This fanfic is based on a photo I came across for series 3 of Sherlock, but was never referred to in the canon. The photo was of John, after the events of The Reichenbach Fall, sitting near a window in some sort of pub or restaurant. Sherlock was looking in him at him, of course unbeknownst to John. I was hoping we would get flashbacks of the 2 years between series 2 and 3 (the short that came out weeks before notwithstanding). As a Sherlockian, I believe it's a story that needs to be told.

Chapter 1: Recollection

"You were the best man, the most human ... human being that I've ever known."

"You're me. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes. "

"Ok, shut up Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met…the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"

"This phone call… it's…it's my note. That's what people do, don't they….leave a note."

"Don't. Be. Dead. Just for me, just stop it. Stop this."

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock jumped up as if an alarm had gone off, and nearly fell of the cot he was lying in. He glanced around the room, slightly dazed, wiping the sweat from his brow. Composing himself, he stood up, and then walked directly into the adjacent wall.

"Damn," he muttered.

He had been here no more than a week, but a mind as superior as his should be able to remember that this wasn't the flat in Baker Street.

Baker Street.

That was a place he hadn't reminisced about in some time. What was the point? To the modern world, Sherlock was dead. Normal people may find this quite irritating…devastating, really, that their loved ones would believe they jumped off a hospital roof- their very reputation, and even worse-their mind, questioned to the point where suicide is the only way out. Not Sherlock. Sentiment was pointless. Useless, even. The work was all that mattered.

He stumbled over to the bathroom, struggling to find the doorknob in the dark. His hand flicked the light switch, and he turned on the faucet. It dripped a thick sludge before turning a light shade of brown. He cupped his hands, splashed his face and looked in the mirror. He had lost precisely 5.4 pounds. He couldn't understand why. His mind had no room for things as silly as monitoring his daily food intake, as it was just a distraction from the real work. If it wasn't related to actual hunger, fluctuating weight was normally rooted in emotion. But what did Sherlock have to be emotional about?

Mycroft, not that Sherlock cared, was busy being the British government. Mum and Dad knew he was safe, although their constant messages of worry transmitted through Mycroft were quite annoying. Molly was most likely chasing after an intern at St. Barts, and Lestrade was probably attempting (in vain, of course) to solve a case. Mrs. Hudson would be cleaning up after Jo…

John. Sherlock furrowed his brow. A feeling of guilt washed over him as he leaned against the bathroom wall. That was an emotion reserved for the weak minded who cared about things as meaningless as emotions. Still, he did feel it…or at least whatever came closest. Dealing with these types of things was not a strong suit of Sherlock's. His mind palace was a hard drive and didn't have room for superfluous emotions that only stood in the way of him and the game.

Yet, as he flicked the light switch off, turned around and stumbled his way back to the adjacent room, he couldn't help thinking of the last time he saw John. It was a Tuesday. The weather was brisk, a bit damp, and the cemetery was melancholy. There was John, standing mere yards away from Sherlock, angry, depressed, and pouring his heart out to what he thought were Sherlock's remains. To John, six feet below him was the best man he ever knew. The one who saved him from being so alone. The same man who had thrust himself off the roof of St. Barts after declaring that he was a fraud-A FRAUD? The very annoying ass whom he shared a flat with was anything but that. Antisocial? Yes. Desperately needing a filter? Of course. A bit of a drama queen? Sure. But a fraud? It was the biggest lie anyone ever hard the audacity to tell John. After asking one last favor from Sherlock, he turned away from the cold, black tombstone, and with the stature of a soldier, walked away. Walked away from his business partner, his flatmate….his friend friend.

Yes, that day was the last time Sherlock had seen John in nearly a year. And although he had missed their friendship (in the odd moment when he had time to think about it), destroying Moriarty's criminal network was all that mattered. Perhaps he could return one day, but what was the point of hoping for something that may never come to pass? It was distracting and robbed Sherlock's mind of things that he would need during his reconnaissance tomorrow. He was tracking a criminal that had ties to Moriarty, and had to infiltrate this part of the web before moving on to the next target.

Sherlock tuned on a light in what could loosely be described as a bedroom. On the wall was a map clumsily taped to the battered brick wall. It was covered in red markings and notes written in a special code Sherlock had invented, should the map be compromised. This was the web Moriarty weaved before killing himself mere inches away from Sherlock on that day. Now it was up to Sherlock (with limited help from Mycroft, begrudgingly, and as sparingly as he could help it) to destroy it mark by mark, with the vengeance and resourcefulness that Moriarity had once used to rip Sherlock's own life from its seams. Something he was painfully reminded of as he looked around the hole in the wall he was currently squatting in.

He glanced from the corner of his eye and saw that his next target would take him hours away from London. "Nope! Stupid. No time," he said. Then the curl of a smile ran across his lips. It would be nice to 'see" John….just to check in, naturally. He could also visit Molly and see if any patients in the hospital had ties to his next target. He would be in and out of the city and no one, especially Myrcoft, would be the wiser.

Of course there were a few things at Baker Street he still needed to collect. That would be the real reason he was going back. Obviously. It was a lie of course, one so rational Sherlock was willing to tell it to himself. The items were concealed from John (the floorboard in Sherlock's bedroom, the removable tile in the shower) so he would never know the difference. Of course his drug stash was still there as well, one that he kept hidden beneath the springs in his mattress. Mycroft would have had a right fit if he had seen Sherlock take it after Lazurus was given the green light. But sometimes it would be weeks before he could get a lead into Moriarty's network, and he had to keep his mind busy.

"That's that, then," Sherlock agreed. "I'm going back to Baker Street."

TO BE CONTINUED….