A/N: It hasn't been too long this time, so yay for that. Sunshine: During should be coming out within the next couple weeks, so keep an eye out for that. This is a short... well. I say short. What I mean is, it was meant to be short, and then it wasn't, so. This is a quick little fic based of the minisode because I kind of ship Anderlock now and couldn't find any good fic for it. So I decided to write my own. It probably sucks, I haven't written Sherlock in a while and Anderson in ever, so they're most likely both OOC, but hey. You gotta do what your heart tells you. Reviews, as always, are much appreciated. Happy holidays, hope your New Year's is fun, and happy reading! :)

A/N v.2: Hey! Just back to edit a few things I missed when I was writing this. I wrote the fic at about 4:00 in the morning, so I've got a lot of small mistakes I wanted to fix, for a better reading experience. If you've read this already, this version is better. ;)

Perceptions of an Imbecile

"It's so obviously him, if you know how to spot the signs!"

It's been two years and everything's changed. John's married now, happy with the domesticity of his life. Mycroft has started and given up another twelve diets. Lestrade's cut his hair and no longer visits Sherlock's grave with John. Anderson lost his job and grew a beard. Donovan's been promoted, Heaven knows why. London itself has grown and evolved until it's barely recognizable. And yet...

And yet, Sherlock still subconsciously hopes that everything's the same.

The biggest shock to him is when Mycroft tells him John no longer lives in 221B, that he's "moved on with his life." Sherlock isn't sure what to make of that. For as long as he had known John, the older man's entire existence had revolved around Sherlock. He hadn't even been able to keep his girlfriends because none of his relationships could overcome the strain Sherlock put on them. It's rather inconceivable that John could have managed a life without Sherlock.

But at the same time, the only thing that kept John from having a life was Sherlock himself. Now that Sherlock has been removed from the surgeon's life, it's only logical that he go forth and experience all the things Sherlock kept him from. Sherlock can't hold it against him to want a little happiness. What good does dwelling over a dead man do?

Still, Sherlock can't help the thought niggling at the back of his brain, the expectation that the previous two years simply...wouldn't exist. That he'd come back and find that nothing had changed.

Of course, the John situation sets the precedent for everything else. Everywhere Sherlock turns, he sees the present overlaid with what he expects from the past. It's dreadfully excruciating, constantly having to remind himself that time didn't simply stop because Sherlock was gone, that London has continued in his absence.

He remains hidden, of course, not quite ready to deal with the reactions of his friends while still reacquainting himself with the city he loves so much. Besides, he's not quite ready for societal niceties at the moment. Too much finesse required, much of which he's utterly forgotten. But he gets better. He keeps his return a secret, keeps his profile low. It's relaxing, if he dares to admit it.

At least, until he walks into the wrong coffeeshop.

"He's getting closer."

For all intents and purposes, it's the right coffeeshop, a small place Sherlock discovered quite by accident when he was trying to escape Mycroft's hounding. It's quaint, out of the way, and boasts an absolutely mouthwatering chocolate brownie that Sherlock can't resist, though he wouldn't admit it even under pain of death. Sherlock has judged it safe, since it normally entertains a patronage of three, sometimes four, Sherlock aside, and he doesn't think it's frequented by anyone Sherlock knows.

And he continues thinking it until the moment he walks through the door and sees a somewhat familiar head in the corner.

There's an annoying little bell hung above the door, the one thing about this place Sherlock utterly despises, and of course all three customers look up when the opening door causes it to ring. The two regulars smile and nod at him, and he returns a quick, fake smile to them. The third just stares. Sherlock ignores him for the time being. Instead, he walks to the empty counter and rings the small bell taped to it.

A petite girl hurries out, her blonde curls swaying in their tightly bound ponytail, and smiles at him. "The same?" she asks, well used to his routine.

Sherlock's lips quirk up and his eyes crinkle as he replies, "The same."

"I'll just go get it then," the girl says, and trots to the coffee machine sitting in the back.

Sherlock glances out of the corner of his eye as he waits. Sure enough, Anderson's watching him with a sense of awe shining in his eyes, his mouth slightly open and his fork, which has a piece of some sort of pie-key lime, Sherlock thinks-impaled on the tines, has stopped midway to his mouth. Sherlock smirks.

The girl returns with Sherlock's coffee and brownie, both placed neatly inside a small paper bag. She hands the bag to him and accepts the bills he gives her in return. "Keep the change," he says, and turns away.

Despite there being a multitude of empty tables in the small room, Sherlock knows there's really only one place he can sit. So he pushes whatever Anderson's been working on out of the way, places his own food on the table, sits in the other chair, and says, "Shut your mouth, Anderson, you'll release the few brain cells you possess."

It seems to jolt the former detective from his daze. His hand and fork drop back to the plate and his mouth snaps shut, only to open again as he says, "I don't believe it. You're back. You're really back!" He drops his fork and reaches out towards Sherlock, as if to touch or pet him, only to drop back almost immediately.

"Of course I am," Sherlock says dismissively. "I'm not a specter, after all. Those don't exist." He takes out his coffee and brownie, taking a sip from the first and eyeing the second appreciatively.

"They wouldn't believe me," Anderson rambles on. "I told them, I bloody told them you weren't dead. 'He's coming back,' I told them. 'He's out there and he's hiding, but he's coming back.' Tossers and wankers, the lot of them. They thought you were dead, but oh no, I knew. I knew you weren't." He finally stops talking, eyes still shining, and returns to his key lime pie, sneaking small glances at Sherlock every so often.

Sherlock, for his part, is half amused and half unsettled. He cocks his head and narrows his eyes in confusion. "What do you mean, you knew? How did you know?" he asks despite himself.

"Was bloody obvious, wasn't it?" Anderson says in a patronizing tone Sherlock has heard many times, having used it himself all too often. He bristles slightly, then wonders that this must be what the others feel like, all the time. How uncomfortable, truly. "You couldn't keep yourself from getting involved, from showing off," he continues, waving his fork around a bit. "The Buddhist monk sect, that was clear as day. And the Prakesh case, that had you written all over it. The mysterious juror, over in Germany, that one, too. Who else could get an entire jury to change their minds so completely about a supposedly open-and-shut case?" He stabs his fork in Sherlock's general direction before placing it in his mouth, swallowing the bite of pie before continuing. "It was all there, you just had to read the signs." He shrugs and returns his gaze to his dessert, no longer stealing looks at Sherlock.

Sherlock furrows his brows and sips slowly at his coffee. "But if you could read the signs, then surely all of London must know," he scoffs, rolling his eyes. "So why isn't my name in the papers yet?"

Anderson fixes him with a condescending stare. Sherlock squirms in his seat and resolves to be less of a prick to the mentally inferior. Which is everyone, in Sherlock's case, but still. It's bloody agitating, being on the receiving end of that stare.

"You're such an arrogant prick, you know that?" Anderson says. Sherlock can almost pretend he's happy they're back to the insults, the only kind of familiar ground he has established with Anderson, if it weren't for the fact that there was no venom behind Anderson' words. "Not everything revolves around you. Your name's not in the papers because no one tried to find you. No one cared to look for a dead man. It's been two years, after all. That's plenty time for a dead man to resurrect, if he was going to do so." He stabs his fork towards Sherlock again. "And I'm not incompetent, hey. I may have lost my job, but I'm the only one who read the signs. Who did the research, as you were so fond of saying." He chuckles slightly and pops the last bite of pie in his mouth.

"Anyway, I've got to be off, got an appointment in half an hour," Anderson says, glancing at his watch. He gathers his things and picks up his trash, then shifts everything to his left hand hand and extends his right. "I'll assume you want this kept a secret, so as much as I'd like to gloat, I'll keep quiet." He looks at Sherlock expectantly, as if waiting for something. Belatedly, Sherlock realizes he's supposed to shake Anderson's hand, but it's too late at that point and Anderson's drawn his hand back. "Right, forgot you didn't do social interaction," he mutters. He claps his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and grins, happiness still gleaming in his eyes. "I'll see you around, then," he says brightly, and heads out the door.

Sherlock watches in bemusement, left sitting behind with an uneaten brownie, a mostly untouched coffee, and a deep sense of confusion starting to color his world.

"It's like he's coming back."

FIN