"Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."
Sherlock receives round two of berating when we return to Baker Street –Mrs. Hudson doesn't punch him, but she lets loose a fierce volley of yells that I never thought could possibly come from the sweet lady. Once she finishes yelling, she breaks down and cries. "Oh, Sherlock dear," she says, "I'm so happy you're back, I truly am."
Sherlock ascertains that all of his things are still there – "Bloody hell, Mycroft's messed up my sock index!" – and then flops down on the sofa, his long legs draped over the armrest. Eyes closed, he presses his slender hands together almost as if in prayer, the tips of his long fingers resting under his chin. He lays there and thinks – for I know that this is indeed his thinking posture – for several minutes, then suddenly springs back up and sits on his heels, his bright eyes fixed on me.
"It was the gardener," he says suddenly.
"Sorry…what?"
"The gardener, John, the gardener!" Seeing my still-blank expression, he rolls his eyes. "That murder case out in Manchester, it's been all over the papers for the last week. Lestrade's been working on it but hasn't been able to come up with his man – hence the takeout coffee, Lestrade only stoops to that level when he's on a case nonstop for more than three days at a time. If he's in his office, he much prefers the break-room variety, so I'd say he's having some difficulty. The haircut, not just an everyday move – Lestrade never gets a haircut unless he needs one, and having seen him from afar just recently, I can tell you he did not need a haircut – conclusion, the haircut was part of a poor attempt at a disguise, probably in order to work his way into the dead woman's household. The dirt under his nails clearly matches that of the victim's neighborhood. Dirty house? Of course not, the woman was known for near-manic cleanliness, the type who dusts five times a day and removes her shoes immediately so has not to track debris into her house, so the dirt couldn't have come from the house, or the body. But, she did love plants, as evidenced by the countless books on the subject in her study – therefore, garden, but being a wealthy germaphobe, she had a gardener to take care of her precious plants for her. Confirmed poison from a plant, but she doesn't garden, so it was the gardener. Obviously." He finally finishes his rant and looks at me expectantly.
"Good Lord, Sherlock," I say, shaking my head. "Here I am thinking you were quiet on the way to the Yard because you thought it'd be a good idea to shut up for once, when you were really solving a case!" I can't help but laugh.
"Did you expect me to do anything else?" he asks, looking puzzled. "I couldn't just sit there and ignore those clues, not when Lestrade left them out so nicely for me."
"Did you tell Lestrade?"
"Of course I did, I texted him as soon as we left his office." His arrogance is astounding sometimes.
"And I suppose you're about to tell me you've solved others as well?" I ask, a hint of sarcasm in my voice. "You were, after all, supposed to be dead."
"Well obviously things came up while I was chasing Moriarty's henchmen all around," Sherlock says impatiently.
"Sherlock, people don't have henchmen in real life –" I begin, but the look on his face reminds me that most of our other dealings – chasing murderers through London at all hours, being strapped up with deadly explosives, exposing international crime rings – are hardly "real life" regularities either. "Ok fine," I continue. "Maybe Moriarty did. Where did you go, anyway?"
"Oh, nowhere of consequence." He shrugs. "China, India, Switzerland, Mexico – particularly difficult, that one – Russia, the Middle East. America."
"So basically you took a little trip around the world. Thanks for inviting me."
"I wasn't aware you liked chasing down dangerous criminals."
"Not particularly. Although it does provide a nice change of pace once in a while, and of course you were without your blogger." He smirks a little at that one.
"Ah yes, my blogger. The world will never read the no-doubt highly eloquent rendition of my globetrotting adventures bringing down Moriarty's thugs one by one."
"Don't be sarcastic, Sherlock, it's unbecoming. Besides, I thought you secretly liked my blog." I do my best to look hurt.
"Oh, do stop pouting, John. Of course I like your blog, even if it is a bit…dull, sometimes."
"Says the one who thought people would actually be interested in reading about 240 types of tobacco ash," I mutter, just loud enough for him to hear.
"It was 243." Now it's his turn to look hurt.
"Anyway, we were on solving cases…" I don't really want to hear any more about tobacco ash.
"Ah, yes!" The spark in his eye returns. "Obviously I had to track down Moriarty's people, but there were other things that came up in the process. Surely you read about the recent Southampton case where the only clues were a toothbrush, a tube of lipstick, and an empty book of matches?" I shake my head.
"What about the one with the escaped kangaroo in Washington? The counterfeiters who shut down the entire Moscow subway system for a week? The chocolate poisonings in Zürich?" When none of these elicits a response, he stares at me incredulously. "Really, John, don't you ever read the papers?" Pause. "Clearly not, otherwise you'd have known a while ago that I was still alive."
"Well obviously I didn't know," I say, a little annoyed. "And I do read the papers, but I stopped after a while because I couldn't stand all the tabloids about you being dead and a fake and all that."
"But you told them, didn't you?"
"Told who what?"
"Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, you told everyone I was a fake."
"Sherlock, for someone who's supposedly so smart, you are so stupid sometimes." I shake my head. "Of course I didn't tell them."
"Why not?"
"Because I knew it wasn't true. You tried to tell me nobody could be that clever, but obviously you're a really bad liar, because you most certainly are that clever. And don't even try to tell me you were in contact with Lestrade before today about that gardening business, he was just as confused as I was when you showed up –"
"And has already proven he's a terrible actor and could therefore have never convincingly faked his surprise," Sherlock interrupts. "All right, you got me there, John."
"Right then, so long as we're agreed there," I say. There is a long pause in which neither of us says anything, and then my friend speaks again.
"I believe some congratulations are in order."
"Sorry?" I am distracted.
"John, unlike you, I do read the papers. I saw your engagement announcement." I look up at my friend and see a rare, genuine smile on his face. "So, congratulations. Although I'm rather hurt you haven't yet mentioned her."
"Dear God, Sherlock, I've kind of had other things on my mind! You were dead until a few hours ago, remember?"
"Technically no, but I see your point."
"But yes, I am indeed getting married." And I tell him the whole story – how Mary and I met, everything I love about her, how she was there for me when the thought of his death threatened to break me – he looks so shocked when I talk about this that I immediately stop. "What?"
"Is that…is that really how bad it was?" he asks softly.
"Yes, Sherlock. Because, unlike you, most people do have emotions." My voice is rather gruffer than I intended.
"I…I'm so sorry." I look over at Sherlock. He is deliberately avoiding my gaze, staring at the floor, looking utterly depressed. And this is when I realize something – Sherlock Holmes just apologized. And he actually meant it.
I do the only thing I can think of – I walk to the couch, sit next to Sherlock, and wrap my arms around him.
"You've no idea how much I missed you," I say, attempting to put as much emotion as I can into the hug. "You're more than just my flat-mate, you're my best friend." For the first time since I've known him, Sherlock looks genuinely touched.
"I missed you too, John," he replies. "All of you. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade…it was agony knowing how much pain I was causing you, agony knowing I couldn't come home before I'd destroyed Moriarty's web, even though I wanted to so badly. The last time I saw you, you told me 'Friends protect people.' I thought you were being silly and stupid at the time, but now I think I know what you meant, because I have never felt so alone as I have these past three years. You were right – and I'm glad you're my friend." It is my turn to be touched. Sherlock Holmes – the master of the mind – is speaking from his heart.
"I have a question for you then," I say.
"Yes?"
"Well…this wedding. Will you…will you be my best man? It wouldn't feel right to have anyone else do it." Sherlock is speechless for a moment before the genuine smile returns.
"I'd be honored, John."