After extensive police investigations, Richard Brook did indeed prove to be the creation of James Moriarty. Amidst unprecedented scenes, there was uproar in court as Sherlock Holmes was vindicated and cleared of all suspicion, but sadly, all this comes too late for the detective who became something of a celebrity two years ago.

Questions are now being asked as to why police let matters get so far, even going so far- insiders say- as suspecting Holmes' girlfriend, Rosanne Marie Jones, of being an international spy, another creation of James Moriarty. Jones disappeared shortly after Sherlock Holmes fell to his death from the top of London's Bart's Hospital. It is likely he and his girlfriend were unable to cope with…

Mycroft raised his brows as he watched the news reports, sipping his tea. His phone rang and he glanced down at the number, sighing before he placed his teacup back in its saucer. He picked up the phone.

"Hello?" He asked. He listened intently and then sighed once more. "Of course. I'll see to it myself."

He ended the call, massaging his temples. His little brother was certainly keeping busy. Before he rose to attend to the latest incident Sherlock had caused, Mycroft paused. He looked back down at his phone, contemplating before he sighed for the third time. Picking it up, he typed a quick text- she wouldn't be able to answer a call at the moment- before standing up and leaving the room.

His phone made a soft ding as the message sent. 'He will be back tonight. Wrap it up.'

Mycroft P.O.V.

Mycroft sat calmly in the corner of the Russian holding cell, his legs propped up on a stool before him with his ankles casually crossed, as he watched the burly Russian torturer punching the chained intruder.

The dishevelled man grunted and groaned with each impact, staggering on his legs and unable to collapse as the chains on each wrist held him partially upright. The torturer finally paused, and the intruder coughed as his head fell forward, the chains pulled taut and keeping him somewhat upright.

"You broke in here for a reason." The torturer began, speaking in Russian as he paced before the prisoner. "Just tell us why and you can sleep."

Blood spilled from the intruder's mouth, probably from some minor internal bleeding.

"Remember sleep?" The torturer continued, taunting the prisoner. He raised a metal pipe, preparing to hit the prisoner's head when the prisoner began whispering something.

"What?" He asked, dropping the pipe and pulling the prisoner's head, leaning in to listen to what the man was saying.

"Well? What did he say?" Mycroft asked, also in Russian, and the Russian soldier replied in a confused voice: "He said that I used to work in the navy, where I had an unhappy love affair."

"What? Mycroft asked, still in Russian, and the torturer continued, listening to their prisoner and repeating: "That the electricity isn't working in my bathroom; and… that my wife is sleeping with our next door neighbour! And?... The coffin maker! And? And?... If I go home now, I'll catch them at it!"

The Russian turned, spitting: "I knew it! I knew there was something going on!"

He walked out, rushing home.

As the doors shut behind him, Mycroft said coldly in Russian: "So, my friend. Now it's just you and me."

He uncrossed his legs, commenting as he walked over to their prisoner: "You have no idea the trouble it took to find you."

He grabbed their prisoner's head, leaning in and whispered urgently in English: "Now listen to me. There's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear."

Mycroft let go of his brother's neck as he ordered: "Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's eyes remained closed but lips curved up into a small smirk. Home at last.

Sherlock P.O.V.

Sherlock read the paper, glancing over the headlines with disinterest. 'Skeleton Mystery', it read; Sherlock was more interested in seeing that 'Les Miserables' was scheduled to be showing this upcoming weekend at the Broadway Theatre. He hated musicals- they bored him almost more than sitting with nothing to do between cases- but Marie had once shared she loved them. Although she, too, hated Les Mis- too sad for apparently.

Sherlock folded the paper as Mycroft commented from where he was sitting at his desk, across the room: "You have been busy, haven't you? Quite the busy little bee."

Sherlock just threw the paper aside, keeping his head still as the barber leaned over him, shaving his jaws clean carefully.

"Moriarty's network," Sherlock replied, " took me two years to dismantle it."

Mycroft questioned sceptically: "And you're confident you have?"

"The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle." Sherlock dismissed.

He could hear the smirk in Mycroft's voice as his older brother commented: "Yes. You got yourself in deep there with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme."

"Colossal." Sherlock interjected smoothly and Mycroft dismissed: "Anyway, you're safe now."

Sherlock just hummed and Mycroft said pointedly: "A small 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss."

Sherlock retorted calmly: "What for?"

"For wading in." Mycroft said, sounding annoyed. "In case you'd forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu."

Sherlock waved off the barber, who stepped back immediately at his signal. He grunted, wincing a little from the injuries sustained courtesy of his Russian torturer, as he pulled himself up to face his brother.

"'Wading in'?" He repeated incredulously.

"You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp." Sherlock accused and Mycroft retorted calmly: "I got you out."

Sherlock sneered as he corrected: "No, I got me out."

When Mycroft rolled his eyes a little, Sherlock demanded: "Why didn't you intervene sooner?"

"Well, I couldn't risk giving myself away, could I?" Mycroft snapped. "It would have ruined everything."

Sherlock accused in a low voice: "You were enjoying it."

"Nonsense." Mycroft dismissed and Sherlock replied flatly: "Definitely enjoying it."

Mycroft leaned forward in his desk as he demanded: "Listen: do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going 'under cover,' smuggling my way into their ranks like that? The noise; the people." He spat the last words with disgust.

Sherlock just leaned back dismissively, letting the barber continue as he commented: "I didn't know you spoke Serbian."

"I didn't," Mycroft answered loftily, "but the language has a Slavic root, frequent Turkish and German loan words. Took me a couple of hours."

"Hmm, you're slipping." Sherlock said condescendingly and Mycroft replied, hiding his irritation: "Middle age, brother mine. Comes to us all."

Sherlock raised a brow and he commented: "You should've sent Marie. She speaks Russian and would've been of infinite more help."

Mycroft replied with a sneer: "Are you that eager to see your 'girlfriend'?"

He said the last word with mock air-quotes, the distaste clear in his voice. Sherlock ignored the jibe, glancing to the side as the door to the office opened. He was slightly disappointed to see it was only Mycroft's assistant, Anthea, although he was more pleased when the woman held up a smart suit, her brows raised.

John P.O.V.

John sat in the kitchen of 221A Baker Street as Mrs. Hudson prepared some tea for him. He looked around a little- the place hadn't changed at all in the last two years. He winced as Mrs. Hudson slammed the teacup onto the table before him.

Mrs. Hudson didn't even look at him, turning back to the counter to get the plate of biscuits. She promptly slammed them onto the table before John as well. John just watched silently as the elderly landlady grabbed the sugar bowl, slamming that down too before she paused.

"Oh no, you don't take it, do you?" She asked and John glanced at her before he agreed lightly: "No."

Mrs. Hudson shrugged a little as she commented forlornly: "You forget a little thing like that."

"Yes." John replied, trying to keep things light.

"You forget lots of little things, it seems." Mrs. Hudson said pointedly, but she avoided John's eyes as the man glanced up at her.

He finally just muttered: "Uh-huh."

"Not sure about that." Mrs. Hudson suddenly added, motioning to the moustache John was sporting. "Ages you."

John shrugged as he replied nonchalantly: "Just trying it out."

"Well, it ages you." Mrs. Hudson snapped.

John looked at the landlady calmly, finally sighing as he began: "Look ..."

She interrupted, trying to sound understanding: "I'm not your mother. I've no right to expect it ..."

"No ..." John tried to interject but the landlady continued, her voice filling with hurt as she cried: "But just one phone call, John. Just one phone call would have done."

"I know." John replied quietly, lowering his eyes in shame.

"After all we went through." Mrs. Hudson added, her face reflecting the hurt in her voice.

John looked up at last and he said in defeat: "Yes. I am sorry."

The landlady sighed, taking a seat beside him.

"Look," she said sadly, "I understand how difficult it was for you after ... after …"

She trailed off, unable to continue and John said lightly: "I just let it slide, Mrs Hudson. I let it all slide." As the landlady lowered her eyes sadly, John admitted: "And it just got harder and harder to pick up the phone somehow."

He sighed, and they sat in silence for a moment. John finally looked back at her as he asked: "D'you know what I mean?"

The kind old woman sighed deeply, reaching out to take John's hand. He clasped her hand tightly, returning her comforting grip as the two sat in mutual understanding pain. Mrs. Hudson finally murmured: "I'll take you upstairs. It's still empty- I couldn't bear to let it out after…well."

John just nodded silently, and the two walked upstairs together.

Sherlock P.O.V.

Sherlock examined himself in the mirror as he tucked in his shirt. He'd finally returned to looking like himself, freshly showered with his dark hair back in neat curls, his face cleanly shaven.

Mycroft was pacing beside him, saying sternly: "I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?"

Sherlock finished tucking in his shirt as he replied nonchalantly: "What do you think of this shirt?"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft snapped as he stopped to glare at his little brother.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he replied dryly: "I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft."

He glanced at his brother before turning to pick up his suit jacket, muttering: "Just put me back in London."

Mycroft raised his hands to his hips, brows raised as he caught the longing in Sherlock's voice. Sherlock just continued in a low voice: "I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in. Feel every quiver of its beating heart."

"Are you talking about London, or her?" Mycroft retorted.

Sherlock didn't respond and Anthea spoke up, bringing them back to the topic at hand: "One of our men died getting this information."

Sherlock glanced at her, brow raised, as she repeated the message calmly: "'All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs there's going to be a terror strike on London. A big one'."

Sherlock interrupted, asking as he pulled on his jacket: "And what about John Watson?"

Anthea glanced at Mycroft, unsure what to say while Mycroft repeated in confusion: "John?"

"Mmm. Have you seen him?" Sherlock asked, looking over at his brother and Mycroft replied drly: "Oh, yes, we meet up every Friday for fish and chips."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning back to the mirror as he straightened his collar in disgust. Mycroft flicked his finger and Anthea passed a file to Sherlock as Mycroft said seriously: "I've kept a weather eye on him, of course."

Sherlock flipped the file open, examining the contents as Mycroft continued: "We haven't been in touch at all, to… prepare him."

"No." Sherlock muttered with a frown as he stared at the photo in the very front, taken quite recently.

"Well, we'll have to get rid of that." He muttered with finality as he pursed his lips at the furry caterpillar growing on John's upper lip.

"'We'?" Mycroft repeated questioningly and Sherlock said irritably: "Yes, 'we'. He looks ancient. I can't be seen to be wandering around with an old man."

He threw the file on Mycroft's desk, adding: "I can't imagine Marie being very pleased with it either. Where is she, anyway?"

Anthea's eyes slid to Mycroft who remained impassive. Sherlock's eyes narrowed at his brother and he stepped closer, repeating in a dark voice: "Where is she, Mycroft?"

Mycroft didn't look perturbed, although inside he was rather anxious, as he replied: "I have no idea."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed into slits, but he remained silent as Mycroft elaborated: "We sent her in undercover to learn more about the terrorist attack. I don't know precisely where she is at the moment, but I sent her a message about your return. No doubt she'll be back here soon to reunite with her beloved."

Sherlock ignored his brother's mocking tone, his mind processing this news. He folded his lips in irritation but let the topic slide as he walked back to the mirror. He buttoned his jacket and a thought occurred to him.

"I think I'll surprise John. He'll be delighted!" Sherlock murmured, smiling a little at the thought.

Mycroft looked amused as he asked, crossing his arms: "You think so?"

Sherlock hummed as he thought aloud: "I'll pop into Baker Street. Who knows, jump out of a cake." Sherlock joked mockingly.

"Baker Street?" Mycroft repeated questioningly. "He isn't there any more."

Sherlock looked at his brother in surprise as Mycroft asked condescendingly: "Why would he be? It's been two years. He's got on with his life."

"What life? I've been away. So has Marie, if my guess is corrected." Sherlock pointed incredulously.

Mycroft just turned away, almost in exasperation. Sherlock ignored him as he asked: "Where's he going to be tonight?"

"How would I know?" Mycroft retorted and Sherlock smirked.

"You always know." He pointed out.

Mycroft sighed but he replied: "He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road."

Sherlock pursed his lips in thought while Mycroft continued: "Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion, though I prefer the 2001."

"I think maybe I'll just… drop by." Sherlock murmured.

Mycroft paused before he said in a quiet voice: "You know, it is just possible that you won't be welcome."

"No it isn't." Sherlock snorted. He turned to his brother as he added impatiently: "Now, where is it?"

Mycroft feigned ignorance as he asked: "Where's what?"

Sherlock snapped irritably: "You know what."

There were footsteps behind them and the brothers parted to look back. Sherlock smirked to see Anthea there, holding up his coat. He turned to let her slide it on.

"Welcome back, Mr Holmes." She said coolly and Sherlock muttered as he fixed the collar: "Thank you"

He turned to his brother and greeted dismissively: "Blud."

3rd person P.O.V.

Sherlock walked into the Marylebone Road that evening, allowing his coat to be removed as he stepped into the posh restaurant. He immediately scanned the whole place as he stepped inside, a waiter meeting him at the door.

"Sir, may I help you?" The waiter said politely and Sherlock quickly scanned the man.

As the man's phone beeped quietly, Sherlock replied: "Your wife just texted you. Possibly her contractions have started."

The waiter turned to his phone in shock, too absorbed in the news to question the strange man. Sherlock stepped into the restaurant smugly as he spotted John sitting at a table in the far side of the room. He paused, and a waitress walked passed him, murmuring: "'Scuse me, sir."

Sherlock glanced down, noting the bowtie on the woman. His eyes slid to the other side, noting a glass of water on the table near him. He smirked as he thought of an idea and walked over, knocking the glass into the man sitting at the table and splashing the elderly gentleman.

"Sir, I'm so, so sorry!" Sherlock said hastily, quickly placing the napkin over the wet man and using it to hide his other hand as he pulled off the man's bowtie. He continued, distractingly: "Please, let me just go to the kitchen and, er, dry that off for you."

He walked off quickly, placing the bowtie around his own neck as he saw a man remove his reading glasses, placing them down with his menu. Sherlock walked over quickly, asking: "Finished with that, sir? Allow me to take it for you."

The man didn't even look up at him, just waving him off and Sherlock took the menu and the glasses. He placed the glasses on the bridge of his nose, noting a woman's open clutch on a nearby table.

"Madam, can I suggest you look at this menu? It's, er, completely identical." He murmured to the woman softly, switching out her menu casually as he reached into her clutch and took out the liquid eyeliner that had been sticking partially out.

The woman didn't notice, barely hearing what he'd said and simply taking the new menu. Sherlock turned around, casually drawing on a small fake moustache as he stopped beside John.

"Can I 'elp you with anything, sir?" He asked in a French accent and John replied, not looking up as he pulled the wine list up and said, to who he thought was the waiter, urgently: "Hi, yeah. I'm looking for a bottle of champagne – a good one."

"Mmm! Well, these are all excellent vintages, sir." Sherlock continued to act and John mumbled: "Er, it's not really my area. What do you suggest?"

Sherlock replied in his fake accent: "Well, you cannot possibly go wrong, but, erm, if you'd like my personal recommendation…"

"Mm-hm." John nodded, listening intently.

Sherlock pointed to a random one as he said: "This last one on the list is a favourite of mine. It is, you might, in fact, say," he straightened, taking off his glasses with a flourish, "like a face from ze past."

"Great. I'll have that one, please." John replied, not looking up as he grabbed his glass of wine, taking a large and slightly nervous gulp.

Sherlock stood frozen, unsure how to proceed. He tried again, his accent transforming back to sound more like his usual voice as he said: "It is familiar, but, er, with the quality of surprise!"

He lifted his hands in a 'surprise' gesture, hoping to get a reaction but John just replied as he glanced back down at the wine list: "Well, surprise me."

John handed over the list, not looking up. Sherlock snatched it as he muttered: "Certainly endeavouring to, sir."

John didn't even notice, he was too caught up in his thoughts as he prepared himself. As the 'waiter' walked away, he reached into his jacket, pulling out the red velvet box. He popped it open, checking the diamond ring inside before he closed it again, placing it on the table.

He kept fiddling with it nervously, anxiety beginning to seep in as he tried to ready himself for the greatest moment in his life. A hand suddenly touched his shoulder lightly, and he quickly grabbed the box, hiding it as he looked up at the beautiful blonde woman as she moved to sit opposite him.

"Sorry that took so long." Mary Morstan said as she settled into her seat. She smiled at him, and noticing his nervous smile she asked: "You okay?"

John grinned genuinely as he replied awkwardly: "Yeah, yeah. Me? Fine. I am fine."

She chuckled at him, and John's face went soft as he gazed at the woman. Mary smiled back before she asked: "Now then, what did you want to ask me?"

John hesitated, and he asked: "More wine?"

"No, I'm good with water, thanks." She replied and he muttered: "Right."

John took a deep breath, calming his nerves. Mary raised her brows and she prompted: "So ..."

John began, stumbling a little as he tried to get his words out: "Er, so ... Mary. Listen, erm ... I know it hasn't been long ... I mean, I know we haven't known each other for a long time ..."

"Go on." She prompted when he paused, a small smile appearing on her face.

"Yes, I will." John replied, taking a fortifying breath as he continued slowly: "As you know, these last couple of years haven't been easy for me; and meeting you ... Yeah, meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened."

"I agree." Mary interjected laughingly.

"What?" John asked, suddenly side-tracked and Mary just replied: "I agree I'm the best thing that could have happened to you."

John chuckled and Mary smiled as she said a little contritely: "Sorry."

"Well, no. That's, um ..." John reassured, trying to get back on track. He paused and then began slowly: "So ... if you'll have me, Mary, could you see your way, um ..."

He trailed off, finding it difficult to form the right words. Mary began to laugh a little as John cleared his throat, her face torn between amusement and delight. John tried again: "If you could see your way to ..."

He was interrupted as Sherlock returned, saying in his accent: "Sir, I think you'll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking."

Mary hid her face a little, her face showing her embarrassment and amusement as their 'waiter' rambled on, unaware of what he'd interrupted: "It 'as all the qualities of the old, with some of the colour of the new."

John interrupted, annoyed: "No, sorry, not now, please."

The 'waiter' just continued: "Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers ... suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of," Sherlock's voice changed back to his normal tone as he removed the fake glasses and finished, " an old friend."

"No, look, seriously, could you just ..." John began in an amused and annoyed tone, but he trailed off as he looked up at last and saw Sherlock. His face changed, becoming white.

Sherlock commented: "Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Lends distinction to friends, and anonymity to waiters."

Mary glanced between Sherlock and John, taking in John's absolutely shocked expression.

"John?' She asked worriedly as John stood, reeling and breathing heavily as he stared at his friend. "John, what is it? What?"

As John stood, in shock, Sherlock replied for him: "Well, short version."

Sherlock clasped his hands before him as he said in a quiet voice: "Not Dead."

John stared at the man, his face white and fighting tears. Sherlock finally seemed to understand the gravity of the situation as he began to ramble.

"Bit mean, springing it on you like that, I know. Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will. But in my defence, it was very funny." He tried a laugh but as John's face darkened he muttered: "Okay, it's not a great defence."

"Oh no!" Mary gasped, gazing up at Sherlock as she realized just what was happening. "You're ..."

Sherlock nodded as he replied, still looking at John: "Oh yes."

Oh, my God." Mary breathed in horror and Sherlock muttered: "Not quite."

"You died. You jumped off a roof." Mary said in a hushed voice and Sherlock replied out of the corner of his mouth: "No."

Mary bit out: "You're dead."

Sherlock finally turned to look at the woman as he replied lightly: "No. I'm quite sure, I checked."

He gave her a strained polite smile as he grabbed her napkin and glass of water.

"Excuse me." He muttered as he dipped the napkin into the water and began to rub at the fake moustache he'd drawn on. He asked John casually: "Does, er, does yours rub off, too?"

John's eye twitched while Mary began to cry in horror: "Oh my God, oh my God. Do you have any idea what you've done to him?"

It seemed Sherlock did- now- as he said quickly: "Okay, John, I'm suddenly realising I probably owe you some sort of an apology."

John slammed a fist into the table, cutting Sherlock off. Mary mumbled, trying to calm John even as she worked through her own shock: "All right, just ... John? Just keep ..."

She trailed off as John bit out: "Two years."

John breathed heavily as Sherlock watched his friend silently.

"Two years." John repeated, bowing his head. He continued, his voice thick with repressed emotions as he fought to stay calm: "I thought ... I thought ... you were dead. Hmm?" He questioned. "Now, you let me grieve, hmm?"

Sherlock's mind raced as he realized what was wrong and he tried to find a way out of his current dilemma. John continued, biting the words out in raw pain: "How could you do that? How?"

Sherlock said quickly: "Wait, before you do anything that you might regret ... um, one question. Just let me ask one question."

He rambled a little, trying to salvage the situation. John waited, Mary looking up at him with a confused expression as the detective scrambled to say something.

"Are you really gonna keep that?" Sherlock asked out of the blue, indicating John's moustache.

He smiled, happy with what he'd come up with while Mary gave a snort, torn between disbelief and amusement. Unfortunately, those words snapped the last bit of self-restraint John had and the shorter man lunged at his friend. He grabbed Sherlock's front, shoving him to the ground in his fury while Mary and the restaurant's waiters grabbed John, pulling him off the startled detective.