Title: Get Your Epitaph Right
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade. Perhaps Molly if I can write her. Possibly Sherlock/John later. Friendship fic for now.
Rating: T
Summary: It's been three years. They can't just pick up where they were. They have to find the pieces first

A/N: I apologize if Lestrade seems off, he is somewhat difficult to write. Maybe because he has a rather simple role. Thanks to the Beth midgit for the idea or this might not have been written. I'm horrid at the mystery itself. I think you will see that next chapter.

Queen Beeb and Mofftiss own, not me. Thankfully, not CBS either :D

After that peculiar phone call, Lestrade had invited himself over, however thankfully did not have the "other two" as Sherlock referred to them with him.

That's where John's case of brew was going - Sherlock deduced that almost immediately.

"I'm sorry - I thought..."

"I warned you. He got in your head. Got in everyone's head apparently." He twanged the strings, still testing them, considering what they wanted to be played.

"You're not going to kill me then?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't kill people for allowing themselves to be controlled, Lestrade."

John looked down at his takeway. Sherlock saw the disbelief in his expression, silently thankful he'd kept quiet.

Lestrade wasn't quite sure how to take that remark other than it was probably the closest he was going to get to an acceptance of his apology.

"Been busy?"

He shrugged. "I suppose. Donovan's on absence for insubordination."

But Sherlock didn't want to hear about bullying little Donovan. He'd rather hear about what else they had.

"Alright, fine." He'd gotten up out his chair and was studying Baker Street. An old habit, just doing his own surveillance. The sills were clean. Mrs. Hudson must have dusted - he made a quick mental note to repay that somehow later. John would know about such things. "Do you have a case for me?"

"Sherlock you just -"

"I know, came back from the dead isn't that amazing? Pretty soon Baker Street will be a shrine and people will be carrying little images of Saint Bart's everywhere..." the remark was laced with sarcasm, religious targeting, and spite. He turned back from the window, smirking. "I mean I'm bored. I tend to be destructive while bored, Lestrade. Now, case?"

"It's stupid, you'll probably figure it out in five minutes."

"Tell me. I might be able to. Better than trying to make conversation, something you ... are not particularly good at." He almost included John in that statement, but something made him alter that remark.

He glanced at John, sitting in his chair, listening to it all and shaking his head, which rapidly jerked up and gave Sherlock an odd look that he'd not been included in making rubbish conversation.

"Well there's - here's the file." Lestrade had been carrying it on his person? Quite an interesting development.

Female. "There's no morgue photos, where's the body?"

Lestrade looked uncomfortable. "It's a private investigation."

"Ah, these are survelliance photos. No, unless there's a body I won't do it."

"Sherlock!" John had finally broken his silence. His tone was reproving.

"You know she's cheating on you. You just want evidence." As much as he had missed John, he was not going to be taking on a rather obvious case. "You're just playing in denial, Lestrade." He picked up the violin and played the first few notes of Beethoven's Fur Therese for emphasis. He waved his bow in the officer's direction.

"Go home and evaluate if the annulment is worth it, then go to work in the morning, get some file that hasn't been throughly contaminated by Donovan or Anderson. And I might look at it. Take the case of brew in the kitchen, I doubt that's worth hiding anymore and John prefers tea anyhow."

He then went right back to playing, leaving Lestrade and John in an awkward predicament.

John shrugged, an awkward smile on his face. "He hasn't changed."

Sherlock seemed a little oblivious to them, still playing a melody that only he seemed to know, though he heard what John was saying.

Lestrade shook his head, getting up to depart. "Are you sure about the brew?"

John nodded following him into the kitchen. "Sometimes if I didn't know better I would think he could read minds."

Sherlock heard the remark and smirked. John may not have exactly forgiven his absence yet, but at least he had accepted his return.

Things could return to normal sooner than -

"The bloody hell was that?" John was standing in front of him, looking a little perturbed.

"What?" He stopped playing to listen, but didn't lower the instrument.

"You don't know what's happened during the three years you've been gone. Anderson's wife finally shot him -"

"Good."

" - you might not be a machine, but you could at least be nice. Lestrade would have lost his job if he hadn't attempted to arrest you. He got demoted to being a officer for even being associated working with you. They limited his file access -"

"He should get his position back once we've caught the next one. I'll give him some credit." He said it off-handed.

"Good." John responded, beginning to clean up the takeaway mess. Sherlock continued playing - it sounded to John a bit less mournful than he remembered, although it might have just been the fact he'd missed the strange music in their flat. Then he realized what Sherlock had said. "Wait, Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"What did you just say about Lestrade? About the next case?"

"You know what I said." Truthfully, the words had slipped from his tongue before considering them. He should have realized John would notice.

"Well, yes -"

"If he actually can get us a good case, I see no reason why he shouldn't get something for his trouble."

John was really wondering if Sherlock had lost his wits sometime in those three years, but he was suddenly overcome by exhaustion.

"I'm knackered. Goodnight, Sherlock."

He waited a moment as though expecting a reply. When there was none, he turned for his room.

"'Night, John." Maybe he just thought he heard Sherlock say it.