"I'd hope not," Sherlock says, feeling vaguely disappointed, but not at all surprised. Things would become clear as time goes by and it's always nicer when he gets to be the one that points everything out in the end, anyway. He tosses the onions into the heated pan, preferring to have them caramelised before he'll eat them. The green peppers would be next to follow for a bit of heating.

It's probably for the best that John's never brought up that three year gap. Sherlock would rather dust it under the rug and pretend it had never happened, really. He'd done some things that he's not entirely proud of and he'd taken a bit more damage than he's willing to admit. There's a reason that he's developed slightly more 'modest' habits - such as not walking about completely nude on Sunday mornings. Even his episodes of partial nudity deliberately covered certain areas of his body that might indicate less than savoury bouts with dangerous circumstances. All of that he could handle quite simply. It's the blood on his hands and the lives he'd personally ended that he doesn't care to mention.

"We'll be meeting Miss Hunter shortly after we arrive. I've been reliably informed that the Rucastles will be out of town until Monday afternoon, so there's no need to wait."