It was three years time after the staged incident.

Sherlock had seen many things in that time. He had been all over the world, evading the master eye of Jim Moriarty. He'd been to the Swiss Alps, Niagara Falls, and close to his departure, the Eiffel Tower. He saw all of these places as a blur, thinking of all the crime and mystery he could be immersed in wherever he went.

He remained inactive during the three years prior to his stunt, not causing any attention to focus upon him. If he began to solve cases, he would be tracked easily, which he knew. He made sure to stay mainly in rural areas where few crimes happen, the logical place where prying eyes would not expect him to be.

Every time he read a case in the papers, he thought of his work. He thought of all the things he had left behind and how much he so badly wanted to be back in all of the muck of crime. He missed the lab, he missed 221b Baker st. and he missed only one person: John Watson.

John had been there for him since the beginning when he shot the bad cabbie in the head. John had saved him not only from death, but from boredom. Yes, John was a simple man, just a Doctor at best, but he was something different all the same.

John Watson was a change in the everyday, seeking the same danger as he had. He could come home and have someone to talk to other than the skull on his mantle. It was strange to be around someone who did not call him a freak when he voiced his deductions. This is what made John different from the others, he knew what it was to be so in love with and so connected to all the crime and the danger. He and John breathed the same air, apart from all others and they melted into each other's lives without effort.

He had torn himself from John three years prior and he knew he had to come back to him. He knew he had spent far too much time away and it was time to see John, to come home.