Nearly two years ago to the day a certain Sherlock Holmes committed suicide, declared himself a fake and left one man alone in world that without his best, and only friend was lonely. John Watson was that man left behind, soldier, doctor, companion. John continued to live in 221b Baker Street, alone at first and then flatmates came and went, none of them were Sherlock, not one was even close. He'd written everything that needed to be accounted and said, every case typed up, and every adventure catalogued. All of Sherlock's personal belongings had been taken by Mycroft into what John had assumed was storage; though at the time he wasn't sure why Mycroft had so suddenly whisked the whole lot away so suddenly, John wasn't going to argue. Several therapy sessions had taken place, many arguments started not to mention the thousands of tears shed. Now after the storm of almost two years of pain and sleepless nights John was getting better, his days were spent thinking if other things, his job, his patients, his new mind-numbingly average life. However something was stirring by an abandoned shop doorway on a bitter morning in central London.
Sherlock opened his eyes, his pupils dilating rapidly against the flood of intense sunlight and reflecting glass, his lungs packed with ice-cold air as he took a somewhat painful breath in. Manoeuvring into a seated position he tilted his back onto the wall behind him as he looked at his hands, they were coarse, blackened with grime on top of all the scars and bruised tissue. His knuckles cracked as he put individual pressure on each bone; eight times he listened to the perfect click alongside the sense of release that came with it. Catching a momentary glance of himself in the glass of the boarded up entrance that he had nested himself in he found himself looking practically emaciated, though meals had never been his priority even the great Sherlock Holmes needed sustenance. Gaunt and pale you could more or less see past the skin through to the withering muscle and throbbing veins, even Sherlock's eyes had lost their colour; what had once been shining earthy tones interchanging like the revolving globe were now merely grey as if a cloud were obscuring what hid beneath.
Closing his eyes again, his fingertips pressed together like a pilgrims as he went into his own prayer, the purity of intelligent thought, the worship of the mind. This sanctity was interrupted by thoughts of John. Both of them back in 221b with a nice delicious crime to devour, of Mrs Hudson complaining about the human lungs in the oven whilst professing she wasn't their housekeeper, of Lestrade's desperate expression when in need of help, of Molly Hooper's willingness to help in anyway. Thoughts of Irene. His brows knitted as he tried to concentrate on anything else but life at Baker Street.
Several hours passed this way, like that or of his watching people, keeping his finely tuned mind and skills of observation well equipped always picking up new things, scanning them all in a matter of seconds. Suddenly he caught sight of a familiar face, other of homeless network coming towards him looking quite inconspicuous and not a strange sight in the middle of London. As he carried on limping along the pavement Sherlock continued to scan the rest of the street, recognising some of the faces that came this way every morning to work. For example the recent divorcee -that worked in the office two streets up from where Sherlock was- who was hung-over for the fourth Monday in a row, thanks to her now trademark day old make-up, greasy hair and the water bottle that she clutched taking clumsy gulps every seventh step. Or even the office manager who was the serial cheat as the former detective spotted removing his wedding ring each morning before he crossed the street, the manager who he'd watched turn off his phone and take the photo of his family out of his wallet as part of his routine. But they were easy, they weren't deductions they came about from spotting a pattern not like detecting that there was sex addict who worked in the florist round the corner, or noticing that man passing him at that very moment had just come back of holiday in turkey with his girlfriend of about four years whom he'd asked to marry. She'd said yes.
The lumbering tramp had now reached Sherlock, with a swift movement (that seemed quite improbable for a slow shambling drug addict who permanently trembled uncontrollably) dropped a neatly folded scrap of paper into his polystyrene cup. The homeless man carried on shambling as if he done nothing. Sherlock's nimble fingers retrieved the shard of paper, unfurling the note he saw the familiar handwriting spell "Get In The Car" and he gave a sigh of inconvenience. Gathering the small amount of belongings he had into a roll, he saw the whites of his knuckles and the pull of his tendons as he yanked his towering frame from the ground. Taking determined strides he counted to five with each step, calmly yet begrudgingly shifting towards the pavement, as his foot stopped at the side of the road an expensive black car swept up beside him. He gripped the handle, opened the door carelessly and slid inside.
Anthea sat rigidly in the seat beside him, tapping precisely at her phone as if his entrance had not even registered on her introverted radar. Sherlock deduced that throughout the laborious journey she continually updated her employer on his appearance and movements of which he made none, barely shifting his focus away from the window, as he discerned that they were en route to his brother's beloved Diogenes Club.
Upon reaching the club Sherlock was reluctantly escorted –in silence- across the entrance, through the club and into the one room where patrons may converse freely. Both brothers stood scrutinizing, both disgusted, both disappointed in the other; Mycroft pulled at his shirt sleeves from under his suit jacket then interlocked his fingers, stretching them out, contorting them out of shape.
"Won't you sit down; you're making the room look messy."
"I'd rather stand, but don't let that stop you."
"I can see you are as concerned with your appearance as you ever were dear brother" smirked Mycroft smugly.
"As you are with your weight, Mycroft. Still avoiding the bakeries are we?" sneered the younger.
"Ever the comedian, Mother would be proud. I assume you know why you're here."
"I can't go back, not yet."
"I have monitored all four corners of the United Kingdom for the last two years Sherlock, nobodies left, Moriarty is gone. There is no trace of his organisation, or a single affiliate that hadn't had their hand forced, the entire lot got out as soon as he fired that bullet."
"Not now Mycroft, not yet."
"Whether you go back to play happy families with John or not is no concern of mine. But I wish you wouldn't insist on sleeping rough with your homeless friends. The beard really doesn't suit you."
"Will that be all?"
"You know I can set you up somewhere, incognito and all that, it'd only be temporary of course."
"I'll see my own way out then." Sherlock replied stubbornly and without feeling.
So inevitably he did, he made his own silent exit from the Diogenes club, and received several furtive glance as he did, he got back moodily into his brother car with his brother assistant 'Anthea' and sulked for the entire journey back to his boarded up shop entrance. Stepping out of the car Sherlock paused for no apparent reason then carried on normally a few seconds later, as he slipped out the car and proceeded to slam its door it became clear at why he'd hesitated. The car was gone by the time he'd glanced back, disappeared into the ether as if had never been there. Sherlock calmly scurried across the street and stood at his doorway, on his street staring down at a hooded figure stretched out, with one leg hoisted up against the wall opposite; the figure took single harsh drag on a cigarette and expelled a long stream of smoke.
"Take a picture, it lasts longer." Came the voice behind the hood "So are you going to sit down or are you going to fuck off?"