Sherlock left on a Tuesday.

Well, to be fair, in every way other than physically, he'd left long before that. It was a Friday that he'd met Charles. Charles, who was everything John wasn't. Charles, who was tall and strong and ten kinds of clever. Charles who managed to out deduce Sherlock which earned him the kind of look of amazement and adoration that John had never quite received from Sherlock. Charles, with whom Sherlock fell head over heels in love.

And John accepted it. Which was all well and good considering he really had no choice in the matter. Sherlock had a boyfriend, a boyfriend who wasn't John, and was happy. Actually happy. Which made John happy. Mostly.

Until Sherlock moved out.

And that was that. No more experiments in the sink and heads in the fridge. No beakers in the toilet or strange smells seeping from the spare room. But there was also no one to talk to. No one to share a cup of tea with. And no one to drag him out on cases at all hours of the night.

It didn't take John long to realize that the flat was just too much for him by himself. Too big, too empty and too damn expensive. Moving was a pain in the arse and didn't feel right anyway, so he put an ad in the paper to try to find a flatmate. He really didn't think it'd amount to anything, which was why you could have bowled him over with a feather when the inquiry he got about it was from someone he knew.

Sally Donovan.

Well, if that wasn't a turn up for the books, then John didn't know what was.

Sally moved in on a Saturday.

Lestrade and a few of the blokes from the Yard helped lug her stuff out of her old place and into Baker Street. "Are you sure you don't want to take the bigger room?" Sally asked as they carried in the first load of boxes.

"Positive," John assured her. Again. While the first bedroom was no longer Sherlock's, it would never be his; it was better all around if he stayed in his old one upstairs.

A few hours later the flat was a tip and everyone was ready for a break so they walked down to the pub.

"Feels a bit odd," Lestrade commented as he bought the first round, "Sherlock not only not at Baker Street, but not even helping us out anymore."

"Odd's not the word I'd use," Anderson said, grinning into his pint, "Freeing. Amazing. Celebratory."

"What do you mean, Sherlock not helping you. Why. Why wouldn't he be helping you?"

"I thought you knew," Lestrade said, grimacing ever so slightly. "He is no longer available to lend us his superior expertise, as he put it. We'll just have to muddle on without him, I suppose."

John didn't know how to reply to that so took a deep gulp of his beer as he tried to settle his thoughts. Sherlock was no longer working with Scotland Yard? What kind of Consulting Detective didn't consult? Was he that happy now that he no longer needed the stimulation, the distraction, that solving crimes used to offer?

John was pulled out of his musings when Sally bumped his shoulder with her own. "He may be gone, but you still have us. Cheers, John."

"Cheers, Sally."

Sally had been in Baker Street a week before John realized the two of them really had a chance of getting on together.

He'd spent the day in a foul mood, bored out of his mind but too restless to settle on doing anything in particular. She'd come in, hung up her coat and pulled off her shoes before curling up on the sofa and tucking her feet under her. "Mind if I turn on the match?" she asked as she grabbed the remote.

"It's your flat too," John said and made a go ahead gesture towards the telly.

"Tottenham better not fall apart this time," she muttered as she flipped to the correct channel.

"I wouldn't have taken you for a Spurs fan. Gunners, maybe. Or Man U."

"The Red Devils? Never. You know your football then, John? I thought you'd said something about rugby."

"To play, yeah. But to watch? I like football just as much as the next bloke."

John abandoned the novel he'd been staring at for the past hour and plunked himself down on the other end of the sofa. They watched for a few minutes before John commented, "Tottenham's not doing bad this year. Getting Friedel was a good move."

"A good move, surely you're joking, getting Friedel was a great move! A good goalie can make all the difference," Sally's eyes lit up as she began listing off statistics and possession times and it turned into a huge back and forth of epic proportions when John began countering her points and then brought up the last match and the horrid cock-up the Spurs had made of it. Their banter continued through the entire first half, rising in volume when Van der Vaart took what John thought was an obvious dive but Sally yelled that the ref must have been blind not to card the defender who took him down. John couldn't help but laugh at her righteous indignation and he realized, with a start, it was the first time he'd laughed, actually laughed, in ages.

It felt good.

Work at the surgery was boring. Beyond boring. It wasn't that he hated the work, it was better than sitting in the flat all day and lord knows he needed the income, but there were only so many diagnoses of the common cold he could make before he wanted to lobotomize himself with a tongue depressor. Yes, it was a particularly virulent strain. No, there was no medication he could prescribe that would help. Stay hydrated, sleep as much as possible and take paracetamol for the aches and pains. That was pretty much it.

Not that anyone ever accepted that. Everyone was convinced that their case was different and that somehow he'd come across the long sought after magic pill that would instantly cure them, but for some reason, he'd decided to keep it a secret, waiting until the seven hundred and thirty third person asked about it or some such nonsense. Right.

John trudged up the stairs and let himself into the flat with a sigh.

"Rough day?" Sally called out from the kitchen where she was banging about with some pots or pans.

"You have no idea." John threw himself into his favourite armchair. "Days like today make me consider joining Foreign Legion. Think it'll take me?"

"I don't know. Might have better luck running off to join the circus, I'd say."

"Nah," John said with mock disappointment. "I'm rubbish at juggling."

"Well, that's unfortunate."

"Very unfortunate."

She laughed. "Guess I'm stuck with you then." She slammed the fridge door shut with a huff. "This cooking thing is bollocks. Fancy going out with me and getting a curry?"

"Actually, that sounds great."

"Good. And on the way we can complain to each other about how horrid our days were." She grabbed her coat. "I'm fairly certain mine was worse."

"Impossible."

"Want to bet?"

"Absolutely," John said with a grin as he followed her out of the flat and down the stairs.

John had been surprised to realize Sally had shifted from 'flatmate' to 'mate'. It had changed so subtly he couldn't even pin when it actually happened. She had started prodding him into going out to the pub with her, especially when it was pub quiz time, and eventually John went, but only out of a sense of self preservation; after all who knew what Sally would get up to if the team from Bart's had actually won the tourney? The way she had been grousing and complaining about it John was imagining sulks of epic proportion. After living with Sherlock John was more than equipped with dealing with any kind of sulk, but preventing it in the first place seemed easier.

And Lestrade and the others seemed to actually enjoy seeing him there, which was surprising. John had always assumed that they'd put up with him because he and Sherlock had become some sort of a packaged team, if they'd wanted Sherlock's help then they had to accept his random appearances at NSY and his tagging along to the crime scenes. But... apparently that wasn't the case. Not even remotely.

Several shouts of "John!" now joined those of "Sally!" to greet them as they entered the pub. Lestrade, Dimmock, Gregson, the new Detective Inspector, Hopkins, even Anderson all seemed genuinely glad to see him, especially today.

"First round's on me, mate." Lestrade clapped John on the shoulder while pushing him into a seat at their table. "I was afraid you were going to be stuck at the surgery and not make it today. Not sure the team could win today without you, rumour has it one of the topic's something with longitudinal geography-"

"Who the hell asks questions about longitudinal geography?" Anderson muttered with a huff. "Longgggitudinal geeeeeeography. Bloody mouthful."

"And you're the only one of us that knows bollocks about that!" Sally happily announced, interrupting Anderson's musings.

John couldn't help but smile at her choice of phrasing. One of us. And Lestrade had counted him in with the others as part of the team like he supposed to be there with them.

Like he belonged there. With them.

He hadn't belonged anywhere in a long time; he'd missed it.

Despite not having heard it for several months, since three days before Sherlock moved out if he wanted to be truthful about it, John recognized the sound of the smoke alarm instantly. He ran downstairs to find Sally desperately fanning at it with her hands shouting, "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" over and over again.

"Here, wait," John yelled. "There's a trick to it, let me." John ran and grabbed the piece of a collapsed cereal box that had been living half hidden behind the fridge and started waving it in front of the alarm. "Go open the windows! With the cross ventilation it should stop any minute!" And, like magic, the moment she opened the second window, it did.

"Thank god!" Sally collapsed on the sofa and started to rub her forehead. "Another minute of that and I was considering smashing it to bits with bat or something."

"Don't have one. At least, I don't think we do, unless you had a cricket bat hiding in all those boxes that I didn't see." John, meanwhile, was puttering in the kitchen to find the source of the smoke.

"Nope. Guess a broom or a mop will have to do."

"Planning ahead then, good idea. Hmmm, looks like the toast is a lost cause," John said as he held up the charred remains of what he assumed was supposed to be Sally's breakfast.

"Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be? Some toast, that's all I asked for. A little peace and quiet and some toast. And tea. God, I could use a cuppa."

Seeing the pot had already been plugged in and was ready, John held it up. "That I can do for you," he said as he started to ready the things needed for tea.

"Oh, no, John, really, that's not necessary. I didn't mean for you to-"

"Sally," John interrupted. "We're friends, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Then, as your friend, let me make you some damn tea, all right?"

"Well, when you put it that way." She smiled. "How could I refuse?"

Even before Afghanistan John had never been one to show off his physique. It wasn't that he was excessively shy or embarrassed about his body, but he never had the desire to bare all for everyone to see. There were times it was unavoidable, like in the showers after a rugby match, but, in general, he tended to keep covered up when he could.

After Afghanistan? Bullet wounds were... not pretty. And between the bullet and the shrapnel and the infection that followed his shoulder was a bit... Well, he wasn't vain enough to call it ugly, but it was obviously scarred. To the point that only the most polite of persons couldn't help but grimace and either look away or become entranced and stare at it. And if it was the latter it always led to questions. Ones he hated answering. Keeping a shirt, and jumper if possible, on was easier in the long run.

Sherlock had seen it of course. The man had no sense of decorum or idea of privacy and despite the fact he had to have been aware of John's wishes on the matter, he still burst into John's room one morning while he was changing and brandished a magnifying glass and would not go away until he had carefully studied every inch of John's torso. It was almost sweet, in a totally annoying, invading, and bizarre yet Sherlocky kind of way.

It hadn't really occurred to him that Sally hadn't him shirtless- neither of them were the type to parade around the flat in just their pants or anything- until the day he'd been getting dressed after showering when he heard a loud crash from the kitchen and only paused long enough to slip on his jeans before running down the stairs, sans shirt. "Sally?" he cried out as he ran, his mind already running through the possibilities of what might have happened and how to deal with each resulting inevitability. "You all right?"

"Sorry! Sorry, John. I dropped the pot."

John skidded to a stop as he rounded corner into the kitchen. The floor was awash with pasta and water. Sally had her hand under the faucet, running cold water over her arm. "You burn yourself?" he asked, carefully stepping around the mess and, thankfully, now lukewarm water, as he approached her to take a look.

"Just splashed a bit of the boiling water on me. Didn't really do anything other than surprise me into dropping it. Good thing I have great reflexes and managed to jump away from it when it splattered everywhere."

"Let me take a look." John waited until she gave tacit permission before taking her elbow in his hand and examining the limb. "You were lucky," he said, "Looks to be first degree only, and barely that. I think there's some spray in the kit, if you like..."

Sally flexed her fingers and twisted her wrist about experimentally. "No, it's fine. Only feels a bit tight." Her gaze moved from her arm up and to John's torso and that's when John realised, damn it, he was shirtless and that she was staring at his scar. He braced himself, ready to see revulsion on her face or hear the pity in her voice, but instead all she said was, "Bloody hell, that must have hurt," before bemoaning the state of the pasta dinner covered floor as if the scar didn't matter, wasn't more than a small bit of who he was as opposed to what he was like so many others had seemed to think.

"I'll get dressed and get us Chinese. My treat," he offered.

"That'd be great. I'll get this cleaned up before you get back."

"Nah, leave it until after. We can eat in front of the TV."

"Doctor Who marathon?" she asked hopefully.

"Absolutely!" he shouted as he padded back up to his bedroom, unable to keep a smile off his face. "Can't wait."

John's first foray into the police station sans Sherlock Holmes was as a favour to Sally. She'd called, terribly apologetic, and explained she'd left her files behind when she'd run out the door after a three a.m. call from Lestrade. It was a horrible imposition and she knew he had better things to do on his day off, but, would it be possible for him to bring them in?

Considering John's plans for the day included scrubbing the weird stain that seemed to be taking up residence behind the toilet and then re-alphabetizing the DVDs (every now and again he liked to mix things up and have them lined up from Z to A instead of A to Z just to see if anyone would notice), he told her it wouldn't be a problem for him to take a few moments out of his busy schedule and help her out.

"You're a star, John!" she'd cried out, thanking him before ringing off.

Thus, twenty minutes later, John found himself wandering through the familiar halls on the way to meet Sally. He'd tried not to get waylaid along the way, but several officers, sergeants, and inspectors stopped him to chat or say hello. Some knew him from Sherlock's crime solving days, but a surprising number seemed to only recognize him from his participation in the pub quizzes. Luckily on that front he'd led the team to victory in their last game. He wasn't sure their reaction would be so welcoming if they'd lost.

Finally tracking down Sally, he recognized the signs of a case in progress, obvious due to that particular kind of chaos only prevalent when the victims were piling up and the clues were few and far between. "Pick up a tough one?" John asked as he handed Sally her files.

"Oh, you have no idea," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Three bodies, or at least we think anyway, it's a bit of a jumble. But for all that there's nothing to go on. It's driving us all right 'round the bend."

"What do you mean, three bodies you think?" John couldn't help it, he was intrigued. Time at the surgery could never compete with rush he got from working cases with Sherlock.

"See for yourself," Lestrade offered as he approached with a round of coffees, handing one to Sally.

"You sure?" John paused, his hands hovering over the crime scene photos. "I'm not here officially or anything, could get you in trouble with the higher-ups, yeah?"

"I think they gave up on giving me that lecture ages ago. Have a look, I'm not about to turn down another set of eyes on this, especially ones as trained as yours."

John was about to argue; he'd never studied forensics, not officially anyway. Sure he'd picked up a few things here and there, first in Afghanistan and then there was Sherlock and well... he closed his mouth, field experience counted he supposed, and he certainly had plenty of that. He didn't think he'd have much to offer, but then one of the photos caught his eye and, before he knew it he said, "Well, that's interesting."

Lestrade's head popped up instantly. "Interesting? What's interesting?"

"Anyone have a magnifying glass?" John asked as he carefully studied the picture. When the requested glass appeared in John's hand, he grunted his thanks as he continued his examination. "What did forensics say about the knife marks?"

"Nothing of note other than that they were done with a scalpel post-mortem." Sally leaned over to get a better look. "Why?"

"See the angle? Here and here?" John gestured with his finger. "It's not typical; it's a battlefield technique- quick and effective but crude. And it's very uncommon to hold or deliver such a style of cut consistently and naturally unless you've lots of practice, unless it's second nature."

"So we're looking for someone with field medicine training? More than a paramedic or EMT?" Lestrade asks, jotting down notes as he spoke.

"I should say so. And it'd have to be someone tall, I wouldn't have the reach for a cut like that."

Lestrade and Sally looked at each other, eyes alight. "Simmons?" they cried out in unison before Lestrade said, "Sally, can you-" the same time Sally said, "You want me to-" and both laughed before she grabbed the phone and Lestrade turned to John,

"Can you stay? Or, if it's not imposing too much, head down to the morgue and do a thorough examination?"

There was such hope in Lestrade's voice, such sense of purpose, that John couldn't do anything but say, "Of course," and smiled at the thought of having something useful to add, something exciting to do.

"The Case of the Three Bodies", as John had titled the much edited version he wrote about on his blog, wound up being a resounding success. John's observation had led the investigation on a different direction, a course that was an abrupt 180 from where the evidence had originally seemed to lead, but wound up being the correct path. Lestrade was thrilled. Even Anderson had been impressed.

After that was "The Adventure of the Snake in the Night" and then "The Case of Phillimore's Umbrella" then another and another. So many that he no longer had time to write them up for his blog. More often than not, when he wasn't working at the surgery he found himself running off to look at photos or to examine crime scenes. It was exhausting. And utterly grand.

Then one day a sheepish Lestrade showed up on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street nervously clutching a large manila folder. "Inspector," John said, making a show of nonchalance as he leant against the door jamb. Lestrade's demeanour was worrying him slightly, but he tried not to show it. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"John." Lestrade nodded in greeting, then licked his lips and thrust the folder at John, almost crushing it against his chest. "These are for you. It's something to consider. It'd be a good fit, I think. And you already know you work well with us and god knows we can use you."

"Sorry, what?" Since he was given no choice in matter, John took the mangled folder and opened it. "But this is about an opening in the Forensics department. And not just any opening, it's for the head position, the Borough Forensic Manager. Why would you give this to me?"

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it? I think you should apply. We all do."

"But. I can't imagine I have the necessary experience, let alone the proper credentials. Why on Earth..."

"The higher-ups are impressed, all right? We haven't had closure rates like this in a long time. Since, well. Since Sherlock really. Except this time 'round no one's making us look like morons in front of the press. Which I for one, appreciate."

"But," John began to protest before trailing off as he examined the rest of the papers. "There's letters of support and recommendation in here. From everyone. You. Sally. Dimmock. Everyone I've ever worked with. Even Anderson."

"We want you there, John, working with us. The certifications can be worked around and you'll be earning a real salary so you won't have to worry about finding work at the surgery. We need you, John. Won't you at least think about it?"

John looked at Lestrade, the man's face was open, serious yet pleading. Hearing a sound from the stairs he turned to see Sally peering at them from the landing, grinning yet nervously biting her lip. They wanted him. They wanted him.

"All right," John said, deciding to throw caution to the wind. "Yeah. I'll do it."

Lestrade clapped him on the shoulder, but whatever he was about to say was drowned out by Sally's enthusiastic cheer as she ran down the stairs and swept them both into a huge hug.

Of course, getting the job of Borough Forensic Manager wasn't as easy as just saying "yes." There were interviews and certifications and paperwork, fucking hell there was paperwork, but before John really knew what hit him he was in the office working in what was officially called a temporary capacity, but had the understanding that if all went according to plan the position would be his, no strings attached, within the year.

John would have wondered about it, how it all seemed a bit too pat and perfect, but he knew that the CCTV cameras still followed him upon occasion and every now and again he'd notice a formidable black car skulking about in the periphery and he rather assumed Mycroft had something to do with all the I's getting dotted and the T's crossed and he couldn't decide if he was grateful, annoyed, or merely surprised that he was still on Mycroft's radar. Most likely, John eventually decided, it was just that once someone was within the web of a Holmes brother they could never quite find themselves free of it.

And the job was glorious. There were tedious bits, of course. What job didn't have that? And there was politics to deal with, both of the office and the actual British governmental kind. But there was also overseeing brilliant people who loved their own jobs and wanted nothing more than to be the best at them that they could be- and nearly to a person they all realized that John would help them to achieve that and wasn't just some bureaucratic moron who'd been shoved up the ladder to the point of being the least dangerous to themselves and others around them.

He used his first months there to ask questions. What worked? What didn't? Which techniques were favoured? What equipment was necessary? Which tests? What was a waste of time? How could he help? They didn't have mandatory meetings, which John had always deemed a waste of both time and crap coffee, but there was a bulletin board set up in the cloud (as well as one in the office, but that one wound up taken over by the Parade of Punny Post-its and the less said about that the better), and round robin emails and the occasional conference call with everyone calling in from where ever they happened to be at the appointed time and while it was all a bit chaotic, it seemed to work.

John soon had a system set up where instead of whichever Crime Scene Examiner was free or up next on rotation when a call came in, they were dispatched according to speciality. It took a bit of getting used to and at first there were some complaints, particularly by the DI's, but once John had sent a memo around detailing his new forensic investigation strategy (and personally confronted those who still remained vocal against it with his patented "I could dispatch you in ways you could never imagine and no one will ever find all the pieces" stare) things settled down and it wasn't before long that commendations and congratulations were being given instead.

NSY's closure rate soared, the job was satisfying, the team was positively crushing the opposition in the current pub quiz tourney and Sally had worked some sort of magic and actually fixed the sink and had managed to get rid of that lingering odour in the closet.

Life, John thought, couldn't be better.

John still went out into the field sometimes. If a case unusually political he'd be called in as a matter of rote, but sometimes a DI or one of his Crime Scene Examiners would realise there was something particularly complicated or complex about the crime and would ring him up and casually mention the specific whatever it was to gauge his interest and John would grin to himself and pretend to grumble but be on his way before they could even say goodbye.

Between him and Sally, however, it became a running gag.

"Got one for you, John," she said the moment he'd answered his mobile.

"What is it this time, Sally?" John learned quickly that it was better not to even try to guess. He had yet to live down the time he suggested that the case he was being called to consult on had involved rabid ducks. It had been the first thing he'd thought of and it had been a mere coincidence that several swans had been involved. It had taken ages for the swan macros and lolducks (who knew there even iwere/i such things as lolducks?) to let up and to this day there were still people calling him the 'Chief Channeller' as a result.

"I'm thinking this one will be called 'The Case of the Crispified Corpse'," she said, a touch of humour to her tone.

"Sally, what have we said about your creative attempts at naming the case files?"

"I know, I know, there's a time and place for sarcasm and snark and a crime scene is not that place."

"And..."

She sighed. "I have to do the washing up for the rest of the week. Which is not fair, not at all, especially since I've seen your notes and I know you use my names."

"I'm afraid I am unable to either confirm nor deny that."

"Unable or unwilling?" she teased.

"Sally..."

"I'll text you the address. See you in a bit!"

This time she rung off before John could, but he couldn't say he minded in the least. Crispified Corpse, John thought as he collected his kit, that actually wasn't half bad. Completely inappropriate, but not bad at all.

John loved London. Really he did. He loved his job, he loved his co-workers, he loved his flat, he loved the sandwich place on the corner that always threw a bag of crisps in with his lunch. There was one thing, however, he did not love about London.

The weather.

He was pretty sure monsoon season in Bangladesh had nothing on London when the wind started whipping around and the rain started coming down in sheets and across in waves and up in splashes... All John had to do was get from the Tube to the flat and he was soaked. Utterly, completely, entirely and horribly soaked. And then, just to make matters all the more exciting, John slipped. He was racing along and then suddenly his right foot was on some leaves and it was like he was trying to balance on slippery ice and then his leg shot out from under him and he landed in a heap on the pavement.

For a minute all he could do was lie there, stunned. Then he started to laugh. The city tried to kill him. He was sopping wet, freezing and holy hell his leg hurt, but he couldn't stop laughing. Eventually, once he'd calmed down to a mere snickering sense of insanity, he realized he needed to get up, get dry and get his leg looked at but since he'd never manage all that on his own so he pulled out his mobile.

Sally, are you at home? - John

Yeah, Merlin starts in 10. You standing me up? -Sally

I'm outside, can you come down?

His phone rang almost immediately after he sent the text. "I'm fine," he said in lieu of greeting.

"You better be, John Watson. So help me, if-" but then Sally was there, bursting out of 221 wearing the most god awful orange Mac John had ever seen. "What happened?"

"It tried to kill me," John said, pointing to the crushed leaves he had slipped on.

"Well at least you gave better than you got, yeah? All right, let's get you up. On three." Bending down, she wrapped her arms around his torso and planted her feet. "One. Two. Three!"

And then John was standing, although that was more due to Sally taking most of his weight than anything else. John hissed in pain, but clenched his mouth shut not to cry out.

"I'm thinking instead of watching Merlin and eating hobnobs, we're going to be spending the night in the A&E."

"Sally, you don't have to-"

"Do not finish that sentence. I know where you hide the good tea." She eyed John up and down. "You look like a drowned rat. The weathermen even predicted this weather! There was a hundred percent chance of rain today! Have you not heard of an umbrella?"

"Sally-"

"No! Not another word; the tea, remember? Aha, Taxi!" she cried out, spotting a cab. "Now let's get you fixed up."

Sally Donovan, John decided, was a worse martinet than anyone he'd ever met, even stricter than the duty nurse at the field hospital in Kabul that had earned the nickname "The Big Bad Battleaxe". He should never have let her see his discharge papers or have complained to her about the A&E doctor's recommendations. Two week's bed rest had been a mere suggestion, suggestion mind you, not an order. And, honestly, the need to follow the bed rest with two months of crutches was the man's rather uninformed opinion, not anything set in stone.

But Sally?

Sally took all the doctor's words to heart. And she was sneaky.

First, John found himself being threatened with handcuffs if he poked a toe out of bed. Then, his tea and biscuits were confiscated and only begrudgingly doled out if he used his crutches once the two week confinement was over. There were also DVDs that kept appearing and the fact that every single one of his shoes somehow managed to disappear so he couldn't go outside until he was getting around better.

He had to admit, he wouldn't have taken it as easy as he did if she hadn't acted and the torn ligaments and twisted knee had healed faster thanks to the enforced rest, but he, of course, didn't tell her that. No, he pouted and sighed and huffed and generally made a nuisance of himself because, while she might have been doing all this for his best interest, she didn't have to be so smug about it. She didn't have to get him a cane to use during his 'current affliction.' And she certainly didn't have to conspire with absolutely everyone in the Forensics Operations Office to pester him if he dared go anywhere without the damn thing.

He did not need a cane. But apparently, because Sally was evil and wilful and meant well, damn it, he was going to use one until his doctor officially said he no longer needed one. (He also found it a little endearing that he kept finding pictures of paper leaves using little canes pinned up around the flat and the office, something else he knew was her doing.)

That was why three months after 'The Incident of the Lethal Leaves' he was still using his cane, something that hadn't seemed significant when he left the flat that morning but became rather much so as it turned out, because that was the day he came face to face with Sherlock Holmes.

John and Lestrade met for coffee every week or so. It was an excuse to get out of the office and a chance to discuss recent cases and techniques and to see how each other's departments were faring. If the weather was decent they would meet down at the park a few minutes' walk from the Yard, it was a chance for some fresh air (or at least what constituted fresh air in London these days) and gossip and John always looked forward to it. Until that fateful day when his past collided with his present.

"Sherlock! You're in London! I thought you'd moved to New York? How are you?" With a critical eye John examined his former flatmate. Sherlock was dressed as smartly as always, obviously not straight off the plane as his clothes weren't wrinkled. He'd gained some weight, not a lot mind you, just enough to fill out his cheekbones a bit. And he'd had some sun recently. He was no longer as pale as he used to be and there was a slight dusting of freckles across his nose.

"Well, obviously I am no longer in New York and am in London, as I am here, talking to you. Oh, John," Sherlock's tone changed from his typical dismissive one to one of disappointment tinged with sympathy. "Your cane. And I assume the tremors are back as well. I suppose it was to be expected, life must be so dull without me."

"Ex-excuse me?" John stuttered, not knowing how to respond to that. "Sherlock, what? How? Seriously, it's been three years and that's the first thing you say to me? I can't believe-"

"What's this then?" Lestrade walked up. "Sherlock Holmes, as I live and breathe. I thought you'd run off to America with that bloke, what was his name, Charles something or other?"

"Has the IQ of this entire city dropped in my absence? I was in New York. Now I am here." Sherlock huffed but then rubbed his hands together excitedly. "Lestrade, just the man I was looking for. As I assume you've made the typical bollocks of your cases while I've been gone, I've come to offer my expertise to you once again. I expect you'll want me to start right away?"

"John and I were about to have a coffee-"

"I did not say that I had to begin helping literally this second. But, crime waits for no man, surely you've an investigation or two where you're currently well over your head, knowing you and your men it's hard to imagine that wouldn't be the case."

Lestrade had been slowing turning an interesting shade of purple and looked about ready to blow his top but he took a deep breath and managed to calmly say, "Actually, I have no open cases at the moment, Sherlock. Perhaps Dimmock or one of the other DI's might need a hand?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "No open cases? Well, how... fortunate." Sherlock turned to head toward the Yard. "John. Lestrade," he nodded in farewell before taking his leave.

"Typical bollocks? Over my head? Of all the- augh! That man! Come on, John. Forget the coffee, I need a drink!"

Sally, John knew, had a colourful vocabulary. It hadn't come much of a shock to him; after his time in the army he'd figured he'd heard nearly every swear word out there and had become immune to it all.

He was wrong.

Sally came home a bit late on the day Sherlock had made his surprising appearance, stomping up the stairs to the flat, and cursing a blue streak.

Sensing disaster in the wind, John put the kettle on.

"That man! That man! That utterly infuriating, self-centred, pompous f-"

John held up his hands. "Sally," he said not quite admonishingly, presumably she'd had contact with Sherlock today so he did understand her reaction. "Think of Mrs Hudson."

"Arse," she finished. "How on Earth you put up with that man, I have no idea."

"I take it you crossed paths with Sherlock today?"

"If you can call his waltzing in and announcing he was there to," Sally made air quote as she mimicked Sherlock, "Aid us in our time of need as crossing paths. Then, you won't believe this, then he demanded to have access to- wait for it- 'The numerous unsolved cases that had no doubt piled up in his absence.' Like we can't do our jobs without him spoon-feeding us every little clue."

"I'm sure that the DI's appreciated his offer of assistance," John said sarcastically.

Sally smiled in response and John sensed things did not end well for Sherlock today, not well at all. "You could say that."

John couldn't help but smile back. "Do I want to know?"

"Remember 'The Probe into the Fetid Fungus'?"

Bursting out laughing, John said, "You didn't!"

"Gregson practically leaped at the opportunity to pawn that one off."

"I bet he did."

"It'll take weeks for that smell to go once he starts down in sewers collecting samples. And if anyone deserved that, it's Sherlock. Couldn't happen to a nicer bloke, really."

"No, I suppose it couldn't."

Three days later John found Sherlock waiting for him outside 221 Baker Street.

"John," Sherlock said, "I no longer have a key and neither Mrs Hudson nor Sergeant Donovan were at home."

"Sally's at her mum's and Mrs Hudson's probably off doing the shopping." John shifted his cane to his left hand and pulled out his own key. "I'm surprised you didn't pick the lock."

"I." Sherlock made a vague, fluttery motion with his hands. "I considered it, but I decided you would not appreciate such actions."

Slightly surprised, John pursed his lips. "No, I wouldn't have. I assume you're here to see me, come on up." John didn't wait for a response, he brushed past Sherlock and headed up the stairs.

"I was wrong," Sherlock announced upon entering the flat.

"About what exactly?" John headed into the kitchen, scrounging about to see what he could find to eat.

"Your cane. I didn't have enough data and I misinterpreted what I did have."

"Yes, you did."

Sherlock paused, half in and half out of the kitchen, at John's response. "Since my return to London I have been reacquainting myself with my network of informants and contacts. It has been... enlightening. Apparently a new Borough Forensic Manager was hired during my absence and he is actually competent at his job, more than competent if what my sources tell me is true. Some seem to think he even possesses psychic powers, which is, of course, utterly absurd."

"Utterly," John agreed, a soft smile teasing at his lips, threatening to burst out.

"Instead, I believe he must be highly intelligent with an intuitive understanding of both police work and the criminal mind, a rare trait to be sure. My skills will still be of use, of course, as there will always be investigations that are beyond all logic and reason to anyone not as clever as me, but it will be the atypical case, rather than the norm. And, even then, it would only be with the Forensic Manager's approval."

"What if he didn't give it?"

"It shouldn't be too hard to find another use for my skills. Worst comes to worst, there is always the employment that Mycroft has offered me in the past. It would not ideal, it being Mycroft after all, but it would do."

There was an uneasy silence for a few minutes before John asked, "What happened, Sherlock?"

"Charles and I have parted ways. It was... not an amicable separation. Oh, don't look at me like that, there was no physical confrontation, Charles would never do such a thing."

"No," John barely managed to keep the bitterness out of his voice, "I suppose a beautiful, brilliant, and unburdened man like Charles never would."

"John..."

"It's all right, Sherlock."

"No, it's not. The things I said." Sherlock bit his lip. "Charles was many things, John. But he was not... you."

"I really don't know how to respond to that," John admitted.

Sherlock nodded, as if John's reaction had been expected. "I know you are busy with your new employment and your other commitments, but I would like to see you some time. Dinner, perhaps? If you are amenable text me a time and date you are free. Yes. Well. I'll see myself out." Without waiting for a response, Sherlock left the flat, immediately heading down the stairs.

"Sherlock?" John called from the doorway.

Sherlock paused briefly on the landing, but did not turn around.

"I'm glad you stopped by."

Sherlock raised his hand in farewell and then was gone.

John abandoned his quest for food to collapse on the sofa, feeling oddly like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Sally found him sitting there when she arrived home, nearly an hour later.

"John, you all right?"

Shaking his head to clear it, John responded with an automatic, "Yes, yes. Fine," before thinking about it for a moment and adding, "I think. I don't know." He shrugged. "Sherlock stopped by," he said as if that explained everything, which, he supposed, it did.

"What did he do? If he-"

"Sally, no," John cut her off quickly. "He was. Everything's fine. We talked. Or, he talked. It was fine."

Sally plunked down on the sofa next to him. "Oh, John, you've still got it bad, don't you?" John shrugged and Sally butted his shoulder with her own. "First thing's first. Let's get you some tea. Then we'll figure this out. Just remember, no matter what happens, you still got me, right?" She stood up, offering her hand and pulled him to his feet.

"Right," John said smiling.

Sally pulled him into a quick hug. "Now don't you forget it."