This has TEH spoilers!

I've tried to keep some things exactly like the episode, others I've changed, like how some people meet and such.

Tell me what you think. Do you like where this is going? Would you like more? Is there something terrible that needs changing?

Please let me know, and I hope you enjoy it xx

It was dark and cold and the night's silence was disturbed by the sounds of people chasing each other, of helicopters in the sky and lights pointing to the ground. There was a faint barking in the background, a dog, but the figure kept running. Right into 3 people. He felt a pain on his side, and put a hand there, just for it to brush past something solid, a sleeping dart. And just like that, his unconscious body fell to the ground, his face smothered by the grass and mud beneath him.

Once he awoke, the man knew what had happened and what was about to happen. His body was stretched; his arms were bound and stretched outwards and apart, but his legs were left free. He still had his trousers on but they had removed his shirt. Wounds still healing and deep scars from long ago, but not that long according to his estimation, were revealed. There were multiple whip marks still bleeding— the rest had already scarred –and other scars from knives and brass knuckles adorned his body. The room was cold and did little to prevent him from shivering. The room was dank and humid and horrible. The paint had mostly fallen from the wall but there were patches where it was still falling. There was a lone window behind him, barred, of course and a light-bulb in front of him, in the centre of the room; the only light source apart from the moon through the window.

From what he could tell, he'd been stuck here for around 3 months and 17 days but he wasn't certain. Each torturer had different methods than the last. One of the previous one had taken to pumping him full of different drugs, all with their side effects and consequences. He was not certain exactly which type of drugs had been used on him, but he knew the aftermath of them had been horrible. After the man with the drugs had been swapped for another, and the drugs had stopped, he'd gone through withdrawal. For at least 4 different types of drugs.

A tall man stood next to him, pacing backwards and forwards—forwards and backwards—waiting for this moment. The moment he would wake up. Looking upwards but not moving his bent head, he could see a figure sitting down in front of him, next to the wall, and he knew that steel door keeping him in was behind him. One look at the man's shoes was enough to let him know who exactly it was that was sitting down. The man pacing, however, was another matter entirely.

The man pacing was not friendly, by any means, not that the man sitting down was, but at least he was an ally. An enemy but not like Mr. Pacing. That was his arch enemy and not his biggest concern right now. He could that the man had ran out of patience. The man grabbed his hair, with one of his brutish and rough hands, and with the other, punched him in the face. He pretended to wake up from it, knowing that if he did not, then the man wouldn't stop there. He felt another punch, this time to his stomach, and couldn't stop himself from grunting from the pain.

From his past experience with the other 'interrogators' he knew that this one would be like them. Sloppy at getting answers but good at leaving marks. Just what he needed, more physical scars to go with his mental ones. The shackles holding his arms rattled as his body shook from the physical attack.

"You broke in here for a reason." The man started in Serbian. He was moving in front of him now, and picked up a lead pipe the size of his arm. "Just tell us why and you can sleep." Blood leaked from his mouth onto the floor. The man walked up to his face, brandishing his weapon and spoke once more. "Remember sleep?" he asked rhetorically and sadistically, about to hit the man with the pipe on the head. The Serb was stopped by the man's whispering.

"What?" The man asked and leaned closer to him. He grabbed the man's head and held it high. The mas whispered some more into the Serb's ear before he was interrupted by the man sitting down. His feet were crossed, on a wooden stool. His impatient voice made the Serb drop the man's head.

"Well? What did he say?"

The Serb looked at the man hanging from the chins and bewildered, repeated what the man had said to him, out loud.

"he said that I used to work in the navy…where I had an unhappy love affair." The Serb stopped for a moment, but once the man had said 'yes…' impatiently, he continued. "That the electricity isn't working in my bathroom…and that my wife is sleeping with our next door neighbour." The man finished, grabbing the other's head. "The coffin maker…" he waited for the other to continue, "and…if I go home now…I'll catch them at it. I knew it! I knew there was something going on." And with that final remark, the Serb all but ran out of the room. Leaving the tortured man and his arch enemy alone.

"So, my friend." The man sitting down began. "Now it's just you and me." The man got up and continued. "You have no idea the trouble it took to find you." The man picked up the other's head. And in English, continued.

"Now, listen to me. There's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry but the holiday is over, brother dear." And let go of the man's head. "Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes."

Mycroft sat on his desk, perusing through some files. "You have been busy, haven't you?" he asked his brother, rhetorically. Sherlock was lying down and a barber stood above him, shaving his beard. "Quite the busy little bee." He chuckled.

"Moriarty's network. Took me two years to dismantle it." Sherlock answered back. His voice neutral, without feeling, and lacking in emotion?

"And you're confident you have?" Mycroft asked him, this time seriously.

"The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle" He said, just as seriously.

"Yes. You got yourself in deep there with Baron Maupertius. Quite a scheme."

"Colossal"

"Anyway. You're safe now" Mycroft said, as he threw the files onto his desk. He received a sound back from Sherlock, meaning he agreed but didn't care to elaborate.

"Hmm"

"A small 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss"

"What for?" Sherlock asked, sounding completely serious.

"For wading in. In case you've forgotten, field work is not my natural milieu." Mycroft stated.

Sherlock grunted as he sat up. "Wading in?" he asked back, sneering at his brother's comment. "You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp" he exclaimed.

"I got you out" Mycroft said, his voice weak and somewhat confused.

"I got me out. Why didn't you intervene sooner?" Sherlock questioned him.

"I couldn't risk giving myself away, could I? It would have ruined everything."

"You were enjoying it." Sherlock calmly said.

"Nonsense" Mycroft disagreed.

"Definitely enjoying it." Sherlock continued.

"Listen, do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going undercover? Smuggling my way into their ranks like that? The noise, the people!"

Sherlock grunted once more as he laid back down. "I didn't know you spoke Serbian."

"I didn't. But the language has a Slavic root. Frequent Turkish and German loan-words. Took me a couple of hours."

"Hmm you're slipping"

"Middle age, brother mine. Comes to us all."

The door opened and interrupted whatever Sherlock was about to say.

Sherlock wasn't sure about confronting John like this. Mycroft's security had shown that John had gone to 221b and Sherlock was just coming out of the car.

"Are you certain you do not want to wait…and…heal, Sherlock. He's waited two years, what's another week or two?" Mycroft asked him. Concern flashing on his face before it disappeared.

Yes, he was just as aware as Mycroft was, that John would respond violently, and most certainly physically harm him.

"If I can deal with the Serb's, I can most definitely handle John Watson" he said as he left the car.

Before Mycroft raised his window or asked the driver to pull away he said one last thing to his brother.

"Can you?"

The sleek, black car pulled away, and with it, Sherlock's confidence. He knew that John would not be just happy to see him; he'll be angry and upset too. But Sherlock couldn't bring himself to not be here in person. Somehow a text saying 'Not Dead -SH' was not enough. He had to do this. He knew that. But a part, deep in his Mind, his Mind Palace, was telling him that 'coming back to life', to London, was not such a great idea. He pushed it further and deeper from his mind.

He walked with his head downwards, his face hidden from view, trying his best to remain anonymous in the streets of London. It sounds easier than it is, but being a famous dead person walking around would make people start taking photos or filming him and he did not need that right now. He didn't want people to know he was back just yet. He took out the key from his coat pocket. Oh, how good it felt to wear this coat again.

He out the key into the lock, savouring the feel of it sink into the hole and twisting it. Oh, how you miss these simple pleasures once they're taken from you. The door opened slightly and he pushed it further away, opening it completely. He took one step inside, hearing the floor creak under him. Mrs Hudson wasn't in. He walked to the stairs and began climbing them, making sure to avoid the bits where he knew would make noise.

Soon he found himself behind the close door to his—used to be his—flat. The door wasn't closed, but he could only see a small portion of the room, but that was all he needed. John was sitting on his chair. John on John's chair. How he missed this! He put a hand on the door and with a gentle, but strong, push, the door was opened.

He took a step into his—their, living room. The floor protested under his weight, though he knew it would do that, years of walking in this flat let him catalogue everything, he knew this flat inside out better than almost anything else.

He spoke one word. The only word that was needed. Just a plain, four letter word, spoken with such vigour and emotion that it was hard to imagine for most, that it was Sherlock that said it.

"John"

The man in question looked up rapidly, his face in shock and confusion, and slowly he turned his head towards the doorway. Brown eyes met Jade-silver—impossible eyes. John gasped and stoop up, his face still in shock, but here Sherlock noticed the deep wrinkles by his eyes, not due to age, but to stress, because of him.

"Sherlock?" John asked, out of breath. His eyes were red and he could see that John was holding tears-anger-something back. He took a step forwards, suddenly feeling more vulnerable now. John had a way of seeing into him. A spectacular ability that made Sherlock open up to him, reveal anything to him, tell him whatever he wanted to hear. It was same ability that made Sherlock eat food after 3 days of nothing, the same ability that gave him control of Sherlock. That whenever he asked him to do something, though Sherlock would moan, he would do it. For John.

John walked so quickly, he could've ran, to him and engulfed him in a hug; unknowingly causing Sherlock pain and crushing his still-open wounds, making them bleed more onto the bandages under his shirt. He had no intention of revealing absolutely everything that had happened in the last two years to John. Not unless John specifically asked about it.

So, Sherlock would reveal to him why he thanked his death, maybe how, but he would not reveal what they had done to him, unless John asked about that in particular. Feeling John's arms around him, his breath on his neck, his chest covering him, brought back feelings he had locked away in fear of rejection. Feelings he only revealed through his music, though those around him with the exception of Mycroft, never did understand his music or what it meant or symbolised. And that was fine. He was fine with John not knowing and John not feeling the same things, but what was not fine was being away from him any longer.