Lightning cracks across the London sky, illuminating every darkened alleyway and electrifying every crack in the cobblestone but doing little to interrupt the stride of a man on a mission. He walks with determination, his long stride carrying him along the uneven roadways of his beloved city. His jacket collar is raised to protect his neck from the wind and rain while each step emits a tiny splash from beneath his shiny leather shoes. He brushes his wet curls out of his eyes and looks onward, not needing the assistance of any street lamps to navigate these streets. If it weren't for the dark and cloudy night sky, he would easily be recognized as the one and only Sherlock Holmes.
Forced to fake his own death thanks to the plan of the evil Moriarty, Sherlock has been working to destroy each chain in the mastermind's network, little by little, for a year now. Returning to London is a massive risk but Sherlock knows he can no longer bear to be away from his city for so long. Everything he's ever known, every instinct within him is pulling him back like an infant turtle to the sea; the smell of the city air, the winding roads and endless passageways, not to mention the crime. Oh, the crime. Sherlock only cares about three things in this world and solving crime is at the top of that list. London is not just his home, it is also the home of an abundance of crimes that are just waiting to be solved by the world's only consulting detective. Admitting he's missed London and solving crimes is easy, but Sherlock has a harder time admitting to himself the real reason he's come back to the city, the only other thing he cares about and misses dearly: his friend John Watson. There's been no contact between the two since the day Sherlock jumped from that rooftop but like a boat tied to shore, Sherlock has found himself drawn back to Watson a number of times throughout their time apart. Sure, everybody has their assumptions about the relationship they share, and sure they may even have a few valid points, but Sherlock is certainly not in love with John Watson. But he does love Watson in the way friends love each other. In the same way he loves London and the way he loves solving crimes, it's something he knows he can't live without. It's strange to Sherlock that someone like John, someone so selfless and brave, could befriend someone like him. He knows his friend is grieving his death, and Myrcroft' has told him something about a horrible moustache he's decided to grow, so Sherlock knows he must do something now.
As he makes his way through the stormy night, Sherlock contemplates the best way to contact Watson. Perhaps a text message would do. Simple. Fast. But far too risky; any of Moriarty's men could have Watson's phone bugged by now, patiently waiting for a text from the "dead" detective. The longer Sherlock wanders the streets, the more his shoes soak in the rain water, the chillier his thin frame becomes, and the greater the possibility of his discovery. He's running out of time. Sherlock quickly deduces, as he so often does, that he will have to do his reveal face to face. This has its risks too, however, and Sherlock knows it. Everyone in London knows his face and knows he is supposed to be dead. A disguise, Sherlock thinks, maybe I'll wear a disguise, just to get close to John. Ideas for disguises run through his mind like Olympic sprinters, his brain discarding possibilities as quickly as it thinks them up. But then Sherlock remembers something a very wise woman once told him. In fact, it was The Woman, Irene Adler. "Do you know the biggest problem with disguises, Mr. Holmes? However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait," she said. Sherlock shakes his head vigorously in an attempt to remove both the rain collecting in his pile of curls as well as the memory of Irene. He'll just have to slip into Watson's apartment and figure out the rest later. He always does.
Surely John no longer lives at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock determines. Unlike the detective, Watson is a normal human being and Sherlock knows it would be too difficult for his friend to return to their old abode. He pulls his phone out of his trench coat pocket and dials the number of his brother, Mycroft.
"Hello there Sherlock, what a pleasant surprise," Mycroft says with the hint of sarcasm that is usually present in his voice.
"Watson's new address. I need it," Sherlock sharply states. Surely Myrcroft knows where Watson has been living now, Sherlock is sure of it.
"And why would you need that, little brother?" Myrcroft teases.
"Don't do this now Myrcroft. I know you've been looking after John while I've been gone. Give me his address." Sherlock's response is met with an audible sigh and the disapproving click of Mycroft's tongue.
"My dear brother, you aren't planning on visiting your old friend, are you?" Sherlock doesn't answer and after silence briefly hangs in the air between the pair, Mycroft finally gives in. "Fine, he's living in a townhouse on Briarwood. Forty-three is the address. Prepare yourself, Sherlock, you have been gone for quite some time you know…" Myrcroft ends the call, leaving Sherlock wondering what he could mean by his last statement. He doesn't linger on this thought for long, however. He has a mission to accomplish. Sherlock takes the nearest left down a narrow alleyway and hurries on his way to 43 Briarwood. He knows a shortcut, of course.
Sherlock soon arrives in front of humble looking townhouse numbered forty-three and knows he's at the right place. It didn't seem possible but the rain has started coming down even harder so Sherlock quickly slips inside through an unlocked bathroom window. Sherlock takes a quick look in the mirror before he heads out to explore the entirety of Watson's new residence. Yikes. A pale figure looks back at him. The cold has taken the color from his skin, emphasizing his strong cheekbones and making him resemble a skeleton the two might have come across while working on one of their many cases. John's surely in for quite a scare, Sherlock chuckles to himself. The first room Sherlock enters is the bedroom attached to his makeshift entrance. A large bed sits neatly made in the middle of the room, flanked by two end tables with lamps carefully placed on them, perfectly symmetrical. It always was like John to prefer order over the chaos that Sherlock seemed to favor in the old apartment they used to share. Sherlock walks out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, taking in every detail of Watson's new life without him. The plates in the sink reveal that Watson had spaghetti and meatballs for dinner…three nights ago. The cupboards are full of jams of every flavor and a jar of cat food is perched on top of the refrigerator. Sherlock rolls his eyes at this sight. Oh how lovely. He got a cat to replace me. As Sherlock enters the living room he can't help but feel some disappointment. Where is the character? No skulls on the mantel. No bullet holes in the walls. How does he live like this? Sherlock wonders. He makes his way back to the bathroom from which he came, prepared to lie in wait for his dear friend to return home. He's most likely at the bar alone, drowning his sorrows, Sherlock muses. After all, in times of stress that seems to be the route members of the Watson family typically take.
Finally, an hour passes and Sherlock hears the clicking of the lock on the front door at last. He steps forward, placing his hand on the doorknob. Now is the time. As soon as Watson walks into the bedroom, Sherlock will step out and show his best friend that he's not dead after all. But what's that? Sherlock furrows his brow in confusion, a sensation he doesn't often feel. He doesn't hear one set of footsteps coming in from the storm outside; he hears two. And he doesn't only hear the familiar voice of his friend. Again, he hears two; the other voice comes from a woman.
"That was a lovely night, darling. I had a great time," the woman says.
"Me too. I'm glad you were able to convince me to go out," John replies happily. He sounds much merrier than Sherlock was expecting. He's supposedly dead. Shouldn't his best friend be in mourning still? It's been only a year, after all. Sherlock hears the woman give John a peck on the cheek as she agrees with his statement. Clearly the two are in a relationship, and a romantic one at that. "You know I've just been so down since…well you know. You've really helped me, Mary. I can't thank you enough. Tonight really showed me that I can do this. I can be happy without…without Sherlock. I think I can finally start to move on, finally accept that he's really not coming back."
"Oh love, I'm so glad to hear that. I knew you'd come 'round, you just needed some time."
Oh shut up, Mary, Sherlock angrily thinks. This is something Sherlock didn't expect, a deduction he just didn't deduce. Shame and uncertainty wash over him like the drops of rain falling so heavily from the night sky.
"I'm going to go brush my teeth. Meet you in bed, love." Watson's footsteps head toward the bathroom door, inside which Sherlock is still standing with his hand tightly gripping the doorknob. Thoughts run through Sherlock's mind at lightning speed, trying to decide what he should do with this new information. Watson reaches for the knob and swings the door open.
He steps into the empty bathroom and is met with nothing but rain pouring in through the open window above the toilet.
"Babe! Did you leave the bloody window open again?" Sherlock hears the window slam shut behind him as he hurries down the sidewalk away from the apartment of his best friend, away from the city he loves. With every step he takes Sherlock fights the urge to turn back, to run up to Watson's door, to scream into the night, "I'm not dead!" But he knows Watson is happy now. Probably happier now without him than he ever was with him. It was a stupid plan all along, really.
Sherlock feels a buzzing in his coat pocket, indicating a text message.
Tsk Tsk Sherlock, so close to making such a silly mistake…
Sherlock immediately knows it is sent from one of Moriarty's men. His network is still alive and well even though the ring leader no longer is. Sherlock shoves his phone back into his pocket, lifts his jacket collar around his neck, ruffles his hair, and disappears into the night.