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“Welcome home, then,” John grumbled as Sherlock butted past him into 221B.
The detective didn’t acknowledge John’s sarcasm, instead bolting up the stairs with no regard for the landlady who lived below while the doctor carried their bags in. In spite of the fatigue that weighed him down, John was happy to do it; happy to suffer a couple suitcases to see the joy on Sherlock’s face as he breathed in their flat.
“With Mycroft and Gerald being so busy with foiling our plans at Baskerville, there was no one to raid our flat while we were gone, isn’t that nice, John?” Though his name was said, Sherlock didn’t look to the doctor for a response.
John set their bags on the floor, busying himself with making tea for the two of them. “Yes, it was nice to see Greg this week, I suppose.”
“…back in my own flat, with my own room, my own bed, and my own chemistry setup. John, sit in your chair; I need the table for my experiments.”
John moved, frowning. “Is there something really so awful about sharing a room with me?”
Though he had been talking to the doctor the whole time, Sherlock finally seemed to see him as he looked up, smiling warmly. “No, my dear John. You, you are wonderful. The best.”