When Sherlock decided to crash John's romantic evening with Mary by impersonating his waiter to announce his return from the dead, he did not expect to be punched in the face. Twice. The two men currently sat at a table across from each other, in a kebab shop after having been thrown out of the restaurant.
"So you're alive," John said with an undercurrent of anger.
"Yes." Sherlock intoned.
" Two years, Sherlock! Two years and not a single word. I thought you were dead!" he exclaimed
" I know. You were meant to." Sherlock replied matter of factly.
"Did it not even occur to you I might have been affected by it? I mourned you for two years! I even went back to my bloody therapist that you and Mycroft told me I needed to fire!"
Sherlock remained silent.
"Mrs Hudson was distraught. She's even refused to take new tenants for the flat. Its still sitting there."
"Am I supposed to say something?" Sherlock said nonchalantly.
"Yes. Apologise, like any other normal human being! " John exclaimed.
"For what? I've never been what you term normal. By the way that moustache really doesn't suit you." He turned to Mary who was sat beside John. " How do you stand that thing, I can't believe you let him keep it. "
For the third time that night Sherlock found himself staring at John Watson's oncoming fist.
Meanwhile at Number 4 privet drive, a dark cloaked figure with their hands curled round a thin wooden sick walked across the Dursleys perfectly manicured lawn. He waved the wand in a circular motion, pointing at the house. A stream of bright red flames forming the shape of a dragon erupted from it. Within seconds the house before him was engulfed in the flames. He stood there watching for a few seconds, as if having decided he'd seen enough he turned and disappeared with a faint popping noise. By the time the fire brigade had arrived nothing remained of the house except the bottom part of the stairs and the cupboard beneath it.
In the London Metropolitan Police office, inspector detective Lestrade's phone rang.
"A suspected arson?" he paused "Right."
He put down the phone and picked up his mobile.
Back in the kebab shop Sherlock's phone began vibrating.
"Are you going to pick that up? It's Lestrade." John paused to reflect on the statement's significance. "Wait a moment how the hell does he know you're back! Just how long have you been back? On second thought don't tell me"
Sherlock got up from the floor, where he had ended up after having been punched squarely in the face. He snatched the phone from a still exasperated John's grasp.
"Hello? No, I'm not coming just for a mundane house fire. No, I refuse." There was a moment of silence "I'll be over in an hour"
Sherlock turned to John. " Case. I'm leaving" and walked out briskly.
Arriving at Number 4 Privet Drive he approached the police cordon and was greeted by Sally Donovan, that was if you could call it a greeting,
" Hi Freak." She said
"Still scrubbing Anderson's floors, I see" Sherlock retorted. She shot him an angry look. Sherlock crossed the police tape and made his way to where Lestrade stood in front of the only remaining standing structure of the house.
"Here it is, no one's tried opening it the fire department recons there might be something dangerous in it since it's the only thing standing after that fire." He proclaimed.
"Open it," Sherlock said.
"What?" Lestrade was staring at him in confusion.
"Open it, there's nothing dangerous inside."
"It's locked!"
"Well then get a lock cutter and cut it." Sherlock said condescendingly.
Lestrade gestured to one of the policemen standing in the vicinity.
"Oh and you might want to call social services."
"Why would I need social services?" questioned Lestrade.
At that precise moment there was a snapping noise behind them, the heavy padlock fell to the charred ground. An apprehensive officer gingerly opened the cupboard door and turned to Lestrade with a worried look.
"Sir, you may want to have a look at this."
"Jesus."
Illuminated by the dim torchlight of the officer's torch there was the figure of a small child huddled up in the furthest corner, staring at the men with terrified green eyes.
"See." Sherlock said somewhat smugly.
Lestrade shot him a glare and shouted "I need blankets over here!" He crawled into the space, putting his jacket over the shoulders of the shell-shocked child. "And someone call social services!"