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Oh, You Bastard

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"Those things will kill you."

"Ooh, you bastard."

"It's time to come back. You've been letting things slide, Graham."

"Greg!"

"Greg."

Gregory Lestrade clung to Sherlock Holmes as if his very life depended on it. He couldn't believe that the daft bugger was actually here, in front of him. Two years. Two bloody years! If it wasn't for Anderson conditioning him into believing that Sherlock was alive, he would undoubtedly have had a heart attack.

"Graham?" he questioned, suddenly pushing the detective away. "Thank you very much. Did I mean that little to you that you can't even remember my name? And again, while I'm at it - you bastard!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Can we please save the dramatics until at least this evening. It's rather tiring coming back from the dead."

Lestrade simply stared at the man. 

"Not good?" Sherlock asked tentatively.

"No it bloody well isn't, you bastard!" He stepped closer to him once again. "No..." he repeated, grabbing the man by his lapels and pulling him into another embrace, "it's not, you great, big, bloody, beautiful bastard."

"Shall I take it from your charming endearments that I am forgiven?"

"Yes, you maniac! But you can add insufferable, annoying, selfish, thoughtless, conniving...."

 Sherlock silenced him with a kiss.

"God, I missed you, you great lug," he stated breathlessly once the kiss ended. "Just don't you ever do anything like that again."

"I shall endeavour not to, Lestrade. And, Gregory?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I missed you too."