AN: I am terribly sorry about the majorly long wait. I mysteriously managed to block on my Laptop around Christmas time, only just gotten it unblocked. Thank you all for the follows, favourites, and reviews! I greatly appreciate it!

Sherlock paces around the flat trying to ignore the burning in his side, he's had far worse and far more painful ones than this, but it certainly hurts more than expected. Sherlock looks down at his watch, there's a train leaving at three-thirty, it's now two fifty-six. Picking up his backpack (he doesn't need to take anything, only his laptop and the folders. Someone else can do something about the things he left behind), he slings it across his shoulders and looks down at himself. He feels pathetic. The oversized dark red hoodie with the words "I love London" spread out across the chest, the black baggy jeans, and the well-worn white trainers. He hates it. He wants to go back to being Sherlock. Intelligent, manipulative, sociopathic Sherlock. Not these dim-witted people without any proper purpose other than being an effective disguise for him to hide behind! His shoulders sag slightly; he pushes the feeling away, and sets off. He leaves the keys under the potted plant next to his door as that's where his landlord expects to find them, he would leave them with Mary, but Mary had left for work earlier in the morning and had given him strict instructions to call her when he gets there, to call her at least once a week, and to get some rest so his side wound doesn't get infected. He almost wants to laugh at the suggestion; one can't rest when one is hunting down the last two criminals of the world's most dangerous crime web.

Sherlock finds himself wondering how much London has changed since he left two years, six months and five days ago. He'll need to rework the map in his mind palace once he gets there, if he ever gets chased by Moran, Adair, or anyone else, then he'll need to know where he's going, he can't run left just to discover they're doing road works for a new shop, he can't run right to go through the alley and into open space if they've destroyed the open space and replaced it with houses. He shall need to reconstruct the map in his mind palace before he does anything else.

Sherlock spends the entire train journey sitting next to a man who smells like a wet goat, of course, being a newly homeless farmer does account for some of the smell. Once the train stops at his platform, Sherlock puts his hood up, slings his bag across his shoulder and walks quickly off the train, keeping his head down as he avoids the mad rush of people. He folds his arms across his chest, hunching his shoulders and looks down at the pavement; he knows all about body language, doing this should hopefully give people the message to leave him alone, but then people can be amazingly stupid at times. A wave of emotions run through him as he steps outside and into the sunshine, he pushes them down, from the bottom of his heart to the pit of his stomach, but they keep rising up and making themselves known. He's anxious, he's nervous, he's worried, he's excited, he's relieved, he's happy. Why is he feeling all these? He doesn't like them, he shouldn't be feeling them, and the mission isn't complete yet, so there's no need for the feeling of relief, excitement, and happiness. There are only two men left to find and hunt down, it is only then he can feel relieved and happy, but even he knows it can take up to several months to track and hunt down two men, all he needs to do is think about the time he spent in Australia. He shouldn't be feeling anxious, nervous, and worried, it's unlikely that he'll come across anyone that will recognise him, not with the stubble that accompanies one after two days without shaving, the brown contact lenses, the clothes, hunched shoulders, and the red hair. Unless they really focus on him, they shouldn't recognise him.

Taking a deep breath in, wincing from the pain radiating in his side, Sherlock stops in his steps and takes in his surroundings. Mr. Bean's coffee shop is still here, the Subway sandwich shop is still here, in fact, many shops are still where they were before his leave, but is it still there? Walking further down the street, Sherlock searches for the alleyway he would regularly run through when chasing down criminals. It has to still be there. It must! He stops just before the alleyway; oh these people really are thick. They've put a gate up! Why in the world did they do that? Putting the gate up is hardly going to stop people from doing drugs in that alley, the only thing it's going to do is put him in a harder place when he's chasing people down! He shakes his head and walks away, of course they would.

He does this for several hours, until the night falls and the cold weather starts to get to him. He wraps his arms tighter around himself feeling himself beginning to shiver. He may be accustomed to the cold weather, but that doesn't necessarily mean it doesn't affect him. He's glad he decided to reconstruct the map in his mind palace, within his time searching he's discovered that there are road works across several streets, construction on buildings in several others, many buildings have been replaced, many alleyways have been shut off, and the open space between the streets of London and one of Mycroft's many homes has been replaced with a street full of offices and houses. Making his way back to a small house Mycroft kept for him, Sherlock starts to think deeply about how it is he's going to do this. He can spend the night reconstructing his map, he can manage without sleep just fine, and he can spend the next day finding the information about Moran and Adair. He doesn't have much, which is a rather stupid move for him, but he couldn't stay in Birmingham for much longer.

He feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, sliding it out of his pocket; he looks at the name of the person trying to contact him.

Mary.

Quickly pressing the answer button, Sherlock moves the phone to his ear.

"Mary!" He says his voice high and nervous as he slips into James' personality.

"Did you forget to do something, James?" She replies with a slight tease in her tone.

Sherlock shakes his head, despite Mary not being able to see. "No, of course not." He replies quickly, "I was just about to call you."

He hears Mary laugh softly; he can almost picture the smirk forming across her face.

"Well?" She says expectantly.

"Well what?" He asks pretending to be confused, his head tilting to the side slightly.

"How's London, James?" She asks, he almost thinks she sounds excited.

He pauses momentarily, thinking what it is that James would say about it. "It... It's nothing special, Mary. It's a bit like Birmingham," Sherlock replies as he crosses the road, hearing the sound of a car horn as he does, "only louder."

Again, Mary laughs softly, "I hope that's not you they're doing that to."

"O... Of course not, I did look before crossing." He feels his cheeks flush from embarrassment, he does hope that it's because James is lying to Mary and not because he feels embarrassed.

"Good," she says softly, "I don't want to hear that you're in hospital because of a silly accident."

A small smile tugs at the corners of Sherlock's mouth, a feeling building in his chest. He does enjoy talking to Mary, he almost hopes it will last after he returns from his fake death, but then he remembers how she's friends with James and not him. She'd likely hate him if she realised James isn't real. Like many people do.

"If I end up in hospital," Sherlock mumbles, "it won't be any fault of my own."

They continue talking like this, long after Sherlock's arrived in the small house that Mycroft's supplying for him, talking about London, talking about how Mary has the chance to get promoted, and how she might be able to visit in several weeks if the promotion happens and if her vacation time gets approved. He nearly wishes it doesn't, he doesn't want her to visit him, not with his mission, and she'll be at great risk, especially if he gets found out. He won't allow it to happen.

Crossing out the date on his calendar, John sighs softly and limps over to the couch to settle down and watch some television. It's November twenty-first, meaning it's been nine hundred and fourteen days since Sherlock's death, not that he's counting. He just remembers from when he'd counted the nine hundredth day two weeks ago. It'll be Christmas in just over a month. It'll be his third Christmas without Sherlock. He sighs deeply, the first Christmas without Sherlock; Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Greg had all put in a huge effort to make it a happy one for him, but he just wasn't capable of it. The second Christmas, he was able to throw a party, he was happy, but not as happy as what he could have been. This Christmas... Goodness knows what's going to happen this Christmas; he thinks Mycroft will be involved this year. Hopefully it won't spell disaster, John's still mad at him, even now, nine hundred and fourteen days later.

He stares blankly down at the cane by his leg, he can't wait to be rid of it, he hates the sight of it but he can't go without it, not with his leg being the way it is. The thing brings back so many unwanted memories, so many unwanted feelings. He shudders, the memories coming back and the feelings of pain and agony rolling through him. He puts a hand on his leg and rubs at the muscle hoping to soothe it, he was doing just fine until the other month, the car accident completely undoing everything he'd worked towards and accomplished.

"John."

He jumps at the voice, not realising just how deep into his thoughts he was until that moment.

"Greg." He says looking up from his leg to the man standing in his doorway, "What are you doing here?"

Lestrade looks him up and down, concern forms across his face, but it soon vanishes. "It's Friday night, John." He says eagerly, "What is it we do on Friday nights?"

John frowns, he knows what it is they do, but they haven't done that since the car accident two months ago. "But we haven't done that in months." John replies baffled slightly. He takes in Greg's appearance, the shirt and jeans, the thick jacket; he's been planning this for a while.

"Well it's time for us to start doing it again, John!" Lestrade replies taking John's coat from the hook of the coat hanger and walking towards him.

John shakes his head, "No, I'm not going out tonight."

"I have watched you sit in that chair for the last two months, doing nothing but fall back into the unpleasant memories and the horrible feelings. You're my friend, John; I'm not going to allow that to happen again." Lestrade replies sounding determined and stern as he holds his hand out for John to take.

John stares at the hand before him, what Greg's saying is true, he does seem to be falling back into the unpleasant memories and horrible feelings. Maybe this is what he needs, something to take his mind off the sounds of screaming and gunshots, the sight of a body falling from a roof, the feelings from seeing his best friend dead on the ground, hearing his final words repeat in his mind.

"Goodbye, John."

It worked last time. It helped him move on last time. Why would it not help this time? Leaning forward, John takes the hand and slowly stands up, being careful with the weight on his right leg. He bites back a groan, and is soon putting his coat on and taking his cane.

"So," he says, "where a we off to tonight?" He asks a grin spreading out across his face.

Greg smiles and pats his back, replying eagerly as he does, "I know the perfect place to order pizza and they do have this really cute waitress just waiting for you to sweep her off her feet."

AN: Assuming Sherlock faked his death in May, this story is set in November. I think it was May. If I'm wrong, please inform me of this.

I do hope I'm doing okay with Sherlock and Mary's friendship, it's a really complicated thing to write at times.

I hope you enjoyed this, have a nice day!

~Steffii