Sherlock leant in the doorway of Lestrade’s office, as if he’d never been away. Lestrade idly wondered whether Sherlock had, on occasion, stalked the corridors of Scotland Yard while he was dead, but turned back to his paperwork without asking. Sometimes it was best not to know exactly what Sherlock had been up to.
It was also better, if it wasn’t case-related, to let Sherlock get to the point in his own time. Things tended to get fraught otherwise.
‘Dimmock’s improving,’ Sherlock said finally. ‘He wouldn’t have got the Hindlip case two years ago. Still missed the obvious on the Birtsmorton one, though.’
Lestrade hummed in agreement. It was pointless to ask if Sherlock had kept up with crime-related news. Of course he had. ‘He’s doing well, now he’s settled in.’
‘Gregson’ll be a good DCI. Better than that old one, but that’s not hard. He doesn’t mind the… unorthodox.’
‘The unorthodox being you,’ Lestrade said, digging out a paperclip from the depths of his desk-tidy. ‘Still, we could do with new blood at the top.’
‘It’s your birthday today.’
‘Yeah.’ Lestrade looked up questioningly. ‘Did the balloons give it away?’
‘You’re the best in the force,’ Sherlock mused. ‘By far. Never think otherwise, Greg.’
‘Of course,’ Sherlock confirmed as he left. ‘There’s cake for you at 221B. Happy Birthday.’