Iz was exhausted before ever boarding the plane in Australia. It had been two years since Will's death and she still hadn't made it to London. Caution had kept her from making a direct trip. Will's paranoia had proven to be infectious and terror of the unknown had driven her over four continents. Ever since moving to America from England when she was very small, Will had started saving money for an emergency, just in case, he would say. The emergency had happened and only the depleted state of the funds had caused her at length to direct her path towards Baker Street.

So in Australia, she booked a hotel for ten days, paid, checked in, and slipped out the French windows that night. She hoped the hotel room would buy her a few days head start on her pursuer.

Because she was being pursued. She was certain of it. Several times over those two years a stranger would take a particular interest in her from across the street. The disguises were always different but she recognized a certain similarity of features that each of these characters had possessed. She'd also heard about mysterious gas explosions in buildings she had only recently vacated. There was no longer any doubt in her mind that her parents and Will had been murdered – though the police report for Will's death said it was a hit and run – and that she was next on the list.

The providence of a cab pulling up before her at the airport had also given her some misgivings. She was certain she was ahead of her pursuer but could he possibly know about the note Will had left her? It was almost probable. He could be lying in wait for her. She could be walking into a trap. But she was out of options. If she waited much longer, she knew she would be dead. If it was a trap, well, there is no avoiding the inevitable. She satisfied herself with the knowledge that even if the cab driver might be in league with her pursuer, he was most definitely a different person.

From underneath his cap, a mass of dark curls spilled over. He had a moderately bizarre face, she noted, and looked extraordinarily intelligent. She didn't peg him for the type to be a cab driver. Perhaps a teacher or maybe an office worker, the type who was constantly stepping on toes and correcting others. She noticed he studied her momentarily in the mirror before asking where to.

"221B Baker Street," she answered, and then settled in for what she anticipated being an unnecessarily long ride. But the cabby took her strait to her destination, without running up the meter.

When he pulled the cab to a stop he gave her another brief glance with his unusual blue eyes before refusing to take her fare. His voice was a rich baritone that was almost impossible for her to understand at its lowest.

She glanced out at the door before her. The brass 221B shone dully and she tried to imagine what could be behind that door. A shiver of fear gripped her and she turned to ask the cabby to wait for her but he had already turned off the engine.

"Thank you," she said. He simply nodded fractionally in response as she climbed out of the car and boldly made her way towards the door, leaving her ring which she had been fidgeting with in the backseat.

She rang the bell and waited. Soon footsteps could be heard approaching and the door was opened by a small, motherly woman who cast a single glance at her.

"You'll be looking for John, then," the woman said.

Iz blinked in surprise. Was she looking for John? She was trying to find SH, whoever SH was. Maybe this John knew. "I guess I am."

"American," the woman muttered. "Well come in. I'll take you right upstairs."

Iz followed obediently. The flat was absolutely silent, devoid of the noises of human inhabitants. When the woman showed her into the room and left her there, Iz had to take a second look before seeing the man seated in a low chair near the fireplace. He looked tired and a touch gruff but in no means did he appear to be dangerous. Nor was he the man she had spotted following her in the past.

"Um, hello," he said.

"Hello," Iz answered. "I'm not entirely sure why I'm here."

He stared at her as though he had never seen a human girl in his entire life. His features were filled with confusion and he allowed the newspaper he had been holding to fall into his lap.

"I'm looking for someone with the initials SH."

The man's face instantly closed up and his light blue eyes took on a flinty look. She realized then that he could be dangerous. "Why." It wasn't a question, it was a command to explain.

"I was told to find him," she said as she swung her backpack from her shoulder and allowed it to fall to the floor. "I was told he could help me." She studied the man before her and decided to throw at least some caution to the wind. "I think someone is trying to kill me."

The man who she assumed must be John shook his head slightly. "He's not here. He can't help you."

She fought back the anxiety that statement brought. "What do you mean? I can wait for him to come back."

John gave a lifeless chuckle. "You'll be waiting for some time. Sherlock Holmes died three years ago."

"No," she breathed.

John's eyes flashed. "I saw it happen. He was forced to jump off a building and kill himself. So unless you want to tell me how he would manage to survive that and why he wouldn't let me know he was still alive, I'll thank you to not be contradicting me." He had stood up in the middle of his speech and started shouting at her. She had no right to be upset over his death. She didn't know. She couldn't guess.

Her eyes were bright with tears and John realized that he had been shouting. The sound of familiar footsteps on the stairs informed him that Mrs. Hudson was on her way up to investigate.

"I'm sorry," the girl whispered. "I didn't know."

"Don't you read the papers?" John spat, stalking away from her and towards the window. "They had a heyday with it. 'Suicide of Fake Genius' I believe was the most common title but, you know, it was wrong. They were all wrong. Sherlock Holmes was the greatest man I have ever known."

"Those titles were wrong," a new voice noted. "They should have read 'Fake Suicide of Genius' but that's the press for you. Always so inaccurate. Also, I doubt an American would have read about such a local affair."

John whirled to face the door where stood what he could only explain as a ghost or a hallucination. A tall figure with dark, curly hair stood in the doorway. He was dressed in loose trousers, a jumper, a weathered jacket, and a cap but over one arm he held a long coat with a dark blue scarf. John was almost afraid to look at the face, almost afraid that this miracle would be ripped away from him. But sure enough, there stood Sherlock.

Calmly, Sherlock walked up to the girl and handed her a silver ring. "You left this in the cab," he said simply.

"You," John hissed and launched himself at the ghost.

Iz stared in alarm as John attacked the cabby, hands scrabbling for the other man's throat.

"You bloody bastard!" John growled, letting out a stream of choice curse words while he attacked the tall, slender man he had been allowed to believe was dead for three years. He was furious and happy and scared and in a solid state of disbelief. And Sherlock didn't fight back. He allowed John to attack him and maintained his calm which only made John more furious. How dare he come back. How dare he act as though nothing had happened, as though he hadn't taken a piece of John with him when he'd jumped of St. Bart's. And he actually thought it was acceptable to just walk back in?

"Get out," John ordered with his hands still at his old flatmate's throat. "Get. Out. You're dead." He threw the apparition away from himself and returned to his chair, head in hands. He'd hallucinated about Sherlock returning before. The ghost always fought back in the past, the fact that this one hadn't didn't seem to register with him. All John was aware of was that his mind was playing tricks on him.

"John." His voice was low and firm. "John, I'm not dead."

Forgotten in the scuffle, Iz stared between the two men before her, completely at a loss. "Do you two know each other?" she finally asked once the silence had been allowed to grow to an uncomfortable amount.

John jumped violently at the sound of her voice but the look in his eyes had changed from angry defeat to a feverish hope. "You see him? You actually see him?"

"Of course she does, John. Your hands are entirely steady, you neglected your cane when you so agilely threw yourself at me, completely disregarding your injury. These facts combined with your heightened breathing and heart rate work to prove that you are not hallucinating and everything you perceive to be happening really is. The presence of a third party ought to help convince you that your mental faculties are in perfect working order and that I did not die. John," Sherlock crossed the room quickly, kneeling before John, "Moriarty did not beat me."

"Course he didn't," John said gruffly, ignoring the pricks in his eyes that warned of tears. He forced himself to laugh instead. "You're the great Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly as he studied his friend. It had been three years since they had spoken and he regretted every instant of silence. He knew by John's fisted hands that at least a part of him was still in denial about what was before him. John was a person with strong emotions and Sherlock knew him well enough to be able to watch his internal struggle play out across his features. But the call of a client was enough to distract him for the moment.

"I overheard your conversation just before I came into the room," Sherlock said, turning to address the worried looking girl standing in the center of the room. "I believe you've come to see me."

She nodded slowly. "And who are you? Or what?"

A strong wave of pleasure washed over Sherlock. He was back in his old lodging with his faithful friend by his side and a new case, already promising to be interesting judging by the little signs he could read from his client. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and I'm the world's only consulting detective."

He allowed himself the tiniest smile. And the game was on.