A/N: It's one of those pesky anniversaries of me writing and posting on here.

Someone, early on, once told me that I should write more dialogue and narrate less. I tried yet failed. Might be because my first language is a descriptive language, while English is, by comparison, geared to be an action language.

And, of course, where I love to harp on the theme of home and belonging, it might be both that I have spent considerable years seeking a home for myself, as well as it being a recurrent theme in my culture's works that framed a reference in my writing.

I say it's both. I've lived in crowded accommodations and never felt so lonely, I made do in a place that was trying to kill me in 27 different ways (I've got a list), and I'm currently shell-shocked that my life seems to be in a far better place and home is safe right now.

Throughout my journey in life, these two characters allowed me to withstand a lot, by giving me the threshold for escapism when I needed it the most. Through them I have faced my own demons and I put my own life in perspective. One challenge remains, I have yet to find the Sherlock to my John (or these days it might be the John to my Sherlock) and there is so much more to live for. So, if this piece is a bit dark at times, please know that in life light comes with darkness, and that's natural. Right now, I am facing huge challenges but also have huge opportunities. And it's brilliant.

But I digress. Some of the best dialogues between these two inefficient communicators are done wordlessly and I like to narrate the body language and the societal settings because that's how I see it played out in my mind as I write.

So for a challenge: a piece along the lines of 3 times when they finally put into words what needed to be said for a very long time, and 1 time when they didn't have to. -csf


(1).

'Yeah, coz life just ain't fair, innit? Ya know this, John, you've got Sherllrock… Shrellrock… Sherll… him, and you live with'im and I feel ya, mate, I just do.'

DI Greg Lestrade is a bit drunk. And by a bit, I mean a lot.

A giggle escapes my throat, and I must admit to myself that I am not impervious to some lovely house pints either. I've just got the Watson's genes to back me up on this daring endeavour.

We didn't set out to get drunk, Greg and I. Even if we both came to the pub round the corner from the Yard and we ordered a round of pints as we came in. Other Yarders were here, and inspector Lestrade always invites Sherlock and I after a particularly challenging or grim case, and this time I said Yes – and of course Sherlock huffed haughtily and said No – and this time Sherlock and I parted our ways, because, despite popular belief, we are not joined at the hip, and I can have a life of my own – when Sherlock allows me my independence, which is sometimes, not often, and always if it involves shopping, dry cleaning or errands.

I bring up my pint glass and with the remnants I solemnly toast:

'To Sherlock, and living with Sherlock Holmes, and coming back home to Sherlock blooming Holmes.'

Glass clinks, and even Lestrade is a bit solemn. He waits for me to start gulping down the amber liquid before asking point blank:

'Why did you take him back, John?'

Beer shoots out through my nose as I cough hastily, caught off-guard, spraying the sticky scarred wooden table; Greg Lestrade is a great interrogator, he doesn't skip a beat as he watches me attentively. A bit more attentively than his drunkenness status should allow. I start to suspect I have been set a trap. Maybe the Lestrade drinking genes are equally as strong as the Watson genes.

Greg pats my back, trying to help me catch my breath again.

Somehow I missed a trick by not asphyxiating in beer, as I realise he's still holding out for an answer.

'Sherlock is incredible, and I missed him terribly. Missed us. Missed feeling alive and having my life matter. It took me a while, but I recognised that he didn't mean to hurt me by his choice to jump off St Bart's and have me as his reliable witness. It took him even longer to recognise that it may have been the logical choice given the limited pool of options he had to choose from, but it still didn't make it the right choice.'

'He said he was trying to keep you alive.' He blinks and corrects himself. 'Keep us both alive and your landlady too.'

I can't speak for Lestrade, but I wouldn't call me alive back then.

Looking on over the foggy window pane onto the grey street outside, and the people huffing past in the mild rain. A blonde woman with a broken umbrella and a tantrum throwing toddler, a man with a dark mop of hair that refused to don a hat or an umbrella, the careless youth laughing and running across the street, paradoxically splashing each other in rain puddles to avoid the raindrops. Pulling myself together, I notice gloomily: 'You know, I didn't believe it at first. Something, anything, be it medical acumen or instinct, was telling me that Sherlock couldn't be gone. Not like that. And I had to use all my willpower to force myself to believe he was dead.'

'But he wasn't.'

I shake my head. 'He was. He turned his back on his life, 221B and the Work, even his violin and his coat.' And me. 'He was dead, and then he came back to life one day, ready to take it up where he left off. I still don't know what brought him back, when he did. He says he finished fighting Moriarty's web at last. Mary once said something about Sherlock hearing I was to get married and he realised the window of opportunity to return was closing fast, but I think she was essentially joking. I don't think that I am the reason that Sherlock Holmes returned to the land of the living.'

'Why not, John? You could be.'

Easy for him to believe in his importance; he's just handed Sherlock a file with the case of the missing Granada diamonds. He's got something obvious that Sherlock will always come back for: new cases. Me? Not so much.

'Sherlock wouldn't have come back for me because I was not good enough reason for Sherlock to remain alive in the first place.'

I try to gulp down the dregs of my pint only to find the glass already empty. I try to look around for the bar keeper, probably clearing tables as he's not behind the bar, but instead I find the imposing still silhouette of Sherlock Holmes himself, clear blue eyes looking icily my way.

I gulp drily, my throat feels strangely parched and raw.

Spoke too much.

Loose lips sink ships, and all that.

Greg reads the alarm bells off my face and unsteadily turns around to recognise Sherlock standing there.

'Hey, mate, join us? Everyone else left but ya probly like it better this way!'

Sherlock's cold mercurial eyes flicker in the direction of the inspector, acknowledging his presence, but it's on me that they linger, unflinching. His face a cold mask of indifference cut from icy plains of angular cheekbones and strong jawlines.

The bar keeper steers our way to approach our table, notices Sherlock's looming persona, and detours to safety behind the bar.

'Sit down, Sherlock,' I say, magnanimously, 'or we may as well take this up at 221B, your choice.'

His head tilts.

'So be it. 221B it is. Bring Lestrade. He's too drunk to make his way home on his own,' he adds, coldly.

I glance at Lestrade, cross-eyed as he takes 15 seconds to check the time on his wristwatch.

'Yeah, the Watson genes still rule supreme,' I say, grimly, holding myself firmly to the table to get up.

Sherlock's cold façade breaks character for an instant, as he looks confused my way, but I don't give him the chance to hear more of my misplaced soliloquys, as I'm already helping Greg off his seat.

We're halfway out the door when I realise we didn't ask Greg if he wanted to come with us, he just sort of got forced to tag along on account of him being too drunk.

'Sherlock, are we kidnapping a police inspector?' I ask through an amused chuckle.

The tall detective glances my way and his face parts in a lopsided smile, that he can't quite hold back.

'Overall, you're my favourite type of drunk, John.' He raises an arm in the rainy night, no taxis in sight. I sigh and burrow more deeply into my jacket.

'Why, am I a happy drunk?' I ask, still chuckling.

'No, a drunk that spills the beans on everything that crosses his mind,' he corrects me, as a taxi stops curb side for us. '221B Baker Street,' he directs the cabbie.

.

Greg Lestrade snores. That's at least one count on which his ex-wife was absolutely right when filing for divorce. That, the late nights at work and the alure of a personal trainer at the local gym, all contributed for me to ponder my phone blankly as I wonder if there is anyone who needs to be told Greg is fine, sleeping off a bender on our sofa.

Sherlock comes over from the kitchen handing me a strong black cup of coffee.

Since when does he know how to brew coffee? The acrid smell awakens my taste buds and I feel peckish all of a sudden. Anything greasy would do. Too bad Sherlock doesn't read my mind when it's most convenient for me. Lazy bastard.

'Got any pizza left?'

'John, we last ordered pizza last a week ago.'

'Is that a No?'

Sherlock sighs and takes a seat in his leather armchair. The one that looks a bit like a throne. I follow his fluid, graceful movement with a hint of resentment. No one the other side of thirty should be that graceful.

'Have a sit, John,' he demands, princely, indicating the other chair.

I sit down automatically.

'You didn't say Please.'

His face does that broken thing where half is lightly amused and half is still grafted from a reproaching headmaster.

'You want to talk,' I up the ante, dangerously. 'Ask away.' Sipping a bot of the coffee, I notice the wooden burn at the back of my throat. 'You added whisky to my coffee.'

'Wouldn't want you too sober too fast, John.'

I shrug; makes sense, coming from a manipulative bastard like my best friend.

'This better not be that vintage bottle I have at the back of the cupboard.'

'Saving it for a better occasion?'

I shrug exaggeratedly. 'Maybe. Or maybe it's not mine, I just swiped it off Harry and one day she's gonna barge right in through that door and demand what's rightfully hers.'

'Where is your sister Harry?'

'Rehab.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.'

'What? No! it's a good thing. I mean, not a good thing she fell off the wagon, but it's a good thing that she is recognising that there is a wagon in the first place.'

I plop myself onto the Union Jack pillow on the vacant armchair, the one I adopted as mine a long time ago.

'You're patting the armchair tenderly, John.'

'Maybe I like it, okay? It's… home.'

Sherlock leans forward, edging on his seat, his elbows on his widespread knees, his bird of prey eyes fixated on my every move.

'Keep drinking the whiskey, John.'

'What? No! I… You said you were going to ask me questions. Well, what is it you want to know? You've got the advantage, match point for Sherlock Holmes! You get to hear about how your funeral went, how my mourning of you was, and all that. It's a step up from the little kid who runs away from home and fantasises about being missed so terribly and how everyone will feel awful about not treating him better and giving him lots of hugs and kisses, just before he gets hungry for dinner and decides to come back home as his mum is calling him back from playtime.'

Sherlock's eyebrow twitches and crawls up the left side of his face.

'You think I left for a reward of lots of "hugs and kisses"?'

'What? No! I'd have given you those if you'd asked,' I scoff angrily. Then I stop myself, reeling back my words with a funny feeling of doom. 'I didn't mean…' I trail off, exhausted.

Sherlock gets up from his seat in a bout of excessive energy, almost spooking me to the point of spilling all my drink on me. As it is, I spill half my laced coffee on my jeans and it scalds me.

'John, you are irrational.'

'I am drunk,' I correct him.

'How am I to ever finish atoning if you are not willing to—' He cuts himself short as he sees me jumping around on one foot, trying to untangle the jeans from my ankles with little success. 'John, you are casually undressing yourself in our living room.'

'—Am not!'

'I stand corrected, you're not. Clearly unsuccessful. John, I urge you to—' He stops short as he lunges forward to catch me as I trip on the excess fabric and plunge over as a tree falling on the forest floor. Timber away. 'Geez, John! Stop it, you're going to injure yourself!' he scolds at once.

My eyes brim with tears of humiliation.

The Watsons are not happy drunks, Sherlock was wrong. We are blabbers. We blab on. And now Sherlock knows too much.

'Let go of me, mate! I don't want you to see me like this!'

'Like what? Drunk? A bit late for that, John.'

'Vulnerable,' I spit out, knowing immediately that I spoke too much, as I recognise Sherlock's alien eyes rounding in concern and something else I cannot fully define.

Suddenly, and uncharacteristically, he is pulling me tight into an awkward embrace. I don't think Sherlock Holmes has a lot of experience hugging people. It's gangly and rigid and a bit too tight, and it's complemented with a harsh whisper of "me too, John, me too".

Me too what, I wonder, heavy eyelids dropping rapidly, as my body relaxes into that feeling of safety and belonging. He too felt vulnerable and exposed without me while galivanting the globe without his blogger? He too misses 221B and our life together so much that it fuelled his fight to return to a life he had prepared to abandon forever? He too regrets the time we were apart and the sheer misery of not having the other to lean on? A missing half that is not whole even now as it has been put back together in a slapdash manner?

.

TBC