Chapter 1

"I need a case, John."

"Here we go again," John muttered, and looked over his newspaper. "What do you want me to do? Go murder someone so you can figure out how I did it?"

"Thank you for the offer, but no, you're far too predictable."

John rolled his eyes and resumed reading. Sherlock got up from his armchair and started pacing around the room. He then pulled out his cell phone and started staring at it.

"Oh for God's sake Sherlock, Lestrade will call if he has something."

"Not if I find it first," Sherlock replied, scrolling through the police reports.

"Well he can't give you the high profile ones, not anymore. You know that."

When Sherlock came back, Lestrade let him start working on cases again, after much begging and pleading on Sherlock's part. That was the only time John had ever seen that happen, but he wasn't surprised. The cases were Sherlock's lifeline. Without them, he was adrift, and very bored. But since Sherlock's reputation was now tarnished, Lestrade could only work with him discreetly. A select handful of detectives knew about the arrangement, and unfortunately not all of them approved.

"Call Molly up, maybe she has a dead body you can take your frustration out on," John suggested. Anything to keep him from setting fire to Baker Street just to see the effects of sulfur on bricks.

"Hmm, I'm not that desperate. Maybe later." At that moment, the phone rang. Sherlock answered it before it finished the first ring. He had a brief conversation before he hung up and sprang towards the door. "Coming, John?" he yelled behind him as he ran down the stairs.

"Of course, because I have nothing better to do," John muttered as he grabbed his jacket and went after Sherlock. "Back in a bit, Mrs. Hudson!"

They took a cab to an abandoned warehouse near Greenwich, where police cars were clustered outside. They entered through a side door and found Lestrade and a few other officers near a small office in the corner.

"In answer to your question, Lieutenant Donovan and Anderson aren't here," Lestrade said as they approached.

"Good, I didn't feel like dealing with Dumpy and Grumpy today," Sherlock replied. "What have we got?"

"Two security guards, both with guns in their hands. It's not clear whether they shot each other or themselves. But here's the weird thing: this warehouse has been abandoned for a year. Why were they here-"

"And what were they guarding?" John finished. Lestrade nodded.

Sherlock entered the small office and abruptly said,"Get out." The officers that were in there stumbled over themselves to comply. Sherlock's eyes raked over the crime scene, taking everything in. John and Lestrade entered just behind him.

Two men in security uniforms sat in desk chairs, facing each other. Their heads were tilted back, a gunshot wound in the center of their foreheads. Their limp hands loosely held standard police-issued handguns. Sherlock snapped on gloves and knelt to further examine the bodies.

"We haven't got any I.D. on them yet, their badges are missing. And the only fingerprints on the guns are their own, but that could mean anything," Lestrade told the men.

"Hmm, ok. But what's strange is that these two men are exactly alike, down to their positions and the gunshot wounds," John said, kneeling by Sherlock.

"Very astute observation, John," Sherlock said, using his magnifying glass to inspect the wounds. "These men are completely alike. They're twins."

"But they don't look alike. Oh, paternal? But how-"John said, thinking out loud as usual.

'I don't feel like explaining right now. Inspector, I believe you're looking for a hit man with a strong case of O.C.D."

"O.C.D?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, obsessive compulsive disorder. I know you've heard of it."

"Well yeah, but why do you think this hit man has it?"

"Look at the bodies. Everything about them is alike down to the position of their hands, except for their faces, which the killer was probably annoyed about. But this was a clean and professional kill, so it has to be a hit man. Obviously he wouldn't leave fingerprints… Come on John, I've got work to do." Sherlock swept out of the room and left John and Lestrade standing there with confused expressions on their faces.

"I never get used to that," Lestrade said.

"You and me both. See you later, Greg," John replied, following Sherlock.

When they got back to Baker Street, Sherlock immediately left again after gathering a few things from his bedroom. John knew he wouldn't see him for a few hours, so he settled in at his computer to do some writing. It had been exactly six months since Sherlock came back, and he was behind on his blog entries. His readers were getting impatient. Harry kept emailing him asking when they were going to solve another case. He didn't think he would be able to continue the blog entries because of the hate directed towards Sherlock, but when he wrote that he was back there was an outpouring of support and excitement. It was strange, but it made John happy to think that at least some people still believed in him. And for some bizarre reason, the hit counter was still stuck at 1895. He made a mental note to ask someone about that. He sat for a moment, trying to think about what to write. His thoughts suddenly took a turn to the night Sherlock came back, something they rarely did. He tried to keep those thoughts in the part of his mind that remembered the day Sherlock jumped, but tonight they seeped out.

John had been sitting in his usual chair by the fireplace, attempting to read a book. He had just settled back in to Baker Street, after three years of avoiding it entirely. He didn't know what made him come back, but this was his home, for better or worse. The worst part was, everything reminded him of Sherlock. The smiley face full of bullet holes on the wall seemed to mock him, reminding him of once happy days. There were still remnants of his wild experiments in the kitchen, which John had no idea what to do with. He had only gone into Sherlock's bedroom once, to see if there was anything useful. He had wound up sitting on the floor holding his spare blue scarf, fighting back tears. After that, he avoided the room like the plague. He read a few more pages of the book, and then gave up. He threw it down and sat back, staring into the flames in the fireplace. He heard footsteps on the stairs and assumed it was Mrs. Hudson coming to offer him another cup of tea.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm fine, thanks," John said, still looking at the fire.

"Well that's good. I'll let her know if she comes around."

John sprang up from the chair and whirled around. There he was, in his trench coat and blue scarf, with his ridiculous cheekbones and smirk playing about his lips, which he was trying to fight back and turn into a somber expression. He took a step forward into the light. He was exactly how John remembered. They looked at each other for a long moment; John's face was full of shock, Sherlock's was full of guilt.

"You…you're…" John swallowed and tried again. "You're supposed to be dead."

"See that's the thing John, supposedly dead and actually dead are two very different things. You think Irene Adler was the only one that could fake death?"

"But-but I saw you jump. I saw you fall on the concrete sidewalk. For God's sake, I touched you!" John's voice grew steadily louder as he talked. "What the hell are you doing here, Sherlock?" It was the first time he had dared to say his name in almost three years. John dragged his foot a step in his direction. His fingers involuntarily curled into fists. He immediately noticed this and concentrated on unfurling them. He didn't want to hit Sherlock – at least not yet.

"I'm…I'm sorry, John. But you have to understand-"

He shuffled forward another step. "Understand what, Sherlock? You need to understand what I went through. Mrs. Hudson was a mess, Lestrade about went into shock, and Molly – actually I haven't really seen Molly much since it happened, but I'm sure she-"

"Molly was in on it, John. She helped me fake my death."

"Oh, that's nice," John said angrily. "You trust her and not me?"

"The assassins had to see your reaction, John. They had to believe I was dead. Moriarty apparently disregarded Molly, so she was safe."

"What? What assassins? You know what, never mind that for now. Sherlock, I still have nightmares about that day. You don't know the hell I went through when you jumped. You don't know what it's like, to lose your best-"John broke off, realizing that he had never called Sherlock his best friend to his face.

"I do know, and I'm truly sorry, John."

John was taken aback by the sincere note in his voice. He looked into Sherlock's eyes, and found true remorse. He took a step. And then another and another, until he was right in front of him. He reached out with a shaky hand to touch Sherlock's shoulder. He exhaled sharply when he found that he was indeed flesh and bones, not a product of John's imagination. He abruptly pulled Sherlock in and hugged him tightly.

"John, I-"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John mumbled into his shoulder. "This is the only time you're ever going to let me do this, so let me take advantage of it."

Sherlock smiled and briefly hugged him back before letting go.

"John. John, wake up. John!"

"What? Yes, yes, I'm awake. What do you want?" John slowly raised his head up from where it had fallen on his desk. Sherlock was staring down at him with a wild look in his eyes, a look John had seen many times before.

"I think I've got something on those security guards. Come on, time to go." Sherlock grabbed his scarf and threw it around his neck before stalking out the door. John sighed, turned off his laptop, and followed Sherlock like he'd always done, and like he always would.