Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine – no money being made – plot is mine.

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Lestrade leaned forward, paid the fare and then stepped out of the cab, reaching back to offer Mrs Hudson a gallant hand. He patted his coat pocket, making sure he still had what he thought they'd be needing and grinned down at the landlady of 221B Baker Street.

"Sherlock is going to be so cross, poor dear," Mrs Hudson tutted fondly, settling her handbag just so and smoothing at the purple dress she'd donned for the occasion, "He was so adamant he wanted to meet John by himself!"

"We have met John or seen him off every time. I'm not risking our luck by breaking that tradition just because Sherlock bloody Holmes is back from the dead," Lestrade grinned at her. She smiled back, just as conspiratorially and led the way inside the terminal. He still hadn't got used to saying that sentence. Not that he wished the impossible man truly dead… or at least he didn't make the wish often, just when Sherlock was being particularly himself.

John had gotten a flight to Heathrow for a change, instead of being dumped at the nearest bit of England the army could reach and left to make his own way home. John had said that with rank comes privilege, though Sherlock had been heard to mutter about interfering big brothers. Mrs Hudson had set the thin genius straight on that account – she was proud of John and his achievements in the last three years and no sulking on Sherlock's part was going to diminish the real good John had done while he was away. He'd even asked some of the soldiers who had gone home on leave to look in on her, and once or twice some of his former patients who were in need of a bit of care had been directed to her door. The army may well have been paying the medical bills, but there was nothing like a good home cooked meal and a sympathetic ear.

She hadn't stopped checking in on John's former patients just because Sherlock had come home either. Lestrade had been treated to more than one rant about 221B becoming an army outpost. He'd ignored them as a matter of course – Sherlock didn't like changes he didn't understand and although the man was not naïve enough to believe that the world has stayed still while he was gone, he'd missed too much of their lives – and their adjustments to living without him – to be able to assimilate everything quickly. That would come in time, though Greg suspected that the process would speed up now that John was home. Sherlock was much more pliable when John was around.

It didn't help that John was away. That was how Sherlock described it when forced to speak of John's lack of presence. The word Afghanistan never passed his lips and he would glare something awful if anyone else managed it. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade's team had given in and copied this little quirk, but Greg had very stubbornly not. He wasn't going to forget that a good friend had placed himself in harm's way for the sake of others just because Sherlock bloody Holmes was uncomfortable about it!

Perhaps that was why he and Sherlock worked so well together. Gone were the days when Greg passive-aggressively let Sherlock walk all over him in the name of Deduction and Cleverness. Greg was a lot quicker to manage Sherlock's less than desirable behaviours, mainly because he and John once locked themselves in Greg's flat with a couple of bottles of scotch and a voice recorder that the DI had forgotten he'd had. At some point, John had treated him to a lecture on the care and management of Sherlock Holmes – subject deceased – and Greg had laughingly recorded it in case the sneaky bugger ever got reincarnated. He'd come across it months later, when John was back at Bastion and had played it a few times since for reasons that he hadn't examined too clearly.

"There's Sherlock," Mrs Hudson dragged the DI from his thoughts, "Ooh, what a glare that young man has."

Sure enough, the lanky twit was glaring at them across the concourse, upset that he wasn't going to get John to himself. Greg raised his eyebrows in mild challenge and sniffed in derision, certain the lady beside him was using her own version of the motherly 'behave young man' glare that had cowed even the most unruly criminal. The doors opened behind Sherlock and people started emerging. John's flight had landed at least twenty minutes ago, so John would likely be out soon. The art of timing your arrival to meet someone at Heathrow was a very exacting one and something that Greg had learned when meeting relatives related to his cases off the plane.

"John!" you'd have to be deaf to miss that shout, and insensible not to hear the relief that poorly disguised a much stronger emotion. He and Mrs Hudson had a little bet on about this – more along the lines of when, not if – and Martha gave a happy little sigh as they watched Sherlock stride over to John and his little baggage cart, embracing the returning soldier exuberantly.

Moments later Sherlock was flat on his back, clutching his jaw, eyes wide and startled.

"Called it," Greg grinned and pulled the chemical icepack from his pocket, crunching it to activate and dropping it onto Sherlock's chest as Mrs Hudson hugged John and fussed over how thin he was. Greg took his turn at hugging John and then flashed his credentials at the security guards that were sidling cautiously in their direction, clearly wondering if they needed to intervene.

"Good to see you both," John was grinning fiercely, "Especially as this is the last time you'll have to meet me back from overseas."

"Did you get a discharge, mate?" Lestrade asked curiously, casually taking charge of the trolley with John's duffle bag on it while Sherlock continued to lie at their feet and Mrs Hudson beamed at her boys.

"A partial one. I'll be working at a rehabilitation centre in London part time. The pay is good, the hours regimented and if Sherlock doesn't mind I'll tag along on his cases again."

"I don't mind!" Sherlock chimed in from the floor, the ice pack on his cheek slightly muffling his delivery, "On the contingency that you stop hitting me."

"You deserved it," the three still standing chimed in together and John snorted in laughter before squatting next to his partner and checking for concussion. Sherlock complied with the medical poking and prodding without his usual fuss 'just this once – consider it a welcome home present John' and John straightened up, satisfied that the hit had been hard enough to relieve his frustrations but not cause any lasting damage.

"Ready to go home?" John asked and held out a hand. Sherlock beamed and let his shorter partner pull him to his feet.

"Yes please," Sherlock replied and draped an arm over John's right shoulder, careful of the left as always, leaning more than was necessary in revenge. Mrs Hudson claimed John's other arm and Lestrade followed them out to the taxi rank, pushing John's luggage.

They were halfway to Baker Street when Lestrade's phone rang.

"Ready to work?" Sherlock asked his returned flatmate as Lestrade pulled his notebook from his pocket and started jotting notes. It didn't take a genius to realise that there was a crime scene to go see. John grinned and fished for his wallet, passing Mrs Hudson money to cover the fare while Sherlock leaned forward to have a word with the driver about helping their landlady bring in John's bag. Lestrade hung up as the taxi rounded the corner onto the Embankment and pulled over behind the squad car with the flashing lights.

"Ready, you two?" Lestrade asked and flung open the door, waving goodbye to a beaming Mrs Hudson.

"Ready," John and Sherlock replied,

END

A/N – a bit too corny? Happy New Year!