With a sigh, Sherlock stared into the soulless eyes of the last of Moriarty's little minions. It had been three years of the world thinking that he was buried deep in the ground. At this point, they were all probably sure that he was decomposed, not an ounce of flesh left. Now, he had to face them.
As he boarded the plane to London the following morning he let his exhausted mind wander to his friends—his three friends—and tried to imagine how they'd react to him. In a little less than 5 hours he would find out.
First he had the car Mycroft hired take him to the home of Greg Lestrade. His new flat was small and cheap with just one bedroom, a miniscule bathroom, and a kitchen/living space combined with only the most basic amenities. Sherlock realized quickly that the man wasn't home and picked his way in and sat on the lone chair in the living space with a long suffering breath.
Lestrade had just finished up another 12 hour shift of some of the most boring work he'd ever done in his time with the Scotland Yard when he caught sight of himself in outside window of his flat. His hair had grown greyer, his belly larger, and the bags under his eyes more pronounced. He hardly recognized himself.
Drained footsteps echoed through the building as he trudged up to his flat and opened the (already unlocked?) door.
His breath caught in his throat when he saw who was lying, sound asleep, on his sofa.
"Sherlock?" he whispered, hardly daring to believe what his eyes were seeing. "Oh, I'm definitely losing it."
Despite that, he grabbed a fleece blanket from the cupboard and draped it over the detective that he thought was dead.
Sherlock awoke the next morning to the smell of coffee and sunlight sneaking through cheap blinds.
Lestrade's flat¸his brain supplied.
He opened his eyes and sat up to the sight of an older, greyer, more exhausted Lestrade staring at him over his mug.
"You look like hell," Lestrade spoke casually. His eyes were sad.
Sherlock turned to the mirror across the tiny room.
He saw a man who was even thinner than he was before, cheekbones far too pronounced. He saw wild hair going every-which-way. He saw purple bags under his eyes. He saw dark brown stubble with a hint of ginger sprinkled in. He saw eyes that lost their spark. He saw a tired mind.
"I could say the same to you," he finally spoke. His voice was haggard and his composure was not that of the Sherlock that everyone knew.
Lestrade snorted.
"Well after I got demoted after your spectacular escape three years ago I've been worked to the bone for little pay."
"Obviously. And your wife finally left you. Took the kids, too."
"I don't need this right now, Sherlock."
"You're angry with me."
Lestrade didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"Moriarty's followers were going to kill my friends," Sherlock spoke up over two minutes later. Lestrade grunted. "You were included in the list of people he would kill if I didn't do what I did."
A small gasp was the only reaction Lestrade gave.
"Why are you here?"
"To see you. To let you know that I'm alive."
"Go see John, Sherlock. He's still at 221B."
"I know."
Lestrade stood and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder before leaving the flat to go to his job that barely paid the bills.
Campbell's Village was Sherlock's next stop that afternoon. He used Lestrade's razor and kitchen shears to shave his face and cut his hair.
"I'm here to visit Mrs. Hudson," he told the receptionist in his best 'polite' voice.
"Room 221," she replied after a quick search.
Sherlock smiled. Sentiment.
A short elevator ride and he arrived at her independent living flat and knocked on the door with a deep breath.
The door swung open and there stood Mrs. Hudson, as wonderful as ever.
"Oh," she squeaked as the tears began, "I knew I couldn't get rid of you that easily."
The hugged, she dragged him in for tea and biscuits, and things seemed almost normal.
"Have you seen John yet?" she asked around 30 minutes later.
"No."
"You should."
Sherlock nodded.
He stood outside of 221B for 10 minutes, just breathing and thinking.
When he sat on the plane, he deduced how Lestrade would respond. He was correct.
He deduced how Mrs. Hudson would respond. He was correct.
When he got to John, however, he had no idea what would happen.
With a quick exhale, he raised his hand and knocked. He heard a groan and then two footfalls followed by the plonking sound of a cane hitting the floor.
Step step plonk step step plonk step step plonk
The door opened.
John stared.
Sherlock stared back.
An entirely silent conversation passed between the two of them.
Where the fuck have you been?
I had to leave to protect you.
You should've taken me with you.
I couldn't do that.
Do you have any idea how painful these past three years have been?
Yes. Because I've lived them too. You didn't need to go through the things I did.
I would've rather been with you than here alone, you bastard.
Sherlock gave a smirk and took off running down the stairs.
John dropped his cane and ran after that complete arsehole.
Sherlock led John all through the streets of London once again.
John hadn't felt so alive in three years. He hadn't run since Sherlock, he hadn't felt the feelings of London since Sherlock, he hadn't breathed since Sherlock. And now that Sherlock was back, all John felt was rage.
With a final burst of energy, he caught up with the insufferable consulting detective and tackled him to the ground.
John gave him a punch to the face.
"Three fucking years, Sherlock."
"Let me make it up to you."
With that, Sherlock grabbed the back of the Army doctor's head and they kissed right there on the dirty London sidewalk.
All was right with the world.