"This phone call, it's… It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

"Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John."

"No, don't-"

"…For god's sake, Sherlock, are you even bloody listening to me?"

The memory dissolved rapidly, and Sherlock's surroundings snapped back into focus with a speed which caused him to jump slightly as if he'd been caught misbehaving. He flicked his gaze back up to meet Mycroft's, raising his eyebrows apologetically.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft. My thoughts were… Elsewhere."

"Yes, I gathered." Mycroft leant back in his chair and began to swill his remaining scotch in its tumbler absently. Whatever he had been talking about before, Sherlock didn't know, but it seemed to have been momentarily forgotten about. The younger Holmes shifted and drained his own glass, setting it down on the elaborately carved coffee table between them.

After a short pause, Mycroft cleared his throat. "What were you thinking about?"

"It's been three years." Sherlock replied quietly. He turned his face away from his brother's and instead began to study the room's wallpaper with apparent sudden interest. "Three years today."

Mycroft nodded understandingly, but didn't speak. He cocked his head to one side and watched Sherlock with curiosity as he avoided his gaze. Sherlock wasn't usually one for being shy. He'd always spoken his mind, and not bothered thinking about the reactions it would have on others. Then again, sentiment does funny things to people…

"You miss him." It wasn't a question.

Suddenly the detective turned back, leaning forwards so as to close the distance between them.

"I want to go back. To Baker Street." His voice sounded vaguely choked, although Mycroft chose to ignore that. He instead sighed, and reached down beside his chair to lift his plain black briefcase onto his lap.

"Yes… I thought you might." He murmured as he cracked open the case. From it he produced a blank envelope, which he passed to Sherlock. Sherlock stared at it for a few seconds, a quizzical look settling itself on his face, before tearing it open. He pulled out the ticket from inside and frowned.

"I came prepared for you to want to return on the anniversary of the... Fall." Mycroft explained, on realising that Sherlock didn't understand his intentions. "The ferry leaves from Calais in two hours."

Sherlock blinked, taking in what Mycroft had just said. He stared at the ticket in disbelief, confirming that it was, indeed, dated for that day. How could he have known?

"You mean… I can just go back?" The words he had been holding back, which he hadn't dared say or even let himself think for three years, slipped from his lips, almost a whisper. They sounded almost too good to be true. The ticket seemed as if it would disappear from his hands if he looked away for only a second, and he would wake up to just another day of being in hiding.

"Yes, if you think that's the right thing to do."

Sherlock scowled. "You don't think John will want me back."

"It's not just that, Sherlock. Remember that I had all surveillance of Doctor Watson cut off, by your request, the day you left. He may have moved on, gone away, might not even be living at 221B anymore..." Sherlock began to say something in retaliation, but Mycroft held up a hand and continued. "… He's had his own life without you, Sherlock. A life which you're no longer a part of. You just need to be prepared to accept that, if faced with disappointment."

Sherlock watched as Mycroft nodded once after this speech, gathered up his briefcase and umbrella, and rose from his armchair.

"A car will arrive for you in half an hour. Good luck, Sherlock." He gave a small smile, and without another word, turned and left Sherlock alone.

In the silence that followed, Sherlock didn't move. He sat and stared at the ticket, only finally looking away when he felt a strange warm wetness on his cheek. Brushing a hand over his face, he realised to his astonishment that he had been crying, and stubbornly wiped the fresh tears away. He pulled his wallet out from the inside pocket of his jacket and opened it, sliding the paper inside, hesitating slightly before taking out a small photo and stowing the wallet back away.

The photograph was tattered around the edges, worn from being slipped in and out of its holder countless amounts of times over the three years. It was a fairly standard picture in itself; just himself and John smiling together outside 221B when they'd first moved in, taken by Mrs Hudson with her unsteady hand. However the sight of it always made a sort of warmth spread inside Sherlock as he remembered those times, coupled with a strange longing to return. And now he could. He touched the image of John's face gently and sighed.

"I'm coming home." Sherlock murmured. "Please be there."

xXx

Mary twisted her wrist around to check her watch again, and sighed when she read the time. He's not usually this late home… She frowned, moving her attention to her phone, which was balanced on top of a pile of new baby clothes nearby. No new messages, no missed calls.

"Everything alright, love?" Molly was watching her with concern over the top of a large mug of tea from the sofa opposite, surrounded by tiny, neatly-folded onesies. Mary nodded tightly and gave a weak smile.

"Yeah. John's a little late home, that's all." She shrugged, and her friend furrowed her brow.

"Is he alright?" Molly asked, "Have you heard from him?"

"No, I haven't, but… I'm sure he's fine. Knowing him, he's probably gone down to the pub with Greg and forgotten to take his phone off silent. He does that." Mary wasn't entirely sure whether she was trying to reassure herself or Molly, but as she said these words some of her panic subsided and she broke into a wide grin. Of course he's gone out with Greg. He will have just forgotten to tell me, that's all. He's fine.

Molly seemed happy with that explanation too, and she smiled back. "Oh. Okay." She said quietly, and returned to sorting the baby clothes. Mary watched Molly busying herself for a few moments, stroking her baby bump absently. She felt like she ought to be helping, since the little pathologist was being so generous, but at this stage every movement made her feel like she was going to burst.

"You didn't have to bring all this stuff for me." She told Molly, who blushed and bowed her head gladly.

"It was nothing. What are friends for, eh?"

Suddenly the calm atmosphere was broken by the house phone's loud ringing from the kitchen. Mary groaned. The phone always seemed to ring just when she's gotten herself in a comfortable position. She began to push herself up laboriously from the sofa, but Molly stopped her.

"I'll go." She offered, and padded away to the kitchen. Mary smiled gratefully and settled back down, picking up the TV remote and flicking it on. The news blared out- a story that she wasn't really interested in, but that blocked out the sound of Molly's phone answering until she returned. She held the receiver out to Mary, a mildly worried expression now settled back onto her face.

"It's Greg." She mouthed. Mary's frown returned as she took it.

"Hey Greg, what's up?"

From the other end of the line, Lestrade's voice sounded weak. "Mary, I'm… I'm afraid I've got to give you some bad news…"

xXx

Sherlock had never really liked boats. He generally tried to avoid using them as a form of transport, where possible, as the rolling-on-the-waves movement tended to make him feel very queasy. However, he allowed himself to be chauffeured straight onto the huge ferry without thinking too much about it.

Once on-board, he was ushered to a private suite, the kind most people didn't even realise you could get on a standard ferry. Mycroft must have put in some special requests for him. It was a fairly basic room, containing a single bed, a desk and chair, and a comfortable-looking armchair which faced a wall-hanging TV. In the corner, a plain door led through to an en-suite shower room, and there were no windows, presumably because it was in the centre of the boat, but Sherlock didn't mind particularly. He was mainly just relieved to be away from the godforsaken house he'd been staying in, secretly, for three years, and on his way back to London and John.

John.

Sherlock smiled at the thought of the name. Soon he'd be reunited with his doctor, and they could continue life just as before. At least, he hoped that was how it would work out. He entered the room quietly and closed the door behind him, before heaving his suitcase onto the bed and sinking into the armchair. He pushed a button on a nearby remote and the television flickered into life.

The news was on, halfway through a story. Pretty boring and standard, in Sherlock's eyes, so he reached to turn it over to something more exciting.

"…The victim, John Watson, is reported to still be in a coma after suffering traumatic bullet wounds to the head…"

Sherlock froze, the colour rushing from his face as he snapped his head up towards the screen. His eyes widened in horror as he was faced with a full-screen image of John, his John, accompanying the news report. The caption underneath the photo made his stomach lurch, and he leapt from the chair to grab the remote, which he had knocked to the floor, in order to pause the programme. The words burned out at him, searing onto his mind like they were being branded there.

MAN SHOT ON BAKER STREET SERIOUSLY WOUNDED.

"No. No, no, no." Sherlock fumbled with the machine, hoping desperately to find a rewind. He located it, and pushed it violently, playing the news story from the beginning of the report.

"A man shot today by an unknown attacker on his way home to Baker Street has been seriously injured, say police reports. The victim, John Watson, is reported to still be in a coma after suffering traumatic bullet wounds to the head and torso on his way home from work at the local GP surgery early this evening. His family and friends have been informed, and are hoping for a rapid recovery.

"The shooter in question is believed to be still at large in London city centre, although nobody has reported seeing the incident. The police are looking into it, but so far nobody has been named as suspect."

The report ended, but Sherlock continued to stare at the screen numbly, unseeing. He became aware that he was clutching the remote in his hand so hard that it was hurting, and so dropped it to the floor, where it landed with a soft thud on the thin carpet and switched the TV off. His arm swung limply to his side.

He stood stock-still, his mind replaying the story over and over again until he felt sick and the words blurred together in his head until they were completely incomprehensible. His thoughts reeled, working overtime. He had to get off the boat. John was in trouble. He had to get to him quicker. Still in a state of blank shock, Sherlock whipped his mobile from his back pocket and sent a hasty text.

Mycroft. I have to get to London quicker. It's urgent. Please. –SH

Mycroft's reply came almost immediately.

I presume you saw the news article? –MH

Just send something faster. –SH

The ferry didn't feel like it was moving yet, so Sherlock presumed it was still sitting in the dock. He hastily grabbed his bag back off the bed and started for the door.

People were shooting him confused sideways glances from all sides as he sprinted back down the long corridors towards the entrance to the boat. He could faintly hear guards calling at him to return to the main area, but he ignored them and pressed forwards, desperate to get outside before it started moving. The foghorn blared out, and he saw the gates begin to close ahead.

"Wait!" He shouted. The two men operating the door turned to face him, frowning. "Wait, I need to get off the boat."

The taller of the two spoke, his voice gruff and agitated. "I'm afraid we're already leaving port. You can't get off."

"Please. It's urgent. My friend, he's ..." Realising they weren't about to budge, Sherlock trailed off. He took a deep breath, preparing himself mentally for what he was about to do, and then ran. Before the guards could react, he had leapt through the opening and dove straight into the cold water.

A helicopter was waiting nearby when he had dragged himself ashore and wrung out his clothes. He didn't know how long it had been there for, but mentally commended Mycroft on his punctuality. He jumped in, aided by the pilot, who he'd met before on several occasions when the older Holmes had fancied showing off his ease of access to whatever mode of transport he wanted.

Sherlock didn't need to say where he was headed to. They lifted into the air with barely a second's hesitation, and sped off towards St Bart's.