Disclaimer: I own nothing that is familiar except Amanda. Please enjoy!

Chapter One

Return

"Then why do you put up with him?" John asked Detective Inspector Lestrade. The man that John was beginning to understand as a nonsensical logical fellow looked at him for a moment as he thought over his response, John knew he had an answer before he even spoke when he squared his shoulders, as if he thought he'd have to defend his answer which told John that he full heartedly believed it as truth.

"Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man and one day, if we're all very lucky, he'll be a good one," was all he said before turning around and heading down the stairs of 221B Baker Street.

News 1

"And after extensive police investigation, Richard Brook did indeed prove to be the creation of James Moriarty."

News 2

"Admits unprecedented scenes, there was uproar in the court as Sherlock Holmes was vindicated and cleared of all suspicion."

News 3

"Sadly, all this comes too late for the detective, who became something of a celebrity two years ago."

News 1

"Questions are now being asked as to why police let matters get so far. Sherlock Holmes fell to his death from the top of London's Bart's Hospital. Although he left no note, friends say it's unlikely-"

Amanda shut the television off with a sigh. 'That poor man,' she thought quietly to herself as she glances around the mess that was her new apartment. She understood, now, why Mycroft Holmes refused to accompany her to the building after he'd collected her from the airport. At first she simply thought him to have, begrudgingly, been doing a favour for his mother and father.

Amanda Elise Doyle was the only daughter for Arthur Doyle. A celebrated author and dear friend to Mr. And Mrs. Holmes. Her father and Mr. Holmes had been friends since they were children, when her father had moved from Scotland to London as a boy. After college, or University as her father called it, he'd immigrated to America. He'd met her mother in Seattle, Washington while she'd finished her degree and they'd married a few short years after that. Her mother being from Oklahoma had wanted to be closer to family, and so the Doyle's' had moved to the infamous "Tornado Alley". Then came the baby in the baby carriage in the form of Amanda.

She'd lived in Oklahoma all her life, having never traveled anywhere or done anything remotely interesting. She'd gone to a local college and earned her degree in English but did nothing with it. Her passion was food, though she never had any interest in pursuing that passion as a career. She knew her mind well enough to know that the moment she turned it into a job it would become a chore and she'd grow to hate it.

So Amanda never made a name for herself. She was no great writer like her father nor did she have a mind for science and biology like her mother, and so she drifted from job to job. Much to her father's disappointment. Not that he ever made her feel like he was disappointed in her. The opposite in fact. Arthur Doyle doted on his daughter. Everything she put her mind to was a point of pride for him and he made sure she never went without. Especially after the death of her mother a few years previously. Cancer. Her passing had rocked the foundation of their lives and caused father and daughter to grow closer than ever before.

Amanda's world shook once more that summer when she returned home from work to discover her father had died of a heart attack. He'd left everything to her, with the exception of a few small items that he had requested go to his old friends Mr. And Mrs. Scott Holmes. They'd been at the funeral as well as the reading of the will. Mr. Holmes had been beside himself with grief and she sat with him, the two clinging to one another in their mourning. They stayed at the house with her for a few weeks. Helping her sort through her father's belongings. Most going to charities and schools. Education had been important to him. It was during this time that Mrs. Holmes asked the unthinkable. Would Amanda wish to move to England with them? At first the thought of leaving her home was impossible to her, leaving everything behind becoming frightening, so she told her no as politely as she could. It wasn't until after they'd gone back to England and Amanda had returned home from work late in the night that she couldn't stand it any longer.

Amanda looked around the house that had for so long been a comfort and safe haven to her. No lights had been on, there was no smell of tea, dinner, or even the customary smell of cigar that her father loved to light and just hold. Tonight the house felt like a stranger, one that did not want her there. Biting the inside of her cheek she hurried to her bedroom and fished out her cell phone. She couldn't stay there a moment longer. She called Scott Holmes, a man that was like a distant uncle for her with the frequency of his and his wife's visits. She couldn't impose on them though, even if they had offered her a place.

An image of them and her parents spruced up in wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, and fringed western shirts, waving merrily at her on their way our appeared in her mind unbidden while the phone rand. It was eleven at night for her so she knew it'd be early for them but she was sure he'd be awake. She wasn't wrong. The moment Mr. Holmes answered a sob escaped her lips.

"Uncle Scott?" She asked, trying to reign in her outward emotions. "I've changed my mind. How soon can I move to England?"

The following three weeks had Amanda rushing around the city getting everything in order, from informing banks, to getting a passport, to copies of official documents, packing and putting things she couldn't immediately take with her into storage with directions for the items to be shipped a few days after her departure. She'd made it clear that she wouldn't stay in their home, that she needed one of her own. With only a little protesting, Mr. Holmes had promised he'd see it taken care of and a few hours later his eldest son Mycroft had called her with the details. There had been one condition though. That she not remove the previous tenants belongings, ever. This was the stipulation made by him and the land lady. At first she didn't understand why but had agreed.

Now that she was here, in London, standing in the living room of 221B Baker Street. She completely understood. This was Sherlock's home and his family and friends weren't ready to say goodbye to the last traces of him.

Her heart ached for the family. She'd never had the pleasure of meeting the boys before. Mycroft assisting her in this move having been their first encounter but their parents had said much of two boys with such pride. She wished she'd been able to meet the late Sherlock, to know the amazing man in all the stories. Unfortunately all she had to go off of were his parents, the tabloids, news articles, and the word of Mrs. Hudson.

With a heavy sigh she placed her phone into the iHome station that had once been hi and played her favourite playlist before continuing to unpack her clothes and place them in hangers before taking them up a small flight of stairs to her new bedroom.

A week later saw most of her belongings unpacked and placed in their new homes. Apart from her bedroom, most of her furniture and larger items stayed in storage once they'd arrived. She kept her promise about leaving things as they were. Or as closely as she could. She'd scrubbed the entire kitchen within an inch of its life with the help of Mrs. Hudson. She'd tired to refuse but the kind woman had insisted, simply stating "There are things that Sherlock would bring home that..well things you'd rather not clear out yourself." Mrs. Hudson had been true to her word when a bag of eye balls had been found covered in frost in the freezer.

Unable to cope with the reality that body parts were stored there regularly when Sherlock had been alive, Amanda ordered a new one to be delivered the next morning and the old taken away.

"Thank you so much! And please don't bother looking inside, just have it dumped as quickly as possible," she insisted as she closed the door to the main road behind the delivery men. Letting out a long breath she decided to stop by the land lady's apartment and ask her to dinner as a thank you for her help. She kicked gently in the window pane if the door, the sound of movement could be heard followed shortly by the woman's silhouette just before the door opened.

"Oh sweetie, is anything the matter?" Mrs. Hudson crooned in concern, opening the door wide. Amanda smiled brightly at her. She really was the sweetest little old lady you could possibly meet.

"Absolutely not, ma'am. I just wanted to thank you for all the help you've given me by cooking dinner for you tonight, if you'd like?" She asked with sincerity. Her landlady lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Oh, well aren't you just wonderful! Though I don't know how I feel about this 'ma'am' business. Makes one feel quite old," she rambled though still beaming. Amanda couldn't help the grin that spread across her face by the way different ways the word had been spoken. From Amanda the a came out like lamb with her American accent, but for Mrs. Hudson it sounded like a regal form of 'mom'. She never tired of hearing the differences. Everything sounded far more important and proper when the English spoke it. When she spoke she thought she sounded crude by comparison. Get Amanda out opinion town or at work though and wow did she miss the twang and drawl of her Okie rednecks. At least she understood the slang and butchering if the English language from that side of the globe. Here it was life a separate language all on its own and she found it exhausting to keep up. Mrs. Hudson was a relief.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson" she stressed kindly, indicating she'd try to avoid the word again. "It won't happen again. Well I won't take up more of your time, will seven be alright for dinner?" She asked, leaning forward and gently hugging the woman. She stifled a giggle as her surprise by the embrace. She couldn't help it. She was always affectionate towards others, often calling her customers dear or sweetheart. Fortunately she hadn't had much complaint from her British clientele, but she could tell it wasn't as endearing here at it was in Oklahoma. She'd have to try to curb her terms of endearment. She doubted she could stop her habit of hugs though.

"Wh-why certainly that would be lovely. I'll bring up a nice treat for desert, shall I?" She asked warmly, finally composing herself.

"You don't have to go to the trouble, but desert sound wonderful." Amanda gave her landlady a small wave before bounding back up the stairs to prepare for later that night. Closing the door she looked around and groaned. She would need to dust and vacuum. Standing up straight she squared her shoulders as if she were going into battle and made for the cabinet under the sink. Once retrieving her cleaning supplies she opened the windows wide and set to work, her music still playing.

Back downstairs Amanda missed the arrival of an attractive young man. He eye'd her form as it retreated into the flat upstairs and shut the door, before turning his attention to the closed door next to him. Squaring his own shoulders for his own inner battle he approached in to knock before it flung open again to reveal a very confused looking Mrs. Hudson. With an indignant huff she spun in her heel and went back into her flat without a word, the door being left wide open being his only invitation. With a heavy, tired, sigh John Watson followed his former landlady into her home and sat down quietly at her little breakfast table. Her back was too him as she puttered around the small kitchen, the slamming if cabinet doors and China his only company before she started forcefully slamming a prepared tea set onto the table while the kettle boiled.

"Oh no, you don't take it do you?" She said pointing to a little bowl of sugar, her voice thick with agitation. Agitation John was feeling as well. Though not so much at her rude welcoming than at himself for clearing having broken the little old woman's heart by his departure. He breathes heavily through his nose a moment longer, his mouth clamped firmly shut.

"No," he finally admitted with a shake of his head, hoping his voice didn't actually sound as harsh as he thought it did. A sarcastic sigh left her lips, but her shoulders began to slump as the heat from her anger left, leaving her deflated and looking sad.

"you forget a little thing like that," she said, staring blankly at the sugar bowl.

"Yes," he stated simply, not sure if she would snap at him or not. A little bit of the steam returned to her.

"You forget lots of little things, it seems," she snipped, looking at him now. She wasn't talking about how he took his tea anymore. She clearly meant herself as the forgotten little thing.

"uh-huh" he affirmed looking away, feeling shame for having stayed away for so long. It was just too painful, being here.

"Nor sure about that," she said, her tone lighter rubbing her index finger across her upper lip to indicate the thick moustache he'd been growing. "Ages you." She dead panned.

"just trying it out" he said flatly, avoiding a rude eye roll.

"well it ages you," she repeated.

"look-" John began but was cut short.

"I'm not your mother. I've no right to expect it." She said defensively her hands up in a similar gesture , though the paid was clear in her voice.

"No," he said, not sure if he was trying to correct her or agree.

"But just one phone call, John! Just one phone call would have done." He hated this, hated that he'd hurt Mrs. Hudson one of the sweetest people he knew and there she was looking like she'd cry and because of him.

"I know," he answered quietly, staring at his hands unable to look her in the eye for the moment.

"After all we went through!" She protested again.

"Yes." He was on a roll with his monosyllabic responses. She deserved a better answer. He gave a deflated shrug finally looking her in the eye.

"I am sorry." He told her with all sincerity. What else could he say? A small smile pulled at her lips before sitting down beside him.

"Look, I understand how difficult it must have been after...after" she couldn't bring herself to say the words either it seemed.

"I just let it slide, Mrs, Hudson, I let it all slide." He tried to explain. "And it just got harder and harder to pick up the phone somehow." He heaved a sigh through his nose staring at his hands for a moment. He felt better, telling her these things, but he felt raw from it. "Do you know what I mean?" He asked. Hoping she could relate to the pressure that one phone call had after so much time had passed. He'd thought about it often, but each time he'd stop himself because he'd felt like he'd ignored her for too long.

Mrs. Hudson let out a sad sigh and grasped his hands. The awkwardness suddenly evaporating and all things forgive, they could be on the road to mending properly now. After a few more moments of silence the kettle began to whistle and she got up and set about pouring the tea for them both.

"Mycroft tells me you've let out our old flat to someone," he began. He felt slightly betrayed, but it was more than time for it to have happened.

Mrs. Hudson smiled brightly before looking at him. "A very sweet young thing, a little younger than you I believe. She's from America. Oklahoma apparently, never been there, having only lived in Florida with Mr. Hudson before his arrest." She explained before seeing the look on his face. She hurried to reassure him. "Her stay is under the condition that she not remove anything of his. Everything is more or less the same. She's respected this wish. It was actually Mycroft who got me to agree to let it to her. Apparently she is a family friend of the parents." She explained. That caught John's attention. She hadn't been to the funeral, and she'd never been mentioned by either of the Holmes brothers.

"What's her name?" He asked curiously. If she was someone who was a friend of the Holmes family, and she was respecting Sherlock's belongings by leaving them all intact, then he felt a little less ill about a stranger living in his old home.

"Miss Amanda Doyle." She told him happily. "She is cooking me dinner tonight as a thank you for all my help. Something you boys never did before," she huffed half heartedly.

John couldn't help but chuckle. The woman deserved to have someone around that treated her kindly and did for her on occasion. She was right he and Sherlock had been abhorrent tenants, treating her more like a maid and cook. Though in his defence she always did those things even when he did protest. He'd have to introduce himself to the woman upstairs. He nodded when Mrs. Hudson suggested just that and slowly got up form his seat. Giving the woman a hug and peck on her cheek before heading for the stairs. He wasn't entirely sure he was prepared to see the old flat, but if he didn't it would only become harder to later.

"I need you to give this matter your full attention Sherlock, is that quite clear?" Mycroft instructed impatiently as his younger brother dressed in some proper clothes as apposed to those disgusting rags he had on earlier.

"What do you think of this shirt?" Sherlock asked, tucking the shirt tails into his trousers as he evaluated himself in the mirror. Mycroft seethed, he wasn't paying this any mind!

"Sherlock!" He snapped impatiently. He wanted to get out of this god damned place and back to his comfortable chair in London. He couldn't do that until he was certain Sherlock was fulling appraised of what he needed to do and had all the relevant information.

"I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft." Sherlock finally answered, twisting from side to side as he continued evaluating his appearance. Mycroft was accustomed to Sherlock being overly finicky about his dress, it agitated him. "Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in. Feel every quiver of its beating heart." 'Always the damn drama queen.' Mycroft thought, trying to deduce why his baby brother was fussing over himself so much.

"One of our men died getting this information," Anthea was saying, sounding rather put out by his brother. Mycroft placed his hands on his hips and gave the normally silent woman an annoyed glance before returning it to Sherlock. "All the chatter, all the traffic concurs, there's going to be a terrorist strike on London, a big one." She finished as though that said everything for someone like Sherlock Holmes. Sweet thing, she really could be dim sometimes.

"And what about John Watson?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the information and he pulled on his blazer, straightening and re straightening the collar.

"John?" Mycroft asked in confusion. What could the former soldier have to do with anything?

"Hmm, have you seen him?" He asked. 'Ah and there it is,' Mycroft thought triumphantly. The reason for the fussing and the lack of interest. He was anxious to get back to London to see his friend. 'Does he really believe it'll be that simple?' He wondered.

"Oh yes, we meet up every Friday for fish and chips," he answer d sarcastically. Sherlock looked at him and rolled his eyes, but Mycroft caught the glint of disappointment over the lack of news about his friend. Rolling his own eyes he gave a slight nod for Anthea to hand over the file he kept on the doctor.

"I've kept a weather eye on him, of course." He told him as Sherlock took the proffered folder from her. "We haven't been in touch at all to prepare him."

"No." Sherlock responded, drawing out the n as he examined a photo of John at the top of the documents inside. "Well, we'll have to get rid of that," he declared.

"We?" Mycroft asked clearly having no intention of helping with whatever it was Sherlock was referring to.

"He looks ancient," Sherlock explained as if he were insulted by the moustache. "I can't be seen wandering around with an old man." He tossed the file on the desk and went back to fussing over his blazer. Letting out a sigh of excitement.

"I think I'll surprise John." He told him. "He'll be delighted." A smile crossed his face.

'oh this will be good' Mycroft chuckled inwardly.

"You think so?" He asked Sherlock aloud. He really was clueless. Sherlock hasn't even heard him. Just kept imagining his big dramatic reveal.

"Hmm pop into Baker Street, who knows, jump out of a cake." He glanced at Mycroft as if to ask him what he thought of the idea.

"Baker Street?" He asked instead. "He isn't there any more." That got his attention, Sherlock's head jerking to look at him, his expression serious and confused. "Why would he be? It's been two years." Mycroft explained slowly. A bit of the fun dried up when he noticed the brief flicker of sadness cross his brothers face. Despite whatever he said, he did still want his brother to be safe and relatively happy. Not that he would ever admit that. "He's got on with his life."

"What life? I've been away." The sas crept back into his brothers voice as he covered up whatever he was feeling. Sherlock turned to face him fully. "Where's he going to be tonight?"

"How would I know?" He asked, feigning disinterest. He was tiring of this topic. He had more important things to focus on, John Watson was not one of them.

"You always know."

"He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road," he conceded. "Nice little spot. they have a few bottles of the 2000 St Emilion, though, I prefer the 2001." He was rambling he knew, but he didn't care, giving Sherlock time to think over the information he'd shared with him.

"I think maybe I'll just drop by." Sherlock announced.

"You know, it is just possible that you won't be welcome." He warned quietly.

"No, it isn't." He sounded as though he thought Mycroft absurd, funny, he felt the same about him. "Now where is it?" He asked abruptly putting an end to the discussion,

"Where's what" he asked his little brother innocently.

"You know what." He stated plainly as Anthea stepped back into the little office, holding out the familiar wool coat that Sherlock Holmes was rarely without. A smile spread across his face one again and he slipped it on once more, flipping the collar up.

"welcome back, Mr. Holmes." She said to him. Sherlock was turning to leave, believing their business was finished.

"There is just one other matter of business I am obligated to discuss with you," Mycroft called out walking towards his desk just as Sherlock started out the door. How he enjoyed jerking his brother back at a whim. Sherlock turned back to him, an expectant look on his face. Mycroft slipped a blank Manila envelope from johns folder and held it out towards the younger Holmes.

"What is it?" He asked impatiently, striding forward to snatch the envelope out of his brothers hand and opening it. Inside were two black and white photos of a woman. Sherlock did not recognise the young woman in the photograph but instantly noting the room behind her.

"Who is this, and why is she in my flat?" Mycroft could hear the tones of anger and confusion in his voice and smirked at Sherlock.

"That, brother mine, is you're new flat mate. Miss Amanda Doyle."

Amanda hummed to herself as she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a fluffy orange towel. In spite of living in the home of a dead man she was feeling extremely chipper. It was her second full day in London and she'd managed to organise nearly all of her belongings apart from some boxed marked for the kitchen. She'd ordered take out earlier and has sat on the floor going through one box that had many of her cook books. Some she'd placed in the kitchen counter near the kettle and knife block, while others she stacked and debated on where to place them. Kitchen or shelf? Growing tired of the project she'd thrown her trash into the garbage and gone to shower before bed. It was already past ten o'clock in the evening. Sitting on the warn leather armchair she'd fallen asleep it the night before she continued to hum to herself as she brushed out her hair, thinking back on the previous night. She'd briefly met John Watson the evening before, the man whose room she now lived in. He'd been really kind towards her.

~When Mrs. Hudson had brought him up she'd been condensing the bookcases. Staying as true to her word about respecting the belongings if Mr. Sherlock Holmes but needing some space herself. She'd successfully managed to shift everything to one side of the fire place, the side closet to the open windows that now hung bare as she washed the draperies, while managing to keep them all in some semblance of the same order.

When John had entered he'd stood in the door frame silently observing the changes that were so drastic despite the minute scale and subtly. Every surface was cleaned and polished, the couch has been treated with a conditioner for leather, the pillows fluffed. The TV that once sat on a tray on the floor now sat on the wide shelf the to the left of the fireplace. His chair looked like it's been shampooed and fluffed. It stood brighter than it had been when she arrived and she momentarily wondered if she'd crossed a line in her sorting and cleaning. It was hard for her to tell what had been from disuse or was just kept that way.

"You've certainly brightened this place up," he finally spoke, bringing his attention to her, giving Amanda the barest of smiles before extending his and in greeting.

"It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Watson." She greeted him smiling brightly. She couldn't help notice how he looked her up and down as though he were studying her. It made her feel as though she were trying to pass a test.

"Call me John, please." He looked around and noticed the kitchen, sparkling and clean. Then he noticed the brand new refrigerator and barked with laughter, a sound that sounded horse from disuse. Knowing that he'd lived here with Sherlock, had worked with him, she suspected he hadn't had much cause for laughter like that in a long while.

"Mind you, he would have hated every bit of it. Would always shout at Mrs. Hudson when she'd try to tidy things up a bit. Called is organised chaos, he did." He was talking more to himself and was walking in slow circles before his eyes landed on the violin case resting stop the cluttered and messy desk. Amanda looked to see what had caught his eye.

"I'd thought about cleaning it up, but it help like an invasion of privacy some how. I didn't know where to put the instrument. I haven't gone near the other bedroom." He smiled at her, had thanked her for letting him visit and told her he was grateful to have someone that seems so nice there to keep an eye on Mrs. Hudson before hurriedly saying good bye and leaving.

Mrs. Hudson has apologised for John's behaviour but she waved her off. She suspected it must have been difficult being there, changes or not. She held no hard feelings towards the handsome, if somewhat haggard Doctor.

Dinner later on had gone well. She'd made her signature Chicken Marsala over home made mashed potatoes and green beans along with bottle of red wine. All of which Mrs. Hudson praised throughout, embarrassing Amanda. After she'd left she'd stayed up cleaning a bit more. The curtains had been replaced and hung closed over the floor length windows and a fire was burning happily. By the time she'd finished everything she'd been willing to touch, she'd fallen asleep in the warn leather armchair next to the fire.~

Amanda had just finished dressing into a pair of grey Capri night pants and a white camisole when she hear her landlady screaming downstairs. Heart sinking she grabbed a can of wasp killer that she kept for protection. She had remembered reading a report about using wasp killer in place of pepper spray because it had a much farther reach and hurt like a bitch, so she'd made sure to purchase some earlier that day.

Racing down the stairs two at a time she was prepared to spray whoever was down there in the face when she stopped dead at the sight before her. Mrs. Hudson was hugging and kissing a very tall man who was currently bent over with her hands on his face. He looked extremely uncomfortable until the commotion of Amanda storming down the stairs distracted them both to look at her. Mrs. Hudson was practically bouncing with joy repeating "I can't believe it!" Over and over again. The unknown man had stood up straight and was straightening his coat while eyeing her with a raised brow.

"I-I heard scr-screams..." She stammered in confusion. Mrs. Hudson has started apologising profusely for scaring her and started rambling about her surprise at the strangers arrival. But Amanda was hardly listening. She stood on the steps, nearly eye level to him, unable to take her eyes off of him. His thick mop of brown curled, his long face, defined cuspids bow upper lip, and those shocking eyes. She'd call them blue but she could swear there was gold, or green in them. Apart from a small gash on his lower lip and some bruising on his node, he was utterly striking. They kept staring at one another until something Mrs. Hudson said broke through.

"I'm sorry, did you say Sherlock?" She asked in disbelief looking between the two of them. "How is that possible?"

"I assure you Miss...Doyle is it? That it's completely possible since I am standing right here." He said assuredly, almost like she was missing something completely obvious. She sucked in a sharp breath,

"You know who I am?" She asked.

"No, but if you would be so kind as to gather your belongings and move out of my flat, I'll endeavour to be grateful,"

"I beg your pardon?!" She asked in surprise at his audacity.

"You heard me, pack your things and be on your way," he repeated, voice smug.

"Oh the hell I will," feeling her temper rise she turned to her landlady and gave her a tight smile, "Mrs. Hudson, ma'am, I hope you have a pleasant evening. Good night" she said before spinning on her heel and marching back up the stairs and closing the door behind her.

A/N: Well I hope you've all enjoyed that! I needed a little something to focus on along side my a hobbit story. Please review!

Cheers!

T.T.