Two full years and a half had passed since Sherlock had jumped from the roof of St. Barts Hospital. Two full years and a half had passed since he was dead to the world. Two and a half years had gone by and in the quietness of the night, in a cheap hotel in the suburbs of London, an alarm clock rang. The big green LED numbers on the display marked 4:30 in the morning as a thin and long hand knocked it over the small wooden bedside table. The alarm clock fell down and hit the floor with a loud noise, where it stood ringing.
Sherlock rose from his lying position on the bed and, yawning, he picked the alarm clock up, stopped it and put it back on the table. He stood up, and sleepily dragged his feet through the wooden floor across the room, to the tiled floor of the shabby bathroom.
His feet came to a halt as Sherlock closed the bathroom door and leaned against the sink. He turned on the tap and washed his face and hands trying to wash away the sleepiness that still moved him. While cutting the water stream by turning off the tap, his eyes drifted to the dusty mirror in front of him, and a pale, thin face looked back at him. He looked dreadful. For the first time in his life, his heart ached with longing. Longing from his old life, longing for the detective work, longing from his flat at Baker Street, but most of all, he longed his only friend – Dr. John Hamish Watson.
The mere thought of the name sent a chill down his spine and small tears to the corners of his eyes, let alone the thought of the face that was associated with that name. For years Sherlock had kept away from people, from relationships. He didn't need them for they would only distract his mind from the brilliant logic of the world. But now he had a friend and Sherlock saw that without him noticing, he had built a relationship. How could he be so dumb as to allow it to grow inside him?
Sherlock looked at the mirror to his pale reflection. He didn't know how he had gotten there, but the only thought that made him move forward was the thought that it was almost over, his job was almost done, and that he would soon to be back in Baker Street with John without any danger spying on their backs.
A small smile played on his lips at the thought, but it soon vanished. He was dead after all, and how would John react when he saw his friend again after all the years. Would he forgive him and welcome him home or would he be so mad that he would simply throw him out on the streets?
Tears filled Sherlock's eyes at the last thought. For the first time on his life, Sherlock Holmes was scared. He felt helpless and afraid, as he realised there was nothing he could do at the moment. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was alone, and in the loneliness of his small hotel room, he cried.