Sherlock's first night back at 221B was his first good night of sleep in almost four days. Upon waking the following morning around eleven o'clock, Sherlock even snuggled deeper under the plain white duvet on his bed and showed clear disdain for the mere idea of getting out from under the covers. It was very uncharacteristic of him, but then, he had actually missed his bed. The sheets and pillowcases smelled clean and well-laundered, yet familiar: it was the detergent John always used.

Before settling in to sleep during the wee hours of the morning, Sherlock had taken a few minutes to look around his room. Everything was exactly as he'd left it, but nothing had a single speck of dust on it. John had taken great pains to ensure everything was in order even though he had been led to believe until last night that Sherlock would never be coming back. But now he was back, and this time, he would remain. This was home… and while John was there, it always would be.

A short while later, Sherlock heard the sound of his bedroom door opening. Still curled up tightly under the blankets, he glanced over his shoulder to see John peeking in at him. He quirked an eyebrow at him questioningly.

"Sorry," John muttered, smiling sheepishly and running a hand through his uncombed hair as he stood uncomfortably in the doorway. "I just wanted to make sure you were still here and that, you know… seeing you again this morning wasn't a figment of my imagination."

"Oh." Sherlock finally brought himself to sit upright and stretched, wincing faintly as his weary muscles were slowly but surely brought back to working order. "I can assure you that I'm really here, John. I can't remember you ever questioning the evidence of your own eyes; it's very uncharacteristic of you."

The silence that fell between them was thick and uncomfortable, but thankfully it only lasted for a couple of minutes.

"A couple of years ago, there was a period of a few months where I thought I kept seeing you around the flat, usually after a few drinks," John stated warily. "I would see you at the kitchen table setting up lab equipment, standing at the window playing your violin, everything you normally do. It scared me at first, but eventually I got used to the 'ghosts,' so to speak, and tried to ignore they were there. After a while, I stopped seeing them."

The doctor smiled tightly, but it didn't reach his eyes for once. His smiles were always so genuine, but this one…

"You didn't want them to go away, did you?" John wasn't much of a drinker, so the knowledge that he would start seeing things after having a few drinks was alarming to Sherlock. If it only happened when John had been drinking and the hallucinations happened over a period of several months, then it stood to reason that he indulged in alcohol far more than he should have during that time. A coping mechanism.

"No, I didn't," John admitted. "Even if I knew the apparitions weren't real, it felt good to see you again. After a few months of that, Lestrade eventually came to me and told me that I was only hurting myself by letting it continue, so I gave up the booze."

"Lestrade knew about the hallucinations?"

"Yes. He's been a great friend to me over the past few years, Sherlock. He's done a good job keeping me sane." John chuckled softly and glanced at the clock on Sherlock's bedside table for a moment. "Damn, almost noon already. Thank God I don't have to work until 2:30 today. Want some breakfast?"

Sherlock considered the offer for a minute before nodding and pushing the blankets off himself, getting up and putting on his favorite robe. "Yes. Some toast with raspberry jam, if you have it… and some black coffee with two, no, three sugars."

"Just toast? I could make a fry-up for you if you want it: I went shopping just the other day, so the fridge and cabinets are stocked."

"A fry-up would be fine, yes." Sherlock followed John out to the living room and walked over to where his violin rested on the small table by his chair, smiling as he traced his fingers along the smooth wood. "You took great care to keep everything exactly as it was before I left."

John's face flushed a bit with embarrassment. "Er, yes… It's silly, I know, but for some reason it helped keep me sane. I guess in some ways, I tried convincing myself you were only on a really long vacation and that you would want everything as you left it once you came back."

"Very silly," Sherlock corrected. "But I appreciate it… Thank you." He picked up the instrument and the bow, playing a soft, slow tune just to test out the sound of the strings. They still sounded pretty good, especially taking into consideration the instrument had gone un-played for three whole years. Unfortunately, he hadn't taken into account the fact that Mrs. Hudson was right downstairs and was as yet unaware of his being alive.

It wasn't long before footsteps came hurrying up the stairs to their flat and a shocked Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, one hand over her heart. Sherlock lowered the violin from its position under his chin, smiling slightly at Mrs. Hudson. "It's good to see you again. You… you look well."

"You cruel, cruel man!" cried the elderly woman, hurrying toward Sherlock and pulling him into a tight hug. "Three years, Sherlock! How could you?"

The next half hour or so were spent explaining to Mrs. Hudson what he had to John earlier that morning, pausing only to thank John for breakfast once it was set in front of him. When he was finished and had mentioned doing what he did only to ensure that Mrs. Hudson remained safe, the elderly landlady seemed to relax considerably and even had a smile on her face.

"Well, if that's why you did it, I suppose I can understand. If you're going to continue living here as before, I expect you to pay your half of the rent, young man. Poor John has been working so many hours at the surgery just to be able to continue living here."

Sherlock frowned at her. "You couldn't just lower the rent for him?"

"Well, I did, but I could only lower it so much…"

"It's fine, Sherlock. Really. I mean, I was able to manage on my own for three years, wasn't I? Mrs. Hudson lowering my rent even as much as she did was a lot to ask," John stated in an attempt to reassure him. "Besides, you're back now. I won't have to pay the rent by myself anymore."

Mrs. Hudson excused herself then, but only after making it perfectly clear to Sherlock that she was happy about his returning to Baker Street. She had become almost like a second mother to him during the time he had been living there with John, so he was all too happy to see her again as well, even though he wasn't very good at showing it.

"So," John started after a few minutes of silence, during which they were able to finish their fry-ups, "who else still doesn't know you're back?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock replied after swallowing some bacon. "And everyone else at the Yard."

"Right." John sighed and set his empty plate on the coffee table, leaning slightly toward Sherlock and frowning at him. "He's going to be pissed."

"Obviously."

"He went through a lot after that whole incident. The media tried so hard to rip him apart and ruin his career… They're off his back now, more or less, but it's still been really hard for him."

Sherlock dreaded going to see the Detective Inspector, honestly. Lestrade was one of the few people whose authority he would ever take into consideration and imagining all of the yelling and cursing that would undoubtedly be sent his way was giving him a headache. He drained his cup of coffee and set the cup down with his plate, frowning.

"He'll listen to what I have to say, I know he will… but it is going to be hard getting his trust back after all that. Maybe with you there—"

"You're going alone."

Sherlock's heart sunk. "And why is that?"

"Because this is something you and Lestrade need to settle on your own, and there is the fact that I'm scheduled to work at the surgery from 2:30 to six this evening." John smiled faintly and got up, grabbing his and Sherlock's dirty dishes and carrying them out to the kitchen. "You're the great Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and a right pain in my arse. I'm sure you'll do just fine dealing with a bent-out-of-shape policeman."

Lestrade reacted pretty much how Sherlock expected.

While he was in a cab on the way to the Yard, he sent the man a very concise text message: "I'm alive. Will be at the Yard in fifteen minutes. —SH."

Thirty seconds later, his phone rang and he answered it very promptly. Upon hearing his voice on the other end of the line, Lestrade was in complete and utter shock. He thought the text message had been a prank of some sort, meant to get him all riled up, but it was actually him and he had no idea how to react other than to yell at him over the phone.

"Fucking hell, Sherlock, do you have any idea how difficult these past three years have been?" came the very angry, gruff voice. The familiarity of it nearly made Sherlock smile. "I had journalists breathing down my neck every fucking day for six months! Does that mean anything to you?"

"I understand that you're upset, Lestrade, but I promise I will explain everything once I get there. You're still at the Yard, yes? Your ridiculous hours can't have changed too much in three years."

A sigh. "Yeah, I'm still here… Your explanation better be a damned good one, Sherlock, after all you put me through."

"It should suffice. I'll see you soon."

Sherlock arrived at the Yard within ten minutes of hanging up. Getting out of the cab, he made his way through the front doors and was immediately apprehended by Sergeant Sally Donovan. She looked positively livid, her dark curls still as shaggy about her shoulders and face as ever and her heel tapping irritably against the tile floor. Sherlock fixed her with a calm expression, hands in his coat pockets as he waited patiently for him to let him through.

"I should have you arrested right here for fraud," she said coldly to him after several more seconds of silence.

"Oh, you would love that, wouldn't you? Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be seeing Lestrade now." He moved to step around her, but she moved with him and blocked his way yet again. He glared at her, and before he could open his mouth to make some sort of cutting remark at her expense, Lestrade approached them and thankfully intervened.

"He called me a little while ago to let me know he was coming, Donovan. I've been expecting him," he said gruffly, turning his eyes toward Sherlock. "Come on, then. You have a lot of explaining to do."

And explain Sherlock did. Recounting the same tale over and over again was starting to get old, but he knew it was necessary if he was to avoid any charges of conspiracy to defraud and the like. Lestrade was a policeman: if he couldn't see his reasoning, then no one else would, either, and he could be facing some serious charges. By the time he was finished, Lestrade was in utter disbelief, yet it was impossible for him to hide his admiration. After all, Sherlock's cleverness had been enough to fool even him, a seasoned police officer with over twenty years' experience. He ran a hand through his graying hair and huffed out a heavy sigh, shaking his head.

"Wow. So… snipers, eh?"

"Yes. One trained on you, one on Mrs. Hudson, and one on John. Unless Moriarty's men saw me jump that day, you would have gotten a bullet between your eyes."

"Bloody hell, what a mess… So, I don't suppose you've got any proof, then? If I'm to give a press conference stating that you're really alive, I need some concrete evidence to support everything you just told me."

"I do have evidence, and quite a lot of it. Well, actually, my brother does. But he made it clear to me before returning here that if you had need of the file, he would have it sent right over for you to look through. Shall I text him and let him know that will be necessary?"

"Please do."

Sherlock tapped out a quick message for Mycroft before stowing his phone back in his pocket and getting to his feet. "John told me you looked after him while I was gone. Thank you for doing that. It's good to know someone was there for him when I couldn't be."

"Yeah, don't mention it. Listen, Sherlock…" The look on Lestrade's face was a troubled one, and it made Sherlock's chest tight with worry. With an expression like that, what he was about to say could only be bad. So, when he didn't continue his thought, Sherlock stared at him expectantly.

"You know what? Never mind… I just completely lost my train of thought." Lestrade chuckled and shrugged, but Sherlock wasn't convinced. He was acting far too secretive for someone who had simply forgotten what they were going to say. Still, maybe pushing him on the matter wouldn't be a good idea on his part; at least, not right now.

Maybe later when he has fewer things on his mind, I'll ask him…

"Right… Well, send me a text later, after you've read over the file. I'm sure one of Mycroft's men will get it to you today sometime."

"Will do. Hey, Sherlock…?" Sherlock had been about to leave but when the man said his name again to get his attention, he stopped. He looked over his shoulder with his hand still on the door handle, one eyebrow arched. "Make sure you spend as much time with John as you can. Don't just jump right into doing silly experiments again in your kitchen. He thought you were dead for three whole years. The least you can do is make up for some of the time you lost."

The detective considered that for a few minutes. It wasn't as though he had any cases to work on presently, and he wouldn't until after Lestrade's press conference detailing his survival and his whereabouts over the past three years, so what would be the harm in spending some much-needed time with his friend?

"That shouldn't be a problem."

"Good. I was there for him when he needed me these past few years, but… it's you he really needs right now."

Taking Lestrade's words to heart, Sherlock left.