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John looked at the old man as he held up another DVD and fought the smile threatening to take over his face in vain. “Jesus, Sherlock.” He shook his head. “Have you come to torment me?”
He reached over and tugged at the white beard. So fake, Sherlock, really.
It didn’t move. John pulled harder. And oh Christ, it wasn’t coming off. It wasn’t coming off. He yanked one more time, in disbelief.
The old man cried out in pain. “What are you doing? Stop that, stop!”
John backed off, horrified. “Oh my god, oh god. I am so sorry.” He was wrong. It wasn’t Sherlock. He covered his eyes with a shaking hand and steadied himself against his desk with the other. Relief, mortification, and above all, bitter disappointment flooded his body. He willed himself to calm down.
A hand rested on his shoulder. “No, doctor. I am the one who’s sorry.”
John stilled. He knew that voice, dammit. He uncovered his eyes.
The old man looked at him closely. The side of his mouth quirked up. He reached up and pulled off the hat and the manky wig with it. He shook out his black curls.
“Hello again, John.” Sherlock smiled.
Adrenaline rushed through John’s body, replacing his anxiety with a combination of exhilaration and fury. “You utter bastard.”