A/N: I have no idea why I keep writing this instead of finishing the story I actually wanted to get done. The characters here are closer to my age now, I guess, so maybe it's easier? But mostly I think it's just that this one has more opportunities to set up funny dialogue and I find that endlessly amusing.

Anyway here's two more chapters of this nonsense because why not.

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Greg sighed, resigning himself to yet another round of trying to pick apart Sherlock's inscrutable process.

He opened his mouth to ask another question, try to get the man at least partially back on track from whatever nonsense he was on about. As he did so, though, his attention was diverted by someone coming in through the door Greg had come in from and was thus still stood near. He'd glanced over, expecting to see John, which would have been a bit of welcome backup in this silly game of 'get Sherlock to just answer the bloody question' - instead he found himself looking at the very same witness who'd provided the statement he'd just been reading from. The man who'd been in the missing suspect's flat when the fire started.

"Yeah mate so I dunno what you meant by 'the blue one', but I got- oh."

The man cut off as he caught sight of Greg. He looked to be dressed for a business meeting, with dark slacks and a buttonup in the same style to what Sherlock typically wore, and the grey woolen peacoat Greg recalled him having been wearing on the night of the arson. A leather briefcase was tucked under one arm and he held a plastic bag full of what looked like groceries in his free hand.

"Mr Crenshaw?" Greg barked, scandalised. He looked to Sherlock for some sort of explanation, but got only a bland lift of the eyebrows. "Sherlock, what in god's name do you think you're up to?"

"Consulting on your incredibly boring case?" was the answer he got, along with a vaguely confused, indignant look.

Greg threw out an arm to indicate Mr Crenshaw, who was regarding him with a very bemused look as he strode past to set his things down in the kitchen.

"You, what-? Called him out here? You can't be going round harassing witnesses!"

Sherlock's expression had shifted more towards the confused end, though now also somewhat affronted.

"I've not harassed him."

"I feel very harassed, actually," Mr Crenshaw quipped from over by the sink.

"Shut up."

"See? Rude." Crenshaw's joking tone very much did not match his words. He'd shuffled off his coat and tossed it casually to Sherlock, who caught it with a small grumble and went to hang it up on the coat rack.

Greg looked back and forth between them. Mr Crenshaw was unpacking his shopping with the air of knowing more or less where everything belonged, and hadn't reacted to the sight of Sherlock's collection of body parts in the fridge. Implying this wasn't him just dropping in, but that he'd been here long enough to get comfortable. Furthermore, when he'd removed the coat it had become clear that his outfit didn't just resemble Sherlock's, but looked to literally be the same articles of clothing. One could see where the seam lines were just a smidge off, not having been tailored to his frame.

All evidence pointed to this man having been staying with John and Sherlock for the past few days, presumably since the flat fire. It was the only explanation that could possibly make sense. Voicing this conclusion didn't help to make it feel any less surreal, however.

"You… invited the witness to stay at your flat?"

"Yep."

Sherlock proceeded to provide no further clarification whatsoever. He just moved from the coat rack over towards the kitchen where Mr Crenshaw was, then stood leaning partially against the table with his hands tucked into his trouser pockets. Fixed Greg with an expectant look.

"Did you want to finish the consult, or just stand there gawping like an idiot?"

Greg didn't answer. He was looking back and forth between the two men in front of him. There was something niggling at the back of his brain. Like a memory he couldn't quite access…

Mr Crenshaw held up a tin of soup with a questioning noise, causing Sherlock to look his direction. And like a flashbulb going off Greg saw another scene overlaid atop the current one: dim lighting of some dingy cellar pub, an impossibly young Sherlock stood before him with his hands tucked into his jeans pockets just as this older version had in his slacks, turning his head in the exact same way to look at- ah!

"You're that freckled kid!"

Both other men turned to him looking utterly baffled, which was fair since Greg had just flung an arm out pointing at Crenshaw like a lunatic. The bloke in question stared at him a beat, then switched focus back to Sherlock, who shrugged as if to say he'd no idea either. Greg realised he'd made himself look a bit of a nutter and lowered his arm. Only to almost immediately ruin his attempt to look more sane by putting his hands on his head instead, because he'd just made another connection.

"Hang on, wait… those old photos we found during the Harwood investigation… those were from the pub where I first met you, weren't they? He's…" Greg shook his head for his own rudeness and addressed the man he was talking about directly instead. "You're the freckle-faced kid we couldn't get a witness statement from because you kept hyperventilating every time someone got near you!"

Crenshaw abruptly looked uncomfortable. "Oh, er…"

"When were you there?" Sherlock cut in. Greg was now the one to look baffled.

"We had an entire conversation, Sherlock. You deduced who the murderer was based on foil scraps and cotton fibres."

This elicited no recognition whatsoever. Mr Crenshaw glanced over and seemed unsurprised by the blank look on Sherlock's face.

"It was a bit after we'd found Benny, Shers. You'd have been crashing."

"Oh." Sherlock glanced to him, then back to Greg with a small shrug. "Well, I'm sure whatever I said was very impressive."

Mr Crenshaw looked back to Greg. "Did you, er… catch him? Th- the murderer."

"Within the hour, yeah. Thanks to him." He gestured towards Sherlock, who looked as if he still had no memory of this whatsoever but wasn't especially shocked nor bothered by that fact. Lost quite a chunk of time to the drugs, apparently. Greg found himself thinking back to the younger version of the man he'd met that night and feeling rather confused - kid hadn't seemed that badly off.

Crenshaw gave a brief smile of thanks, but it quickly dropped to a look of mounting distress as his gaze dropped to the floor. His hands had begun to press together palm-to-palm in a strange sort of nervous tic and he seemed to be curling in on himself, as if he were fighting some inner struggle to maintain composure. Sherlock shot a brief glance his direction, and then as he looked back to Greg he smoothly reached out and grabbed one of Mr Crenshaw's hands. Looked to have been aiming to both stop the compulsive movement and pull the man closer to where they were stood right up next to each other. Mr Crenshaw didn't appear to mind this at all - looked rather relieved about it, in fact. He'd latched onto Sherlock's hand like a lifeline and was now pressed against his side as if trying to maximise physical contact.

"Suppose that explains how you got my mobile number," Sherlock remarked blandly, as if there was nothing odd whatsoever about him willingly sharing personal space with another human being.

Greg stared at them, utterly bewildered. No context for this behaviour seemed to fit. If he'd learnt anything about dealing with Sherlock over the years, however, it was that things tended to go much more smoothly if one just behaved as if any sudden odd turns were perfectly normal and expected. No sense calling anything out. As such he made a valiant effort to shake off the confusion and carry on.

"Did you, er… think I'd just contacted you out of the blue?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Sure, I guess. Case was interesting enough, didn't see any point in asking."

Crenshaw seemed to have calmed considerably. No longer looked like he was fighting off a breakdown, just looked a bit distracted. Still holding Sherlock's hand as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. Their hands caught Greg's eye and he found himself studying the details there - wasn't the hand-over-hand sort of hold one might expect of an impulsive grab, but instead a more intimate intertwining of fingers. That, coupled with their casually close proximity, and moreover Sherlock's complete lack of visible unease about this, quite suddenly unlocked another near-forgotten little detail hiding away in the depths of Greg's brain.

"Hang on, when we found those photos… hadn't you said the freckled kid had been your boyfriend at the time?"

Sherlock looked supremely unimpressed. Presumably in response to the wolfish grin which had slowly stolen over Greg's face as he spoke.

"Yes."

"So… does that mean you two are…"

He gestured towards the two of them, hoping to get his question across nonverbally as he wasn't sure he'd be able to ask without sounding incredibly juvenile.

Sherlock continued to fix him with an irritated stare. "Are we what?"

"You know, er…" Greg carried on awkwardly. "Are the two of you… I mean, is this a thing?"

Sherlock looked equal parts confused and pissed off. "A thing?"

Crenshaw had given himself a little shake and seemed to have caught on to the picture they'd made together, as he'd glanced down to their interlinked fingers with a light blush.

"He's asking if we're-" he started, but Sherlock cut him off.

"I know what he's asking," he snapped, not shifting his annoyed glare off of Greg. "It's just a stupid way to ask. What exactly is a thing, Lestrade?"

"I mean, just…" Greg trailed off helplessly. Couldn't think how to word it without coming right out and asking if they were shagging, which was the main thing he wanted to know. And that only because he'd find it oddly uplifting if they were. Hadn't thought Sherlock capable of being comfortable enough with someone to have that sort of connection. Couldn't find a way to say all that, though, so he settled for repeating, "... you know, a thing."

Sherlock either didn't understand what he was getting at, or was being willfully obtuse, because he just continued to stare. Beside him his perhaps-more-than-friend shifted awkwardly, dropped Sherlock's hand, and scooted a few inches away to a more polite distance. Sherlock broke his staring match with Greg to look over to him instead.

"What are you getting all flustered for?"

"I- I dunno, I'm just-" Crenshaw stammered. He seemed to be trying to convey some meaning to Sherlock by means of facial expression and gesturing, with little apparent success. Finally he made a frustrated noise and defaulted back to words. "I'm not sure how open you want to be with your boss, god's sake."

Sherlock looked insulted. "He's not my boss."

"Fine, er… colleague?"

"Professional acquaintance," Greg supplied helpfully. "Bordering on friend, I think? When he's not too busy jeopardising my career."

"I've made your career."

A faint spark of a smile under the snippy tone betrayed the fact Sherlock was evidently rather pleased about being counted a possible friend. Greg gave him a little smile in return. Bloke could be a nightmare, for sure, but Greg had always had a bit of a soft spot for his antics.

Crenshaw made a questioning gesture towards Sherlock, as if to say 'alright, then, so how open?' . When this got him only another nonplussed stare he huffed and went for words again, though this time seemed far more piqued about it.

"We never got back 'round to talking 'bout what to call this, yeah?"

Hah! He had been masking an accent. Greg had sat in on the bloke's initial witness statement and spent damned near the entire time distracted by his cadence, trying to figure out why it sounded off. Eventually decided he must be covering some strong local accent, but hadn't been able to tell which. The slip just now had been enough to place it, however. East London. Perhaps even Cockney? Shouldn't laugh (and he did his best not to), but by god that was funny to imagine - Sherlock with his posh public school airs dating some rough lad off the council estate.

"So?" Sherlock replied blankly.

"So I don't know how to act in mixed company!"

"Why would assigning some arbitrary label help with that?"

"Because it'd define a set of social norms, you daft prat."

"I don't care about social norms."

"I do!"

"Why?"

Crenshaw threw his hands up in defeat. "Fine! You know what, honestly a thing sounds about right. Let's just go with that."

"We are not calling it a thing," Sherlock objected petulantly.

His partner was now ignoring him in favour of plucking up a few items from his half-emptied shopping bag, then brushing past him on his way out towards the door to the landing.

"I've got to take this downstairs," he threw over his shoulder in explanation, and quickly vanished.

Greg looked to Sherlock with his brows raised, and found the man watching after his guest with an unreadable expression. A beat later he seemed to shake himself and shot an irritated look Greg's way.

"Sorry," Greg offered, trying to swallow the silly grin still tugging at his lips. Couldn't help it, the whole surreal situation had just hit him in the form of an urge to start giggling like an idiot. Couldn't wait to track down John and see what he had to say about all this.

"No you're not."

"I mean… I am, a bit. Could've handled that better."

Sherlock huffed a short, frustrated sigh and glared off at nothing.

Greg gave him an apologetic smile - alright, fair enough. He'd been an arse there, and upon the brief thought of John he realised the doctor couldn't have reacted much better. Likely been an absolute bellend, to be frank. Knowing how John tended to fall into the habit of viewing Sherlock like some sort of strange creature to be studied. Two of them must be getting sick to death of such behaviour.

Best try to bring things back round to finishing the consult, then. He managed to swallow his remaining mirth and successfully wrestled his 'professional detective' face back on.

"Right, well. Just need that explanation for how the notes got in the horse statues and I'll be out of your hair."

Sherlock's glare dropped into a rather sheepish sort of cringe.

"Er… I don't actually know."

Greg blinked. "You… what?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean I've had a lot on and I forgot to look into it!" Sherlock snapped, gesticulating by throwing his hands up, then pushing one through his hair to leave it slightly dishevelled. "I'd been trying to stall you long enough to figure it out on the fly, but then Eric showed up and, just- ugh. I can't focus on him and the work at the same time."

Mindful of his conviction to stop being an arse about this, Greg fought very hard not to burst into laughter. The Great Detective admitting he'd got distracted by a bloke, though, good lord.

Sherlock caught on his struggle immediately, of course. "Don't give me that. I'm allowed to have off days."

"Sure, just-" Greg tried to go on without sniggering, didn't well manage. Let himself have a bit of a chuckle to get it out of his system and then carried on with a more even, "Ahem… sorry, just- we do need that bit if we're to strike Mr Crenshaw's friend off the suspect list."

"Ah, right." Sherlock considered a bit, then shrugged. "Fine, give me a day or two. Molly's just told me she's got a body that might be related. Between that and questioning Mick there should be enough for a solid lead."

"Questioning Mick?" Greg repeated. Didn't like the sound of this, but he had to know for certain. "Are you meaning to imply you've been in contact with the missing suspect?"

"Nope!" Sherlock replied brightly. He'd pulled his mobile from his pocket and sent a text. Almost immediately a chime sounded from the grey peacoat he'd hung up by the door, and they looked towards it in tandem, then back to each other. Greg caught on to the vague implication and sighed.

"Has Mr Crenshaw been in contact?"

"Maybe. Perhaps you should've asked him instead of tittering like a schoolgirl."

Sherlock had looked away dismissively to flip through a few papers he'd collected off the table, a fairly clear signal he was done talking for now. Greg worked his jaw a tick, but… fair enough. He'd got caught up in personal business and lost focus on the case. Best pretend he'd not heard anything, then. Sherlock could be trusted to flush the man out if he were the actual culprit.

At the sound of Greg's tiny sigh Sherlock looked to him expectantly, gestured to the door as if to ask why he'd not left yet. Greg took a few steps that direction, but then stopped.

"Er… Sherlock."

Wasn't sure what exactly he was meaning to say, but… it felt important, somehow, to at least have a go at expressing support. Like something a friend would do.

" God, what?" Sherlock spat, rolling his eyes with the usual overdramatic pomp.

"Just… wanted to say I'm happy for you."

Greg smiled for the man's predictable reaction of horrified disgust.

"What?"

"He seems like a really nice bloke," he went on. Couldn't help his smile widening into a cheeky grin - Sherlock looked absolutely mortified, which was perhaps the reaction Greg had secretly been hoping for. Which wasn't entirely kind, yes, but still. He'd at least had the intent of offering moral support. And, anyway, what were friends for if not a bit of good-natured harassment?

"Get out."

Cackling to himself, Greg did just that.

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Eric shook his head for his own nonsense as he made his way downstairs. Christ's sake, not an hour ago he'd been in a meeting with a benefactor in some posh corner office. Hadn't felt so much as a hint of anxiety about it. Slipped into his usual role of trustworthy administrator and got the donation sorted.

His ability to keep calm in high-pressure social situations like that was literally the entire reason he was even on this trip - they'd have just stuck with email and phone if he weren't so 'uncommonly personable', as Zahida put it. She'd set up all these face-to-face meetings specifically to take advantage of his social skills. And he'd gone along with it because it hadn't seemed like much bother, aside from the travel. A whole week handing off most of the boring admin work to just focus on talking to people instead? Brilliant. Sign him up.

Staying with Mick for a few days had been his idea, of course. Old mate of his from Manchester who'd since relocated to London. Been glad of the chance to reconnect; he'd always liked Mick, mad bastard that he was. Eric had figured they'd catch up a bit, maybe go for a pint, and that would be the extent of non-work-related socialising for the trip.

Despite having grown up in London it hadn't ever crossed his mind he might run into anyone else he'd known. Especially not anyone from Stockwell, of all places. Figured they'd have all been dead by now. Supposed they were, really. Apart from the one lunatic.

And of course he'd gone and got swept up with that lunatic again. Fallen for the idiot as surely as he had the first time round. Harder, in fact, because he'd gone all this while thinking he was just doomed to keep sabotaging himself in regards to dating. Couldn't ever stomach the deep chats when he'd been seeing someone long enough. Being expected to talk about his childhood, to share his hopes and fears and regrets and all that rubbish. Gave up on anything beyond casual flings once he'd realised he kept picking fights on purpose every time a relationship got too serious, just to have a reason to break up. All the stupid bloody drama he'd caused just to avoid having to talk about his past with anyone, christ.

Here he was now, though. Having reconnected with the one bloke who knew all the fucked up shit he'd been through, and whose fucked up shit he knew in return. All those painful barriers pre-broken in a haze of drug-fuelled conversations, waking each other from nightmares, staving off panic attacks. And that might have been lovely, if not for the jarring disconnect he found himself in now. Torn between the man he thought he was and the boy he'd once been.

All it apparently took to erase the past eight years of work was some policeman recognising him as 'that freckled kid'. Suddenly he'd been nineteen again. Felt that sick weight of nebulous dread in the pit of his stomach, oncoming panic attack, fell back to holding his breath and pressing his palms together even though he'd learnt far better coping skills over the years. And he must have been painfully obvious about it, because Sherlock hadn't taken one look his way before he'd grabbed his hand to centre him like he used to do. Let Eric press up against his side like a limpet even though his bloody colleague was right there and they must have looked stupid as hell…

Wondered, suddenly, how Sherlock still remembered all the signs and how to help. Had he just acted on autopilot, same as Eric had the other day snapping him out of the dissociative spell? What did it say about the two of them that they'd managed to ingrain these mutual support habits in so short a time together? How unstable they'd both been. How unstable they both still were, apparently. A harsh blow to come to terms with. All that work putting himself back together just to find he'd only been painting over the cracks.

He'd gone down to put the detergent in the shared downstairs cupboard, having bought it to replace what he'd used doing laundry. Finished that task, but then remained standing. Lost in thought. Deeply upset that he'd found himself starting to creep back into a panic state. Even more upset that his first instinct to deal with it was to go back upstairs and get Sherlock to hold his hand again.

No, god. Not while the policeman was still there. Already bad enough the man had recognised him as the trembling coward of a boy he'd once been, didn't need to drive that impression any deeper. He was a professional bloody adult now and he'd stay right here in the hall until he'd got himself sorted out enough to act the part.

"Everything alright, dear?"

Eric jumped, then internally scolded himself for being jumpy. Looked over to find Sherlock's landlady peering curiously at him from the entrance to her flat. He smiled sheepishly at her. Must look an absolute pillock, just standing by the cupboard staring into space.

"Ah… hullo, sorry. I'm fine. Sherlock's just finishing up a consult upstairs, figured I'd best wait down here till he's done."

"Oh well that's a load of bollocks, isn't it?"

Eric blinked again, gave her a bewildered smile. "... what?"

"You're obviously upset about something. Have you two had a row?"

"N-no…? We've not had a row. And I'm not, er... upset? I'm fine. Really."

Mrs Hudson stared him down for a long, searching moment. Eric tried to look sincere. Which was absolutely stupid as he'd not even been lying - there really wasn't anything the matter and he wasn't all that upset. Just got a bit rattled over having had a traumatic memory brought up out of the blue, that was all. Normal to need a minute to reorient.

"Right, then, in you come," she finally said, beckoning him into her flat. He gave her a baffled look. What, was she about to offer him tea? God, no thank you. Navigating social pleasantries with a stranger was the last thing he wanted right now.

"I really don't-"

"It wasn't a suggestion, dear."

He opened his mouth to object, but Mrs Hudson gave him a stern glare and he decided just going along with things would be the least stressful path. Not as if he'd be trapped with her, after all - if nothing else Sherlock would be down to find him soon enough. And he knew (though at the moment he rather hated the fact) that no matter how anxious he might get trying to have a conversation in this state, all the nervous buzzing would die back down to baseline the instant they were near each other again. No risk of building up a compounding bubble of stress and having a breakdown later, as so often happened back home.

Reluctantly he followed her into her kitchen. She'd already set herself to retrieving a tin off a shelf by the window, which she then opened and rummaged around in.

"Here we are, then!" she exclaimed. In her hand was a tightly-rolled joint and an old Zippo lighter.

Eric sputtered out a laugh. "What are you-?"

Mrs Hudson flapped a hand at him. She'd got the joint between her lips already and lit it in one smooth motion. Clearly no amateur.

"Oh hush. I've seen the photos."

He shut his mouth and tried not to look too chagrined. Brilliant, yet another person knowing what a wreck he used to be. Just rub it in.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, dear. All of us were rubbish at that age."

She'd taken a seat at the dining table, gesturing that he should do the same. When he reluctantly did so she plucked the joint from between her lips and handed it over. Didn't even bother trying to object - smell of the stuff reminded him of how much it had helped, once. And he could certainly use a bit of that old relief.

To his vague surprise the joint pulled smooth as butter and hit like a high-quality medicinal strain. Clearly the old bird had standards.

"Proper gear, innit," he remarked as he passed it back. Registered his own words a split-second later and realised he was not going to be able to keep track of his accent whilst stoned. Christ, as if he'd not been embarrassed enough already.

Well, at least Mrs Hudson was nice enough not to draw attention to it. Instead she accepted the joint and took a drag of her own before passing it back, starting up a familiar rhythm calling back to his younger days smoking with Benny. And Sherlock, a few times. Though the latter had usually got distracted a few puffs in and forgot to pass it back.

"It is, yes. Indica strain out of Canada. Best thing I've found for the hip, you see."

She patted the joint in question, which struck Eric as funny enough to get a little chuckle out of him as he passed back. Leant back in his chair and set to simply enjoying the sensation of the background hum of anxiety melting away. Hadn't realised now bad it had become.

Mrs Hudson seemed content to sit and smoke in silence, so they simply took turns passing the joint back and forth for a bit. Eventually she stopped passing and just held the joint between her fingers as she settled into her chair. He met her intense study of his face with a confused little smile. Stoned enough now to not be bothered by the scrutiny, thankfully, but it was still a bit weird.

"Tryna read me thoughts?"

Mrs Hudson gave an easy shrug. "A bit. Hoping I might guess what's got you so out of sorts. Imagine it's something to do with himself up there, hm?"

"Eh… sort of," Eric admitted. Didn't seem so difficult to open up a little, now. Weed dulling his nerves the way he'd once relied on. "We ain't had a disagreement or nothin', it's more like… I dunno. Just feels like I'm that stupid kid again, 'round him. Actin' like how I used to. Talkin' how I used to. Not really sure how t'square all that with the man I thought I was."

"Ah. Same trouble Sherlock's been having, then."

Eric smiled, confused. He'd not noticed Sherlock having anywhere near the same level of concern about all this - been willing to hold Eric's hand in front of that policeman, after all. And hadn't been especially upset over John figuring out they'd been together.

"He's not seemed too bothered, actually."

Mrs Hudson scoffed. "And you're taking that at face value? Thought you'd have known him better than that."

Eric frowned, considering. Heard a strange echo in his head of his own lecture to John the other day, about how the daft prat wouldn't ever tell you he minded.

"S'pose I have been a bit dense," he conceded. Knew he was being vague, but he reckoned this was the sort of woman who'd understand regardless. Sure enough she gave him a warm smile and a pat on the arm, then passed over the joint as if giving him a treat for having done a good job introspecting. He accepted with a chuckle and passed it back. What a delightfully strange lady.

Mrs Hudson looked up as she took the joint back, smiled sweetly as she blew out the smoke off another drag.

"Hello, dear!" she called. Did a silly little wave with the fingers not currently supporting a smouldering joint.

Eric turned to follow her gaze and found the daft prat in question stood in the doorway frowning at them. Couldn't help a fond smile, which Sherlock seemed to find deeply perplexing. Or perhaps it wasn't the smile which confused him, but the strange scene he'd walked in on.

"Eric, are you smoking weed with my landlady?"

Eric smiled wider, leant back in his chair. "Er… I am, yeah. Did you want a hit?"

Memories swam to the surface as he spoke: of that same face on a boy much younger trying to take a drag without coughing, the lunatic things he'd say whilst stoned and all the wild stories they'd swapped whilst revelling in the freedom to just talk about the awful shit they'd been through without having to care about it. But then other memories… grey-green eyes gone blankly feral, flash of fear for realising the bloke could be incredibly dangerous if he forgot where he was, trying desperately to figure out how to bring him back without getting hurt or worse.

Their eyes met for a moment, and Eric wasn't especially surprised to see a roughly similar thought process reflected there. Sherlock knew full well his subconscious had too much imprinted violence to safely risk losing touch with reality.

"Think I'll pass," he finally said, glancing to Mrs Hudson with a vague frown as if annoyed with her for even putting him in the position of having to decline such a thing. And Eric gave him a warm smile, because, aha, there it was - why he'd not seemed bothered by all the other stuff. Because the aspects of his past self he considered appalling weren't the childish or silly things.

"I'll be heading back upstairs, then, if you're alright by yourself?" Eric said to Mrs Hudson.

The wink she gave him seemed to imply she'd be perfectly content finishing the rest of the joint on her own.

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