Author's note: Someone asked me to write about Sherlock coming back and reacting to the shrine. I hope you like it!
It was a joke. It was a joke, nothing more. Someone had thought it funny to go to "the shrine", open it and pick up Greg's old ID.
He had been telling himself that for a week now, and still he couldn't help the what if –
Sherlock had always stolen his ID, always. Sometimes it had taken a few weeks or even months, but eventually it had always from his pocket into the consulting detective's, so that he hadn't found it in himself to care anymore and had gone months without carrying anything aside from his gun that pointed him out as a detective.
Just like now. It would have felt wrong to file a report and get a new one after he had left the last on Sherlock's grave.
With the media coverage after the consulting detective's death, there weren't many who didn't know he was a DI anyway.
And now the ID was gone.
Someone had deliberately picked it, had chosen this item even though there was a valuable Breitling and some cash next to it. His ID was of no worth to anyone, except for him and, perhaps, if he had ever meant something to him, a dead man
And that meant –
No. It couldn't mean that. Sherlock was dead and buried.
He couldn't have come back.
But if anyone could...
Maybe he was just seeing things, had overlooked it – no, the ID had lain in the exact same spot since Mycroft had had the glass case built next to the headstone. No one had ever moved it; there was no reason to. He would have seen it, he had looked for it for ten minutes before giving up; it was gone.
And there was only one person in the world who could have had an interest in taking it.
If he had somehow cheated death, if he wanted Greg to know that he was back but for some reason couldn't make it public yet –
Too many. Too many variables, too many possibilities.
But there was his instinct, the instinct that had served him well for over twenty years, the instinct that had made him talk to a young rambling drug user instead of arresting him at a crime scene, the instinct that had helped him solve endless cases, with or without Sherlock's help.
And that instinct told him that Sherlock had taken the ID, and therefore Sherlock was alive.
He could have called Mycroft, but if his return was supposed to be a secret, the British Government would have denied everything, and in a strange way, it would have felt like cheating. Sherlock had wanted to let him know.
So the question was where would Sherlock go?
Without hesitation, Greg got up from his chair and strode out of his office, informing Donovan on the way that he was leaving for the day.
She didn't ask where he was going. Ever since Sherlock's – disappearance, she had been growing quieter and quieter.
The street on which they had first met, Sherlock kneeling over a body and mumbling deductions to himself, was deserted, as he'd known it would be; this part of town only came to life after sunset.
He would wait all day if it was necessary, because suddenly, he knew, he was certain, that Sherlock was alive, waiting for him, and he'd kept him waiting a week already because he hadn't trusted his instinct.
He could spend a few hours here, if need be.
He didn't have to wait long.
An old beggar he hadn't noticed before suddenly shuffled out of a shadowy corner, and Greg didn't have to see his eyes behind the dark glasses to know who it was.
"Sherlock" he greeted him, as if he hadn't buried, as if he hadn't mourned him. Because in this moment, it didn't matter.
Sherlock was alive.
His friend was alive.
The very first word Sherlock pronounced had him reeling back in surprise.
"Greg".
When he didn't answer, Sherlock extended his hand.
He was clutching his ID.
"I saw the reports about the "shrine". I didn't notice so many people cared" he said sarcastically.
Greg stared at the ID, then reached out and closed Sherlock's hand over it.
A gift was a gift.
"They do" he said simply as Sherlock's eyes widened and he took the ID back and put it in his pocket, looking as unsure as he'd ever seen him.
"When did you come back?" Greg asked when the silence became too much.
"Two weeks ago. Unravelling Moriarty's net took longer than I had anticipated".
He had never doubted that, if Sherlock was alive, he would have a good reason to stay hidden. To stay away from John.
Then suddenly, Sherlock added, "I need your help".
"Always". Greg meant it.
After a long drawn-out explanation about Moriarty's right hand who was currently in London, Sherlock admitted, "I was surprised that so many remembered" and this time, he sounded genuine.
"It wasn't my intention to start this. I'm glad it happened, though." Greg was silent for a moment, then continued, "Who was the Breitling from? I've been wondering".
"Sebastian Wilkes. He was one of the more... surprising mourners" Sherlock answered softly and Greg nodded, remembering a blog entry about the Chinese mafia and Dimmock's reports afterwards.
They turned around on silent agreement and started walking. No henchman of Moriarty's should be free in London.
"You are sure you don't need your ID? I hear it can be quite useful at times" Sherlock commented. Of course he knew Greg had never gotten a new one.
"No" Greg said, completely certain of his answer, "put it back where it belongs".
Author's note: Basically I'm not a big fan of season 3 and Greg needs more credit. I felt this story was small and simple, so I wanted to keep it small and simple. Hope I fulfilled your expectations.