Sherlock stomped his feet outside 221B, trying to get rid of some crusted dirt on his shoes as he let himself in. He waited to let Mrs Hudson in, before closing the door behind them. It smelt stale in there, but at least it was warm and dry.

"Well, that was a long day, wasn't it, Sherlock?" she said, taking off her coat and hooking her shoes off. "They looked so happy. Mary was in labour for so long. And John – good God, his face when the baby was born! And she is darling, wonder what they will name her? They are going to be so busy with a baby at home. My mum always used to say, life is never the same, they come into your life and keep you busy for the next 18 years!" She glanced up at Sherlock, who was standing near the banister with his hands in his coat pockets, a resigned, polite look on his face,….God, she has been prattling about the same things for half an hour…. "Well, you best have some rest, it has been a very long day," she repeated and turned away.

Upstairs, Sherlock wasted no time, shedding his clothes (smell of disinfectant, hospital, baby….), stepped into a hot shower, trying to wash off the day. He stood under the hot jets, head tilted up, face lax, eyes closed, and finally let a deep, shivering breath out. 19 hours in the fucking hospital…waiting, trying to keep his act together, trying to be there for John. Waiting for the birth of a baby, who seemed to mock any hope he had of having his old life back, him and John, against the world... John, who had moved on, who had chosen Mary, who was not gay, who still nursed anger and mistrust towards Sherlock, who had looked so happy at the wedding, who had forgiven Mary… All his work, his two years away fighting, struggling, running, scars bearing testament to his multiple injuries….He did it all for John, only to find upon his return, that not only had John moved on, but everything he had done was undermined and brushed aside in a blaze of self righteous fury.

But at least John was safe and happy, that should be enough, shouldn't it?

What was he supposed to do, Sherlock? He was a father now, Mary undoubtedly loved him, enough to shoot Sherlock to keep their marriage alive… the only option really… what any man would do, did you really expect him to leave his wife and child and climb into bed with you… move back to Baker Street…..I am happy that he is happy… that is the right sentiment… sentiment… when did I become sentimental?... What's wrong with me…get a grip…. picket fence and daughter and Mary and suburbia and neighbours and neighbourhood parties and having sex with Mary, and birthday parties and picnics and PTA meetings and domestic bliss and..…. How can he stand this? This mind numbing tediousness of a structured life, how to people live like this… how can this be his choice? He will have no time, no time for cases, and danger, and adventure, and smirks at crime scenes, and laughter after successful chases and nagging Sherlock to eat and sleep…. No more that was amazing's…. no more, no more… emptiness, ennui, purposeless bloody life….wanting the unattainable, stop it, just STOP IT…

Sherlock was nothing if not aware; he was aware of the compulsive, repetitive, pointless thoughts that seemed to have taken over his normally structured mind ever since he had returned from the dead. Ever since he realized the reorientation of his place in John's life. A daily struggle of living on, making do, unable to function at the giddy intellectual heights he was used to. When there was a case on, it distracted him; his focus shifted to the job at hand as he bent his considerable intellect to solving it, clutching at it even more desperately than he had before. But afterwards, it was the same- thinking, agitating, pacing, fighting a losing battle against frustration, anger and self-pity. Loneliness…

Head bowed now, chin to chest, he thought ,"I'm so tired, so tired… so sick of this," this cataclysm of emotions, stringing him along like a yo-yo, somehow managing to strangulate his entire reason, gripping and squeezing, until sometimes, frighteningly, rational thought became close to impossible. He was a devotee of logic, science, rationality. "This is not who I am, this cannot go on." He suddenly had had enough.

He straightened his head, arms outstretched, palms pressing on the tiles in front of him and ordered himself, "Stop." Just one more concession, he wished to allow himself. Concentrating on emptying his mind, he methodically started closing all the open windows on the monitor of his mind. Close, close, close…. Empty, empty, empty.

Slowly he focused on his body. Muscles taut with tension, face held in a permanent blank grimace lest his actual emotions spill over. He instructed his body to relax, to let go. He felt the jets of water beating on his head, his shoulders, finding its way down his body and pooling under his feet. Flexed his hand to feel the texture of the tiles, flared his nostrils to smell the aroma of soap and dampness. Just one more concession….. as he let himself feel. Pain, anguish, hurt, anger, jealously, envy, frustration, confusion….. and channeled it through himself, and let the tears flow, let the sobs wrack his entire body. He did not bother to stifle the sounds, the hitches of breath.

Several minutes passed, he cried. He waited patiently for the torrent to subside. As the tears slowed down and the breathing settled, he struggled to not succumb to exhaustion. And then very deliberately, he whispered to the closest thing to a deity he knew… his own self, the titanium core he knew he possessed, "Please, please..." not quite sure what he was asking for, knowing however that it will be granted. And slowly the tears stopped, the back straightened. He turned off the shower and dried himself briskly. He looked at himself in the mirror as he wiped his face, eyes red rimmed but clear, jaw set with a stern determined expression. He told himself softly, "Welcome back."

An hour later, Sherlock Holmes was lying down on the sofa, fingers steepled under his chin, head relaxed and resting on the armrest. The posture helped him, his subconscious recognized it as his thinking pose and found no difficulty in focusing meditatively inwards. He closed his eyes and started thinking.

Fact: John was married with a child, happily married and very unlikely to return to Bakers Street. He has made his peace with what he wanted in life. Sherlock was no longer a priority.

Fact:For all the difference it made the last 5 years may as well have not happened, he was back here. Alone.

Fact : No, not alone. He had learned that he had people who cared about him. Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, and yes John and Mary.

Fact: He was grieving the loss of his life with John. He was sick of the grief. Any romantic involvement with John was a fantasy, both because John was not gay and he was married.

Fact: London, solving puzzles, challenging his mind still held the same allure it always had. But now, they were no longer enough. He had glimpsed contentment (of sorts) and wanted it again.

Fact: He had been secretly miserable since his return, had second guessed himself all the time, was teetering at the precipice of depression and the brink of giving into drugs. Have given into them a few times, he reminded himself.

He allowed his neurons to wrap themselves around the facts, methodically, logically as he tried to find a solution. The house was silent, the room pleasantly warm, as Sherlock wriggled his frame to a more comfortable position to continue reflecting on this conundrum.

Several minutes later, he woke up with a gasp. Before his mind had caught up to his waking state, his lips parted as he whispered, "Oh…. Of course, Kesh." It was the work of a moment to spring out of the sofa and retrieve his mobile from the table. Stupid, stupid…. Why had he not thought of Kesh through all this? Kesh used to say, "When a situation is unacceptable and out of one's control, the only way ahead is a change of attitude." Well, his subconscious seemed to have provided the solution during his power nap.

He closed his eyes and mentally raced through the corridors of his mind palace. Swerving into his India wing, he ran up the stairs to reach Kesh's room. He found the note with his phone number and raced out again.

When sentiment is ruining your life, how do you deal with it?- SH

He sank down in his chair this time, tapping his phone to his lips absent-mindedly. He allowed his mind to saunter back to Kesh's room. It has been a long time…. I should have thought of him straightaway. How much out of it have I been, wallowing in self pity? He sat down on the divan sofa he had decorated Kesh's room with. And waited.

He came back to the buzzing of his phone, signaling an incoming message-

The only way to overcome attachment, is to take it out of you and examine it impersonally, with detachment, from a higher vantage point. Once the intellect starts its logical discriminative process, it fades away -–Hrishikesh

Sherlock read the text, brow furrowed as he thought intensely. His eyes darted around as he dissected the nuances of what Kesh had just said. A slow smile started nudging his lips.

I have missed you, but I haven't, you know?- SH

Seconds later-

I know. And I have missed you. Any chance of coming over here? – Hrishikesh.

Let me think about it-SH

I will always wait for you, Sherlock. Say Hello to Mycroft, from me- Hrishikesh.

How did you know I was going to call him?- SH

I know you - Hrishikesh

The half sob, half chuckle that escaped Sherlock sounded loud in the flat and nearly startled him. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he let his head fall forward and felt amazed at as tears fell out of his eyes, trickling down the angle of his nose, perched precariously over the tip as eventually they fought the losing battle against gravity and splashed down. Gosh, when was the last time he had felt this….hopeful?

On a roll now, he quickly typed-

John and Mary had a baby daughter today. Mother and baby are fine. John is ecstatic- SH

And pressed 'Send'.

A minute later, the phone buzzed-

ETA 40 minutes- MH

Smiling now, Sherlock wiped his face with his hands and leaned back, lassitude having claimed every muscle. Normally this degree of laxity occurred only after masturbation. Mentally shrugging his shoulders, he closed his eyes and gave himself up to sleep.

The sleek unmarked black car, slowly turned into Bakers Street. Mycroft clutched the handle of the bag containing chicken biryani and tawa chicken, in readiness to leave. The tantalizing aroma enveloped the car interior.

It had been 35 minutes ago that his phone had buzzed with Sherlock's incoming message. Mycroft had read it with wonder- an unsolicited message about trivial banality, without hostility, and not asking for Mycroft's help….. the last time it had happened was well over 6 years ago. Sherlock had become clean of drugs and before he started working for the Met. They had spent the evening together, talking, communicating. Sherlock being open, himself. Mycroft cherished the memory of that evening and it had kept him going through the past 6 years.

For many months now, he had been forced to stand by and watch, as his once proud brother slowly disintegrated, defeated by sentiment. Each time he saw him, his body seemed to be pulled tauter, tightness around his eyes, as if he were holding himself together by the sheer force of his indomitable willpower. It was obvious to anyone who cared to observe, but that was the problem wasn't it? People either do not observe or are too self-immersed to care.

God knew, John Watson was a good man but Mycroft resented how Sherlock's association with him had shaped the past three years of his life and taken so much from him. He hadn't been able to bring himself to attend John's wedding. The very prospect of celebrating the union, that would put the final nail in the coffin of a future his brother envisaged and had sacrificed so much for, made him want to upchuck.

And now this…. A cry for help? A desire to share? A new turn on life's road?

He stepped out onto the curb, barely able to wait as the car slowed down and gestured his driver to leave. He opened the front door with his keys and climbed upstairs.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, eyes closed, body lax. "Mycroft," he murmured and slowly opened his eyes to look at his brother. Mycroft stood at the threshold, taking in his appearance. He could not remember the last time his brother had looked this…..serene, relaxed. Face inviting, beautiful eyes focused on Mycroft, burning as they reflected the unmatched brilliance of their owner's mind. It occurred to Mycroft with the sudden jolt of an epiphany, that this, this is probably what nature was aiming at with evolution; a body of such perfect beauty and form and a razor sharp rational intellect.

Shaking himself mentally, he moved to the kitchen. "I've brought Indian food."

"Indeed, the smell woke me… it's good." Sherlock followed him to the kitchen and they moved in harmony to get plates and cutlery.

For a while no words were spoken, none necessary, as they sat on the kitchen table eating in companionable silence.

"Scotch?" Sherlock's voice broke the quiet after they had finished.

"Yes, thank you."

They retired to the armchairs, moving them so that both could watch the fire-place but angled slightly so that they could look up at each other.

Several moments of quietude followed. Mycroft felt peaceful, attuned for once at Sherlock's wavelength, unwilling to break the harmony of shared food, drink, minds.

After what could be minutes or hours, Sherlock got up and fetched his phone. Scrolling down till he reached recent texts, he then handed the phone to Mycroft.

Mycroft accepted the phone with raised eyebrows, without saying a word. He read the texts, let them percolate through his brain, pulling various threads together.

"The lost month in India?" he finally asked Sherlock. An approving look came on Sherlock's face. That was the wonder of talking with Mycroft, one did not need to spell things out.

"Yes."

More quiet ensued, each lost in their thoughts.

Mycroft remembered it well….

News of Sherlock's capture outside Lahore, the frantic evacuation to Delhi, doctors reports: fractured ribs, haemopneumothorax, acute respiratory distress, need to put chest drain, will be put on a ventilator to help him breathe, grade two concussion, blood loss due to blunt force trauma to the abdomen, lacerated liver, emergency partial hepatic resection…

48 hours of vigil at an unconscious Sherlock's bedside, four more days before he was off the ventilator and start moving around; arguments about the insanity of continuing to pursue Moriarty's network, Sherlock's adamant assertions that he needed to pursue Moran, the need to go to Serbia as soon as he could, to finally eliminate all threats to John…. Mycroft for the first time in his life shouting at Sherlock, Sherlock's stubborn response…..

And the next day, Sherlock was gone. Despite moving heaven and earth and with all his considerable resources, Mycroft could not find him. Ten days later, a single untraceable message on his mobile-

I am fine . Will finish the job and come home soon- SH

Finally, Mycroft's men were able to pick up Sherlock's trail 27 days later in Kathmandu, Nepal. He then made his way to Serbia and did manage to finish the job.

Mycroft let the silence stretch, unwilling to disturb Sherlock's line of thought. He wondered if Sherlock would elaborate as he waited patiently. Abruptly, Sherlock got up again from the chair, moving towards the kitchen.

"Refill?" he asked.

"Thank you, yes."

Nursing his second tumbler of 18 year old Scotch, he waited. Sherlock seemed to be making up his mind and Mycroft was happy to wait.

"I went to Rishikesh. I had a nebulous idea of disappearing somewhere in the communities at the foothill of the Himalayas. I was waiting for some food at an eatery, standing out on the road, amongst throngs of public and then I just collapsed. Next thing I knew, I had woken up at Kesh's house. I stayed with him for twenty-four days. He got me the medical assistance I needed, sheltered me, let me rest, fed me, talked to me…. he saved me..."

Sherlock's voice trailed off as he lost himself to memories...

I need to go back, Kesh. I have to finish what I started.

If you feel so strongly that you must, then go ahead. Always follow your convictions. If you win, then you will have achieved what your heart desires. If you lose, you may have learned something important about yourself. If you have the right attitude every situation is a win-win. Bear in mind, the outcome may or may not be everything that you want. When you decide to come back, I'll be waiting for you.

You mean IF I come back

You will, my friend... you will.

He remembered Kesh's smile as he sent him on his way, full of confidence and understanding.

After a while, Mycroft said, "Tell me more." His voice pulled Sherlock out of his reverie.

"His name is Hrishikesh," he said softly. "He saved my life, Mycroft. More than that, he saved me. Everything was so abysmal, I had thought of just giving up. Kesh kept me going. I wish you could have met him. You and I... we are brilliant, but he is something more...he is sagacious."

Mycroft looked intrigued. "What does he do?"

"He is a scientist, a physicist to be more precise, does some sort of consulting work with CERN."

"Higg's boson?"

"No, dark energy research actually. I did not have the luxury of going into details then."

Mycroft hesitated, wondering if he was about to cross a line. Sherlock observed his brother squirming. He smirked, "Out with it, Mycroft."

"Were you …. intimate?"

.With a deep breath, Sherlock steepled his fingers, "More intimate, than I have ever been with anyone." At Mycroft's raised eyebrows, he continued, "Not in a sexual way, although things were progressing in that direction by the time I left. No, it was the rare intimacy born of understanding, without pretense or prejudice. And of course, for the first week, Kesh and Haridas, his man servant were nursing me. They were reluctant to let the locals know of my presence, for my own safety. Sponge baths, peeing in jars, washing my behind after I'd evacuated my bowels, chest physiotherapy, assisted feeding and the like." Sherlock waved a vague hand.

Mycroft tried to imagine a Sherlock so weakened, his jaw clenched. A sense of immense relief surged inside him. Whoever this Hrishikesh was, he owed him a deep debt of gratitude.

"Have you been in touch with him all this while?"

"No. Kesh is like me in that sense. Neither of us are the sort to keep in touch and exchange banalities"

Sherlock stood up from his chair and neatly folded himself to sit cross-legged near Mycroft. His eyes were calm and a trifle unfocused, still lost in thought.

After some time, Mycroft put his hand on Sherlock's head and stroked his hair. "And now what?"

Sherlock sighed after a while. "I want to go, I feel I have to."

Mycroft's hand stilled. He tugged at the hair gently, angling Sherlock's head till it faced him. His voice was solemn, "Then that is what will happen. I will have Anthea make the arrangements. Where will you have to fly to? When would you like to leave?"

"New Delhi. Then Dehradun. And then a car to Rudraprayag. It is at the foothills of the Kedarnath peak of the Himalayas."

"Is that where he is?"

"Yes. And, tomorrow, Mycroft. I need to leave soon, I need to see him as soon as possible."

"I'll arrange it."

Mycroft leaned forward to press a kiss on Sherlock's forehead. He felt Sherlock's smile against his cheek.

"Would it be running away?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know. Would it?"

"I need to do something. This can't go on. That way madness lies; let me shun that. No more of that," Sherlock murmured quietly.

With a deep sigh, Sherlock lay his head on one of Mycroft's knees, one hand clutching a pant crease like a child. He stayed motionless for a long time, in silent reflection, allowing Mycroft to continue stroking his head.

To be Continued...