A/N: hey chickens, this is my first piece of writing in a while, i've been in france for the past two months and have finally started my new year's resolutions which include posting to FF a lot more often, just another nobody hoping for the acceptance of her peers so if you like i would really appreciate a review to tell me what you thought and all that jazz :)

thanks for clicking the little link to my story and hopefully continuing past this to read!

Dakota xx

He made sure that he looked different for his return home. Coming back to London meant that he was once again recognised and was surrounded by people who possibly new his name or his face. It was different when he was in France or Germany or when he spent those three months in Australia because the people were different. Coming back required work on Sherlock's behalf.

For a start, the hair had to change. The dark locks had become part of people's attraction towards him. He didn't understand it. It was simply easier for him to not visit a hairdressers or anything of that nonsense and so he just let his hair grow like that, until of course, John made an appointment at the salon down the road and forced him to go there - something about colonies of mice living in it or some other exaggeration.

John.

Anyway, the hair had to go.

Opposite direction. Red. Light red. He had just found the bottle at a supermarket in the US and decided that that would be a suitable colour to change to. It was unimportant really the colour. The length too had to change. Much shorter, though still had the same irritating curls at the ends. He has considered just shaving it all off himself but he could only imagine his mother's horror if she ever saw it like that. The old lady had been through enough, tough as she was, and despite being on the other side of the world, in the end, it did matter and he would hate to think what Mycroft would make of it when he saw. It had been three years since the two brothers had laid eyes on each other but Sherlock knew that Mycroft realised that he wasn't dead. He easily deduced the fact and could also have easily found his consulting detective brother, but he understood Sherlock's reasoning and why it had to be done. So Mycroft left his brother to himself, keeping tabs on him from a distance. He respected his brother's choice, and there was a gentleman's agreement between the two that had never existed before. But Sherlock needed some room this time, and for once, Mycroft allowed it.

As is the most obvious part of any disguise, the dress sense had to change too. This one had to be more of a conscious decision on Sherlock's part. The things he felt most comfortable in would no longer suffice. He had to tone down the 'Sherlock'. Jeans, t-shirts, hoodies, this was what made up Sherlock's wardrobe these days.

Although, it was more of a suitcase than a wardrobe. He had to travel light, keep moving in case he had to deal with another of the remaining threats and the few left that worked alongside Moriarty to keep his global enterprise running. Whenever such a threat was eliminated, he needed to move again, keep on his toes.

Finally, he felt that what remained of Moriarty's empire has dissolved, the men, the fortune, the name – it was nothing now. Therefore, it was time to return back to his home turf. His job done and he was ready to get back into other things to occupy his time. He didn't stop to think if Mrs. Hudson was still around, what had become of the flat, if Scotland Yard would once again solicit his assistance. He never in his life stopped to think of the scenarios like that. He wanted to come home, back to London so that was the only option there was.

The only thing that he ever thought about when he was on the plane from Rome to Heathrow Airport was his old colleague. The Doctor Watson. The only thing he wondered about. He was adamant that he and John should not meet again. He hoped that John had left London in the years he had been gone. Had a family, done all those things – the wife, the children, the dog, the people mover, the country home. He knew that John was still alive though. And that was really the only thing that made Sherlock care. He knew that Mycroft would have contacted him if something had happened, or that through his own methods he would have discovered if anything happened to the Doctor.

For the years he was gone he had tried to remove Watson from his mind. To pretend that he too – like astronomy and politics – was not important, but not matter how hard he tried, he couldn't do it to the memory of his best friend. It was physically impossible. The friendship that the two had forged was seared into Sherlock's mind, like nothing else ever had been before. John's memory burned brighter the more he tried to cover it over with information about tobacco blends or the secrets that handwriting can conceal. Sherlock would just have to deal with something in his mind aside from his work. It was new. But Sherlock discovered that he did not mind that memories. They made him happy. Almost as happy as seeing the blank faces of those in the room around him when he was called in on a case, or the looks of shock and admiration that sometimes came along with deductions and results. It was better that any stimulant that he could find, the heroin couldn't match it. The drugs and tobacco had become dull and Sherlock for the past few months had found himself addicted or attracted to those things anymore – he was addicted to remembering.