Tricia was waiting for him when he got off work and she'd come from work herself, judging by her grey trousers, short-sleeved white blouse and the sensible black flats that she could wear all day on her feet. She raised a hand to shade her eyes from the sun when she saw him, even though she was wearing sunglasses, and John was struck for a moment as his memory overlaid an image of her standing the same way in Afghanistan in her fatigues, her helmet on her head, her medkit on her back, the Red Cross patch standing out in contrast to the dull earth tones of her uniform.
It had been so long now and he was so used to her in her civilian clothing that he sometimes forgot, then felt guilty about forgetting.
"Hi, John," she greeted him and he smiled, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
"Hi, Tee. How are you?"
"Good, glad to be finished up for the day; it was a bit busy overnight."
"Yeah?" John asked.
"A set of twins that needed to come by C-section – the mum was pretty upset about that and I don't blame her. We were on stand-by for a couple other potential problem cases, too, but they were okay in the end. Nothing traumatic."
No limbs blown off young men, of course, but what she meant now was no pregnant women who'd been in accidents or who were having mid- or late-term miscarriages. John sometimes wondered if she was happy having chosen a women's hospital. She'd said that she was sick of watching young people die and wanted to see people being born. But they still died, even here. Although he supposed if she was really through with it, she'd have quit being a doctor. Henry made more than enough money for them to live on his income alone. But he couldn't see Tricia ever giving it up.
John shook off those thoughts; he was in a maudlin mood today. Not surprising, really – he had been all week.
"How are you?" she asked.
He gave her a smile.
"Okay," he replied.
"Yeah?" Tricia asked.
"Yeah," John replied, shutting off his phone then slipping it into his pocket. "Come on, let's get some coffee and something to eat, I'm starving."
She fell into step beside him, adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag slightly.
"How are things at home?" she asked carefully.
John hesitated, then sighed, giving her a rueful look.
"Pretty much the same," he replied. She looked as though she might say something, but John shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it, Tee, not right now."
"You sure?" she asked.
John nodded.
"Yeah. But thanks."
Tricia touched his arm lightly, giving him a concerned look, but nodded.
"How's Jo?" John asked and Tricia grinned. He hadn't seen his niece since the previous week and he hadn't been in much of a state of mind to enjoy her company, although he thought he'd faked it well enough. It had helped to simply play with a three-year-old girl for awhile. He'd even read her a story and put her to bed that night before staying up and talking with Tricia. Henry had left them be for which John was grateful. He didn't feel like dragging his problems out in front of everyone.
"She's brilliant, as always. She keeps asking me when she's allowed to go back to the proper French school. I have her in a summer playgroup that's run partly in French but apparently it doesn't meet her exacting standards of the French government school."
John laughed. He had no doubt his niece was going to be bright – she already was. With her parents and the adults that surrounded her, this wasn't surprising. He was pretty sure that Sherlock was already teaching her to memorize the pattern of the streets and traffic lights in the blocks that surrounded her flat.
He shook off thoughts of his husband, not really shocked that he kept coming back to them. It had been a long week full of silences that weren't normal for them and John could tell Sherlock was really trying to figure out what to do. Normally he'd be the one to give Sherlock some clues about this sort of thing, but he felt no inclination to help right now.
John refocused on the present when Tricia led him into a café. The place was air conditioned far too much for his liking but there were several vacant tables outside and he left Tricia with his order while he claimed their seats. A few minutes later, Tricia joined him with tea and scones for both of them and John grinned.
"Don't suppose you have any of that gin in your handbag?" he joked.
She winked at him.
"Portland doesn't look so kindly on keeping alcohol stashed with your personal effects," she replied with a grin.
John laughed.
"A far cry from being able to leave it sitting beside your bunk, eh?"
Tricia scoffed.
"I could never do that because Jamie would always just come by and nick it."
"Yeah," John said with a grin, spreading clotted cream on his scones, "But he only ever did that so you'd have to find him and spend time with him."
Tricia stopped in the act of stirring sugar into her tea and looked at him quickly.
"Oh, lord," John said. "Tee, I'm so sorry, I thought you knew."
She put down her spoon and reached across the table, curling her fingers over his.
"I didn't know that, but it's okay. I'm glad you told me. It's nice to know, even now." She smiled, her expression softened, but there wasn't really any sadness in there. "It's been almost eight years, John. It's all right."
He sighed, still feeling mildly guilty, and squeezed her hand in return.
"No ghosts today," he said, raising an eyebrow.
"No ghosts today," Tricia agreed, giving his hand another squeeze then withdrawing hers and finished stirring her tea. John bit into his scone and shook of a silent reprimand to himself – he really didn't need to make himself feel worse than he already did.
"Jo wants you to come over and put her to bed again soon," Tricia said with another smile, this one brighter. "You've been voted 'better than Mummy' at doing the voices, although you haven't quite displaced Daddy yet."
John laughed.
"If anyone ever displaces Henry, I think hell would freeze over," he commented.
Tricia laughed.
"Well, give it another ten years and then it will be all 'God, Dad, you're soooo embarrassing!'"
John chuckled and was about to make a remark about teenage girls when he heard his name being called. It took him a moment to realisz that it was actually him being addressed – there were no shortage of Johns in the world – and that the voice was familiar. He looked up quickly and found the person addressing him.
No ghosts today, indeed.
But Sarah wasn't a ghost, she was still there, real and smiling. John felt surprise flash through him and then he smiled back, waving her over.
"Sarah!" he greeted as she wound through the tables to join them and Tricia twisted in her seat to look up in surprise. Tricia knew who Sarah was, of course, but by the time Tricia had returned from her second tour in Afghanistan, John and Sarah had long since parted ways.
He hadn't seen her since then, he realized. Almost seven years.
And she still looked the same, as if the intervening time hadn't really touched her, maybe a bit around the eyes and the lips but not much more.
"John, how are you?"
"I'm good," he said. "Sarah, this is Tricia Remsen, we served together in Afghanistan. Tee, this is Sarah Sawyer."
"Yes," Tricia said, shooting John an evil grin. "I remember from your blog."
"Oh, the infamous blog," Sarah said with a grin of her own and John wondered if she still read it. He kind of hoped not, but he had no control over who read it. Half of Scotland Yard did, in part of keep up with what Sherlock was doing, but John kept writing anyway. He enjoyed it.
"You want to join us?" John asked. Sarah looked surprised a moment, then checked her watch.
"Yes, sure," she said. "I have some time. Let me get some tea of my own, won't be a moment."
John nodded and Sarah left. Tricia turned back to him, raising her eyebrows.
"Oh, for god's sake, Tee," John growled but there was laughter in his voice.
"I didn't say anything!" she protested.
"You never say anything," John said.
"Not true," she replied. John sighed and rolled his eyes, but she was right. She'd straight out told him to shag Sherlock the first time he'd told her he was interested in his flatmate. He was glad she didn't say so right now, though.
Sarah came back to join them and John was pleasantly surprised that catching up with her was enjoyable and not at all awkward. After they'd broken up, he'd wanted to remain friends but they'd drifted apart despite that, neither of them quite wanting to put in the effort. When John had got together with Sherlock, he'd been guiltily relieved that he and Sarah weren't really close because he hadn't wanted to explain that to her. He was also glad their breakup had nothing to do with Sherlock – well, not specifically. Sherlock had always been cool toward her as it was and, looking back, John knew why, even if neither of them had known it at the time.
Sarah did ask after Sherlock briefly and John lied and said he was fine and the conversation wound away at that point. He found out Sarah was married and had been for about four years now. John wasn't surprised – she was a wonderful woman and it was not astonishing to learn that someone had snatched her up when given the chance.
When she found out Tricia was a doctor, too, Sarah was delighted and their conversation turned to medical topics and the state of the NHS. John found himself enjoying the company immensely and felt a bit bad for forgetting how much he liked actually talking to Sarah. He realized suddenly that he'd have to tell Sherlock he ran into her – two weeks ago, he'd have mentioned it but more in passing and Sherlock probably would have arched an eyebrow in that dry, amused way of his and said nothing and wouldn't have given it further thought. John pushed down on an image of Sherlock from two weeks ago, because it was coloured by the lie. He'd seen precisely what Sherlock had wanted him to see, not knowing there was more there that Sherlock was keeping carefully concealed from him. John refused to get distracted by that awareness and refocused on the conversation, keeping his mood deliberately light.
After about half an hour, Sarah gave her apologies and said she had to go.
"Me too," Tricia said, checking her watch. "I need to collect my daughter."
John bid Sarah good-bye and she admonished him to keep in touch and he promised he would and meant it. When she was gone, Tricia gave John a quick look and he returned it with a quirking smile. She watched him for a moment, then nodded, apparently assured that he was fine after meeting a former girlfriend while things were not fantastic at home.
"Call me if you need anything," she said and John smiled again.
"I will," he promised, giving her a parting kiss on the cheek. John watched her go, then made his way to the tube station. His afternoon tube ride was a routine he half treasured, a small parcel of space between his work and his home, between two places where things could be busy and unpredictable. Now, he knew, it was a bit of a way to postpone getting home, since the trains were crowded at this time of day and prone to delays.
But he made it back to the Baker Street station in fairly good time and realized with a bit of a sinking heart that this disappointed him. Coming up the street to the flat, he turned his mobile back on. He knew Sherlock hated it when he had it off, but he hadn't wanted his outing with Tricia to be interrupted.
He fished his keys out and unlocked the front door, stepping from the warm air outside into the cooler air of the entry way. John shut the door again and locked it, then frowned as his phone beeped at him, indicating he had a message.
It was, in fact, a flurry of messages from Sherlock, which surprised him. His husband had been very reluctant to call or text the past week, as if doing so would cause more tension. John had to admit he missed it, even if he was still hurt and angry. Sherlock had had a tendency to message John with whatever came to mind, so that John would often find texts about needing milk, followed by texts suggesting what he'd like to do to John when John got home, followed by texts exulting or complaining about the results of some experiment, often within minutes of each other.
He had voicemail, too, probably from Sherlock, but he checked the texts first.
The first one was enough. It was a picture of a wall on which someone had drawn a crude message in permanent marker. Below the word "hello" were two childish houses, all boxes and triangles, complete with chimneys with squiggles of smoke. It took John less than half a second to work out the message.
Along with that, Sherlock had included the address and the message Please come. SH.
It was enough. John was out the door again, slamming it shut behind him and wincing at the noise, hoping Mrs. Hudson wasn't home, then forgetting about that immediately as he hailed a cab.