Home.
Behind the subconsciously fluttering eyes of Sherlock Holmes, the notion of home left him feeling ambiance. He felt old, worn, and tired, as if over the last three years he lived a thousand lifetimes and many, many more in the time before New York City. The idea of home left a gravitational tug upon his heart for a place far away from the bed within which he occupied, a place across the pond that sounded somewhat like New York City but wasn't. The idea of home conjured a small yet intimate collection of faces: an elderly woman, yes, that must be Mrs. Hudson; a man of grayish hairs and a lost face, ah, yes, that must be Lestrade; and another man, shorter, not so much of the military sort as of late but his loyalty never wanes—John Watson. These faces, among a few more, brought a small twist of pain inside him when his mind thought of "home".
Sherlock Holmes is most surely not the sort of man to give respect to dreams, let alone pay mind to his own. No, he never had patience for dreams, but that never stopped his mind as he slept. No, for the last three years, he paced his mind palace in his sleep and watched fragment after fragment of memories back in England before the Reichenbach fall. And yet, on a crisp mid-October morning, the notion of "home" did not stay behind his eyelid where it belonged. Instead of staying behind the palace door, it returned with him to the waking world and lodged itself like a stone within his chest, weighing heavily.
It was upon that morning after slowly opening his eyes and sitting up in bed to stare out of the east-facing window that Sherlock Holmes decided it was time to return home. After a long smoke on the terrace overlooking the grimy street the weary man packed his duffel bag, most of what is packed being various thrift store t-shirts and jeans, a couple of sweaters and some socks and underwear. He dressed himself in a pair of straight-legged jeans, a little worn and ripped on the legs' bottoms, a plain black thermal long-sleeve layered under a moss-green t-shirt, a simple black hoodie, and, finally, a slate-colored beanie topped his head. All of these clothes are a far cry from the sort of apparel he wore back in London; nevertheless, they all served their purpose well—no one expected the consulting criminal to regularly dress in such a fashion on a day-to-day basis, let alone keep a disguise like that up as long as he has. It all was what he could afford with what little he earned from odd jobs and corner performances. During his time in New York he managed to afford a modest flat and a violin, an instrument that paled in comparison to the one Sherlock left in London, but it still managed to enchant him with its own strange voice and worn condition.
After he set the instrument in its case beside the duffel bag, he reached into the darkness under his bed and pulled out a cardboard office box. Setting the lid aside, he paused a moment to look upon the familiar articles inside—a long black coat, a dress shirt, dress slacks, a pair of dress shoes, and a worn out scarf to complete the whole ensemble. It was all that he could salvage to leave London with without anyone noticing and here it all was again, waiting to be worn again. Sherlock almost smiled at the thought, but the expression disappeared as he hastily places these articles in the duffel bag also.
"Mr. Keyes!" Sherlock heard a woman holler from down the stairs, "Mr. Keyes, why the banging? You'll wake the children."
"I'm sorry Mrs. Hernandez," Sherlock apologized as he donned the duffel bag's strap on one shoulder and carried the violin in his opposite hand, "I just received word that I must be going home."
"Oh dear."
He came downstairs to the landing where the landlady was hollering. "I'm afraid that my uncle Charlie has passed away and the family expects me back for the funeral." Sherlock Holmes always had a talent for lies, and yet he felt almost pained to see the weathered and wrinkled face of Rosie Hernandez, second generation Puerto Rican, appear to be torn and upset to see him go. During his stay in New York City he never met a more compassionate soul whose hospitality is almost unheard of save for that of Mrs. Hudson, and yet she is the strong sort who would never take shit from anyone, not even Sherlock Holmes, also known as Mr. Keyes, wanderer and street-corner performer. To Sherlock, Rosie Hernandez reminded him of Mrs. Hudson almost too much.
"Will I be expecting you back?"
"I am afraid not."
"Oh."
The sound of her disappointment pained him a bit. He moved to hug the woman and give a small kiss on the forehead as comfort. "You have been a gracious host."
"And you have been the most cooperative tenant I have had under my roof to this day. I do wish you luck on your journey home."
"Thank you."
"Godspeed, and maybe we will see each other again."
Sherlock held his tongue and stepped out the front door, pausing long enough to debate on a second glance. Deciding against it, he continued down the steps and disappeared up the street.
Sherlock Holmes never seemed to have an issue with getting what he needs, usually it would just turn up after a time or he would sniff out a deal or two from a broker somewhere. He never really admitted that some things he acquires are by the whim of Lady Luck, not even the last suit on the last ship of the season that is cheaper than those of richer patrons, but just expensive enough to where he could have the quarters to himself during the seven-day voyage. No, instead of Lady Luck, Sherlock Holmes believed it was by the powers of persuasion and a very, very good forged ID that he managed to secure a ticket upon the ship the same day that the notion of "home" refused to stay in his dreams and instead lodge itself in his waking consciousness.
It did not take long for him to locate his room, shower, change into his more formal wear (which consisted of a nicer t-shirt, slacks, a pea coat, and a different beanie), and acquire maps of the ship's interior and layout once aboard the H.M.S. Neptune. As a man who did not feel inclined to eat often he felt it was expected of him to wander around and "appear" to be socializing.
He did just that, wandering top to bottom of the ship, greeting crew and creating small talk to pass the time, getting the feel of where everything is, learning to orient himself accordingly. At the end of the day, just a few hours before departure, he decided to make reservations at a smoking lounge called the Calypso, located one floor above the Lido deck. Upon entering the establishment, the aquatic theme, décor, and atmosphere of the place felt entirely too cheesy for his taste and did not hesitate to express his opinion to the waitress with whom he made the reservations with.
The waitress looked about at her surroundings, a couple brown curls bouncing from her back to her shoulder, smiled sheepishly and shrugged. "I know what you mean."
"This is a smoking lounge, am I right?"
"Yes, you can smoke in here."
Sherlock nodded once, almost out of a small hint of pride as he scanned the room for an ideal spot. His sharp gaze landed upon a particular table which cozily sat in the corner of the room, one setting of the table next to the window, but just shady to not be too noticeable.
"Is it possible to make voyage-long reservations at a particular table, namely the one in the corner just over there?" he asked, and pointed at the table in discussion.
The waitress's eyes furrowed at the thought, and fell silent for a moment. "Uhh, well, let me check the listings here." She flipped a few pages over. "I think I can squeeze you in for a reservation like that. Sure." She scribbled a few marks down and secured Sherlock his weeklong reservation.
Not feeling too inclined to smoke or eat there at the present time, he returned to his cabin to briefly sleep on the sofa.
The ship had not quite yet reached its departure hour, soon yes, but not quite yet when Sherlock Holmes felt "famished" for nicotine and something small to eat. He arose again and made his way back to the Calypso Lounge. And yet, when he walked halfway into the bust atmosphere with the droning of chatter, murmurs, and porcelain plates tinkling with the forks and knives he stopped dead in his tracks. He seemed a bit surprised upon seeing James "Jim" Moriarty sitting there at the table where Sherlock had made reservations to sit during his meals on his voyage back to London. The man had his head turned to stare out of the window, and expression of sheer boredom covered the whole of his face as his mouth chewed at gum like a cow chews on cud. The ear buds of his music player were firmly planted in his ears, suggesting to Sherlock that his archenemy more than likely did not notice his approach, let alone, the sort of man Sherlock appeared to be. For some odd reason, Sherlock seemed disappointed to find that this man is still alive after the incident, frustrated that he alone is not the only one who survived the "fall", and that the site would forever be the place where Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes ended their quarrel in the mass of dust and blood.
But no, here is the very man sitting there at the very table Sherlock Holmes reserved solely for himself. Perhaps Moriarty knew Sherlock Holmes had survived as well. It is entirely possible after all, even after all of the work Sherlock had gone through to make sure that no one, not even John Watson, Lestrade, or poor Mrs. Hudson would know that he had lived. That is why he went to the United States in the first place, to hide away from England and to not place himself at risk in being seen there.
Figuring that standing in the doorway for a moment longer would create an awkward air, Sherlock stepped closer, pulled the chair out for himself, and took a seat on the opposite side of Moriarty. He somewhat shrugged his coat off of his shoulders and onto the back of the chair. He folded his hands together in his lap as he watched his nemesis stare outside. The sky grew darker and darker as the storm clouds gathered and pressed closer and closer together, until when the time arrived for the ship to depart, the rain began to trickle softly and fall. It was only until the ship gently jerked again and shook the crystal chandelier just slightly that Moriarty turned his bored gaze from the outside world and onto Sherlock Holmes.