Has everyone watched Sherlock? Apparently, Sergei once had some free time in his busy schedule, and he managed to watch the show as well. For two bloody years, you trotted off to the cemetery where he was supposedly buried; for two sodding years, you mourned his death and climbed the wall out of utter grief.

A sudden, anonymous invitation to a restaurant. And here you are.

Sergei stands next to the table and smiles slyly, holding a bottle of vintage red wine in his hands. As before, he is polished to a shine, his dark suit impeccably tailored. Only now his shock of fiery red hair is much longer, tied back into a ponytail. It suits him a treat, no doubt. His eyes⎯ a piercing blue⎯ sparkle with the same cheeky glint you remember, as if he had never been away.

He lacks only that ridiculous Sherlock moustache drawn on with eyeliner, and you lack the courage to arrange a date between your fist and his cheek. You are not Watson; you will never be strong enough, no matter how furious you are. And you are not tall enough; your wrists are too refined.

It seems that such a long silence has made Sergei feel rather uncomfortable. “Surprise⎯!” the man says, his voice carrying a familiar, teasing lilt.

But instead of anger, a flood of relief washes over you, and you cover your face with trembling palms, starting to sob. Sergei, of course, didn't expect such a reaction either. Like Sherlock, empathy isn't his strong suit… Perhaps Ptitsa's influence is at play here.

He carefully places the bottle on the table.

His hands find their way to your waist, and he pulls you into his chest, his nose brushing against the nape of your neck. “I missed you,” he says quietly. The guests turn their heads, curious about the unexpected spectacle, but Sergei seems unaware; his focus is entirely on you. The warmth of his embrace seeps through your clothes, and the scent of his cologne⎯ cedarwood⎯ brings back a flood of cherished memories.

So selfish.

“I missed you,” Sergei repeats in a quiet, almost whispering voice.