“Alright.” John smiled.
“Fine.” A baritone answered.
The doctor shook his head, “…No, I mean it’s done. I found you a picture of me.”
“When you were young?” Sherlock perked up a bit from where he had been looming over his latest chemical experiment. “Really, John. To think I still care about such a trivial glimpse into your past. I’m busy.”
John looked back to his lap top, paused, and then shrugged. “I’ll delete it then, shall I?”
“No!” Sherlock barked, charging out of his seat and back over to the chair John occupied.
He lowered his head next to John’s so he could see the picture of little four-year-old Watson.
“Well?” John grinned.
Sherlock remained silent for a few minutes. “Your hair sticks out too erratically.”
“That’s a bit pot-calling-kettle, don’t you think?” His sandy-haired companion mused.
Another few moments of silence fell between them.
“It’s acceptable. Keep it.”
Sherlock swept back over to the kitchen table without another word. Though John was almost certain he’d felt Sherlock’s nose brush against his temple briefly, affectionately, before he’d disappeared.