Baker Street?' Sherlock asked as London flew by outside the window, it was just after two in the afternoon and having expected to be immediately secreted away at Mycroft's mansion until the relevant paperwork was completed to bring him back from the dead-Mycroft did after all love a bit of paperwork-he was surprised and a little unnerved to find himself travelling towards his old home.

'Yes' Mycroft replied, 'I thought we might drop by on the way.'

Sherlock turned in to look at his brother 'Easing me in gently?'

'Quite.'

'Mycroft I don't recall asking you to engineer my return to society.'

'No but you do need me to.' Mycroft's tone was even, patient.

Sherlock sighed. He did, and not only for the paperwork. 'I am quite good at observation you know. I might get by without you holding my hand.'

'No.' Mycroft said simply, gently. 'Sherlock you know as well as I do this is a delicate situation, you have been away- you have been dead.' He emphasised the last word. 'You cannot simply….' Mycroft gestured at his brother for once pained to state the obvious. Sherlock looked at him blankly, 'Walk back into his life.' Mycroft finished with a sigh.

'How else do you propose I do it? Text him? 'Not dead SH'? Or perhaps be terribly Victorian and write a letter?' Sherlock pouted turning back to the window.

'He won't believe you unless he can see you.'

'So let me see him!'

Mycroft drew breath, not wanting to push the issue but realising once again his brother's ability to deduce often stopped at the emotional level. 'You're not ready. And I won't let you see him until you are.'

'I can find him myself.'

'You will not.' Mycroft's tone was sharp now. 'Sherlock I kept your secret for three years, I kept them safe. You have no idea what you've asked of me, what I risked for you and how difficult it was. Or what I still stand to lose! As usual you have no concept of anyone but yourself.' Mycroft caught himself, realising the error of what he had said, measuring his tone he continued. 'It has been difficult for all concerned Sherlock, not least myself.'

'If you would just allow me to see-'

'Sherlock no!' Mycroft silenced his brother 'It is not that simple. There are things to consider. Things are different they cannot simply go back to how they were. There are factors to consider, there are people to consider Sherlock.'

'Mycroft I will not blindly follow you because of the…' Sherlock glared 'Debt I owe you.' He paused 'I have waited too long. I can't risk losing...'

'In this instance then, for this one time listen to me Sherlock. We are perhaps not as opposed as you might think on this issue, play it wrong and we both stand to lose a great deal. More than we ever thought possible before you.' He closed his eyes momentarily 'Disappeared.'

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest once again, when suddenly puzzle pieces fell into face behind his eyes. 'Mycroft?' he began and was silenced with a glance.
'Baker Street.' Mycroft said nodding as the car began to turn.

Sherlock lent back against the seat, 'Mrs Hudson.' He said quietly as they turned the corner into Baker Street and stopped a few short moments later outside 221, Sherlock moved to open the door.

'No.' Mycroft commanded but his tone was gentle again. 'Allow me to talk to her first. I'll let you know when we're ready.'

Sherlock nodded slowly, even in his impatience and knowledge that Mrs Hudson was a great deal stronger than the frail old woman others sometimes took her to be, he realised some groundwork might be necessary.

Mycroft nodded back at his brother and made his way to the door of 221 Baker Street knocking firmly on the door with his umbrella. Mrs Hudson would be in having returned from her coffee with Mrs Turner thirty minutes previously where she'd have learned of the extremely large tax return that had allowed the friends of her 'married ones' to so quickly afford the deposit for their longed for house in Brighton.

The locks rattled and Mrs Hudson stood before him immaculate as always and Mycroft sighed inwardly, with a cross expression clouding her face the minute she saw him.
'Mycroft Holmes.' She declared 'To what do I owe this honour.'

'Mrs Hudson, you're looking well. May I come in?'

She eyed him suspiciously; Mycroft did his best at a charming smile, knowing his skills in that department were limited, ironically always his brother's greater asset.#

'I suppose so.' She said moving aside to let him in.

'Thank you.' Mycroft said with a quick glance back at the car he walked in.

He had been back tot Baker street several times since Sherlock's 'death' first to break the news to Mrs Hudson before John got home, the least he could do for the Doctor, she had cried, as expected and then mourned his brother like a son. Mycroft had returned then to take items he claimed were of 'sentimental' or 'family' importance-some vital case notes Sherlock had not secreted to him in time, some of the clothing and disguises he required and Sherlock's violin, which was more of a sentimental acquisition, a desire to keep it safe. Mycroft had returned later when John was moving out to take the remainder of his brother's things which remained in their Mrs-Hudson labelled boxes in what he regarded as Sherlock's room in his house.

He had seen Mrs Hudson since, on occasional pretence of government business, associated with Sherlock as the case remained officially open. It was more through badgering from interested parties that he kept an eye on her, and because he knew it was what Sherlock wanted.

Mrs Hudson busied herself with the teapot and Mycroft stood stiffly in the kitchen, not knowing how to begin now he was here. He had rehearsed this many times over the years and now everything seemed inadequate. He steeled himself; let Sherlock deal with that, he was laying the groundwork. This is the easy one, he reminded himself, she will forgive Sherlock anything, even dying and she will forgive Mycroft anything for bringing him back.

'Mrs Hudson I've come about my Brother.' He began

She put down the teapot and turned to him 'Have they caught someone? That Moriarty man that John was telling me about? Have you proved he didn't want to do it?'
Mycroft smiled slightly, this might actually go better than he hoped-it wasn't every day you got to bring a man back from the dead 'Yes Mrs Hudson you might say that.'
'What was it then?' she asked 'Oh tell me Mycroft will you!'

'I think you'll need another cup out Mrs Hudson, I have someone who wants to talk to you-who might be able to answer your questions better than I. Excuse me one moment' He pulled out his phone and dialled.

In the car a phone next to Sherlock rang, he glanced down and saw the caller ID and picked up

'Yes.' He said urgently

'Why don't you come and join us, Mrs Hudson's got the kettle on.'

Sherlock grinned broadly and bounded from the car, discarding the phone one the seat he arrived at the door in three broad steps and only then did his breath catch in his chest and he stop. It suddenly felt like a very long time since he'd last stood there. Nodding to himself he pushed open the door and walked inside.

Mrs Hudson heard the door open, assuming it was one of the boys from upstairs back for something they'd forgotten having not noticed Mycroft leave the door just a fraction ajar.

'Hello' she called 'Did you forget something dear?'

A lump caught in Sherlock's throat at her call, he swallowed hard. 'Yes.' He said his voice barely a whisper 'I rather think I did.'

Mrs Hudson froze, cup in hand and looked down at Mycroft who developed a sudden interest in the floor-best to let them muddle through this themselves he decided. She stepped into the light of the doorway and saw the man there silhouetted by the light from outside and the cup fell with a crash splintering on the floor. 'No!' she exclaimed as the man stepped forward slowly down the darkened corridor towards her 'It can't be.'

'Mrs Hudson' Sherlock said softly as he stepped fully into the light of the kitchen.

She stood frozen for a moment, and just as she'd always been-immaculately turned out surrounded by her tea things her face frozen in shock.
'Mrs Hudson it's me.'

It was indeed him, Sherlock Holmes thinner-much thinner than she remembered him, tired and gaunt and looking in his slightly tattered clothes so different to the immaculate man who had caused chaos on the floor above.

'It's me Mrs Hudson, Sherlock.' He furrowed his brow as if unsure that she knew who he was.

Mrs Hudson furrowed her brow in return and before he knew what had hit him her hand deftly reached up and caught him square across the head, followed by a swift whip with the tea towel ripped from her apron faster than a master fencer drew his sword.

'I bloody well know who you are.' She said with another clip for good measure before pulling Sherlock wide-eyed with shock into her arms and a tight embrace.
'Sherlock Holmes you'll be the death of me you will' she said into his shoulder and he reached down and tentatively returned the embrace.

She pulled back and wiped at her nose before turning back to the teapot, 'Sit, sit. I need to make this tea. Oh bloody thing, china all over my floor.'

'Allow me Mrs Hudson.' Mycroft leaped to his feet and grabbed the dustpan and brush from its hanging place on the wall. Sherlock stood unsure where to put himself while his brother-in full three-piece suit swept the china pieces from Mrs Hudson's floor while she tried to cover her sniffles with the whine of the kettle. Mycroft stood and nudged Sherlock's hand pressing a hanker chief into it.

'Mrs Hudson' Sherlock said gently holding the hanker chief out to her.

'Oh!' she swatted his hand once more with hers and took the hanker chief, dabbing at her eyes 'Oh just sit down both of you while I make this tea. Sherlock there's a cake on the shelf-get it out you need feeding up, skin and bones you are honestly with nobody to look after you…'
She busied herself with the tea while Sherlock did as instructed and retrieved the cake from her cupboard setting out plates and serving the three of them slices, he resisted a snide remark about giving Mycroft a smaller portion fearing the wrath of Mrs Hudson's tea towel once again.

Once Mrs Hudson was partially satisfied he'd eaten enough not to expire once again before her eyes she fixed him in her best motherly glare, 'Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes do not think you are leaving this kitchen without some sort of explanation.'

Mycroft raised an eyebrow that clearly said 'you're on your own little brother'

Sherlock sighed, then smiled, then took Mrs Hudson's hands in his own.

'Of course Mrs Hudson.'

She nodded and poured herself some more tea settling back to listen. Sherlock had to be grateful, at least she was likely to hear him out without interruption and most likely believe what he said. He had long ago decided, and by default agreed with Mycroft who would know what about his 'demise' strictly on a need to know basis, John of course would know everything he and Mycroft knew if he would listen, Mrs Hudson only needed the edited highlights.
Sherlock began his story, 'I faked my suicide Mrs Hudson, I didn't die in my jump from the roof-how I did it and what happened up there you don't need to concern yourself with'

'It was Moriarty wasn't it?' she asked evenly.

'Yes.' He replied wondering now how much she knew already from John, from Lestrade possibly even Mycroft. 'I needed him to be defeated, I needed him to die-that part was accurate.' Mycroft sniffed a warning-the police and press reports had no doubt been doctored somewhat. 'The reasons for it and the events which followed' Sherlock continued 'Less so.'

'Go on dear.' Mrs Hudson said patiently

'I was forced to make it seem like I had died for Moriarty to be defeated fully, only with him and me completely removed from the equation could we be sure that his net of criminals were eliminated. That's what I have spent the last three years doing Mrs Hudson, making sure no trace of his work remains.'

'But all those lies the papers published about you-I said, I told them all that wasn't the Sherlock Holmes Knew.' Mrs Hudson sipped her tea defiantly with a pointed nod at Mycroft.

'Unimportant' Sherlock waved his hand.

'It may not be to you young man but it was to those you left behind.' Mrs Hudson snapped to attention now. 'You've no idea how long I spent defending your name to all and sundry who were telling me otherwise. And as for John-well! I'm sure he's given you enough of an earful about that already, but you'll be getting one from me too-this isn't the last of it-my goodness the things you put him through. What does he have to say about it?!'

Sherlock dropped his gaze, suddenly interested in the table cloth pattern.

Mrs Hudson inhaled sharply 'You haven't told him have you? He still thinks you're dead?' Sherlock nodded still to the tablecloth 'How could you? Sherlock! Sitting here eating cake with me while that man still thinks you're dead?! It's cruel Sherlock. I know you're a bit funny and not like the rest of us, but how could you? Not just this but how could you let him think you were dead? Sherlock!' her tone was sharp now 'Answer me.'

'I was protecting him.' He said to the table cloth, voice small

'How?' Mrs Hudson snapped, on a roll now 'Making him think you, the most important person in the world was dead? And that everything you two did was a lie-I read all the papers Sherlock- and then him having nobody to turn to when he lost his family? While you've been swanning off doing who knows what?'

'He would have died! And so would you!' Sherlock exclaimed head snapping up eyes blazing 'I was protecting you, all of you.'

Mrs Hudson caught the fury and the sincerity in his eyes and fear, irrationally as the danger was clearly passed if he was sitting again in her kichen, passed over her. 'Died? Sherlock how?'

'Moriarty.' He replied calming a little now and looking at her once again his gaze softened, 'He had sent men to kill three people, three people who mattered most to me, who he knew I would do anything to protect. It was them or me.'

He dropped his gaze again and after a moment felt Mrs Hudson's hands covering his. 'I'm sorry dear' she said softly 'Shouldn't have shouted at you.' She squeezed his hand and he looked up at her and smiled wanly 'For me?' she asked frowning at him 'Your landlady?'

Sherlock smiled 'Never just my landlady Mrs Hudson.'

She smiled back at him warmly and pulled him into a hug again.

'So myself John and-who was the third?'

'Inspector Lestrade' Mycroft spoke from behind her 'Sherlock saved him as well.'

'Oh!' exclaimed Mrs Hudson 'Well I suppose he was always so important even be-'

'Thank you Mrs Hudson.' Mycroft interjected and Sherlock frowned at his brother over her head and was rewarded with a glare. 'Sherlock will have plenty of time to talk to you about this all once he moves back in. That is if you can bear the strain on your flat again.'

'As long as he stops shooting my walls.' She smiled 'Where else would he possibly go?'

Sherlock nodded 'Thank you Mrs Hudson.'

'Yes thank you.' Mycroft added 'We must also ask that you keep this news to yourself for twenty four hours. We have some business to attend to, and I'm sure you'll appreciate Sherlock would like to be the one to tell certain people this news.'

'Of course dear. As long as you promise you're telling him as soon as you can. Poor man.'

'As soon as I am able to' Sherlock shot a look at his brother who ignored him. 'May I take a look upstairs before I go?'

Mrs Hudson beamed. 'Of course dear. It's not quite cleared out yet but we'll soon get it sorted.' She turned back to the table ' I'm going to wrap the rest of this cake up for you, you need feeding up and lord knows what this brother of yours will feed you.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes but stayed listening to Mrs Hudson's monologue on looking after his brother as Sherlock pushed past him towards the stairs.

Seventeen stairs. He'd counted them numerous times, running up them, running down them. He'd even been half carried up them by a much disgruntled and struggling John after a particularly stupid but incapacitating ankle injury. He smiled at the memory of John bemoaning the fact he was far heavier than he appeared. The door was ajar and he walked through trying to convince himself nothing had changed.

It didn't last long, the once familiar room was initially unrecognisable. The furniture reconfigured, some new additions, all of the personal touches that had made it home were gone, replaced he assumed and now taken away again by the replacement tenants. He wondered what it had looked like with them in it, a few of their boxes rested against the far wall and an arrangement of furniture-a desk and chair and some hideous freestanding lamps waiting to be moved out. Had they been the ones to cover the smiley face with a Rothko print (probably the only thing large enough)? Had they decided that the old sofa had finally had it and bought this new beige creation? Or had John changed it before he left? Trying to claim the space as his own? Sherlock sighed and made his way further into the flat.

The wallpaper was still the same-he imagined Mrs Hudson hadn't changed that in about twenty years anyway, the kitchen looked much the same-except immaculately tidy without his experiments all over the place. He walked through to his bedroom, giving the door a shove to open it. It was bare. The bed and cupboards sat where they always had but other than that it was empty. Had they been using this or John's room upstairs, a smile rose and faded remembering Mrs Hudson's assumption 'If you'll be needing two rooms' and John's face. He quickly pushed it aside and returned to the living room idly wandering in a circle, seeing where things used to be.

He stood at the window looking out onto Baker Street, exactly as it had always been, changed cars and curtains surrounded him but essentially unmoving and unchanged to his eye. He knew inside rooms like this one had changed forever changing hands, moving on. He turned back into the room, he could change it back his things from Mycroft's and new additions to the décor could be made it was always by default rather than design anyway. Except his room, he had been particular about that; he hoped Mycroft had saved his pictures his bed linens. There was something in the order of that bedroom that he'd held onto, he'd very much like to get that back. The rest was just an empty space filled with things, and him. In three years he'd had enough of empty spaces filled with just him and Baker Street felt emptier than any of those rooms at this moment.

He sank down onto the nearest armchair, a hard minimalist piece that didn't belong in the living room's ramshackle composition; Sherlock scowled at it and hoped it was earmarked for a trip to Brighton. He looked around again this was home, the place he'd spent three years thinking of in the darkest moments. It was in fact the only place that had ever felt like home since he was a child and their family home had been divided and Mycroft and himself shuffled between schools and one parent or the other, after which the old home that Mycroft now presided over stopped feeling quite like home.

As if on cue an invocation at his name Mycroft began to climb the stairs, Sherlock sighed and pushed himself to his feet moving back to the window for once last glance at his favourite view.

'Ready?' Mycroft asked from the doorway. There was a pause as Sherlock's back slumped slightly in defeat, 'You'll be back soon enough.' Mycroft sighed and was instantly transported back to a childhood spent prying a young Sherlock-too young he thought-from cupboards and corners to return him to school, or to return him from school to home. It hadn't been less difficult prying him from each subsequent filthy flat he'd inhabited as a young man and persuading him to his home or to rehab or in extreme cases a hospital. The memories collided and caught in Mycroft's chest as he realised Sherlock had given up the one thing he'd lacked until this point; a home.

'You're home now Sherlock.' He said gently.

'What about you?' Sherlock asked. Mycroft didn't need to be puzzled that Sherlock had read his thoughts-deduced-he chided himself. He knew it wasn't much of a leap the history was after all shared.

'I have always had a home Sherlock.' Mycroft tapped his umbrella as he spoke and then cursed himself, his tell for hiding something.

'Mycroft?' Sherlock raised and eyebrow.

'Sherlock?' he quirked his own eyebrow, their one shared physical attribute, they could have conversations using eyebrows alone Mycroft mused.

'Where is this home?'

'Surely you realise a home is far more than physical buildings by now?'

Sherlock threw a withering glance around the room, obliviously, and then raised an eyebrow in question again.

'I'm looking at it.' Mycroft tightened his lips into a thin line.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and looked around, here? He asked silently.

Mycroft nodded at his younger brother, here, he instructed.

Another eyebrow 'Oh.' Sherlock responded understanding.

Mycroft chuckled, rolled his eyes; yes. He looked down embarrassed now. 'Are we ready?' he asked.

Sherlock looked around once more, looking uncertain.

'Tomorrow Sherlock.' Mycroft assured him 'Tomorrow.'

Sherlock nodded, affirmative now and Mycroft led the way to the stairs Sherlock followed trying to ignore the ache in his chest as he left again, trying to tell himself it was foolish but the ache remained all the same.

After eventually extracting himself from Mrs Hudson's cooing clutches, and with the cake and a box of 'the good tea' under his arm, Sherlock slipped into the back of Mycroft's car once more. He placed the tea and cake delicately between them and nodded at his brother.

'Home please.' Mycroft addressed the driver and they pulled away.

Sherlock watched Baker Street disappear outside the window until he could see it no more.

'What time is Lestrade arriving?'

'Seven thirty this evening.'

'And how long has Inspector Lestrade been arriving during the evening?' Sherlock could barely contain the glee in his tone at his deduction.

Mycroft visibly withered in front of him. 'I had hoped to discuss this at home, before his arrival.'

'Well?' Sherlock pressed

'At home Sherlock.' Mycroft insisted.

'Do you not want to know how I deduced it?' Sherlock smiled, no Mycroft decided, smirked out of the window.

'No especially.' He said pulling out his phone and becoming very interested in his emails.

'You have lost weight, showing a final motivation for remaining on the diet. Your tie is not the usual Saville Row creation-in fact it's from Marks and Spencer-so a gift. As I have been absent and I don't see you wearing a gift from any of your minions to pick up your long lost brother-sentiment even you are capable-a gift from someone close then, clearly not said brother because quite frankly-it's hideous. Next your phone, you rarely text if you can help it using it only to call and check emails as you're pretending to do now, and you've been texting frequently I watched your finger patterns, I also caught you typing and 'x' at the end of one-really hope that wasn't to the Prime Minister, though he does think LOL means lots of love so you never know. Finally yesterday you embraced me and I smelled a familiar aftershave, truly ghastly much like that tie, which I know is Lestrade's favourite brand.'

Mycroft smiled but quickly supressed it. 'Well done Sherlock.'

'Which leads me back to my original question; How long?' Sherlock asked his tone urgent now he needed to know to understand where their two lives had taken them in his absence.

'Two years.' Mycroft said softly.

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded staring out of the window once more. Life had indeed moved on without him, his brother and Lestrade he'd known for twenty four hours but suddenly it became real.

'Sherlock?' Mycroft dropped his defences concerned again. 'Sherlock this doesn't mean…' he trailed off unsure what he was trying to say. It didn't matter Sherlock wasn't listening he was watching London blaze past the windows.

Eventually he turned back to Mycroft something waging a war behind his eyes 'Mycroft?' he asked and Mycroft understood the confusion, the conflict there. The same conflict he'd felt two years before. He reached over and squeezed Sherlock's arm.

'At home.' He said quietly.

Sherlock nodded. He didn't look at his brother again but he did reach out and hold the hand in place when Mycroft began to retract it. Instead his brother shifted subtly across the car's vast seat until the hand remained and his body was warm against Sherlock's again while the younger Holmes stared out the window at the world disappearing before him and tried to remember he was home. Or at least almost home.