Sherlock had expected her to slam the door in his face as soon as he opened it. She didn’t. She just lent on the doorframe and folded her arms, pulling her soft white dressing gown closer to her as she did. Sherlock stood before her, hands in his pockets and same blank expression on his face.
‘So,’ said Sally, ‘Not dead.’
‘No.’
Sally nodded. ‘So Phillip wasn’t acting insane.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. But he was right about me faking the whole suicide.’
‘I’d hope so. Otherwise you standing on my doorstep would either mean you’re the messiah or a zombie.’
‘Are those my only choices?’
‘Yes. And messiah’s already been crossed off the list, no matter what you may think.’
Sherlock’s mouth twitched. Sally couldn’t tell if he was suppressing a smile or a sneer. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Must you.’
‘Yes, I think I must.’ Sherlock shouldered his way past Sally and into her flat – clean, Spartan, fewer ornaments and photographs than an average apartment. A place to live, but not a home. ‘I suppose you heard that I am back as an unofficial consultant for Scotland Yard.’
Sally clenched her jaw and closed her door. ‘Really? So a few front page stories in the paper because of an elaborate magic trick, and you’re back getting in the way of real cops who are actually trying to solve crime?’
This time Sherlock actually did scowl. ‘You solve crimes now? I didn’t realise how far the Met has progressed while I’ve been away.’
‘And by away, you mean faking your own death after escaping police custody, which last time I checked, was a felony.’
‘Last time I checked you arrested an innocent man, because you were completely taken in by the head of a criminal organisation.’
‘Last time I checked you allowed your best friend to grieve for you for two years.’ Sally stepped forward, her hands on her hips. ’What, the great deductive genius couldn’t work out how to use a phone?’
Sherlock stepped forward too. They were now inches away from each other. ‘Last time I checked you didn’t exhibit any signs of grief over my “death”. A death you in part drove me to. Isn’t that, what’s the phrase, the pot calling the kettle a psychopath?’
‘Last time I checked, you were still wearing pants.’
Sherlock looked down. ‘Huh. So I am.’
‘We should fix that.’
‘Definitely.’
Sherlock grabbed hair by the scruff of her neck and forced her lips up to his own; an aggressive kiss that was all bruising pressure and teeth. Sally, not one to be one upped by some public school twat, seized him by his stupid coat collars and thrust him up against the wall, making him grunt as his head hit the wood paneling.
'So I see your love-making hasn't changed in the last two years.' Sherlock murmured between kisses as he trailed them across her cheek, under her jaw and down her neck. 'Still as graceless and heavy-handed as your investigation techniques.'
Sally looped her arms around his neck and pulled herself upwards, wrapping her legs around his waist. Sherlock's hands automatically slipped under her arse and kneaded the soft flesh through her dressing gown. 'Do you ever shut up, freak? I know you're experience with women is pretty limited to those you've seen on a slab but even you must know this doesn't count as pillow talk.'
'Really?' Sherlock gripped Sally possessively and carried her towards the bedroom. 'I guess for that we need a pillow.'