Chapter One – Greg Lestrade

"The murder at the lakeside- it was the fisherman. Your team overlooked the style of his trousers." Sherlock said, as he strolled into Lestrade's office. It was unreal; he hadn't been here for 12 months. He had already perplexed most of the station when walking to the office. He had seen this happening; most people would be startled to see the man who jumped off a building walking through the breaks in the desks.

But something was different. The usual picture frame holding the photo of Greg and his wife was not crooked on the corner of his desk. Instead it was replaced by a stack of filed paperwork. The dark grey interior was now crystal white, the shutters had been replaced and there was now a brand new leather office chair.

The chair spun round to show a man who most definitely wasn't the familiar face Sherlock had grown to know. In this chair sat a younger man, jet black hair with a suit he clearly had tailored only last week. This man looked harsh, the lines of his face wrote tales of stress and the veins of his hands certified how over worked he had become.

"May I help you? Did you make an appointment to meet me? Martha said my next appointment was in twenty-" his voice was deep and rushed.

"Lestrade. Where is Lestrade?" Sherlock was anxious.

"Lestrade? Greg Lestrade? He left a while back, said he couldn't stay; gave no reasoning. Probably for the best anyway, he was never much use. He was constantly calling in some freak show instead of recruiting the police force that are paid and qualified to do the job." The stranger chuckled to himself and began tapping on his keyboard.

Sherlock immediately began to get agitated. If John was here he would have- John wasn't here. And he debated whether John would ever be there again, standing by his side, defending his name.

He composed himself. "I see. Well, if it's any consolation, the lakeside murder- it was the fisherman. Let me introduce myself." He walked over to the front of the desk and held his hand out to the man, to which he accepted. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, sociopath and freak show."

Leaving the stranger with a stricken face, Sherlock turned swiftly around and paced all the way to the road, ignoring any comments or confused faces. He remained calm, but inside his head, his mind was working faster than ever before. What could have possibly caused Lestrade to have left the job he had worked a long 4 years to get, without so much as a reason?

Hailing a taxi, which wasn't difficult as London was saturated with them, Sherlock went through all the possible explanations. There are thousands of reasons for someone to quit their job, but this was Greg Lestrade, not just anyone. That considered, there were still plenty of possibilities that could be related to him.

The taxi ride was spent thinking through the most logical ones. Was there another problem between him and his wife? His children? Had he gotten ill?

As the taxi turned onto the street of Lestrade's house, Sherlock considered the worst deduction. What if he was dead? He immediately began to dismiss the idea, but it left a nagging feeling in the back of his mind.

The taxi pulled up outside Lestrade's door. He had only been here once before, yet the house looked identical to how he remembered. Yet at a second glance, after paying the taxi driver, it was different. The trees had not been cut back in months, the hedges were overgrown and weeds were growing through the cracks in the pavement. This garden hadn't been tended to in over six months.

Knocking on the door, he was greeted by a tired looking woman. He had never met her in person before, but it was evident that this was Lestrade's wife. Her exhausted face immediately transformed to one of pure shock when she finally took in Sherlock's features.

"You're... You're... Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?" She almost whispered, her voice shaken. She reached out a shaking hand and placed it on his shoulder, as though she wasn't sure he was actually standing there.

"Yes, that would be me. And as I recall, you must be Rachel?"

She nodded. "You better come inside." She opened the door wider and stepped back to let Sherlock walk in. "So, why now?"

Sherlock glanced over at her, but did not respond. They walked down the hall to the door of the living room. Rachel opened it while Sherlock stayed behind her.

"Greg, darling, I have someone here to see you. You were right." Rachel turned round to look at Sherlock before she smiled and walked down the hall.

Sherlock was nervous at first; Lestrade would be the first person he had purposely told about him being alive. But he soon shook off the nerves and walked into the room.

"Hello, Greg. It's lovely to see you again." Sherlock said, stood in the middle of the carpeted room with his hands behind his back.

Lestrade looked up, and it that split second, Sherlock could automatically deduce his past year. Saggy eyes – he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in months, clothes that had clearly not been changed in five days, leg veins that showed he hadn't been active for months either and a stubble beard – he hadn't shaved since the last time he changed his clothes. Bloodshot eyes hinted that he had been crying recently, yet had been having spells of spacing out and staring for long periods of time. To sum it all up, Greg Lestrade was a mess.

"It's been a year now, there is no need for more interviews and more idiots dressed up as Sherlock. Can you not see I'm tired of this-"Lestrade had risen from the couch and had squared up to Sherlock. When he got close enough, he suddenly stopped and just stared into his eyes. Like his wife, he put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He looked startled, and then he went completely blank.

"Sherlock. You're here, you're alive. But, but you were dead. I don't understand. I kept telling Rachel that you were alive, I almost knew it. But I kept seeing things, kept thinking I could see you, but I soon learnt I was going insane. I gave up, but I still had that feeling that you were there, somehow."

"Look, you're the first person who knows. Please don't say anything just yet. I have a plan, I have an order that I am telling people in. Please just don't tell a soul and ensure this doesn't go near the newspapers." Sherlock stayed emotionless, as ever.

"I won't tell a soul. But that isn't important right now. Just, how? How on earth did you do it?"

Sherlock smirked. "Maybe another day. Let's just say, I have a wider network of people who are willing to help."

Lestrade was confused, but obeyed the order of waiting to hear the full story. "But why did you do it?"

"Remember Moriarty? He had a plan to destroy me. And you all played along and began to doubt me. All he needed was for people to believe I was a fraud, and none of you were keen to stick up for me. The last piece of his puzzle - to see me die a disgrace. So that's what I did. But he had already blown his brains out, so I just had to fake it."

"Why fake it? If he was dead, what was the point?"

"He had three people that were set up to kill three people if I didn't jump, you, Mrs. Hudson and John. There was no way I was letting any of you die."

"Sherlock, you're telling me, you faked jumping off a building, to save us?"

Sherlock lightly smiled and turned to the window. "I suppose so, yes."

"Didn't think you had emotions!" Lestrade laughed. "You're a great man, Sherlock Holmes. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise." He placed his hand firmly on Sherlock's shoulder.

As much as Sherlock denied it, Lestrade had always been a sort of father figure to him. In times of need, Sherlock could always turn to him for advice. Seeing Lestrade this way was pretty tough for him, but he had to keep strong.

"I have a question for you myself. I stopped by the station earlier, you quit your job. Why?"

Greg looked at the floor for a moment, and then composed himself. "I kept calling you every time there was a difficult case. I forgot you were dead, because to me, you never died; I wouldn't believe it. Soon, I began to think that if I hadn't considered what Donovan had said, you would still be alive. I truly believed it was me who caused you to commit suicide. I couldn't work knowing that, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't even eat. My work standard began to slip, so I quit. I couldn't let the force down. Nobody knows why I quit though, telling people that I caused you to die wouldn't sound good, and I didn't want people to know what I had done."

Sherlock pulled him into a friendly embrace. "I'm sorry. Truly, I am. I wish I could have returned sooner, but I had business to sort out first, or else I would have risked you all being murdered all over again, and a man can't keep faking suicide."

They broke off the hug, and Lestrade stood there, perplexed as to how Sherlock had changed. The Sherlock he knew barely spoke about any sort of emotion and most definitely wouldn't be acting like he cared for anything other than his work.

Sherlock shook his hand.

"I need to be somewhere; I apologize for cutting this conversation short. You don't know how happy I am to see you, no matter what state you are in. I'll be telling most people, so please keep this private until I have completed that, it would be appreciated."

"I'm just glad you're alive."

"Of course I'm alive." He said while reaching into his coat pocket to retrieve his phone. "I really must go. I look forward to seeing you soon."

They walked towards the door silently. Rachel reappeared from the kitchen down the hall and smiled goodbye to Sherlock.

"See you soon, Sherlock." Lestrade shook his hand.

"Soon it shall be. I'm glad to see you and your wife are happy." Sherlock smiled, as he walked out of the door.

He walked down the front steps of the house and stood next to the pavement. He unlocked his phone; it was time to reply to a text he got 12 months ago.