I typed this between 12 a.m. and 2 a.m. so I apologies if there are any spelling/grammar errors. If it's anything to drastic please tell me. this my first Sherlock Fanfic, so please comment and tell me what you think.

Sherlock returned to his little, cheap flat. He closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. Something he hasn't truly been able to do for a little over year. Ever since he fell to his death. He knew there were people after him. People who needed to make sure he was dead. Moriarty's men.

But now finally, finally, they were dead. The last one, shot through the head. And now, he could come back. Show people that he was, in fact, not dead. Sherlock was more than ready to see everyone; Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, even Mycroft, and most of all John.

The very next morning he would pack up his few possessions and leave for London. Sherlock tried to sleep that night, but he hadn't slept in weeks and sleep just didn't come easily to him anymore. Especially when he was so excited. Maybe if people had lost interest in him, he could go back to being a private detective again. Finally at around two in the morning he gave up and filled a plastic grocery bag with his few belongings. He wrapped his scarf around his neck and left.

It was about halfway through December and the streets were white with snow. Despite the bitter cold, Sherlock decided to start walking home. Two hours later, his feet were soaked and numb and he finally hailed a cab. The ride to baker Street wasn't short, but it was short enough that his clothes didn't dry.

Beginning to feel a little sick, he paid the cabbie and stepped out into the snow again. The door to 221b was lock and it took him a while to get it opened. Finally he threw the door open and stepped into the flat. It was about five a.m. so John and Mrs. Hudson would be waking up soon any way. The flat was almost pitch black and Sherlock could barely see as he ran upstairs to Johns room and waited outside with his hand on the knob, afraid to open the door. What would he say?

Hey, John, I'm not actually dead. It was all just a trick. So, how have you been?

While he was lost in thought Mrs. Hudson came upstairs wearing her nightclothes and holding a frying pan. She let the pan fall loosely to her side when she saw him. "Oh, john, it's only you. What are you doing here? And so early. Is there something wrong?"

Sherlock felt the wall beside him, for a light switch. Then in one fluid motion, he turned the ligt on and faced her. Sherlock couldn't keep the amused smile off his face. Mrs. Hudson let a small cry of surprise escape her throat before she dropped the frying pan. It cluttered loudly to the ground but neither of them flinched.

Her eyes were wide and mixed with so much emotion. Slowing the truth dawned on her and she reached out and touched his face gently. Feeling that he was in fact there she slapped him as hard as she could manage. Sherlock raised his hands and rubbed away the sting.

"Y-You're alive!"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I am alive and I'm glad to see you. Is John here?"

Her happy smile was replaced with another sad look as she shook her head. "John moved out a month after you… uh… disappeared. He talked a lot about going back to Afghanistan. I can get you his new address. He might still be there."

Sherlock sat on their old sofa, staring at the smile on the wall. Mrs. Hudson came back about thirty minutes later with an address on a slip of paper, a plate of eggs, and a cup of tea. "Don't you dare say you don't eat eggs. You look like you haven't eaten since… then. Haven't slept either. I will give you the address when you finish eating." He smiled at her, annoyed but also grateful. Then he looked at the eggs, disgusted, before shoveling them into his mouth.

Finally after his plate was clean she handed him his jacket and the address. He thanked her and ran out.

As much as Sherlock wanted to see John, he had other places to be. First, Mycroft's office. As he walked through the halls to his brothers office, a place he had only been to a couple times, people gave him questioning looks, some people mumbled or whispered something, but Sherlock didn't even glance at them.

He knocks loudly at the office door. His brother's tired voice told him to come in. Sherlock slipped quickly into the office and stood right in front of the desk Mycroft was working at. "Yes?" Mycroft didn't even glance up from his work. The desk was mostly clean; there were a few documents Mycroft was filling out. Another stack of documents were beside him, sitting on top of a familiar looking newspaper. It was the paper telling of Sherlock's suicide.

Mycroft still hadn't looked up, so Sherlock cleared his throat rather loudly. His brother's pen stopped hid-word. Then fell, splashing minute drops of ink on the paper. Mycroft slowly raised his head and looked at Sherlock. His eyes were instantly brimmed with tears but he quickly blinked them back and picked up the pen again. "Welcome back, Sherlock."

"What is that it? Aren't you even glad to see me?"

Mycroft set the pen gently on the desk this time, stood, and slowly walked over to his brother. He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Then, did the most unexpected thing ever. He pulled Sherlock into a hug. "Welcome back."

Taken aback by the hug, Sherlock awkwardly put his arms around his brother. They stood like that for only a second more before pushing away from each other. "I suppose you have other people to see then?"

"Yes, I guess I do." Sherlock moved quickly to the door and slipped out again.

Right before he closed it he heard Mycroft say, "I missed you, little brother."

The next place was the police station, for Lestrade. He was in his office with Anderson and Sally. Sherlock didn't even knock, he just threw the door open and walked right in. Sally and Anderson, who had been facing away from the doo, turned around at the exact same time.

All three of them shared the same look of horror and shock. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Shouted Anderson.

"Ah, always the first one to say something unintelligent. Nice work, Anderson. I didn't miss you stupidity at all.'

Lestrade finally found his voice, but it cracked as he spoke. "he said it, but I was thinking the exact same thing. We thought you were dead Sherlock."

"That was the point."

Sally shifted uneasily. She obviously felt guilty for his 'suicide. And she should. Lestrade stood up and awkwardly shook Sherlock's hand. "I'm, uh, glad you're not dead. Things have been hell without you here. There are plenty of cases for you if you're up for it. We can even try to keep your name out of the papers."

"That would be great Lestrade. I'll be by this afternoon."

"So, how did John take your, not being dead?" Sherlock looked at the ground. "You haven't told John! You came here before seeing him? What is wrong with you Holmes, he was absolutely devastated. You know, a few weeks after you died, we had to drag him off the hospital roof in handcuffs. I don't know what he was thinking, he may have even been drunk, he kept mumbling that he was going to find you. That he was tired of waiting."

Sherlock couldn't believe what he was hearing. "H-He tried to jump after me?'

"Yep. He was forced to leave London and live with his sister for a week after that. I don't know who I feel more sorry for. John or Harry. What are you waiting for? Goodbye, Sherlock.
He pointed at the door and Sherlock left without another word.

He wandered round in the snow before coming to a stop in front of the hospital. Kicking the snow away he found the sidewalk still faintly stained with blood. But that wasn't why he was there. Minutes later he found himself in the morgue staring at Molly. She didn't hear him come in, she was busy, lost in her work.

He cleared his throat and said he name as loudly as he could. She glanced up, and then in less than a second was I his arms. She was choking on air and crying. Sherlock held his arms around her and running his hands through her hair until she finally stopped crying.

"I thought you were dead, Sherlock. How could you do this to me? To anyone?" Then another round of tears before she finally pulled away and wiped her red rimmed eyes. "Sorry about that. I'm alright."

"Good. That's, uh, good. I need to talk to you, about john.'

"Where is he? I would think him reluctant to leave your side."

"That's the thing. John doesn't know I'm alive, I was afraid to tell him, I don't know how he'll react."

"Probably pretty badly. But he needs to know. You have to tell him. Now." Sherlock nodded and turned to leave. "Wait, Sherlock." He turned back to her and she kissed him. Then gripped his shoulder. "You know I have to slap you right?"

"I'm surprised you haven't already. But could you do it on this side, Mrs., Hudson already did the right." She smiled. Then slapped him for 'dying', leaving a red mark.

"Now, go tell John." He smiled back and left.

It took only a few minutes to find Johns flat. Sherlock opened the door, since it wasn't locked, and went inside. It was cold and dark. Like no one had been there in a really long time. Sherlock yelled his friends name a few times before he remembered that Mrs.' Hudson said he might not be there. She said he talked about going back to Afghanistan.

"No, no, no." Sherlock muttered to himself. He was too late. For the first time all day, he had tears in his eyes. He didn't even hear the front door slam shut. The lights flicked on and Sherlock turned around the see John drop the bags he was holding.

Their eyes met for a brief second before John fainted. Sherlock caught his friend before he hit the ground and carried him to the sofa. The soldier looked awful. His eyes were bloodshot and how looked starved. Sherlock sat beside John until he woke up. It took John a second before he muttered "I'm dreaming, aren't I? You're… gone."

"No, you're not dreaming at all. I'm alive.'

"One more miracle, Sherlock for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Oh my God, how?"

"It's not important right now John. I missed you so much." They sat like that, crying, Sherlock on the floor, John on the couch, for almost an hour before Sherlock finally stood up. "So, Lestrade said he had a case for us. You up for it?"

"Are you bloody serious?"

"Do you want to?"

"Yes. Let's go."

Minutes later they were outside, eyes red, and smiling about a murder.