This is a restart of my last story 'Not that easily' I just couldn't start it from where I had. I apologize to all those who started the last one.

This is me getting back into writing, so be gentle if you may. I do not own Sherlock, I make no profit. Any mistakes I've made are my own.

Catch me if you can

All was calm in the mansion, work getting done which wasn't out of the usual. Most would assume quiet would be something a detective would cherish, but there isn't just one type of silence. There's a comfortable silence, usually shared between two beings who were too settled to make another move, there was awkward silence, friendly silence, and there was dead silence. Dead silence wasn't so much a noise as a feeling, it was the feeling of utter emptiness, the sheer amount of no noise, it was simply defining, making your ears ring and your temples ache. Dead silence scarcely happened around here, but it did on occasion. Softly resting his wrist on the edge of his desktop, sat Sherlock, his long fingers giving a continuous mechanical tap on the cold wood. Laying his arm along the width of the desktop he rested the side of his head on the elbow, continuing the tapping with his left hand. He stayed like this for 20 minutes or so he assumed, thinking, deducing about various things. To help pace his thoughts he flicked his hand, letting the tips of his fingers pull at one of the metallic spheres on his Newton's cradle, starting the cycle of click-click-click, he watched it for a moment before laying his head down once more, where it stayed for quite awhile.

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Sherlock had spent the last two years- two years, three months, sixteen days, seventeen hours, six minutes-and counting, hunting down what was left of Moriarty's men. He had only just finished his quest, ending it with a bang. The last pawn on his list, was Sebastian Moran.

Finding Moran was so dreadfully easy, so simple,that it seemed amateur. The chase was slow, he took precautions, Moriarty had covered this ones track well, it was almost as if Moriarty himself didn't want Sherlock to find his sniper. This little run-around they played, detective and hitman, left Sherlock walking up to a white picket fence, he pushed the gate aside and started up the walkway to the house, not a mansion, not an abandoned warehouse or manufacturing plant - a house. The small bungalow was just outside London, 15 miles at most. It was quaint, small, but it radiated a feeling of comfort.

Sherlock took confident steps up the stairs to the house, his coat following behind him. Sparing a glance, he looked to the address and simply saw a blue '1' as the '7' to it was left hanging by its end. Sherlock didn't bother pulling out his gun, he knew he wouldn't need it, he pulled open the glass outer door and wrapped his thin fingers around the door handle for the large wooden door behind it. With a last quiet breath, he turned the door handle and walked inside.

The sight that greeted Sherlock inside, was one, even the most intelligent of minds wouldn't expect. It was a house - a home rather. A warm, loving atmosphere that had since gone quiet. Dust littered what seemed like everything. To his right he saw a seating room, to his left a bathroom, and forward was a great staircase. The desire to explore, curiosity, struck Sherlock. He turned swiftly and entered the living room, instantly being drawn to the dark fireplace, he walked over to it and drew his hand up, running his index finger along the mantle, collecting dust on his glove before rubbing it off against his thumb. His gaze flickered around the room, it seemed as if, along with dust, the house was full of pictures - happy ones. There were countless family photos, countless stills of a son and what appeared to be his parents. Allowing himself the luxury, Sherlock picked up a picture off a side table, and lifted it to his eye level. The photo was one of a little boy - 5 judging by the height, it was summer and the child was smiling gleefully as his mother kissed his temple. His brows furrowed and he moved to set it back down when he heard a creak, from upstairs.

Sherlock held his breath, if only for a moment and waited for the creaking to cease, and it soon did. He slowly placed the photo back onto the table, reaching to draw out his gun. The photos continued to run through his mind as he paced across the floor and slowly started to ascend up the stairs. Upstairs was a simple layout, two bedrooms, and a storage closet. Sherlock found himself drawn towards the farthest bedroom, and as he approached it, and pushed the door open, his alarm dropped as soon as the room was revealed.

Inside the room, sitting on the edge of the bed, was what was expected to be Sebastian Moran, leaning over with his elbows braced upon his knees the far corner. "Moran." He addressed, the man looked up and Sherlock was greeted with the pale face of what was once the most feared hitman in London. "Holmes." Sebastian croaked quietly, his voice hoarse as if it hadn't had water in ages. "I didn't suspect you'd be coming so late." He smiled weakly and ran a hand through his tousled hair, "Get on with it then, will ya'?"

Sherlock rose his gun and pointed it at Sebastian with silent intent. "Ya' know.." Sebastian persisted, keeping his gaze, Sherlock lowered his gun slightly, signalling he was listening, at least a little. "You look almost as broken as me." He laughed and looked around the room, his eyes settling on a specific picture on the bedside table. To which a small glance told Sherlock it was another one of the small boy. "This is his house ya' know? Jim's. All the pictures of him, with his parents, he wasn't always like he was, Holmes. After losing all he cared for he - changed. He starte-.."

For a moment, Sherlock considered making Sebastian pay for the pain he caused himself and John, the years apart, the friendship, that they had, now irreplaceable, but as he watched Sebastian continue his telling of Moriarty's life, he felt a small sense of pity.

But now he was tired of listening.

Sherlock raised his gun once more, and shot Sebastian mid-sentence, it only took one shot, he knew his kill-points. He watched as Sebastian's dead weight settled forward and he collapsed to the floor, he only looked a moment before turning and making his way out, closing the door behind him.

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Hearing the soft rasp of knuckles on wood, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, and began to blink his dry eyes to help wake himself from the daydreaming he seemingly fell into. He lifted his head and noticed the Newtons' cradle had fell to the floor and broke of their strings once he lost concentration, but he left the spheres to lie there, scattered amongst the floor. With a deep sigh he straightened his back, hearing a metallic click afterwards of the door opening, he didn't wish to be disturbed but he none the less lifted his gaze from the floor to acknowledge who was at the door. Mycroft pushed open the door with the handle of his umbrella and slipped into the room.

There was a pang of annoyance at the back of Sherlock's mind, Mycroft only showed up when something was wrong, he almost hated the fact that the only time he would see his older brother was when he needed something, someone was dead, he was suspected of murder, or something else of that nature. Mycroft slowly made his way in and Sherlock noticed behind the door it looked as if his shirt was being pulled at, or perhaps his diet wasn't going so well after all. Mycroft gave no indication he noticed this and continued on as such, "We need to talk, Sherlock."

He couldn't say he didn't expect this to happen, of course he did. The words echoing in his mind as if Mycroft had continued to say them, Wehavetotalk-wehavetotalk'. Sherlock was no coward, not in any sense, but every time he heard those four words it managed severely set him off track. His mind began to form any excuse it could for this intrusion, he was much to tired to deduce it from his brother. Was Lestrade hurt, Mrs. Hudson is she alright, Molly, surely it isn't John, right?

"Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled and smacked his umbrella onto the desk, snapping Sherlock upright and aware."I do not wish to talk, Mycroft! I have much to do!" Sherlock spat, and stood up grabbing his coat off the back of the chair and slipping it on, promptly buttoning it up.

"I don't think you should tell Watson, Sherlock, I don't believe he'll act too well to this news." Mycroft said softly, a little too softly. Turning to Mycroft, Sherlock glared profusely at him, which didn't seem to unsettle him in the least.

"You think- Well I believe that is a miracle in itself, you don't think at all, Mycroft. Stop concerning yourself with what I do." Sherlock said flatly, grabbing and securing his scarf around his neck.

The rest of what the older Holmes brother had to say fell on deaf ears as the slamming of the door echoed through the room.

End of chapter 1

I don't ask you to review, but with me getting back into writing, it would help greatly! I hope you've enjoyed it so far.

Until the next chapter, K.