Death alive. Dying again.

Those two phrases, ingrained in Sherlock's head. Sherlock's mind that was like a palace, now more like a cluster of thoughts. Two clustered, too much information that could cloud his vision.

Death alive. Dying again.

Why was it that those words annoyed him, confused him, made him wonder. He had to think. Always thinking. This case, it was different. He hadn't seen the body and it already confused him. Lestrade had said that it would be best for Sherlock not to see the small, mangled body.

That mangled body. Covered with a red blanket, tufts of blonde hair showing from above it.

Of course Sherlock wouldn't ever look. Looking would only confirm the fears that indulged him in hope. Lestrade had looked. Ms Hudson had looked. Everyone but Sherlock had looked.

Sherlock didn't need to look. Looking just caused him to be apprehensive. He was never apprehensive. That wasn't who he was. He would just leave it.

Of course, this was the first time Sherlock was 'back'. It had been two years, two years of hiding away from everyone, waiting for anything and everything. He was waiting for those he associated himself with to find him. But they didn't, so it was yesterday, that Sherlock decided to find himself. To prove to the world that he wasn't dead.

That was easy enough. All he had to do was walk into Baker Street and declare himself home and demand tea. But it didn't work that way.

Baker Street was up for rental again. It was empty, deserted, abandoned. Ms Hudson was still there, so after Sherlock saw her and was cosseted by her he simply asked. Where that man, his roommate, his doctor, his friend was.

She didn't know. Ms Hudson didn't know. Then he demanded that Lestrade told him, then Mycroft, then he even threatened Anderson. But none of them knew.

Then he remembered those stories his roommate used to say. About how he was in love with a woman, a rich woman whom they had solved many a case for, but idea that was fruitless, she didn't know where John was.

That's when the police called in the body covered in a red blanket with blonde tufts of hair peeking from beneath.

Death alive. Dying again.

That's how Sherlock felt when he reached slowly, cautiously for the blanket. The red, silky blanket. He had died, he was alive. But he felt as if he was dying again. And again. And again.

Then he flung the blanket off and his fears were matched with the harsh reality of the situation. There stood a man, who was 5'6" and not a centimetre taller. His chocolate brown eyes glazed over, one bullet to the head.

But he was not John. He was not Sherlock's Doctor John Watson. Not the flatmate, roommate that Sherlock knew. He was just a corpse. A cadaver. A body without a soul. He was dead.

But then, as Sherlock had deemed, it wasn't John. It was a message. From the one soul he had hoped never to see again, the one person he didn't need to, no, didn't want to see again.

Moriarty.

Then, next to the body laid a small package, with 'Sherly' written on it. This only caused Sherlock to frown heavily as he stood up, studying the package carefully as he opened it slowly. Then, inside, lined in red was a message. A violin string. A violin string and, what caused Sherlock to gag for the first time in his life, a end of a finger. Severed half way through a nerve. Sherlock could feel the pain that the owner had been through as it had taken. Excruciatingly painful.

But it didn't take two seconds for Sherlock to work out who 'owned' this finger tip. And this made him angry. So very angry. Now all he could do was do what he did best. Deduce, Detect and Demand. Demand John to be taken back.

Or find him. Sherlock would find him. No matter what he would do.

Death alive. Dying no more.