And in the evening after work, it was a beer at the same pub. John had finally succeeded in determining the quality of the day depending on the amount of beer drunk.

One pint tonight. The day must have been quiet. John watched him quietly drinking alone at his table, regularly checking his mobile phone, until a woman finally came to meet him and his face suddenly lighted up. Late thirties, in a beige trench coat, long brown hair. John immediately knew that she wasn't his wife, and he felt a surge of joy for the good DI.

John never approached Lestrade. Nor he approached his sister Harry. He had made it a tacit rule. They had gotten away from him, and John wanted to respect their decision. This didn't stop him, from time to time, to keep their tack to know what they had become.

Lestrade seemed to have aged more. His features were more marked, his hair looked a little greyer; his eyes, though still sharp, a bit off. Age, probably, not to mention worries.

While looking at him discussing almost shyly with the woman, John couldn't help but think that the DI had been very lucky. The time he spent with Sherlock around the world hadn't altered his concern for his family and friends, and more than once he had found himself browsing the internet to learn news about Lestrade.

Because of his links with Sherlock Holmes, and especially the many laws that were broken by bringing him on crime scenes, he had gone to the brink of dismissal. The only thing that had saved him had been his involvement in their arrest. John easily guessed that their "suicide" had been an opportunity for him to make amends, and his superiors had had to stick to a simple suspension. Hence perhaps his rejection on their return, motivated by the desire not to repeat the same mistake. John didn't blame him, quite the contrary. He certainly missed their old friendship and cooperation, but it had almost cost the DI everything he had.

John finished his beer in silence. Around him, people were talking animatedly. The waitress came and went from one table to another, carrying plates. The music wasn't very high, a mellow jazz that reminded John of the many drinks he had been drinking for years in this pub with Lestrade.

The latter had just gotten up, putting his coat on, while the woman did the same. Realizing that they were going out, and inevitably walk past him, John stood quietly, turned and slipped out of the pub before disappearing in the street.

.

When John entered Baker Street's living room, Sherlock was lying on the sofa in his famous thinker posture. The doctor noticed the two nicotine patches on his arm: an enigma, so. Or the deepest boredom.

"You followed Lestrade again," Sherlock knew without even looking up at him.

John didn't waste time to ask him how he knew. He had gone beyond this reflex long time ago. He just assumed that Sherlock had identified the smell of alcohol, or maybe the Chinese that was just next to the pub.

He took off his jacket, hung it, and sat down in his armchair. Sherlock remained motionless on the sofa.

"Don't you want to know how he is?" John asked.

"No."

The response was immediate, and John couldn't say he was surprised.

"He's fine," the latter replied however. "I've seen him drink only one beer. He had a date. A woman came to meet him at the pub, they had conversation, and then they left together. I suppose there was a dinner planned."

But Sherlock, immersed in his mind palace, seemed completely disinterested in Lestrade's date, and John vaguely felt like a pang in his chest.

At their return, Sherlock had less suffered from rejection than him. To be denied access to crime scenes had been tough, but he gave so little importance to social relationships that his new loneliness hadn't bothered him in the least. Only Mrs. Hudson's attitude had grieved him, since she had always been a bit like a mother to them both, and he had been surprised to miss her sweet voice and her very fixed ideas on family. Towards Lestrade, at most, he had shown respect. Reverence, but limited to professional sphere. Donovan and Anderson, he only had a profound contempt for them, and they always had returned the favour. As for Mycroft, despite Mrs. Hudson's opinions, their relationship had never really been true relationships, proof had been made when Mycroft had disowned him despite all the affection he had always claimed to have for his younger brother.

Unlike John, Sherlock had no attachment, or very little. And sometimes, John found himself considering the idea that he would have wanted to be like his friend. To have the ability to detach himself from his emotions would have helped.

His thoughts then went to his sister Harry. He hadn't seen her for several days. He thought he should perhaps pay her a visit, although he already guessed that nothing would have changed since the last time. Desperately still in the same clinic, desperately still alcoholic, desperately always bloodshot eyes and face. Like the others, she didn't take his return very well, like the others, she had slammed the door in his face, yelling at him. The next day, her cleaning lady (John had also been surprised to learn that her sister had a cleaning lady) had discovered her unconscious, sunk in an alcoholic coma. And despite the doctors' efforts, nothing seemed to divert her from drinking. When they let her out, it was only to get her back few hours later, intoxicated to the roots of her hair.

"Do you still think about your degenerate sister?" Then Sherlock's voice spoke, pulling him out from his thoughts.

John didn't jump at these words. He had always known Sherlock's scepticism toward his sister. And "scepticism" was a euphemism. He had always doubted Harry's abilities to give up drinking, and he had never hidden his disappointment at seeing John persist in picking up the pieces. For him, she didn't deserve the sacrifices that her brother made for her, nor John deserved to bear the dead weight she was.

"I haven't seen her since the last time," John said.

Sherlock had finally left his mind palace and had turned his head towards him.

"I never understood why you persisted in seeing them," he confessed.

"Harry is my sister, Sherlock, and Lestrade was the man from whom you had cases that were worth it. You might have major gaps in social relationships, but it's not a reason to pretend they never existed."

Sherlock turned his head and sighed, shaking his hand absently.

"We don't need them," he stated simply. "We're doing fine without their help."

That made John laugh.

"Really?" he hissed bitterly. "It's been weeks since you turn around in the flat complaining you don't have a case, so don't tell me that we're doing fine. If you could have kept a low profile and worked things out so at least you keep in touch with Lestrade, or at least Mycroft, we wouldn't get nothing for your trouble."

Sherlock turned his head back to him and sat up.

"And why would it have been for me to keep in touch? Lestrade was more your friend than mine, wasn't he?"

"This is the problem," John explained learnedly. "I was just a friend. You, you were a colleague. When it was about a case, he came to you, not me. I'm not an investigator, receiving the cases wasn't my responsibility. I'm a doctor, Sherlock, my professional relationships were limited to the medical community. And unless you wanted to investigate the origin of a flu or tetanus, I don't see what I could do more."

A silence fell over the room, and John rubbed his tired eyes wearily. They had had this conversation so many times… The worst thing was that they were both right. On one hand, they could have tried to fight a bit, tried to patch things up. On the other hand, if their relatives had felt the desire not to see them anymore, who were they not to accept it?

John finally stood. The first time, they had tried to defend themselves in every ways possible. Sherlock had even lowered himself to accept the most trivial cases, but the decision of their relatives had been final and binding. They had dropped the matter, but it was mostly because they had no other choice. Until the day when Sherlock, unable to sit idly, had mobilized all his skills and had hacked Lestrade's computer. And they had found themselves infiltrating crime scenes on the quiet. Sometimes it worked, sometimes much less.

John suppressed a yawn, digging the memory deep in his memory. It was useless to dwell on the past. What was done was done.

"I'm going to bed," he said.

And he went up to his bedroom.

.

.

.