Various ramblings by the small hobbit

The door to 221B Baker Street opened slowly.  John Watson sprung to his feet; he knew Mrs Hudson was out for the whole day, so no-one should be around.  He certainly wasn’t expecting the apparition that stood before him.

“Sherlock,” he gasped.  “I thought you were dead.  We all thought you were dead.”

“Clearly you were under a misapprehension.”  Sherlock entered the flat, still holding his companion’s hand.  “This is my wife, Mary.  We were married twelve weeks ago.”

“Congratulations,” John said.  A fuzzy haired Greg Lestrade, wearing only pyjama bottoms emerged from the kitchen.  “And this is my husband.”