Hi all. Sorry again for the lateness of updates. College has been a doozy this semester. However, it's almost over, and I'm not taking classes in the spring, so I'm hoping this opens me back up to update a lot more frequently. Thanks to those who are putting up with my delays, I love you all. :)
And a special thanks to Anonymously Gorgeous for messaging me to update and kicking my ass back in gear. 3

It had been mad. He was utterly mad. Yet here John stood, in the middle of a street (in the middle of a crime scene), watching as Sherlock flitted around the body and rambling off his usual, brilliant deductions about the whole situation. His hands were shoved in his pockets, and he shifted his weight onto his good leg awkwardly as he ignored the gawking stares currently being given to him. No one had expected him to show up at the scene. Not even Sherlock, even though he had sent the text and John had asked for the address. The wide-eyed look of surprise on the detective's face had practically been worth the trip.

He had no idea what he was doing here, though. He obviously wasn't needed. Apart from the initial acknowledgement, Sherlock had ignored him. His skills as a doctor had done little. Though, thinking back on it, they sort of always had. So what was it? He glanced away from the hole he was basically staring into Sherlock's back when he finally noticed another body next to him. He smiled softy at Greg, who nodded back.

"Hey," he spoke softly. In his pocket, his mobile went off, but he chose to ignore it.

"Hey. Shocked to see you here, mate. It's been a while," the DI pointed out. John hummed in agreement, glancing back over as Sherlock fussed at Anderson for tampering with the body.

"It's my crime scene!" the coroner was shouting in irritation, waving his arms around and growing red in the face.

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed back. "It's Lestrade's, and by extension, mine. Go photograph something and try being useful."

John rolled his eyes and Greg snorted beside him. It was...nice to see that things hadn't changed much. Comforting. The spat over, Sherlock turned on his heel (his coat swirling around him; he did love to be dramatic) and walked smoothly over to them.

"Personal effects?" he asked in a clipped voice, looking at Greg.

"None. At least, not that we've been able to find."

"Find them. I currently have seven ideas. Once the personal effects are located I can narrow them down."

"How can you be sure there were personal effects?" Greg asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed through his nose. John couldn't keep a smile off his lips.

"Find them. Let me know. Come on John."

And just like that, he turned and headed away from the crime scene. John blinked, and right as he went to move, he saw Sherlock hesitate. How easily they could slip into their normal routine, it seemed. John saw the exact moment that dawned on Sherlock. Shaking his head, he walked until he caught up with him. The slightest bit of tension eased out of the taller man's shoulders, and together, they left the crime scene.

"So why exactly did you need me? Seemed just fine on your own," John said, finally breaking the thick silence that had settled between them.

"I just did," came Sherlock's almost awkward response. They walked down the sidewalk a ways before stopping, and Sherlock hailed a cab. One came soon enough, and the opened the door to climb in, before glancing back at John. "Are you... Do you..."

John saw the strange look on Sherlock's face as his question trailed off, and he glanced inside the cab before sighing. He waved Sherlock foreward, taking pity on him, and climbed into the vehicle after him.

"Baker Street, please," he told the cabbie. Beside him, Sherlock looked out the window to hide his smile.

Instantly, John made his way into the kitchen and began rummaging around the cabinets. No doubt looking for the kettle. Sherlock stood awkwardly in the middle of the sitting room, not quite sure what to do. He was here. He had come to the crime scene. He was making tea. He had settled into their normal routine without bringing attention to anything they'd discussed or been dealing with since his return. Should he say something? Or let the other man make the first move? Sherlock didn't do social situations, he was clueless on how to behave. Normally it didn't matter, but this was John. He wanted things to be right. He wanted them to go back to the way they were. And he was attempting to ignore the strange pangs in his heart as he watched him move slowly around the kitchen, reacquainting himself with the layout and the slight ways things had been moved since their departure of 221B.

He glanced over at their two chairs, and then to where his violin was propped in the corner. Before he could decide which action to take, however, John was walking in with two cups of tea in his hands. Silently, he held one out, and Sherlock took it with a nod. It was made exactly the way he preferred. Of course it was. He sipped it a bit, feeling an almost foreign calm wash over him at the simple gesture. Next to him, John moved over and sat down in his normal chair, crossing his legs at the ankles and sipping at his own. Sherlock remained standing.

"John-" he started after a moment. The doctor looked up at him, his face neutral and difficult to read.

"The crime scene... You didn't need me there." It wasn't a question. There was no hesitation or curiosity. It was stated as pure fact. As usual, John saw, but he did not observe.

"John, I..." He trailed off, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His mind was swirling - it always was - but it swirled currently with everything John. And for once, he couldn't sort his Mind Palace enough to bring any of these thoughts forward. He sighed through his nose at the frustration with himself.

"It was..." John continued, as if ignoring his struggle. Yet he wasn't ignoring his struggle, Sherlock could tell. It was always strange how John knew these things. He'd always known. "It was nice. It felt normal."

A tone went off, and John glanced down at his pocket, yet made no move to retrieve his mobile to look at it.

"Mary." Also a statement, one of his own as he watched John move his attention back to his tea. It made the most sense. He'd heard it at the crime scene too. Who else, besides him, would text John that much within a short period of time? No doubt upon recieving his text, John had dropped whatever he'd been doing to meet him at the scene, with how quickly he arrived. By now Mary surely knew he was alive and well; it had been all over the news for a couple of days and Sherlock hadn't bothered hiding. He didn't see the point. If she was a smart woman, she'd draw her own conclusions about where he was. And with the way their relationship was, from what he'd heard from Lestrade, it wouldn't be a long shot that John would ignore correspondance with her while with him. It was curious. He wanted desperately to observe the two of them together. To comfirm the conclusions he'd already been drawing from the moment he saw the other man again.

"Mmmm," John hummed in response, nodding his head just slightly. "I'm still upset with you, by the way."

Sherlock nodded. He expected as much.

"This is difficult for me," he continued. "You were dead for two years. I can't just drop it and ignore it and let our lives fall back into place so seamlessly."

Sherlock nodded again.

"However," he said, making Sherlock's chest clench in anticipation. "I'm not opposed to this again. The crime scenes. Maybe not every time. And I won't drop everything - work especially - to join you at one. But... It's an element I've missed. And I'm okay with becoming involved again."

Sherlock moved to finally sit down, placing his half empty tea cup on the table. He knew this, he had been able to tell by John's physical state alone. The limp still existed, but even as he'd moved through the flat and made tea, it wasn't as bad as when Sherlock had first returned. It was a solution that no one else could provide. It wasn't that Sherlock was being cocky, but it was the truth. Mary obviously wasn't providing a fix. His days at the surgery had never provided a fix.

John was angry. John didn't forgive easily in the right circumstances. But the fact that he was here, and the fact that he agreed to come along to crime scenes again, was a big deal. Sherlock could feel a bit of hope stirring within. Perhaps things would be okay after all. He'd never been one to hope, but... It was beginning to be evident that a lot of things had changed in his two years of being "dead". It was unsettling, for sure, but perhaps not a bad thing. He knew he just needed to sort it all out. Emotions were messy and unnecessarily complicated. This was why he tended to ignore them. He'd learned that lesson the hard way throughout most of his life, especially in uni. But he knew he could no longer do so. Ongoing case or not, this would require some deep thinking.

He was pulled from these thoughts as he noticed movement in front of him. He blinked, watching as John stood and stretched. He leaned forward in his chair, blinking.

"Where are you going?" he asked, brow furrowed. They'd seeped so easily into normality that to see John reaching for his coat was almost alarming. The look he was given was soft, gentle, and peculiar. He couldn't quite place what they were silently expressing.

"I don't live here anymore Sherlock," John pointed out softly, even though they were both aware of this fact. "I have to go home."

"Right. Of course." He moved to stand again as well, taking a slightly awkward step forward as if to follow him to the door.

"Update me on the case, yeah?"

"Yes, naturally."

John smiled a bit. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

A pause.

"Goodnight, John."

It wasn't until he finished listening to the slightly uneven steps on the stairs, and the door opening and shutting again, that Sherlock moved. Turning, he made his way over to the large windows, watching as John walked away. Eyes glued on his diminishing figure, he reached for his violin and began composing.