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Description
Ten to. Sherlock looked around impatiently. There still wasn’t any sign of John, so it was likely he wouldn’t be showing up. However, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to leave. Just the minuscule possibility of John showing up at all made him stay. He subconsciously brushed his fingers across the darkening bruise on his cheekbone. Yet again, he found himself wondering if there was a better way he could’ve told John he wasn’t actually dead. Sherlock had never seen the man so angry.
He just couldn’t understand why it was a problem at all, however. Sherlock was fine, isn’t that all that matters? Yes, he was missing for some time; yes he caused a grievance, but really. He never would understand this sentiment that everyone seemed to fuss about.
Another glance at his watch. Two minutes. John was supposed to arrive in two minutes time, and yet Sherlock didn’t see the shorter man anywhere in the crowd. Sherlock supposed he wasn’t too surprised. Not after the previous day’s events. Still, he had hoped the craving John had for it all would be enough. Unfortunately, it was one of the rare cases in which Sherlock Holmes was wrong. Or so he thought.
Just before he was about to give up and call a cab, he caught a glimpse of what looked like one of John’s sweaters. Sherlock stood on his toes, lifting himself as far above the crowd as he could and looking for the one familiar face. He spotted him a couple of feet away, and Sherlock had the temptation to push through the crowd. He managed to restrain and instead pulled out his phone.

We’re on our way. – SH

We? – GL

Yes “we”. John and I. – SH

He actually forgave you? – GL

Sherlock decided not to dignify this response with an answer. John had spotted him now and was making his way through the crowd. Sherlock slipped his phone back into his coat pocket, closing the few steps between him and John, while still leaving a good foot between them.
“John, you came. Good.” Sherlock started walking towards the street, “Lestrade is waiting.”
“Sherlock, hang on.”
He didn’t stop. He was worried what would happen if he did. “What is it, now? We really do need to hurry since you were late.”
“Sherlock, stop.” John said firmly. He had stopped moving himself, crossing his arms over his chest uncomfortably.
Sherlock turned around, taking two of his large steps back to where John was. “What is so important that we have to permit Anderson an even longer time on the crime scene than necessary? Who knows what he’s trying to deduct right now.”
“I’m only here because Kate insisted I come.”
“Okay, brilliant. I’m glad she was supportive, now let’s go.” Sherlock turned again, but stopped when John grabbed his coat sleeve. It was the first contact he’d had with the man—non-violent contact, anyway—since that day.
“She wants you to come over for dinner tonight. After we’ve finished with the case.”
Sherlock shook his head. “You know I don’t eat on cases, John.”
“Then you can leave. On your own.” The shorter man showed no signs of bluffing. He genuinely would not come along unless Sherlock promised he would attend dinner. Something he never did. His appetite always offended people, and they never enjoyed the way he would observe his food before ingesting it. It wasn’t his fault Mycroft had always tried putting supplements in his food when he was a child. It made you cautious.
John started to walk off, and before Sherlock knew what was happening, he was grabbing for the other man. “Fine, John! Fine!”
John smiled, “Good. Now let’s go.”
. . . . . .

“John, great to see you!” Sherlock walked briskly past Lestrade and onto the crime scene. This was the fourth in equally as many days. Not usually Sherlock’s type of case, except for the fact each of the victims were missing one vital thing; their eyes. It was clear on each of the bodies that they had been violently gorged out of their sockets, and yet there was no sign of a struggle. Originally, the police believed it was simply performed after death, but the autopsies—and Sherlock—proved that theory wrong.
“Yes, you too.” Sherlock heard John say from behind him. He bent down, examining the sockets closely. Whoever the killer was, he had a high degree in medical training. The wounds would have caused a lot of pain, but they were carefully done. The killer knew where to hit to make them scream and he made sure only to hit those points.
“I’m surprised you’re back, to be completely honest.” This person was clever. Clever and very, very careful. Even the way the bodies were laid. Always the same, down to the position of their fingers. So far, each of them had been from out of town. No farther than Cardiff and none of them planning to stay for long. Most likely only a day trip. But how? How did this man get them to trust him enough to lead them into a darkened ally, and how did he rip out their eyes without any sign of a struggle?
“It’s temporary.” There were no traces of alcohol on their breaths, no detectable drugs in their system, so how? Sherlock knew they would’ve been in pain. They would have put up a fight.
“How temporary?” Sherlock paused. He had been ignoring Lestrade and John’s conversation up until this point.
John didn’t hesitate before answering, “Only today.”
“Really? Ah, such a pity. Sherlock is so much worse without you. He’s always complaining. I’m surprised Anderson and the rest of them haven’t killed him yet.”
Sherlock cleared his throat, “Yes, alright. That’s enough of that.”
“Well, what’d you find?”
“It’s exactly the same as the last one. Every detail.” Sherlock began pacing, “Not a single mistake, not one fault in his execution.”
“Great. So any ideas as to how he does it yet?”
“Seven,” Sherlock stated, “But I’ll need more time. Are the rest of the bodies already at the mortuary?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, bring this one there as soon as possible.” Sherlock turned back to John, “Ready to go?”
“Oh, no.” He shook his head, “No, no, no. We are not going to a mortuary before dinner. Kate will kill you. She’ll kill me!”
“What else are we supposed to do, Dr. Watson?” Sherlock glanced down at his watch, “It’s only half past ten. I highly doubt your girlfriend would appreciate us showing up six hours early.”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade cut in, “A word?”
He pulled him aside, just out of hearing distance from John. He lowered his voice anyway, looking at Sherlock with a very stern expression. “Why don’t you take him for a cuppa? You need to talk to him or he’s never going to forgive you.”
“What are you talking about? Things are fine.”
“Really?” Lestrade laughed, “You make deductions from observation, right? Well why don’t you observe John for a minute?”
Reluctantly, Sherlock followed his suggestion. At a glance, there was nothing different about the man, but the more he looked, the more obvious John’s displeasure was. He showed up, yes, but only on the guidance and urging of his girlfriend. He wasn’t happy to be there, to be back, and he was quite clearly looking forward to leaving by the amount of times he would glance at his watch.
“Fine, I see your point. But what about the case?”
“Sherlock it’s not going to matter if you miss one day. In fact, in may be better. We don’t know for sure if the killer is running on a pattern or not.”
“He is.”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade warned, “Go. That’s an order. You are banned from my crime scene and the mortuary for the remainder of today.”
“If Anderson—”
“I will make sure Anderson doesn’t touch the bodies. Now leave.”
. . . . .
“Why are we at a coffee shop?”
Sherlock didn’t look back at him, instead moving straight for a table, “Lestrade suggested we ‘talk’.”
“What is there to talk about?” He didn’t sit.
“John, surely you don’t think I’m blind, do you?”
“You already know everything.”
“Just sit, will you?” Sherlock gestured to the seat across from him. There was a moment of hesitation but John obeyed. Neither of the men said anything. A waiter moved to their table and smiled happily down at them. Sherlock didn’t give him the chance to speak, immediately placing his order. “Two coffees. One part cream two parts sugar, the other with just cream.”
“Anything else?”
“A plate of biscuits.” The waiter nodded and headed off. Sherlock hadn’t moved his gaze from John. He continued to stare, not knowing where to start. He didn’t do emotions, what did people not understand about that? They were just so meaningless to him.
John cleared his throat, “Well?”
“Why are you still angry with me?”
“You really can be ignorant, can’t you?” John asked, “For a genius you can be really stupid sometimes.”
“…Because I wanted to make sure you were safe before returning?”
“No, Sherlock. It’s because you try to pretend like everything is perfectly fine when it’s not.” He took a deep breath, obviously trying not to let his anger get the better of him again. “You say you know what we went through, but I really don’t think you do. You don’t react the same when you lose someone. You don’t feel the same things as we do, so you have no idea what it was like for us. Have you ever watched someone commit suicide, Sherlock? It’s not a pleasant thing to watch. I had to stand there, helplessly, and listen to you say what I thought would be the last words I would ever hear from you.
“And once that was over, I had to watch you fall. I had to just stand there and watch as your body—or what I thought was your body—hit the pavement. Then I had to go to your funeral. The one where no one showed up because you wanted me to tell everyone you were a fraud even though you knew I didn’t believe it for a second.”
“John, you have to understand—”
“No, Sherlock. I don’t have to understand anything.” Another deep breath, yet he was calmer now. Maybe letting him explain was a good idea. “That’s not what I meant. I mean I do understand. You did it because you thought you had to. It doesn’t change the fact that it hurt. I didn’t know what to do for the longest time, and then just as I was getting my life back together, here you are. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, Sherlock. I don’t know how to react to this.”
Their coffees were placed in front of them along with the plate of biscuits, but the waiter knew better than to say anything. Sherlock was quiet for a while, simply watching John stir at his coffee. When Sherlock did speak, it was something he had never even thought to admit to himself, never mind the man in front of him. “I missed you, John. I did want to tell you right after—before I faked it even, but I couldn’t. It was… hard.”
He didn’t look at the Doctor. Rarely did Sherlock speak his feelings; rarely did he have any of importance to speak. He knew it wasn’t something John was expecting him to say, and the silence that rang seemed to go on forever.
“Why was I the last to know?” John asked. His voice was quieter than usual, but his tone was… patient. The traces of anger that had lingered were all but gone and Sherlock felt a wave of relief wash over him.
“You were the hardest to tell.” He admitted, “Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were easy to predict. I knew how to tell each of them without causing problems. But you… you were too difficult to figure out.”
Again, John said nothing. However, the silence was comfortable now and Sherlock knew that, even if things weren’t going to return to normal right away, his relationship with John would eventually return to how it was. More or less.
. . . . .
“You must be the great Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock smiled, accepting the hand of the brunette. She was only slightly shorter than him, and her grip was firm. “I have heard so much about you.”
“Kate,” John scoffed.
“Well I have!” She giggled and the sound made Sherlock’s skin crawl. She was one of the high-pitched gigglers. Not his favorite. “Well what are we all doing standing around? I’m just about to put supper on the table. Come, sit!”
Sherlock allowed himself to be lead into a rather nice dining area, for a one bedroom flat. John attempted to sit at the head of the table, only to be scolded by Kate, who insisted that was the guests’ spot. They looked happy, Sherlock observed. John looked happy. Just like before the media got involved in their cases. It was the John he was so used to seeing, but it was no longer the same thing that brought them joy. He had to admit it wasn’t an easy thing to see.
“Would I be able to use your toilet, just before we sit down to eat?”
“Yes, of course! It’s just down the hall and to your left. I’m afraid we’ve only got the master suite, though,” She bit her lip, “I do apologize for the mess, I really should’ve tidied a bit before you arrived.”
Sherlock smiled, “Oh I’m sure it won’t be a problem.” He headed in the direction she had pointed him and opened the door to their bedroom. It was quite clean, however he could see the slight messy tendencies John had gained whilst living with Sherlock. Their dresser was the best example. The top three drawers were closed firmly, but the bottom two were slightly opened. Just as he was about to brush it off, Sherlock caught a glimpse of something in one of the drawers belonging to John. He glanced over his shoulder, pausing to listen for footsteps before moving towards the dresser. He bent down and gently grabbed the item of interest. His suspicions were correct; it was his scarf. The blue one he had grown so fond of but had had to give up to make his death convincing. Why had John kept this? Sherlock could still see a few traces of dried blood on it… John hadn’t even washed it. Why?
“He wouldn’t let go of that. Not for months.” Sherlock spun around to find Kate leaning against the door frame.
He looked down at the scarf in his hand guiltily, “I didn’t mean to pry...”
“I know what you’re like Mr. Holmes. I’m sure you saw it in his drawer, right?” Sherlock nodded, “Yeah, kinda figured that would happen. It’s why I came to check on you.”
“Why does he have it?”
“Sentiment,” She sighed and moved closer to him. He felt the fabric slide through his fingertips as she took it from him, staring down at it with a mix of hatred and pity, “It was the last thing he had of you. In those first couple of months… it was pretty bad. He always had it with him, wouldn’t let anyone touch it. Slowly, he let it go but occasionally… occasionally he’ll dig it out of his drawer and just… stare at it. As if he’s reliving what you guys had.”
She hummed, handing the scarf back to him, “He hadn’t pulled it out in almost a month until you texted. Then he just sat there again for almost an hour… just staring.”
“I… see.” Sherlock coughed.
“What, exactly, was your relationship with him?”
“He was my one friend.”

Description
Ten to. Sherlock looked around impatiently. There still wasn’t any sign of John, so it was likely he wouldn’t be showing up. However, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to leave. Just the minuscule possibility of John showing up at all made him stay. He subconsciously brushed his fingers across the darkening bruise on his cheekbone. Yet again, he found himself wondering if there was a better way he could’ve told John he wasn’t actually dead. Sherlock had never seen the man so angry.
He just couldn’t understand why it was a problem at all, however. Sherlock was fine, isn’t that all that matters? Yes, he was missing for some time; yes he caused a grievance, but really. He never would understand this sentiment that everyone seemed to fuss about.
Another glance at his watch. Two minutes. John was supposed to arrive in two minutes time, and yet Sherlock didn’t see the shorter man anywhere in the crowd. Sherlock supposed he wasn’t too surprised. Not after the previous day’s events. Still, he had hoped the craving John had for it all would be enough. Unfortunately, it was one of the rare cases in which Sherlock Holmes was wrong. Or so he thought.
Just before he was about to give up and call a cab, he caught a glimpse of what looked like one of John’s sweaters. Sherlock stood on his toes, lifting himself as far above the crowd as he could and looking for the one familiar face. He spotted him a couple of feet away, and Sherlock had the temptation to push through the crowd. He managed to restrain and instead pulled out his phone.

We’re on our way. – SH

We? – GL

Yes “we”. John and I. – SH

He actually forgave you? – GL

Sherlock decided not to dignify this response with an answer. John had spotted him now and was making his way through the crowd. Sherlock slipped his phone back into his coat pocket, closing the few steps between him and John, while still leaving a good foot between them.
“John, you came. Good.” Sherlock started walking towards the street, “Lestrade is waiting.”
“Sherlock, hang on.”
He didn’t stop. He was worried what would happen if he did. “What is it, now? We really do need to hurry since you were late.”
“Sherlock, stop.” John said firmly. He had stopped moving himself, crossing his arms over his chest uncomfortably.
Sherlock turned around, taking two of his large steps back to where John was. “What is so important that we have to permit Anderson an even longer time on the crime scene than necessary? Who knows what he’s trying to deduct right now.”
“I’m only here because Kate insisted I come.”
“Okay, brilliant. I’m glad she was supportive, now let’s go.” Sherlock turned again, but stopped when John grabbed his coat sleeve. It was the first contact he’d had with the man—non-violent contact, anyway—since that day.
“She wants you to come over for dinner tonight. After we’ve finished with the case.”
Sherlock shook his head. “You know I don’t eat on cases, John.”
“Then you can leave. On your own.” The shorter man showed no signs of bluffing. He genuinely would not come along unless Sherlock promised he would attend dinner. Something he never did. His appetite always offended people, and they never enjoyed the way he would observe his food before ingesting it. It wasn’t his fault Mycroft had always tried putting supplements in his food when he was a child. It made you cautious.
John started to walk off, and before Sherlock knew what was happening, he was grabbing for the other man. “Fine, John! Fine!”
John smiled, “Good. Now let’s go.”
. . . . . .

“John, great to see you!” Sherlock walked briskly past Lestrade and onto the crime scene. This was the fourth in equally as many days. Not usually Sherlock’s type of case, except for the fact each of the victims were missing one vital thing; their eyes. It was clear on each of the bodies that they had been violently gorged out of their sockets, and yet there was no sign of a struggle. Originally, the police believed it was simply performed after death, but the autopsies—and Sherlock—proved that theory wrong.
“Yes, you too.” Sherlock heard John say from behind him. He bent down, examining the sockets closely. Whoever the killer was, he had a high degree in medical training. The wounds would have caused a lot of pain, but they were carefully done. The killer knew where to hit to make them scream and he made sure only to hit those points.
“I’m surprised you’re back, to be completely honest.” This person was clever. Clever and very, very careful. Even the way the bodies were laid. Always the same, down to the position of their fingers. So far, each of them had been from out of town. No farther than Cardiff and none of them planning to stay for long. Most likely only a day trip. But how? How did this man get them to trust him enough to lead them into a darkened ally, and how did he rip out their eyes without any sign of a struggle?
“It’s temporary.” There were no traces of alcohol on their breaths, no detectable drugs in their system, so how? Sherlock knew they would’ve been in pain. They would have put up a fight.
“How temporary?” Sherlock paused. He had been ignoring Lestrade and John’s conversation up until this point.
John didn’t hesitate before answering, “Only today.”
“Really? Ah, such a pity. Sherlock is so much worse without you. He’s always complaining. I’m surprised Anderson and the rest of them haven’t killed him yet.”
Sherlock cleared his throat, “Yes, alright. That’s enough of that.”
“Well, what’d you find?”
“It’s exactly the same as the last one. Every detail.” Sherlock began pacing, “Not a single mistake, not one fault in his execution.”
“Great. So any ideas as to how he does it yet?”
“Seven,” Sherlock stated, “But I’ll need more time. Are the rest of the bodies already at the mortuary?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, bring this one there as soon as possible.” Sherlock turned back to John, “Ready to go?”
“Oh, no.” He shook his head, “No, no, no. We are not going to a mortuary before dinner. Kate will kill you. She’ll kill me!”
“What else are we supposed to do, Dr. Watson?” Sherlock glanced down at his watch, “It’s only half past ten. I highly doubt your girlfriend would appreciate us showing up six hours early.”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade cut in, “A word?”
He pulled him aside, just out of hearing distance from John. He lowered his voice anyway, looking at Sherlock with a very stern expression. “Why don’t you take him for a cuppa? You need to talk to him or he’s never going to forgive you.”
“What are you talking about? Things are fine.”
“Really?” Lestrade laughed, “You make deductions from observation, right? Well why don’t you observe John for a minute?”
Reluctantly, Sherlock followed his suggestion. At a glance, there was nothing different about the man, but the more he looked, the more obvious John’s displeasure was. He showed up, yes, but only on the guidance and urging of his girlfriend. He wasn’t happy to be there, to be back, and he was quite clearly looking forward to leaving by the amount of times he would glance at his watch.
“Fine, I see your point. But what about the case?”
“Sherlock it’s not going to matter if you miss one day. In fact, in may be better. We don’t know for sure if the killer is running on a pattern or not.”
“He is.”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade warned, “Go. That’s an order. You are banned from my crime scene and the mortuary for the remainder of today.”
“If Anderson—”
“I will make sure Anderson doesn’t touch the bodies. Now leave.”
. . . . .
“Why are we at a coffee shop?”
Sherlock didn’t look back at him, instead moving straight for a table, “Lestrade suggested we ‘talk’.”
“What is there to talk about?” He didn’t sit.
“John, surely you don’t think I’m blind, do you?”
“You already know everything.”
“Just sit, will you?” Sherlock gestured to the seat across from him. There was a moment of hesitation but John obeyed. Neither of the men said anything. A waiter moved to their table and smiled happily down at them. Sherlock didn’t give him the chance to speak, immediately placing his order. “Two coffees. One part cream two parts sugar, the other with just cream.”
“Anything else?”
“A plate of biscuits.” The waiter nodded and headed off. Sherlock hadn’t moved his gaze from John. He continued to stare, not knowing where to start. He didn’t do emotions, what did people not understand about that? They were just so meaningless to him.
John cleared his throat, “Well?”
“Why are you still angry with me?”
“You really can be ignorant, can’t you?” John asked, “For a genius you can be really stupid sometimes.”
“…Because I wanted to make sure you were safe before returning?”
“No, Sherlock. It’s because you try to pretend like everything is perfectly fine when it’s not.” He took a deep breath, obviously trying not to let his anger get the better of him again. “You say you know what we went through, but I really don’t think you do. You don’t react the same when you lose someone. You don’t feel the same things as we do, so you have no idea what it was like for us. Have you ever watched someone commit suicide, Sherlock? It’s not a pleasant thing to watch. I had to stand there, helplessly, and listen to you say what I thought would be the last words I would ever hear from you.
“And once that was over, I had to watch you fall. I had to just stand there and watch as your body—or what I thought was your body—hit the pavement. Then I had to go to your funeral. The one where no one showed up because you wanted me to tell everyone you were a fraud even though you knew I didn’t believe it for a second.”
“John, you have to understand—”
“No, Sherlock. I don’t have to understand anything.” Another deep breath, yet he was calmer now. Maybe letting him explain was a good idea. “That’s not what I meant. I mean I do understand. You did it because you thought you had to. It doesn’t change the fact that it hurt. I didn’t know what to do for the longest time, and then just as I was getting my life back together, here you are. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, Sherlock. I don’t know how to react to this.”
Their coffees were placed in front of them along with the plate of biscuits, but the waiter knew better than to say anything. Sherlock was quiet for a while, simply watching John stir at his coffee. When Sherlock did speak, it was something he had never even thought to admit to himself, never mind the man in front of him. “I missed you, John. I did want to tell you right after—before I faked it even, but I couldn’t. It was… hard.”
He didn’t look at the Doctor. Rarely did Sherlock speak his feelings; rarely did he have any of importance to speak. He knew it wasn’t something John was expecting him to say, and the silence that rang seemed to go on forever.
“Why was I the last to know?” John asked. His voice was quieter than usual, but his tone was… patient. The traces of anger that had lingered were all but gone and Sherlock felt a wave of relief wash over him.
“You were the hardest to tell.” He admitted, “Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were easy to predict. I knew how to tell each of them without causing problems. But you… you were too difficult to figure out.”
Again, John said nothing. However, the silence was comfortable now and Sherlock knew that, even if things weren’t going to return to normal right away, his relationship with John would eventually return to how it was. More or less.
. . . . .
“You must be the great Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock smiled, accepting the hand of the brunette. She was only slightly shorter than him, and her grip was firm. “I have heard so much about you.”
“Kate,” John scoffed.
“Well I have!” She giggled and the sound made Sherlock’s skin crawl. She was one of the high-pitched gigglers. Not his favorite. “Well what are we all doing standing around? I’m just about to put supper on the table. Come, sit!”
Sherlock allowed himself to be lead into a rather nice dining area, for a one bedroom flat. John attempted to sit at the head of the table, only to be scolded by Kate, who insisted that was the guests’ spot. They looked happy, Sherlock observed. John looked happy. Just like before the media got involved in their cases. It was the John he was so used to seeing, but it was no longer the same thing that brought them joy. He had to admit it wasn’t an easy thing to see.
“Would I be able to use your toilet, just before we sit down to eat?”
“Yes, of course! It’s just down the hall and to your left. I’m afraid we’ve only got the master suite, though,” She bit her lip, “I do apologize for the mess, I really should’ve tidied a bit before you arrived.”
Sherlock smiled, “Oh I’m sure it won’t be a problem.” He headed in the direction she had pointed him and opened the door to their bedroom. It was quite clean, however he could see the slight messy tendencies John had gained whilst living with Sherlock. Their dresser was the best example. The top three drawers were closed firmly, but the bottom two were slightly opened. Just as he was about to brush it off, Sherlock caught a glimpse of something in one of the drawers belonging to John. He glanced over his shoulder, pausing to listen for footsteps before moving towards the dresser. He bent down and gently grabbed the item of interest. His suspicions were correct; it was his scarf. The blue one he had grown so fond of but had had to give up to make his death convincing. Why had John kept this? Sherlock could still see a few traces of dried blood on it… John hadn’t even washed it. Why?
“He wouldn’t let go of that. Not for months.” Sherlock spun around to find Kate leaning against the door frame.
He looked down at the scarf in his hand guiltily, “I didn’t mean to pry...”
“I know what you’re like Mr. Holmes. I’m sure you saw it in his drawer, right?” Sherlock nodded, “Yeah, kinda figured that would happen. It’s why I came to check on you.”
“Why does he have it?”
“Sentiment,” She sighed and moved closer to him. He felt the fabric slide through his fingertips as she took it from him, staring down at it with a mix of hatred and pity, “It was the last thing he had of you. In those first couple of months… it was pretty bad. He always had it with him, wouldn’t let anyone touch it. Slowly, he let it go but occasionally… occasionally he’ll dig it out of his drawer and just… stare at it. As if he’s reliving what you guys had.”
She hummed, handing the scarf back to him, “He hadn’t pulled it out in almost a month until you texted. Then he just sat there again for almost an hour… just staring.”
“I… see.” Sherlock coughed.
“What, exactly, was your relationship with him?”
“He was my one friend.”