I'm sorry for how closely to Conan-Doyle's storyline this chapter follows, but I did want to keep a lot of the original elements in there - of course I didn't go through with John's original reaction to Sherlock's return, we've been waiting for a better reaction since the beginning of the 1900s. Thank you all who added this story to their alert, for the review, and I'm flattered by those who added me to author update. I hope you enjoy this chapter, there aren't many hints of Johnlock in this chapter, and there won't be too many in the next chapter, more of what they think but keep to themselves. But don't worry, we're getting there slowly.

The Return of Sherlock Holmes 2; Hello John

Another day at the crime scene, really, it was beginning to get monotonous. There had been no further messages from 'AB' since he'd been told to look into the animals that were kept in the aquarium. There was just one problem, John didn't know anything about marine animals, and the police refused to help with this 'ridiculous' line of investigation. He knew he was right, there was no doubt about it, but how did he prove it? Was this what it was like to be Sherlock, all those times where he swore he just knew something; but of course Moriarty wouldn't class it as a win unless the detective could prove it. So, another day wasted the doctor returned to his apartment, a small place on the upper floor of an old building on Melcombe Street – a street leading onto Baker Street, almost directly to 221B.

As much as it pained John to see their old place, to be reminded of all that happened and ceased to happen when Sherlock died, he couldn't stand to be very far away from there. And of course it was easier to visit Mrs Hudson. With a heavy heart he made to leave for the day, giving a passive half-wave to Lestrade he turned up his collar against the cold and made his way home.
There were still a few comforts that he kept around in his new flat; Sherlock's skull – which as much as he protested otherwise, was actually nice to talk to – and the deer skull with the headphones, the ashtray Sherlock had once stolen from Buckingham palace, Irene Adler's camera phone, the London directory, and the violin still in its case propped up against the wall where the windows faced the street.

But it was cold; a feeble attempt to fill the gaps, to prevent John from forgetting about the adventures he and Sherlock had shared. Of course he never could forget, no-one could forget a man like that.

"When are you going to tell him?" the female voice chastised softly, "It isn't fair really is it? Both me and Mrs Hudson know now, why not John?"

Molly Hooper was a petite woman, with mousy hair, thin lips, and a nervous stature. For all of her hesitant qualities and careful conversation she was strong and determined, and though she used to bend to anything that Sherlock would say, 2 years had hardened her resolve and she would tell him her mind.

"Because John does not yet need to know." Came the cold reply, though Molly knew him well enough to recognise the slight heightening in pitch stemming from conflicting feelings. "There wouldn't be much point in it. Oh hello John, by the way I'm alive, though not for very long as Mr Moran is going to put a bullet through my head now."

The coroner bit her tongue and fought with herself to refrain from snapping at her companion.

"Soon, I will tell him soon."

"So, what are we trying to do here anyway Sherlock?" she asked, eyes taking in every inch of the man before her as though he might vanish into thin air if she looked the other way for just a second.

"I needed Mrs Hudson's permission to use the place again, which is why she has been informed of my 'survival', and I need you, Molly, so that we can set up a welcome for our friend Moran."
Sherlock grinned smugly, hands in his trouser pockets. It was as though the last 24 months hadn't changed him in the least, he was still the same as ever, brunette curls bouncing with each movement, skin pale and without a blemish in sight. His eyes sparkled with the promise of something exciting happening, and the companionship of the people he had left behind a long time ago.

"Okay, what are we after?" asked the younger woman, frowning a little at the rules and legislations she would have to ignore to help Sherlock clear his name. They'd been through the details a little, though Molly for all intents and purposes didn't know exactly what was to happen until the detective needed it to. She knew that he'd gathered enough evidence in his favour to expose Moriarty for the criminal he was, and that this final piece of the puzzle, the King chess piece, Sebastian Moran, would be the key to lock everything in place. Now they were setting a trap for him.

"I brought the body like you asked." She gestured to a black body-bag, which the sociopath took great joy in unzipping. Immediately he stood with a spring in his step and clapped Molly on the shoulders.

"Wonderful! Exactly what I needed Molly, seems I was right to ask it of you." He proceeded to begin dragging the body out; making sure that all the boards covering the windows prevented anyone from looking inside. He propped the corpse up against the wall and proceeded to dress it in some of his own clothes.

"You see, if I make this body look convincing enough, and have Mrs Hudson move it every so often, it will seem as though I am sat in the window looking out. Moran already knows of my return to London, and he is searching me out so that his master's final work is not undone. However, if he believes I am once again inhabiting 221B, he will target this window, or perhaps this room. We must lay a trap for him here in case poison is his weapon of choice, and I will stake out the prime vantage point in case a gun is the medium." He was pacing up and down the room as he explained, the coroner simply watching him with an awed expression. He clicked his fingers and pointed straight at one of the covered up windows.

"That one will do nicely, there's an unused building straight across from here. I imagine due to Moran's military service, he will choose to shoot me. Men like him do love to show off. So, once he is indisposed – not dead mind you or that would be disastrous – he will be arrested and serve as the final evidence in my case."

There was no further discussion, and the two of them set about performing the task set to them. A convincing silhouette would have to be made, Moran was not the type to be easily fooled, or so Sherlock continued to remind them of as he pointed out flaws in Molly's methods. But Moran had made a mistake, and the detective had gotten hold of some very important information, he would be panicked, and that would be fatal to his success.
Yes fatal – but not too fatal.

The walk home this time was very cold, and the wind began to pick up as John rounded the last corner from Siddon Lane, he could feel the beginnings of raindrops pattering against his face. He shivered, choosing to walk much more often than take a taxi recently, still too much of a 'Sherlock' thing to do, and the exercise was helpful, not to mention the solitude in which he could think once he reached the quieter back alleys. So lost in his thoughts, was John, that he walked directly into someone who had been taking a photograph of the scenery – most likely a tourist.

"Oh, pardon me!" he squeaked, suddenly interrupted from his mental wanderings.

"I should think so!" came the gruff reply, the man was tall, lean, he wore a trench coat which was very dirty, a worn out old deerstalker, a scarf over his face, and large sunglasses. In this weather, really? Thought John at this observation, it was obvious the man wasn't blind; he'd been taking a photograph! It was as though he wanted to draw attention to his attire, but the doctor thought nothing of it, and instead fobbed him off as one of the many homeless men in London who'd picked up a dropped camera and was testing it so that he could sell it on for food, drink, or drug money. He hoped it was the first, since Sherlock had held such admiration for the homeless network. The blonde nodded curtly and turned to walk away.

"People nowadays, no sodding respect!" he heard the man complain as he fumbled with the keys to let himself into his apartment.
Once John was out of sight, the man began to chuckle to himself.

"Really doctor?" he asked aloud. "And I made it so obvious too."
Gathering himself up, the man walked up to the door that the ex-soldier had just gone through and rapped hard on the wood. A middle aged man answered the door, tall, quite fat, with a stiff walk that could most likely be attributed to an early onset of arthritis due to his weight problems.

"I'm looking for John Watson." The spectacled man asked, and was shown inside without a sound, and pointed in the direction of the stairs.

"First door on the left." Was the only information he was given before he was pushed up the first few steps. Dusting himself off he chuckled again, he didn't even bother to ask who I was. I could be here to murder the good doctor and he wouldn't have a clue, or maybe even a care about it.

John had slumped into his armchair the moment he'd gotten back into the house. It wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, but being unable to solve a simple case was getting to him, he was sure that the detective would have it cracked straight away, maybe even -

"It's the snail, John." A voice floated in from the doorway, like honey to the doctor's ears, and he assumed he was hallucinating, or had fallen asleep and was having another dream in which Sherlock had returned. "The 'Conus Marmoreus' or Marbled Cone Snail; poisonous, not fatal in small doses, but throw in an allergy to that particular species and you have a positively deadly combination." Okay, this was getting stupid. John couldn't believe his imagination was getting this vivid, he didn't have any knowledge about marine life, how could he come up with an answer like that in his head – silly how it would come in the form of the brunette's voice though.

"After all this time you're not going to greet an old friend?"

Right, now a stop needed to be put to this. The doctor got up slowly out of his seat and reached for his walking stick. He'd actually bought himself a wooden one this time, it seemed more in-keeping with the type of company he'd been surrounded with as of late. His psychosomatic limp had returned shortly after Sherlock had disappeared, with a vengeance at that.

John turned to face the doorway, and there, bright as day, stood Sherlock Holmes, leaning on the wood casually, the glasses, hat and scarf had been removed – why, he was the man he had run into in the street! But that couldn't be the case could it? Of course not; he was an apparition, some psychosis that John had worked himself up into. He must have seemed like some kind of representation of a fish, mouth opening and closing with a blank look to the rest of his features as he struggled for words. The detective smirked, righting himself and walking over to his old companion, before placing a hand on his arm.

"Welcome back would be a nice place to start." He joked; the blonde blinked a few times, mouth drawn into a thin line, and entire body tensed.

"W-W-W" that was as far as he got, before it became too much, and John Watson hit the floor.

The world was blurred, lights faded in first, slowly, then sound, and John thought he could make out the tones of Sherlock speaking.
"My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies," said the well-remembered voice. "I had no idea you would be so affected."
What had happened? That was right, he had thought he'd seen Sherlock, and then it was all black, blank. The doctor sat up in bed and rubbed his aching head as the room came into focus. There, in all his elegance, sat the sociopathic detective.
"I'd known you'd suffer some shock, but I didn't expect it to be quite this bad," began the younger man, as though the last 2 years had never happened and everything was back to normal.
"Now, I was hoping you'd come with me on an errand, I have to see to a certain individual – Sebastian Moran – perhaps you remember him from the message I sent to your blog? Yes, AB, when A is replaced with a number that reads as 1B, I had hoped you'd pick up on that. 221B, not very difficult but then that would be for me I sup-

Sherlock was interrupted mid flow, as John had gotten up and crossed the room to stare at him in disbelief for a short period of time until he'd felt that he'd heard enough, and landed a good solid punch just above the detective's right cheekbone. He looked surprised, but the anger and resentment on the doctor's face quickly replaced that with an apologetic, almost panicked one.
"Now John I-

Again he was interrupted, this time by a long drawn out scream of 'Sherlock!' as he was tackled to the floor, the ex-soldier pounding the hurt and disappointment of a lifetime into him, of course he wouldn't kill the detective, no matter how much he'd like to for all he'd done, but that didn't mean that John didn't need to do this, oh he needed it badly. Maybe then the ignorant, intolerable, stupid, hateful, deceptive, idiotic, wonderfully brilliant man would understand some of what John had been through. Maybe, but probably not.
When did Sherlock Holmes ever understand how other people felt?