John looked down at the two mugs in front of him. Coffee with a dollop of cream and sugar. Strong tea with one sugar and plenty of milk. Exactly the way he drank it, both of them. Which would be fine, except he hadn’t made them.
And then yesterday—last night—came back to him, and he turned around. “Sherlock.”
Sherlock smiled and stepped forward from the doorway. “John.”
“So you’re actually here. Really, actually, here. For good.”
In answer, Sherlock took his hand and pulled him close. “Here is relative, John. If you think—I know it’s hard, but do try to—”
John knew where this was going and felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips. “Shut it,” he whispered, and leaned forwards on the balls of his feet.
The world’s only (newly returned from the dead) consulting detective did as he was told for once, a smile tugging at his lips as well as he leaned down.
