"How would you describe me John, resourceful, dynamic, enigmatic?"..."Late?"
The sun is out – a rare occurrence in London, that – so when the session ends I decide to forego a cab and walk home. My walk takes me by the museum, and I sit for a moment on the edge of the large fountain in the square. I stare at the building's giant façade, recalling the night when Sherlock and I failed to prevent a murder in that very place, then shake it off – today is not a day to be thinking of murders, not when the sun is shining as it is. People mill about the square, the locals distinguishable from the tourists by the latter's brightly colored maps and foreign accents, and everyone seems so happy that I can't help but smile again. London is indeed a marvelous place to be today.
I am just about to leave when something catches my eye, something that stops me dead in my tracks. Surely, I have imagined it. Surely, the person walking towards me merely bears a very keen resemblance to my former flat mate. I blink rapidly several times, then look again. The stature, the graceful loping stroll, the thick wool Belstaff coat with the collar turned up – coincidence. But…no, I think. Impossible. I saw him die! And yet there is no mistaking those piercing blue eyes, those finely sculpted, extraordinarily high cheekbones. Sherlock Holmes is standing in front of me.
"Sh-Sherlock?" My lips can barely form the word.
"It's good to see you, John," he says in response, and he gives me the look – the one he generally reserves for, "I know something you don't know" moments.
That does it. The smirk disappears, quickly replaced by a look of shock as my fist connects with his face.
"What the –"
"You complete ARSE!" I yell at him, causing several nearby people to drop objects and one mother to shoot me a scathing look. "What the bloody HELL is going on here?" Sherlock's nose is gently dripping blood, and I am only slightly disturbed at the idea that it might be broken. In fact, every nerve in my body screams at me to hit him again. So I do. And just once more, for good measure.
"John, there's a perfectly rational explanation –" he begins, but I cut him off.
"Rational? Rational? You were dead! Jesus, Sherlock, you were DEAD! How is that rational?" I am beyond annoyed – I am livid.
Sherlock's second attempt to speak is interrupted by the screeching of car tires. An expensive-looking BMW grinds to a halt in front of us, and I groan as I recognize Detective Inspector Lestrade's vehicle. Of course – someone must've called the police. After all, I did just start a public brawl in the middle of London.
"John, what on earth are you doing?" Lestrade asks as he jumps from the car. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a –" he stops short as he sees Sherlock.
"What the hell…" he whispers, unable to believe his eyes.
"As you can see, Greg, a particular consulting detective who's supposed to be dead decided today was the day to show everyone how he'd made bloody fools of them all!" I practically spit out the words.
"Get in the car, both of you," Lestrade says. "You've got some explaining to do."