Chapter 2

Sherlock had just gotten out of the flat when he noticed a black car was parked outside. Sherlock sighed deeply, not wanting to deal with his brother at the moment. Out came Anthea, typing something on her phone.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," Anthea said, not looking up because she was still texting.

Sherlock didn't say anything to her, except he got into the black car. Anthea followed Sherlock inside the car and the car drove off. Sherlock waited patiently to see his brother. But during the car ride, all Sherlock could think about was John. John was getting married. John was happy. John had moved on. John had forgotten about him. Sherlock inhaled deeply, thinking about the last one pained him the most. Sherlock leaned against the backseat as if that would make him forget.

The car stopped abruptly and Sherlock stepped out of the car without a word. He made his way around the abandoned building, looking for Mycroft. He knew where his brother would be. His coat flapped behind him as he glided across the floor. Sherlock opened two doors and made his way inside. Once inside, Sherlock noticed a black umbrella swishing in the wind.

"Mycroft," Sherlock whispered.

The man, Mycroft, had his back facing Sherlock as he was twirling the umbrella. Mycroft was dressed in black except for his shirt, which was white. He continued to face his brother this way.

"Sherlock, how many years has it been?" Mycroft asked.

"Why would you ask me such a question if you already knew the answer to it?" Sherlock replied.

Sherlock heard his brother chuckle. His brother replied, "It was more of a rhetorical question. But you do realize the problem I am asking, right?"

Sherlock said nothing; instead he glared at his brother. "Mycroft, what do you want? You're wasting my time –"

"For what? You're going to see John, or am I wrong?" Mycroft interrupted.

Sherlock said nothing but balled his fists. He clenched his hands so hard that they started turning white.

Mycroft smiled. Mycroft finally turned around to face his brother. "I'm not wrong?" Mycroft answered, grinning at his brother. "The more damning question is why are you going to see John after all these years? A simple and harmless text message I sent? Is that why?"

Sherlock had his mouth shut. He refused to answer his brother. He just stared him down with his eyes.

Mycroft was studying his brother, seeing for anything. He walked towards Sherlock and smiled again. "Oh… I see, you're in love –"

"Mycroft! It's none of your business of why I'm going to John!" Sherlock yelled, losing control of his emotions.

"I see. Everything makes sense now, the fall, everything. You did it all for John," Mycroft whispered, walking in circles around his brother like a vulture. "You do realize that it's too late."

"What exactly is too late?" Sherlock asked.

"Don't play coy with me," Mycroft answered, stopping right in front of his brother and facing him. "You know exactly what I mean. Or…would you rather have someone tell you the undeniable truth?"

Sherlock said nothing once more. He just stared into his brother's eyes. He didn't even blink at Mycroft. This was a game, all of it. A game he didn't feel like playing.

"I'll take your silence as a yes, then," Mycroft said. "If you want me to say it, then I won't disappoint you. The reality is any hope that John will actually love you back is slim to none. You had your chance. John was yours even a year after the fall but you didn't come back. I hate to say I told you so…but…I've already said that."

Sherlock was on the backseat, waiting to go. Anthea was making her way back into the car. She noticed Mycroft and smiled slightly. She stalked towards him, phone in hand.

"Something tells me that you certainly put quite a shock in him," Anthea said.

Mycroft smiled. "You know what went on. You practically heard the conversation," he replied.

"It was hard not to. Do you think he's learned his lesson?" Anthea asked.

"I don't know but I hope I made him understand," Mycroft said, looking at the black car. "Take him."

"Where?" Anthea asked, looking innocently.

"You know where I'm talking about," Mycroft whispered.

"And the shocking continues," Anthea replied. "You're bad for being in the British government."

Sherlock was outside the flat of 221B Baker Street. It's been three years since he's been here. He missed it. He still had the key. Sherlock fumbled in his coat looking for the key. At last, he found it and opened the door. Once inside, Sherlock noticed something was different. The flat looked a bit…empty. Sherlock's eyes widened a bit as he strode upstairs. His heart was thumping wildly in his chest. Sherlock was afraid of what he might see, or rather not see.

Sherlock stared at the door before he opened it. The flat was indeed empty. There were boxes that were filled with his stuff. How he knew, it had his name on them. Sherlock didn't find John in the kitchen or living room. Sherlock made his way to John's room. Sherlock gulped hard as he opened the door. The room was empty. It was as if no one had slept there for years. Sherlock made his way inside the room. There was nothing but a bed, a desk, and a chair. Other than that, the room was completely abandoned. Sherlock explored the desk and found a note in the drawer. It was in John's handwriting. There were only four words there.

Life isn't worth living.

Sherlock's heart ached at reading the note. Had John become suicidal when Sherlock faked his death? What happened to John during these three years? Well, he's engaged that's for sure. Sherlock sighed and put the note back into the drawer. Sherlock made his way out of the living room. The flat was empty. It's been empty.

Sherlock wondered why Mrs. Hudson still hadn't rented the place out. Maybe she also thought that Sherlock would come back. Sherlock huffed and made his way to the boxes. He opened one of them and started exploring. Sherlock rummaged through one of the boxes and found his skull. Sherlock looked into the skull's empty sockets. Sherlock exhaled shakily as he stared at it. Sherlock strode towards the fireplace and placed the skull on top of it. Sherlock forced a smile but it was in vain. He was too depressed. Mycroft…was right.

John was on his way back to his apartment. He was on break and decided to eat with his fiancé. John lived in an apartment in London. John made his way inside, noticing his lover was nowhere to be found. John noticed a note on the refrigerator with his lover's handwriting.

I've gone out with the girls. I won't be back till ten at night.

~ Heather

John groaned slightly. This was the third time this week that she's left him home alone. John grabbed his coat to buy some groceries. John made his way outside, fumbling for his car keys. John accidentally bumped into someone.

"Sorry," he managed, but not taking interest in the person. John made his way into his car and drove off.

The person John had bumped into was none other than Sherlock. Sherlock was in disguise of course. He couldn't risk Moriarty's men finding him so easily. Sherlock was dressed like an old man with his back hunched over and a small white beard dangling over his chin.

John realized he forgot his wallet and groaned over his stupidity. Damn it, why did he have to be stupid? John turned the car around and made his way back home. John parked his car near his home and started walking towards it. John noticed there was a huge crowd that had formed a circle near his home. John furrowed his brows and strode closer towards the crowd. There was a fight. John rolled his eyes and was going to leave until he noticed an old man was being beat up. John looked at the scene in horror. Why would a teenager beat up an elderly man? John stopped the boy by grabbing his arm.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" John demanded, glaring at the boy.

"He started insulting me!" the boy shrieked.

"That's no reason of why you should hit your elders," John scolded. "Now go before I call the police on you."

With that, John let the boy go who ran as fast as he could. The crowd applauded John who rolled his eyes at them. So much for helping, they just watched the whole bloody thing. John checked to see if the man was okay. Well… he was alive. John put his arm around the old man, who happened to be Sherlock. Quickly, John realized that the man was taller than him.

"Come on, let's go to my apartment. Don't worry, I'm a doctor," John said to the man. "Let me bandage you up, at least."

The man didn't reply but John didn't take notice of it. John helped the old man walk towards his apartment. Once inside, he helped the man sit on a couch while John went to look for his medical equipment, first aid kit. John came back and knelt before the man.

"So, why did he fight you?" John asked. "He mentioned something about you insulting him, is that true?"

Sherlock, the old man, looked at John who was tending to his cheek. John was waiting for an answer and he knew it. Sherlock coughed and deepened his voice, trying to disguise it until it sounded groggily.

"I didn't insult him. I merely told him his true quality of nature," Sherlock answered, wincing when John dabbed his cheek with alcohol.

John was silent for a moment. In that moment, John had stopped tending to the man and just locked eyes with him. For a split second, Sherlock had thought that John knew who he was. But John started chuckling and resumed tending to Sherlock's wounds.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked, curiously.

"Nothing, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh. It's that you just reminded me of a friend I used to know," John answered, trying to stifle his laughter. But within a flash, John's smiled disappeared and was replaced with a frown.

Sherlock noticed John frowning. His eyes almost looked sad. John noticed that the man had been looking at him and forced a smile. But that cunning smile didn't fool Sherlock. Sherlock stared into John's eyes as if that would make the pain go away.

Sherlock said, "You miss him, don't you?"

John was taken aback by the question and replied, "I'm sorry, who?"

"Sherlock Holmes –"

"How do you know –?"

"It was all over the new. Suicide of fake genius," Sherlock replied, his voice soft.

"Well, he wasn't a fake," John whispered, anger bubbling through his body.

"How would you know?" Sherlock asked.

"I just know! And I used to live with him so I would know," John snapped back.

"That doesn't prove anything," Sherlock answered.

"No offense," John said, finishing bandaging Sherlock up, "but I believe in him. No one, not the media, people, or you will prove that he ever told a lie to me."

John had finished bandaging the man up and was just about fed up with him. John had stood up again and just glared at the man.

"I've disappointed you," he replied.

John furrowed his eyes in confusion. A thought appeared to John but he quickly shook it away. John just sighed and grabbed the first aid kit.

"When you feel strong enough, you can leave," John answered, making his way to the bathroom to store the kit.

After a few minutes, John returned to the living room. He had expected the old man to have gone but he was still there. The old man was looking out the window, his back facing John.

"Earlier, you said that you believed in Sherlock Holmes no matter what anyone said. Is that how you still feel currently even after all these years?" the man asked.

John was dumbfounded by the response but managed to answer, "Of course. I will always believe in him."

"What would you say if I were to say he was alive?" the man questioned.

"I don't understand what you're asking," John replied.

"What would you say if he had disguised himself just to see you?" the man continued, disregarding John's last comment.

John had his mouth open and he scrunched his brows together. Air had left John's body, leaving him breathless. His eyes widened and he had gone slightly pale.

"I – I don't –," John stuttered, before he was interrupted.

"What would you say if…he was in this very same room with you," the man said, slowly turning around and facing John.

Immediately, John noticed that the old man wasn't whom he looked to be. The man no longer had a beard and white hair. The man standing before him had curly brown hair and icy blue green eyes. It was none other than Sherlock Holmes, his best friend who looked very much alive.

"…Sherlock," John whispered.