Enjoy the next adventure of Enola with her family. Warning, this is a much darker story than the first dealing with much more intense issues that were only alluded to in the first, and, two words - serial killer.

As always, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any characters from the original short stories or the BBC show; the same for the Enola Holmes stories and characters from there.

Much thanks to 'a wolf is a perfect paradox' for beta reading and 'Lackie' for brain storming with me.

Life had become dull. London was no longer a battlefield. It was now just streets with cars, sidewalks with people going about their dull lives without giving it much thought.

It was driving John Watson completely mad.

Despite the dullness, a lot of things happened to him since the fall of his best friend. The first major thing was he had moved out of Baker Street; too many memories, happy ones at that which made it so painful to stay. This, of course, did not mean that he did not come every so often to visit Mrs. Hudson.

He also found a job at a clinic; nothing exciting, just very simple medical care. Some days 'simple' was all he was able to handle.

It had been a particularly long day at the clinic and John was not in any mood for pranks. John had just reached the stairs when there was a knock on the door. He debated for a moment on whether or not he should ignore whoever was knocking and go to bed. But John had discovered years ago the annoying fact that he was too nice to ignore the knock.

Sighing in frustration at himself, he opened the door.

"You're surprised to see me." The man at the door said in a strange croaking voice once both men finished appraising the other.

"Yeah," John was indeed surprised to see him. He had run into the man earlier that day near the clinic. John was not looking where he was going and accidentally bumped into the man causing his collection of old books to go flying to the ground. Embarrassed by the act, John knelt down to aid in picking up the books and to apologize. But the man was so upset over the treatment of his books that he snatched the books from John's grasp and with a snarl of contempt turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.

John did not expect to ever see the graying blond bespectacled man again, yet here he was with the same old books wedged under his right arm.

"I've developed a bit of a conscience over the past few years," He explained as he walked past John inside. "I wanted to make sure that my gruff manner wasn't taken offensively; I meant no harm by it."

"No, I understand; it isn't fun having your things dropped," John reassure the man as he tried to discern why he let a complete stranger inside when he realized something. "How did you know where I live?"

The man smiled. "You pass by the bookshop I frequent on your way to work. The one of the corner of Church Street. Perhaps I can interest you in one of these." He motioned to the books under his arm. John noticed the titles 'British Birds, 'Catullus' and 'The Holy War'. "As an apology for my behavior. It would fill the area on that end table; it looks untidy does it not?"

John looked over his shoulder to the table near the door where he usually threw his keys. Yes the apartment was untidy, perhaps at times too much for the military man he had been but living with Sherlock had led to him coming to tolerate a certain level of untidiness and now, with his friend gone, he felt he could not live without it.

When he turned back before him stood Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock had already removed the wig and was now taking off the spectacles and placed both on top of the books he already placed at the foot of the steps.

Sherlock was alive. Alive and standing before him. Alive and looking in decent health. Alive and not smashed against the pavement with blood rapidly spreading around him.

Alive.

"John, I –" Sherlock began speaking in his normal voice, but was not able to finish since John landed a right hook to his face.

Sherlock stumbled back a bit but was able to catch himself on the banister. The two men started at each other. John was in shock and was not quite sure how to feel. He began to pace back and forth not taking his eyes off of the person on the steps; he took in deep breaths to keep from hyperventilating. He was now quite certain that he had actually hit a real person, who was now bleeding a bit from the mouth and not a hallucination. His hand pulsed with pain, so John was certain he actually hit something and not just air.

Eventually, he stopped pacing. All in all, he knew that there was one thing he wanted to say.

"Don't you ever pull a stunt like that again!" John choked out; he began to register a mix of anger and relief flooding his system as he looked at his not dead friend.

"I have no intention of doing so." Sherlock rubbed his cheek. "John, I owe you a thousand apologies for the past three years. I had no idea that you would be so affected."

What Sherlock did not yet add was how it had effected him so, had many times he himself had yearned for London and John's paper rustling in the background while the smell of scones wafted up the stairs from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen below. How thinking of them had kept him going for so very long.

Then launched a night long discussion between the two men; a discussion filled with questions, explanations, plans. Before John realized it he was swept up into another adventure with Sherlock solving the recent and tragic murder of Ronald Adair that had happen a few days prior.

-MHSHEH-

After a shot, a scuffle, and a bit of shouting, Sherlock said hello to Lestrade.

"I think this is the point Lestrade where you put the handcuffs on the suspect." Sherlock deadpanned as he stepped away from the groaning crumple figure of Sebastian Moran. "I also might add, had you spent any time working on your aim Detective you may very well have finished what Moriarty started." He carelessly waved over the the wall bearing the damage of the recent fray.

"You bloody arrogant – "

"I've got Moran!" Lestrade's Sargent, Isabelle Bordeaux, practically shouted as she stepped past him to cuff Moran. She knew that some reactions were best not verablized.

Lestrade, after the initial shock wore off, was just as surprised as John and equally pleased. He was in such a stupor that his new Sergeant had to handcuff and take away Moran while Lestrade threw his questions at Sherlock.

Despite being glad that Sherlock was alive, Lestrade could not have him consult with any cases at the Yard. There were still a few of Sherlock's old cases that were up for inquiry. Since the Fall, as people had dubbed the event, all of the cases Sherlock consulted on came under review to see if the correct conclusion was arrived. Things were double checked, and then tripled check. To the chagrin of those who greatly disliked Sherlock, each review concluded that the consulting detective was correct.

During the first year after his return, Sherlock went to several inquiries when his presence was needed for questions. John accompanied Sherlock to the proceedings for support and to make sure he behaved. For the most part Sherlock kept his smartass remarks to a minimum and answered the questions without much fanfare. His answers were short and to the point, one could almost say terse.

But John watched Sherlock when he was not on stand; he saw what others did not.

Sherlock seemed nervous and wanted to be somewhere else. But he kept still in his chair, eyes closed and fingers pressed together taking in everything that was said. He only opened his eyes when he was called to the stand and when the proceedings were finished for the day.

The only thing that Sherlock complained about concerning the Inquires is that it took people three years to learn that he was correct. With this being his only complaint, John was more surprise that he had not insulted anyone or reduced anyone to tears. John often pondered on what Sherlock had said that first evening he came back, that he had learned aspects of human interactions better and wondered if it was true.

After every inquest Sherlock would quickly leave the court room, with John close behind, and outpaced the reporters hungry for an expose. If a reporter did catch them, Sherlock said nothing; he waited for a cab and ignored the questions thrown at him and even refused to look at them.

Once back at Baker Street John saw the subtle signs of Sherlock beginning to relaxing.

"I've never liked testifying." Sherlock once remarked after one inquest. "I've never like being told what I could and could not say." He then picked up his violin and slowly began to play. John wondered how much of that was true.

Of course Scotland Yard could not stop Sherlock from consulting on private cases. Of which there was no short supply.

As with before Sherlock was highly particular about which case was worth his time. At first both men were hounded by reporters and paparazzi; but as the months wore on the sensation Sherlock's return and subsequent clearing of all charges laid at his door waned so did the thrill seekers.

John could not have been happier.

But that did not stop John from noticing slight changes in the way Sherlock handled things.

He was coming back from getting the much needed shopping when he heard Sherlock was with a client.

"What do you mean you can't help?" The desperate client asked shocked.

"I can't." Sherlock said simply with no malice in his voice. "But I know someone who can."

John was a bit taken aback when he heard that last phrase from his friend; he almost dropped the shopping because of it. He entered the room with the shopping just as Sherlock was handing the woman a sheet of paper from his notebook.

The client looked at the paper then back to Sherlock. "Thank you Mr. Holmes."

John stepped out of the way as the client left. When he heard the front door close he looked carefully at Sherlock.

"What?"

"Since when do you refer potential clients to other people?" John asked before making his way to the kitchen.

"Dull," Sherlock shrugged before picking up his violin and tuning it. "Someone else would find it interesting."

"Really?" John looked questionably at Sherlock. But before he could question Sherlock further Mrs. Hudson entered the flat.

"This came while you were gone, dear." She handed Sherlock a thin largish brown paper package.

Sherlock smiled at the landlady as he took the package. Mrs. Hudson returned the smile before she left. Since Sherlock's return, she was happier than John had seen her in years. She had more easily forgiven Sherlock for his deception, only after she had seen him eat an entire plate of food since who knows when he had last eaten a decent meal. And while she continued to insist she was their landlady and in no way their house keeper, John had come home many nights from the clinic to find her stuffing scones and other sweet treats into Sherlock with plenty left over for him.

"New York City postmark, no return address." He opened the package and smirked. It was one of those photography books one would buy to decorate a coffee table or one that a person would find in a doctor's office to mindless read while waiting. A note fell out when Sherlock opened the book.

John read it as he picked it up on the way to his chair: Work well received with demands for more. I hope you don't mind the title.

Instead of a name there was a sketch of what looked like a vine of ivy.

He handed it to Sherlock. "No name; do you know who it's from?"

Sherlock handed to book to John as he took the note. John looked at the book as he sat down; it contained pictures of people and sites all over the world from India to America. Sherlock chuckled at the note that had accompanied the book.

"Who is Vilhelm Sigerson?" John asked looking at the cover of the book. It was entitled The Great Hiatus.

"Me," Sherlock picked up his violin and inspected the strings. "It was an alias I used while I traveled taking down Moriarty's web."

"You took these pictures?" John was in disbelief.

"Is that so surprising?" Sherlock furrowed his brows when he looked over to John.

"I've seen those pictures you took of Connie Prince's brother! You couldn't focus the camera on anything." John pointed out. He looked at one of the photographs; it was rendered in black and white of an ancient bridge looking over a river that ran through an equally ancient city, the focus of the picture was of a young woman, oblivious to the picture being taken, her focus was on the river. She sat on the railing, rested her back against one of the many columns that lined the stone bridge that had statues perched on top in different dramatic poses with her legs crossed in front of her. John was not much for an art critic, but he would say that it was a good photograph.

"I had to learn to make my cover credible." Sherlock picked up the bow. "If I ever need to use that alias again the presence of the book makes Sigerson a bit more plausible."

"I think this is the most you've ever talked about your time away." John remarked quietly. "You've been back about . . . what, ten months, and you haven't said much about it."

John could count the times that Sherlock looked lost for words on one hand and this was one instant. Sherlock was posed to play on the violin but the bow stayed just above the strings.

"Sherlock?"

"A lot happened," Sherlock remarked briskly deciding against playing. He put down the instrument and sat in his chair. "I will tell you John about those three years, all about them, but not just yet."

The sincerity in Sherlock's voice surprised John so he dropped the subject for another time.

Of all the things that surprised John the most with Sherlock's return was how pleasant he was acting towards Mycroft. A few months after Sherlock's return, John began to notice that Mycroft often visited Baker Street and only came when John was not there.

"After what he did to you, how can you stand to be in the same room as him?" John demanded after he walked in on the tail end of a conversation the brothers were having.

The brothers stopped abruptly speaking when they realized they had an audience. They bid each other a good day before Mycroft grabbed his things and left. John barely looked at Mycroft and as soon as the older Holmes left John glared at Sherlock.

"We talked." Sherlock said defensively and cryptically. "And now we have a new understanding."

"What? Not to reveal your life story to any more criminal masterminds?" John could not understand how a simple talk could solve the deep seeded conflicts the Holmes brothers claimed to have with each other. "He sold you out Sherlock."

"Yes, I know!" Sherlock almost snapped. He understood John's perspective; he was unknowing of many things that had transpired between the brothers thus Sherlock could not accuse him of being unreasonable. He also knew it went against every fiber of John's loyal nature what Mycroft had done. Sherlock may have been able to forgive Mycroft for the actions he took when his hand was forced, yet he wondered if John would ever be able to even just talk with his brother. "We are working to make sure that never happens again. It's best for all of us."

"What did you talk about?" John asked wanting to better understand. He may not like Mycroft being around but he could at least try to respect the brothers' efforts. Less international incidents that way.

"We – " Sherlock's phone rang. He debated whether or not to answer inside his head and decided. "Yes . . . What do you mean paperwork? Of course I want to consult for the Police. . . Alright, I'll come later today. Good, then."

"Was that Greg?" John asked when Sherlock ended the call.

Sherlock nodded. "Apparently the new Chief Superintendent is willing to let me consult as long as I complete a ridiculous amount of paper work."

"It's a step forward." John pointed out crossing his arm; he was on the defensive, waiting for the subsequent tantrum that would have occurred before the Fall.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Yes it is."

Picking up his bow, he turned to the window and began to play. In his wake, John stood shocked at the turn about in Sherlock, first pleasant to Mycroft and then agreeable in the face of paperwork for the police. Some things most definitely had changed.

Of course there were things that had not changed at all with Sherlock.

A bored Sherlock was still a very dangerous one.

John still remembered walking in one day finding his friend still in his pajamas and robe shooting madly at the wall. The eerie yellow smile was still there, on the wall as a tribute to that one episode.

Right now it was the calm before the storm.

A thick fog had descended upon London for several days leading to a pause in cases for Sherlock and John, the first since Sherlock's return a year ago.

John was contented to sit and read the newspaper to pass the time in the lull of cases. But Sherlock, on the first day, had taken to cross referencing every book that was in the flat, including the ones owned by Mrs. Hudson; the second day he spent reading over Medieval music, John thought he heard at one point Sherlock humming a few bars; but by the third day Sherlock restlessly paced the room, biting his nails, tapping the furniture – anything and everything to use the suppressed energy within him.

Thus far John was doing a good job of ignoring Sherlock's chafing against inactivity, but then John had begun to wonder how much longer the poor floor could take the pacing.

"Anything John?" Sherlock asked fanatically waving at the newspaper.

Knowing that Sherlock would not be interested in a revolution in some foreign country or a change in the stock market, John shook his head.

"The criminal element has certainly become a dull fellow in my absence." Sherlock complained looking out the window. "Just look! See how the figures loom up, are dimly seen, and then blend once more into the cloud-bank. The thief or the murderer could roam London on such a day as the tiger does the jungle, unseen until he pounces, and then evident only to his victim."

"There are a few petty thefts reported," John offered.

John's remarked earned him a glare from Sherlock as he moved away from the window.

"No, this somber stage is worthy of something better than that." Sherlock collapsed dramatically into his chair with an equally dramatically sigh. "It is very fortunate for the community that I am not actually a criminal. Argh! Anything to break this dead monotony!"

John could only smile at his friend's antics; he found them to be a comforting reminder that Sherlock was back from the dead.

"Maybe Lestrade could finally call with something interesting." Sherlock mumbled to himself lightly banging his head on the back of the chair.

In another part of town a woman was walking carefully in the fog and was not smiling. She did not like the sensation of being encased in fog isolating her from the rest of the world. Her only connection to the world was the sounds of the city and the few people, like her, who dared to take on the fog. She could hear about three, maybe four people around her, hidden by the thick cloud. One of which was mirroring her movements.

Someone was following her. Every step she took her pursuer copied as if to hide his own steps by the sounds of her own. She did not like it.

Pausing for a moment to gain her bearings she took a turn to shake off her pursuer.

An uneasy feeling crept over her as she made a turn only to realize her move ended her in a dead end ally, just what her pursuer wanted. Seeing little else she could do, she dropped her handbag and turned just as her pursuer reached for her.

As with any big city there are loud noises that are hard decipher, so the attitude of apathy develops simply because there are too many noises to care about every single one of them. That said, people heard scuffling, thuds, a few bins being tossed over and finally the screech of some feral cat. Everyone associated the noises to the cat chasing something blindly in the fog, so certain were they that no one pauses to consider they might have heard the muffled yells of the woman or a car door slamming shut.

No, a cat was an easier and far less emotional answer for the noises in the alleyway. People would have continued blaming the cat until a body was discovered in the alleyway next to the knocked over bins. A large man with a shaved head and tattoos peaking out from his jacket collar and sleeves. His face was not much to look at; especially considering that half of it was blown off by the executioner style gunshot wound from the back of the head.

You probably noticed very familiar descriptions here; I'm taking a lot of inspiration from the original Sherlock Holmes stories.