Sherlock Holmes strode through the terminal, a single bag in his hand. As the hustle and bustle of travelers whirled around him, the predictable chaos of the airport made him feel oddly relaxed. Parents were reining in their excitable children, businessmen were anxiously checking their watches, security guards were eyeing everyone with terse suspicion, an solitary travelers were rushing to their gates. Shoes making shiny tiles squeak, sprawling glass windows causing infants to gawk, heavy suitcases going clatter-slide clatter-slide across the floor created a somehow comfortable cacophony.
In such a crowd of noises and movement and color, or in any crowd, really, Sherlock stuck out. One tall lonely traveler in black, slipping between people without so much as a "pardon me." He made his way quickly to the proper gate and boarded the plane in no time. Sitting back in his chair, he took in the passengers as they got on and shoved their bags into overhead compartments. An elderly couple visiting their son there, a university student going home for a break here, a soldier coming back from war over there...
Sherlock smiled faintly at that sight, as familiarity, absurd as it was, washed over him. A young woman near the soldier shook his hand and exchanged a few respectful words, at which point the soldier smiled gratefully and replied. Across the aisle and a few rows back, Sherlock watched in unexpected contentment and mild amusement as the soldier asked for the woman's number.
Of course he did, Sherlock thought, the faintest of smirks playing across his lips.
Somehow, the sight made him feel less alone.
He didn't pay much attention to the flight crew's message about safety, preferring to observe silently. Two flight attendants blatantly flirting, the pilot was twenty-seven years old and had a pregnant wife, boring. Giving up on them, his gaze instead shifted to the window next to him. In a few minutes, they took off, and Sherlock watched the earth fall away from him as the plane lifted into the sky. Buildings shrunk to minuscule dots of light on the dark ground.
For once, Sherlock found the flight relaxing, watching the pinpricks of light pass by far below. Eventually, the plane passed over the ocean, and there was nothing interesting to look at anymore. So Sherlock's eyelids fluttered shut and he simply thought, the roar of the engine and murmured conversations around him becoming distant.
Two years... Two long years waiting to return. London seemed like a half-forgotten dream, carefully preserved in his mind palace, yes, but it was just that. Preserved. Unchanged. 221B Baker Street was even more so. Loneliness washed over him as he remembered, all the miserable days he'd lived while away from there rushing back, longing for home filling him.
But lonely thoughts of home faded as he slipped into sleep, and when he woke up hours later, he found that the sun was shining. And far below, though growing closer by the second, was his beloved London. He caught sight of the tall buildings and the spiderweb of roads, the river Thames and the bridges crossing it, and a smile crossed his lips briefly.
He kept his eyes fixed on the ground as the plane finally touched down, taking in everything. Two years had done nothing to dispel his passion for London, for his old life. He couldn't wait to get started again. All he had to do, he reminded himself as he brushed past the soldier, was hope John could be brought round quickly.
He hurried off the plane, through the Heathrow terminal, and took his first official steps in London again.
So, London, he thought to himself with a smirk as he stepped onto the street, I'm back.

I'm headed home.

This is a bit of a random one shot, and probably not great either. But I wanted to write something tonight, on the last night of 2013 and the last night before we get new Sherlock! So I wish you all a wonderful new year, and don't forget: Sherlock lives.