John sat on the front porch, eyes fixed on the end of the road. He said he'd be here an hour ago. So where was he? He twisted the gold band on his left ring finger anxiously. He hadn't told Molly why he was waiting, of course. She'd always gone a bit pale whenever his name was mentioned. He thought she just misses him. When they thought he'd died, all John could think about was him. She always refused to join in conversations about him. It was very odd.

He's nearly two hours late now, John thought. He knew this would happen, he knew it! John ran a hand through his short hair, and sank back into the swing seat.

He'd read the text at least a hundred times, but he read it again.

"John. I'm coming to see you. 3rd of August. 11 o'clock. Make sure you're in. -SH"

He turned his head to look at the house, pondering calling Molly and asking for a cuppa. He didn't expect to see what he did.

Lounging in a large flowerpot, which contained Molly's now squashed pansies. He looked exactly the same - same unruly black hair, same steely eyes, same lanky physique.

He was even wearing the same bloody coat.

"Took your time, John. I've been sat here for an hour."

It was him.

It really was.

Sherlock.

"WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GO!" John yelled. Sherlock looked shocked, evidently expecting tears and happiness.

"I've been busy" the taller man replied. Now he had stood up, John could get a closer look at him. He wasn't exactly the same. He was thinner than before, if that was even possible, and there were strands of silver in his inky hair. He looked very, very tired.

"Busy? For god's sake, Sherlock, what kept you busy for FIVE YEARS?" John was angry. Why is he angry? I thought he missed me, Sherlock thought. He wished John would stop shouting. So Sherlock did something he'd never done before, and something he sincerely hoped he wouldn't have to do again.

"I'm sorry, John."

John was stunned. "Wha-what?" he stammered. Sherlock apologising? He knew that the apocalypse was supposed to come this year, but Sherlock apologising? They looked at eachother for what seemed like an eternity, before John finally broke the silence.

"Should I put the kettle on?

They sat in John's cottage, staring at eachother. Both wanted to talk, but neither quite knew what to say. Five years ago this would've been the easiest thing in the world, a chat over a cup of tea. But now... It was so awkward. Like, REALLY awkward. Sherlock tapped his nails on the table impatiently, as if waiting for John to speak first. Eventually, John spoke up.

"So where were you?"

Sherlock eyes lit up. Immediatly he launched into a long-winded story involving shrubs, fugatives, three pineapples and a friendly barman called Kevin.

"It was really quite simple to figure out, John." Sherlock finished, matter-of-factly. John looked a bit like a goldfish, opening and closing his mouth trying to think of something to say.

Coincidentally, Molly chose that exact moment to enter the living room. She merely nodded at Sherlock and wandered out again, not suprised at all. This just added to John's bewilderment.

"Whats Molly doing here?" Sherlock asked, probably just to humour his friend. He already knew, of course. There was John's gold ring, the light in John's eyes when she walked into the room, and one more thing... Oh yes, the big wedding photo on the coffee table.

"She's my wife, Sherlock." John said, smiling slightly. Sherlock could see how happy they were together. Maybe ignoring Molly's romantic advances was a good thing, in the end.

"I'm sorry I missed the wedding." Sherlock replied. John smirked.

"You wouldn't have liked it. Molly did all the decorations and everything. It was very...pink." John laughed. "Although I wish you could have been best man. I had to make do with Greg." Sherlock spat his tea everywhere.

"Lestrade was your best man? LESTRADE?" Sherlock laughed, imagining John and Molly at the alter with Lestrade standing awkwardly next to them. It was just too funny.

"Well, pack up your things, John. We're going back to 221b" Sherlock ordered, rising from his seat. John looked shocked.

"I can't go back, Sherlock. Theres only two bedrooms" answered John, calmly.

"And? You would be sharing with Molly, of course." Said Sherlock, not understanding.

"No, Sherlock, you don't get it-" John was interuptted by a high pitched shriek coming from the next room. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and rushed into the room, leaving John sitting on the sofa, a look on his face that made him seem another ten years older.

"Its okay Sherlock, its just-" John stopped at the scene he saw entering the door. Sherlock was staring into the corner, a disgusted look on his face.

"What is THAT?" Sherlock whispered, incredulously. His eyes didn't move from the corner, revolted but fascinated at the same time.

"That, is my daughter!" replied John, scooping the little girl out of the cot. She stopped screaming straight away. Sherlock stared at the baby.

"Whats her name?" Sherlock asked politely, trying to make up for his rudeness at this little pink thing that had more of John's attention than he did. John blushed and looked away, slightly ashamed at her name. He muttered something inaudible. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Alright, alright! Her name's Sh... She's called Shirley." John said, smiling as Sherlock burst out laughing. "Well, we couldn't exactly call a girl Sherlock, could we? Here." John passed Shirley to his friend, who held her at arms length. She had a shock of curly, black hair. Shirley gurgled at Sherlock, who quickly placed her back into her cot.

"I had best be going then, I can see you're busy." Sherlock said, wiping his hands on his long coat.

"Sherlock, wait... We have a spare room, if you want it?" John grinned at his best friend. Sherlock smiled shyly back.

"I missed you, John."

"I missed you too."