Hello all. New one from me, another Johnlocky post-TRF, but this time it'll be a multi-chapter fic. I have the plot laid out in my head and, for once, I actually know where a fic is going from the first chapter. Hooray! This fic is very much inspired by the wonderful TheVenturer's first chapter of her new, brilliant drabble series - please go and read! The inspiration will become clearer in the next few chapters.

Anyway, there won't be loads of authors notes as I think they often get in the way, so I'll get everything said now - I will aim to update this at least weekly, I would really appreciate reviews, feedback, etc and will respond to anything anyone asks (just because the plot is laid out, doesn't mean I'm not open to suggestions!) and I really hope you enjoy this.

E x

"Back to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes."

And though he would never admit it, Sherlock felt a wave of bliss - despite his current predicament - overwhelm his whole being at his older brother's words. Back to Baker Street. Back to his old life.

Back to John?

"And what about John Watson?" he asked, as casually as he could muster, buttoning his pristine white shirt and marvelling at how comfortable it felt to be back in his formal clothes after all this time. Mycroft was leaning against the desk, one eyebrow raised pointedly.

"What about him?"

"Well, I assume you've been keeping tabs on him all this time," Sherlock retorted, admiring himself, and his cuffs, in the mirror. A good scrub clean, a shave and a nice suit did wonders.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but leaned across the desk and reached for a small pile of papers which he handed to Sherlock. "He's still at 221B. Keeps himself to himself, apart from going to work and the occasional drink with your DI. Returned to his therapist after three months, still sees her every fortnight as far as I know. He suffered," Mycroft stated bluntly, as Sherlock flicked through the bullet pointed information on his friend, and felt his stomach lurch at the few covert photos of him, still clearly devastated. "I would advise caution before you leap back into his life, Sherlock."

"But that... that's impossible," Sherlock heard himself stutter, but refused to acknowledge it. "Didn't he meet someone? Make more friends, meet a woman? John was always very good at meeting women, and without me around to sabotage anything-"

"No dates. No new friends. Nothing," Mycroft said. "I would have told you but I didn't want to distract you from the case in hand, and besides, brother dear," he said almost sarcastically, as Sherlock cast an accusing look at him. "You never asked."

He never asked. It was completely true. He had never once asked Mycroft about the state of John Watson, for he did not want to know that he had moved on with his life, was out every night, had got engaged, or even married. He didn't want to know that John had moved on from him, forgotten about him. Sherlock had been absolutely positive that this was the news he would have heard, had he asked. Somewhere, somehow, he had made a huge error.

"Get me an appointment to see him," Sherlock said suddenly, turning to fully face his brother, the sheaths of paper forgotten in his hand. "I can't read him from this, not properly. I need to see him before he knows who I am."

"At the surgery?"

"Of course."

"For what purpose? Why do you need to read him?"

"I..." Sherlock tailed off, earning himself another raised eyebrow from his brother. "I just... it's important that I do this, Mycroft."

"You'd go in disguise?"

"Of course I'd go in disguise," he snapped, beginning to pace now. "I need to assess the situation, deduce what his reaction will be. The last thing I want is to give the man a heart attack."

Mycroft folded his arms, a small smirk dancing around his thin lips. "This is all very... caring of you, Sherlock," he said, trying not to look too smug. "Quite unlike the Sherlock I know. Has being away all this time changed you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't go expecting heartfelt platitudes from me, Mycroft," he scoffed. "John saved my life, on several occasions, and has stuck by me when no one else would. Not even you," he pointed out, raising his eyes to meet the steely grey ones of his brother. "Of course I care about him."

Mycroft sighed, but did not comment on Sherlock's little speech, instead reaching for his mobile. "I am sure I can arrange an undercover meeting for you and your Doctor," he said simply. "I don't want you forgetting our little London terrorist issue, however."

"Of course not," he replied, glancing back down at the photo of John on top of the pile. "I am sure I will work better with John at my side."

"Who's this?" John asked, pointing at a name on his screen as Sarah bustled in. Doctor Watson had made a point of learning all there was to know about his patients - not that he had much else to do in his life these days. His patients all adored him for that very reason - they all felt important to him, and liked how he was able to remember practically everything about their patient history whilst barely consulting with his screen. He prided himself on knowing all of his patients' names, but this one, a Mr. William Scott, eluded him. He clicked on the name to bring up the patient history, but all he got was a blank screen.

"New patient," Sarah said, glancing over his shoulder as she looked for something in a drawer. "Asked for you specifically."

John ran his hand across his face. "I thought I wasn't taking on any new pa... wait, what? He asked for me specifically?"

Sarah nodded. "That's right. Said he'd heard good things about you."

John blinked owlishly at her. "And you thought that sounded perfectly normal? New patient, no details about him at all, and he asked for me? How would he know about me if he's new?" John frowned. "This must be a fan, someone who followed me when I was very briefly famous. Wants some gossip about Sherlock. Or... or someone who wants to tell me how awful he was, what a fraud he was. Someone who wants to crow..."

Sarah touched his arm gently, soothingly, and waited until he looked up at her.

"John," she said calmly, squeezing his arm slightly in reassurance. "It's just a new patient. I've checked out the details he's given us, they're just not up on the system yet. He knows people who come to this surgery and they recommended you. He seems like a sweet... old man," she said, and John picked up on her very slight hesitance.

"Old man?"

"I... I think he's old."

John pursed his lips. "You think he's old?"

"Well, it was hard to tell. You know how rubbish I am at guessing peoples ages. He could have been 70. Or maybe 40. I don't know, it was dark..."

"...In the well-lit reception?"

Sarah grimaced. "Look, John. I promise you this isn't a fan or a crazy person who wants to stalk you. He's just a nice person who wants to see you because he's heard good things about you, okay?"

John sighed. "You're very lucky I have a patient who has just this minute turned up," he said, indicating the flashing alert on his screen. "We'll talk about this later. I'm not happy about taking on new patients, you promised me this w-"

"Okay, okay John. We'll talk later, I'm sorry. But he's booked in now, he'll be here in an hour. Just get through the appointment and if you're not keen, I'll transfer him to someone else, okay?"

The suspicious look had not left John's face, but he nodded. "Fine. Send in Mrs. Smyth on your way out."

"Sarah, remind me to never, ever use you as a covert operative."

She glared at the man stood in her office. "You're bloody lucky I agreed to this, Sherlock," she reminded him, still not completely over her shock from a couple of hours before. "And if you do hurt or upset John, I will not be held responsible for my actions."

Sherlock nodded. "Fair enough. What time is the appointment?"

"11.30." She glanced at the clock. "You've got thirty minutes to get ready. What are you dressing up like?"

"I brought several different disguises," he said, motioning towards the small case propped up by the door. "I'll try them on, you tell me which one works best. Okay?"

Sarah nodded, then couldn't help a small smile gracing her features. "You know, after the initial shock - and there will be shock, Sherlock, and possibly some heated words," she warned him, "I really think he's going to be delighted. He's... he's really struggled since you..."

Sherlock nodded. "So I've heard." He glanced at her. "Has he ever confided in you, or are you going on gut instinct?"

Sarah bit her lip, and suddenly her face became frustratingly unreadable. "I think you need to speak with John - preferably not here, by the way, although I guess there is a chance he will see through your disguise," she admitted. "I don't want to have to throw freezing water over the pair of you."

"You really think it's going to be that bad, hmm?" he said, bending down to retrieve his first costume.

Sarah nodded slightly. "Put yourself in his shoes for once, Sherlock. How would you feel? I know you had to do it to save his life, and he will understand that, I'm sure. But he grieved for you, hugely. He's still completely devastated. How do you think, honestly, he'll feel when he first realises what's happening?"

Sherlock sat back on his heels, and gazed up at Sarah. "I don't know," he admitted, chewing slightly on his bottom lip. "That's why I'm going through this massive rigmarole. Maybe it would be best if he never found out what really happened."

Sarah knitted her eyebrows together. "Look, Sherlock," she said, in a voice that was verging on severely pissed off. "I've agreed to let you do this, breaking god knows how many rules in the process. I've agreed to let you tell John, as soon as you think is possible, what's really going on. But if you come out of that room with even the slightest inclination that you will never reveal your true identity to that man, I will personally turn you on your heel, march you back in there and pull off whatever ridiculous disguise you're wearing myself. Am I making myself clear?"

Sherlock couldn't help the admiring grin forming on his face. "Crystal," he replied, somehow both mockingly and yet also quite sincerely.

Patients not turning up was a huge bone of contention for Doctor John Watson, but his 11.20 was a no-show and, for once in his life, he was pleased. It meant he had ten minutes to think, to prepare himself for this new patient that Sarah had evidently forced upon him. He only wished that he, too, would fail to show up, but he guessed that that was incredibly unlikely.

He smiled sadly to himself. This was not him. Nervous about meeting a new patient? The John Watson from two years ago would be ashamed. He would have folded his arms and raised one eyebrow, staring him down. He knew this. And yet he couldn't bring himself to even try to do anything about it.

Therapy no longer helped. The only thing that temporarily gave him some comfort, some release from the pain he was feeling, was alcohol. Having witnessed his own sister spiral down that slippery slope, he knew better than to follow that very tempting road himself. He limited his alcoholic intake as best he could, knowing that Mrs. Hudson was also keeping a careful eye on him. And Greg stopped by every so often, sometimes to ask for his still relatively valid opinion on cases, but more often than not for a chat, a small drink and a manly awkward hug at the end.

"Two years," he breathed, staring blankly at his computer screen. It shouldn't take this long to get over a friend. A good friend. Even a best friend. There was grieving, and missing someone, and then there was this. This hollow, aching chasm that he had experienced ever since that daft bastard had gone and killed himself. After two years, he'd given up any hope that the pain would get any less than the level it was currently at - not as acute as the days and weeks after the event, but still there, pressing urgently against his very soul.

He was startled out of his reverie by the alert on his computer. He glanced down to the bottom corner. It appeared his new patient was in the building, and ready to be seen.