"Plastic." John replies, tapping it with his cane. The prosthetic limb clicks and creaks as he shifts into the flat.
"I would have visited, but the job got in the way." He steps in warily, observing the area silently. John is still paranoid since his latest mission got him in the hospital after six months of torture.
"Just thought I’d come by and tell you, Moran’s dead. Sherlock’s name should be cleared by the end of the month."
John swipes a pack of cigarettes off of Gregory’s table, sticking one beneath his teeth, lighting it with a silver lighter. The initials S. H. are engraved on the side of it. “Smoking is bad for you.”
Gregory watches John closely. “Says the man who has my father’s lighter” Gregory shot back icily. He closed his laptop, setting some water to boil for tea and he watched the blond. “I stopped expecting you to visit when he died… there was… no reason for us to speak then” he stated gently, looking away and taking the pack back.
Gregory took his snuffed cigarette out from behind his ear and lit it with the stove.
John sets the lighter down on the table, as he sits down in one of the chairs. Leaning down, he adjusts his prosthetic leg, tightening one of the pieces.
"I may be distant now, but I’m not horrible. I still should check up on how you’re doing every now and then."
John is actually there for selfish reasons.
The nightmares have gotten bad. Especially now that he’s got physical therapy.
He can’t hear Sherlock’s voice any more.
He can’t remember how his lips move when they say ‘wastepaper basket’.
Gregory looks so similar… It’s comforting.
It allows John to relax. To not want to look at the door with a gun at the ready.
"I’m clearing your father’s name as fast as I can. He’s an honorable man, we both know that…. even though his methods are questionable."
He taps the ash into an ash tray.
"I’m… also here to…Mmm…" He inhales half the cigarette. "To apologize. For not being there. Afterwards, I mean."