John took a deep breath, let it out and stepped out of the taxi onto the sunlit black pavement, absently handing the driver a handful of cash he didn't bother to count. This wasn't any easier than it had been before – he wasn't sure why he'd expected things to be different this time. Sherlock was alive – alive and still out there somewhere in the world.
After all, Mycroft's face had been a dead giveaway.
But in a different way, John decided, eying the crime scene and catching a glimpse of DI Lestrade headed toward him, this really was much easier.
His right leg twinged briefly as he began walking toward Lestrade, but he ignored it and found a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he realized that Lestrade's look of partially hidden relief was remarkably similar to the way he had used to look when Sherlock would appear at crime scenes. Despite himself, he felt his mood lift at the sight of his friend. Lestrade stopped in front of him and John smiled fully.
"Greg," John greeted him cheerfully – maybe too cheerfully, considering the scene likely just beyond the yellow tape. "What am I here for?"