Alright folks, it's sequel time. This is the follow-up story to 'The Search of Greater Value'

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

The Principal Axiom

'The principal axiom in their theory was: Everything can be proved, and everything can be disproved; and in the process, one must profit as much from the folly of others, and from his own superiority, as he can'

Moses Mendelssohn

Chapter 1

'Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment'

Buddha

Present Day

"Right, lads, no one is leaving this room until all those bits of paper under your chairs have been picked up!" Harriet's voice carried across the noisy classroom to the back where a group of year nine boys had been messing about for the duration of the lesson putting Harriet's patience to the test in the process. It was the last lesson on a Friday afternoon and both Harriet and the year nine class had seen enough of school for one week. "You have until I count down from five otherwise you can join me at lunch time on Monday," that spurred them into action, "I'm sure I can find you something to do, maybe some pencil sharpening?"

Finally the bell rang. Harriet dismissed the class and stood back as thirty year nines charged for the door at the back of the classroom, within seconds she was left with peace and quiet. She sat back on the red swizzle chair behind her desk and scrubbed her hands over her face.

"Thank god for Fridays," Harriet looked up sharply. Libby, the schools other history teacher strode into the room and perched on one of the desks, "What happened in here?" Libby asked.

Harriet smiled, "Year nine, the little buggers can't follow instructions." The pair shared a laugh over the carnage left over from Hurricane 9RH, the worst form in the year.

"Drinks?" the humanities department usually went to the pub on the way home on a Friday. At that moment nothing was more appealing than a cold glass of wine to the twenty eight year old teacher as she shut down her battered school issue laptop and picked up her bag. The lights were turned off and the door shut as she left the classroom.

-x-

John Watson stepped out of Heathrow's terminal three and let the full force of the British weather hit him, "forgot how bloody cold it is," he zipped his jacket up to his chin.

A soft laugh followed his comment, "You moaned about the cold air conditioning on the plane, how is this any different?" the woman next to him teased as she refrained from pointing out that it was a fairly warm day for late April.

"It just is," John laughed along with her.

The woman watched with an amused smile as he attempted to hail a cab from the pickup point. "Having trouble there?" she spoke with mirth as she watched the ex-army doctors two failed attempts at finding a cab.

John pursed his lips in irritation, getting a taxi had never been his forte. "Go on then if you think you can do a better job," he challenged.

"Oh I can," she was so sure of herself as she pecked him on the cheek and stuck out her arm getting a cab on her first try. John had known someone else with the ability to get a cab whenever they wanted.

John thought returning to London would be hard but so far it had been a pleasant return. The woman sat next to him in the back of the cab, the woman he was in love with, had made it so easy for him. His apprehension upon his impending return to Britain from Uganda had been quashed by the easy-going nature of Mary Morstan and for the first time in weeks he was glad to be returning home.

-x-

The Pig and Whistle was its usual busy self as the humanities department found themselves a seat in the window of the West Country village pub. Harriet sipped at her large pinot grigio as conversation turned to the upcoming school holiday. Sue, an RE teacher and mother of three, was going to London for a few days to take the children sight-seeing. Harriet was apathetic towards holiday plans as soon as London was mentioned. Her thoughts were instantly on Baker Street somewhere that they hadn't been as of late. She was no longer seeing the old black oak beams of the country pub with its floral paper, panoramic photographs and guest ale advertisements instead she saw a green leather chair, a periodic table on a bedroom wall and a microscope. "Harriet?" Libby's voice cut through her thoughts.

"Huh? Oh yeah sounds great," Harriet's mind went into auto response mode. All eyes were on Harriet at her blatant show of disinterest. "Sorry," she apologised, "I'm just tired. It's been a long week." That excuse was better than the truth.

Phil, the only geography teacher in the school, laughed heartily and added in his money's worth in a thick Cornish accent, "Year eleven reports keeping you busy? Told Alan I'd get round to 'em dreckley." Harriet mumbled a reply but it went unheard as Phil's interest was diverted to Libby, "Did you have Tom Trelorn back for detention? He is a real heller." Shortly after Harriet made her excuses and left for home no longer in the spirit to enjoy the company.

For the past two and a half years Harriet had made a stone cottage in the Cornish village of Devoran her home. Her mother protested at such a rash decision six months after Sherlock's death. "Well tough, I already put a deposit down," Harriet had argued with her mother over the move. She'd used the money that Mycroft refused to take back to pay the deposit. "I want a fresh start away from everything and besides I can't live with my mother forever," Harriet added to smile to show her mother that she really was okay with the decision.

"But does it have to be so far away?" Mary Thornton, who was still using her witness protection surname of Dawson, worried for her daughter knowing that Harriet was taking great steps to ensure the world believed that she was okay. Moving so far away was a way of proving it. Harriet wanted to be far away, away from anything that might connect her with Sherlock Holmes she even went as far as to change her surname to the one her mother had taken on. She was now Harriet Dawson.

Harriet had to fight very hard not to dwell on the past or even to think of the future. Instead she focussed on the present taking each day as it arrived. Her minds recent wonderings to the past put Harriet in a foul mood as she drove home along the narrow country lanes enclosed on both sides by high stone walls and hedgerows. "Oh for crying out loud!" Harriet exclaimed to herself as she bought the car to a stop. The road was blocked by cows. A farmer was seeing them across the lane from one field to another. She tapped her hand on the steering wheel in irritation. All she wanted was to go home and have a bath, another glass of wine and read her book and not sit and look at cows. Oh how she hated the bloody countryside.

As she waited for the road to clear boredom took over and her mind wandered onto dangerous territory again. It wasn't healthy. It never was. No matter how hard Harriet tried she would always find herself thinking of the perplexing consultant detective. Sometimes they were fond memories of laughs shared with John at Sherlock's expense but other times they were the touch of a hand or ghost of his lips on hers. Those were the hardest memories to deal with.

Seeing Mrs Hudson at a family get together for an uncle's fiftieth hadn't helped Harriet's heart to heal in the year that followed Sherlock's death. The heart and soul of Baker Street had wanted to talk of two things and two things only: Sherlock and John. Harriet could deal with the John conversation having recently received an email from John from his placement in Uganda for the Doctors for Africa charity. The Sherlock conversation, on the other hand, left Harriet crying herself to sleep as she lay in bed long after the party ended.

Harriet thought of Baker Street less often as one year turned into two and then three. Her mother had been right when she said time would help but it didn't fix everything. The loss of Sherlock was always with her but that didn't mean she couldn't be happy even if it was difficult from time to time. A child with the surname Holmes on a register would allow the consultant detective to barge his way into Harriet's thoughts shattering her happiness for a few days. She hated the insufferable arse for it.

-x-

John flicked on the television in the hotel room he and Mary were sharing before picking up the keys to their new flat in the morning. "The victim has been names as a Mr Ronald Adair who had recently returned from a business trip in Australia. He was found shot dead at his home in Park Lane," John perched on the edge of the hotel bed as he took in the story. If he was still leaving at Baker Street with the enigmatic consulting detective he was certain it would have been a case but he wasn't there instead he was to be a GP dishing out antibiotics for sniffles. "Everything okay?" Mary had to ask twice as she watched him from the bathroom doorway.

"Everything is fine," he replied a little too quickly. Mary knew it wasn't but wasn't going to push the matter. John had confided in her the events surrounding his best friend's death and then to return to London after so long she thought he was doing remarkably well. "So dinner?" he switched the television off and picked up his jacket keen to move on from what his fiancée had just witnessed.

"Dinner," Mary agreed.

-x-

Sherlock Holmes sat in a single-roomed bedsit in a small town in Southern France. The small single-paned window was open allowing a warm gentle breeze to clear the stench of cigarettes. Sherlock was sat at the small table in the room with his laptop. His shirt sleeves had been rolled up the heat and a cup of coffee was going cold next to the laptop. He was reading, with great interest, a story on The Guardian website surrounding the murder of Ronald Adair a name he had become familiar with in his relentless pursuit of Moriarty's network. Within minutes of finishing the news article Sherlock booked a plane ticket, shut down the laptop and packed his few belongings into a rucksack ready to return to London.

Would love to hear what everyone thinks of the beginning. Already working on the second chapter which should be up either wednesday or thursday.