For a long moment, I stare. Just stare. He has detached himself from the doorframe and stepped forward a step, his hands spread palm up in a gesture of supplication. On his face is a smile, the exact type of confident smile an actor gives his audience after finishing his play.
"So… What was that about being over me?"
It takes three seconds for me to cross the room. Only one second passes from the time I reach him to the time he's lying flat on the floor, a trickle of blood dripping from his nose as I uncurl my aching fist.
"What. The. Hell." The words tear themselves from my mouth.
Sherlock lies there, a stunned look on his face.
"You were dead." The neighbors can probably hear my yelling, but I don't care. I don't care at all.
"Yes, about that—"
"DEAD!" I run my hands through my hair and pace a few steps away, then turn back to my prostrate resurrectee and point an accusing finger.
"Two years, you were gone. TWO YEARS! No letters, no phone calls, nothing! You jumped of that building and left me thinking it was MY FAULT, without even a WORD!"
"Actually—"
"SHUT UP!" He's sat up by now, leaning against the drab couch, a hand wiping away the blood from his nose. I shock him into a surprised silence.
"I went back to therapy because of you! I hadn't been back for TWO YEARS. And that CANE. That stupid, damnable, useless CANE!" I pick it up and shake it angrily in his face, balanced aggressively on the balls of both feet.
Both feet.
"It seems my reappearance has fixed that particular grievance," Sherlock observes cautiously from the floor, breaking the momentary silence that had fallen. My resulting glare succeeds to quiet him.
With a steady hand, I twist a chair around and sit, facing Sherlock. He shifts on the carpet uncomfortably. A heavy, dark, brooding silence settles on the air as I shake my head.
"So." The anger has dropped out of my voice, leaving a cold and menacing tone.
"…I'm not quite sure what that means."
"How did you do it? Why did you do it? And why are you back?"
"That's a rather long story—"
Hearing the hesitant tone in his voice, I jump in, "Well we have time, don't we? There are two years we need to make up for, and I'm assuming you, being dead and all, couldn't possibly have any previous engagements." My voice is coated in a dry sarcasm.
"Well actually…" He trails off, looking somewhat sheepish. For a moment I can hardly speak.
"You idiot," is my disbelieving response. "You have a case." I lean forward and prop my elbows on my knees, rubbing my face in a long-suffering sort of way."
"It's actually why I came back on this particular night," Sherlock stands up and fixes his collar, knocked askew by my punch. "I need your help."
-x-
Lestrade steps out of the warm station into a faint drizzle, popping up the collar of his coat to block the cold. The water that had collected on the fabric slides down his spine, making him shiver.
It had been another painfully long day at work, with the cases piling up around him. All of them the same, people found shot in their apartments, windows open, doors locked, the only possibly sniping vantage point almost two hundred meters away… A long, stressed sigh pulls its way out of Lestrade's throat.
If only Sherlock…
He stops himself before the thought completes itself. Sherlock wasn't there. Sherlock had tricked him, and Sherlock had almost lost Lestrade his job. Sherlock was a fake, and now he was dead.
Not that Lestrade believes that, of course. The part about being dead, that is. If the mysterious man was smart enough to make people believe he was a genius, he sure as hell was smart enough to fake his own death. And then there's Molly. The girl was so in love with Sherlock. And after his death, she hadn't seemed broken at all. On the contrary, nowadays she seems quite happy.
No, Lestrade doesn't think Sherlock is dead.
But still, dead or not, he isn't here to help solve cases, which means Lestrade is left alone.
Lestrade waves a damp hand at a taxi, but it doesn't stop. His phone buzzes in his pocket.
Imbeciles, He thinks angrily, If they think I'm coming back in to help them with work at two in the morning…
Lestrade flicks out his phone and checks the number. It's John Watson. Odd. They haven't spoken in at least a year. More curious than angry now, he opens the text.
Lestrade. I'm not dead. Meet me across from 221b Baker Street. –S.H.
He almost drops his phone in surprise. Surprise, he notes, but not shock. Deep down, he has been expecting this.
You have some explaining to do.
Almost the second he hits the send button, his phone buzzes again.
All in due time. Bring your revolver.
What an exciting notion.
With the faintest thrill of anticipation, Lestrade tries again to wave down a cab.