The Camdentown strangler had surfaced again – in Chesterfield, of all places – so Sherlock had gone north for a few days.
John had asked, finally, so then he had to listen as Greg gave him the details of the original case as they made their way back to Baker Street.
"The unsolved ones always bother him," Greg said, setting down the wine bottles.
John went straight to the fridge and began to unload groceries. "Didn't know there were any," he replied. "Beer?"
"Love one, thanks." Greg dropped into a kitchen chair.
But John continued to put away the groceries, movements rigid and mouth tight.
"So it's cases, then," he said at last, when there was nothing else for his hands to do. "Plural."
Greg leaned back. "It's not you, John. He never liked talking about them with anyone."
John kept staring at the refrigerator. "Anyone," he repeated.
"Look, it's not…" Greg sighed. "He just… he wants to be perfect for you."
John looked over at last. "Yeah, makes sense," John said, though his face said it didn't. "Anyhow, thanks for…" he waved a hand. "Usually Sherlock helps." He pulled a face. "With this, anyhow."
Greg nodded. "It wouldn't feel like Christmas without drinks at yours." He stood. "We'll all be drinking here on Friday, so how about the pub tonight? I'm buying."