Chapter Two: Returns

A/N: This chapter just kind of went all over the place, forewarning. Definitely taking a break after this because I have papers to write and homework I should've done instead of writing this. Picks right up where we left off. Enjoy!

They had to mean something, he knew they did. Sherlock sat across from John in his old chair back at 221B as they returned from the case. He was sat in his infamous thinking pose, eyes closed, buried deep in his mind palace. Snowdrops, snowdrops… He felt like he knew them, their importance, but why couldn't he remember? His memories concerning them were fuzzy at best, and there seemed to be something he was missing, but he'd look into it later. He found himself back at his childhood home, out in the yard. He wandered a little ways out into a field of greenery and flowers, snowdrops growing in clusters around the edge of his vision, along a wooden fence. An unknown amount of time flashed by. The setting sun made him raise a hand to shield his eyes, and he could see Mycroft running ahead of him as they chased each other, laughter echoing in the air, before the sound of a woman calling to them caused them to turn back. Sherlock picked a few of the snowdrops as they returned home, knowing they were a favorite of… Of-

The consulting detective's eyes snapped open at the sound of shattering dishes. He was irked, but at the same time it seemed not to matter. He never would've figured out who loved the flowers. Why couldn't he remember them? His gaze settled on John, who was quickly picking up the shards scattered across the kitchen floor, facing him.

As he threw them away, he questioned, "And you didn't make me biscuits and tea for breakfast? You're absolutely positive?"

"Of course I am!" Mrs. Hudson told him, facing away from Sherlock, and the detective felt relieved she hadn't caught sight of him. "I may be old, but my memory is quite intact." John tugged at his hair futily, not understanding. He ate breakfast this morning, he was sure of it. The plate and teacup were still there, unmoved from their places this morning."Are you sure you're alright, John? You've been acting quite strange lately."

"What the fuck is wrong with me?" John asked himself quietly. Food doesn't just magically appear. Someone had to have made it. He figured then that answering the question might be better than trying to reason with himself. "I'm fine, I assure you, just a bit out of sorts. I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Oh, I heard. I thought the sobbing would never stop. How about I make you your favorite tonight as a way to cheer you up?"

"I don't need cheering up. I've been out all day. That's a start, isn't it?"

"It is, but that doesn't mean your spirits have lifted and you're as merry as can be. I'll bring it up in a bit." She exited the flat, heading downstairs, and it was only then that Sherlock spoke.

"You're not going crazy, John," Sherlock murmured, an indiscernible look in his eyes. He didn't know what to do, how to approach him.

"How am I not? I'm having a cry at well past midnight over my best friend who died two years ago. I keep seeing said best friend everywhere I go and unexplainable things keep happening that make me sound like a madman! Care to elaborate on how I'm not going crazy, Sherlock?" John mentally berated himself before snapping, "Why am I even talking to you? You're not even bloody there!" He turned, attempting once again to make tea. His voice became soft, quivering with sadness. "You're not there, as much as I wish you were, and when I turn around…" That unfinished thought was his second mistake. He gulped, pausing to get himself together. Sherlock had already guessed his next words, silently slinking out the door as he felt a stab of pain in his heart. And when I turn around, you'll be gone. It was clear that John didn't want his presence, nor his touch for comfort, so he would give his flatmate the room he so desperately desired.

John felt the room temperature drop a few degrees, as if the mood had sucked the warmth out of it, and he whipped around to find an empty sitting room. A sigh. He put the kettle on to boil before taking a seat in his chair once again, head in his hands. He only moved when Mrs. Hudson returned, thanking her for looking after him, for real this time. She only smiled and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

Meanwhile, Sherlock strolled unseen through the shadowy alleys and streets of London, out of sight of any passerby save the occasional member of his homeless network, who knew to keep their mouth shut. Several things about the case struck him as odd. First, it was the snowdrops, which he would ponder more later. Next, it was the feeling he got at the crime scene. The victim had died by falling off a building, falling to their death, much in the way he was supposed to meet his end. The words didn't seem as bizarre, but what really got to him was the burned hole where the victim's heart should be. Suddenly, a sinister voice echoed in his mind, and the breath was knocked out of him immediately after. He stumbled, catching himself on the brick wall of a building, not believing he could miss something so obvious. There could only be one explanation.

I will burn the heart out of you.

Moriarty. Moriarty was alive.

But how? Sherlock saw him blow his brains out on the roof of Bart's. He saw with his own eyes the life draining out of his mortal enemy, so how? He had eliminated every bit of the consulting criminal's network in the last two years. The last member had been a Serbian he was lucky enough to avoid torture from. Well, torture too painful, anyway. He'd been assured by Mycroft that his job outside of England was done, that he could return. He either missed someone or there was about to be a dangerous player returning to the game. Regardless, his brother needed to be informed, as much of a bother as it was to Sherlock. So, when Mycroft had just finished up a meeting at his office, fully ready to go home to his warm bed and loving partner, he was rather annoyed when Sherlock barged in as if he owned the place, probably here to cause a scene and-

"What did you say?" the older brother inquired as the curly haired man continued ranting.

"With the way they were murdered and the burned out heart, it has to be him. There's no one else who would know those words apart from John-"

"Wait, Sherlock. Who are you talking about and what words?" Sherlock stared at him as if he were the biggest idiot he'd ever met.

"Who else would leave a string of murders with hidden messages personally addressed to me? And the words make one of the messages so obvious. I will burn the heart out of you. That's what he said to me the first time we were properly introduced. I can't believe I didn't see it before. I was so obsessed with the flowers-"

"Do you have any proof that Moriarty is indeed alive? Photographs, security footage, an account from one of your network, a face to face meeting with him?" He didn't have time for this. Jim Moriarty was dead, his body buried where no one could disturb it, he'd been assured. He had complete faith in his staff and the ramblings of his brother would not turn him against them.

"The proof is the case. Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock looked furious that he wasn't being taken seriously. Mycroft grumbled under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Until there's a sighting of him, we will continue on as if he were no longer with the land of the living. I cannot go about raising a panic because of your suspicions." He stood, fully intending to leave now. Sherlock, of course, had to have the last word.

"Do you treat her well?" he asked innocently enough, though the question was snarled. Mycroft froze halfway out the now flung open door. He turned around slowly, trying to keep a straight face.

"Whatever are you talking about?"

"The hickey on your neck. It wasn't there earlier, meaning in the time between the crime scene, taking John back to Baker Street, and your several meetings, you've seen her. Do you treat her well?" he asked again, trying to emphasize his question. Mycroft smirked coldly.

"Tread carefully, brother mine, or I fear I may bring up a rather painful subject for you," he replied, about to walk away before adding, "And I treat him like royalty." He watched in satisfaction as his brother's eyes widened in shock before finally leaving, making it an effort later that night to kiss the living daylights out of Greg.

XxX

John lay awake in bed that night, trying, and failing successfully, to clear his thoughts enough to fall asleep. Nothing more had been found regarding the case, so he'd spent the rest of the day sipping tea and sitting in his armchair. He closed his eyes once again, hoping he could get some amount of shut eye before the morning. He didn't know how much time had passed, but it was still dark outside his window when he heard the faint notes of the violin. Startled, he made his way downstairs clad in only his trousers, trying to find the source of the music. In his favorite dressing gown stood Sherlock, facing towards the fireplace, violin in playing position, soft melodies waving through the air. The golden glow the fire cast across his face made him look like an illuminated ghost, and John supposed he was.

Without looking up or opening his eyes, Sherlock asked, "Can't sleep either?"

John shook his head before verbally answering, "No, not at all." He stepped towards the detective hesitantly, the music soothing his nerves some. When he was within touching distance, he took a gamble and wrapped his arms around the taller man from behind with more confidence than he felt. The melody faltered for a moment before resuming, only this time, Sherlock swayed with it. John followed his movements, feeling his thoughts race less and less. Heat from the fire and Sherlock's body calmed him, quieted his mind for a while. He felt his breathing begin to even out. An immeasurable amount of time passed before John spoke up, voice hardly above a whisper, unshed tears in his words. "I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead."

"I heard you," Sherlock whispered back just as tearily. He stopped playing, placed the violin and bow on the mantle, turned in his best friend's arms, watery ocean blue eyes wide open. "I'm right here. I'm here, John." The army doctor squeezed his eyes shut, clinging to Sherlock for dear life. "And… even if I weren't, if… if I were somewhere else in the world, and we were still apart… Just know… I will always come back to you." John drifted in and out of consciousness for a few minutes as he absorbed the words spoken to him. In that time, Sherlock had carried him bridal style up the stairs and into his room, tucking him in and whispering, "Goodnight," before closing the door silently behind him as he crept back downstairs. John slept peacefully for the rest of the night.

The next morning, he planned on making tea and then going out to restock the fridge which, now that he thought about it, had been empty yesterday. He sat down in his chair after setting the kettle on the stove. When the kettle boiled, John was slow to get up and pour the water for his tea, consumed by the wonderful feelings left by his dream last night. It had felt so real. Sherlock was in his arms, practically serenading him, alive and well, concerned for his wellbeing. What he wouldn't give for that to become a reality. So when he got around to the kettle, he found himself nursing hands burned by scalding water bubbling and gushing onto the stove. It was then that a set of words, ones he thought nothing of at the time, no more than an insult, came to the forefront of his mind. I will burn the heart out of you. No. It couldn't be. After soothing his red, still overly warm hands, he quickly went upstairs and got dressed, grabbing his coat when he got back into the room. He ran down the steps and out the door, hailing a cab. Looks like today was Scotland Yard's lucky day.

XxX

Greg was surprised to see John walking towards his desk in Scotland Yard, without him having received a text or call from Mycroft or himself. It was clear that the man had something important on his mind, so he began doubling his efforts to sort through the work currently laid out in front of him. "John! What can I do for you today?"

"I'll take it," he responded. Greg stopped flipping through the files currently set on his desk, hands stilling in shock and confusion.

"What?"

"I'll take it, the case." The detective inspector blinked owlishly at him. "Consider it a ten," he added. At that, Greg stood up and motioning for John to follow. They went further into the building until they came across a small, rather luxurious office space (at least, it was to John). It housed many comfortable looking pieces of expensive furniture and at its center, sat at his covered desk, looking at compiled reports about all of the case's victims, was Mycroft. The British government- man of the British government was scowling at the marked up reports, pen in his hand threatening to crack and send ink splashing across the desk. "Moriarty's alive," he stated simply as he stopped walking. Mycroft groaned in frustration, putting his pen down none too gently and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Greg, a moment, if you will."

" 'Course," he told him, leaving and shutting the door on his way out, hoping John was only saying that to get his attention. Hoping.

When Mycroft was sure he was out of earshot, he glared at John and hissed, "Not you too. As I've told everyone, multiple times, Jim Moriarty is dead. I saw to it that his corpse was properly disposed of. I have trusted employees who can confirm that it was."

"I will burn the heart out of you. Ever heard those words before?" Mycroft froze, having to make an effort not to let his mask slip. This couldn't be happening.

"No, I can't say I have." His eyes scanned briefly over John, but he couldn't deduce anything out of the ordinary except for the fact that he had actually gotten a decent night's sleep. He watched John smirk triumphantly. Mycroft frowned at the action.

"You know," he began, leaning forward across the desk. "One of the great things about being around Sherlock so much is the many habits you pick up from him. Your eyes are more expressive than you think. As soon as you denied those words, you tried to deduce me because I knew something that you thought I shouldn't. The way you reacted to me when I said Moriarty was dead. And "Not you too?" No one else could've possibly mentioned Moriarty to you regarding the case unless it were Sherlock himself because we were the only two there when he said those words. Even if you had footage of us, I doubt the words would've stuck with you as anything more than an empty threat. So, what are you hiding, Mycroft?" He cursed his brother, wherever he may be at the moment. It seemed Doctor Watson himself was beginning to be able to deduce. He didn't know whether to be impressed or wary, perhaps a mixture of both. He sighed nonetheless, however, as he'd just discovered a peculiar connection between the victims.

"Very well. Very recently, just before you came in, in fact, I discovered something rather troubling. The victims are all connected, through Moriarty. Apparently, while-" He had been about to say, "While Sherlock was away." Dammit, he was slipping. John noticed the pause, so he quickly spun a half truth. "While we were investigating Jim Moriarty's connections, to see if he had a network outside of London, we neglected to check London itself. An agent was sent out to dispose of the international web, having just returned this week. When news of certain members of the web's demise spread, a murder would come up, just like the one we looked at earlier."

"But why would he kill his own allies-?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you: he wouldn't. He can't. If it weren't for those allies, he would never have been able to station assassins at Baker Street, or order snipers to keep eyes on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg. Whoever is doing this knows who we are, knows what we know, knows what to leave behind to get our attention. Most importantly, they knew Jim Moriarty. Just because they're dismantling the rest of his network, however, does not make them an ally, and we'd do well to take precautions going forward." Before John could say another word, Mycroft's phone went off, signaling an incoming text, John thought. Really, it was a reminder set to inform him of important business to attend to at two the next day. So that was tomorrow. Lovely.

"I wish I could stay and continue this enlightening conversation," Mycroft began, statement dripping with sarcasm, "But I'm afraid that duty calls elsewhere. Feel free to look through the information I have on the case if you'd like." He got up and strolled out of his second office. Balancing the duties of the Yard and the government were not easy, but it was necessary where Moriarty was involved. He prayed to whatever was out there that that was not the case as he got into the back of one of his cars, which drove him off towards Buckingham Palace. Maybe a meeting with the leader of Sokovia would be less stressful than this.

XxX

The "dreams" continued to be as vivid as that night. He'd had several since the day he'd accompanied Lestrade to the murder that brought him out of 221B. Some were simple, he and Sherlock sharing a cup of tea at three in the morning, a midnight stroll in the park involving fish and chips and sitting on benches and chatting the night away, simply coming downstairs after endless tossing and turning to sit across from Sherlock in the sitting room, by the fire. The latest dream would be the last pleasant one for a while. It was just after midnight, and John found himself screaming as he shot up into a sitting position in bed. He'd seen the fall from Bart's again, only this time as if it were one of the case murders.

John stumbled over to Sherlock's body, trying to push through the crowd of people surrounding his best friend. "Please, he's my friend. He's my…" His words were cut off when he felt for a pulse. There was no pulse. No. No, he can't… He can't be… Dead… He'd had no idea he'd said the words aloud until there were people pulling him away, loading Sherlock's body onto a stretcher. Time froze then, and John broke free, shot forward to Sherlock's side. In his coat pocket, there was a bundle of snowdrops, with a note saying For the one who's lost it all. Pulling the lapels back further, he discovered a hole burned into his chest where his heart should be. He cradled the head of his best friend, staring lostly into empty, dead eyes that would haunt his every waking moment for the next two years. As he stared, all he could see reflected in the eyes was the fall, and he found himself standing where he'd been earlier.

Confused, he became aware of the phone tucked against his ear. "Goodbye, John," he heard.

"No, don't…" He watched as his best friend fell once more, mind filled with the horror he'd just seen.

"SHERLOCK!"

With difficulty, John untangled his legs from his sheets, hastily making his way downstairs for a cup of tea. He would not go anywhere near his bed right now. Fumbling around in the kitchen, he didn't notice Sherlock look up at the sound of his footsteps, sat by the fire with a book in his lap. "John?" he questioned. The army doctor jumped, spilling water on the floor before whirling around. Sherlock was once again in a dressing gown, red this time, and John collapsed heavily onto a kitchen chair. Sherlock dashed over to his side, book forgotten, tossed into the flames. "John, are you alright?" He noticed the cold sweat John was trying to wipe away with his pajama sleeves, his hair's chaotic state, tears nearly falling from his eyes.

"No, I'm not alright. I'm not even here. You're not even here."

"What-?"

"I'm back in front of Bart's leaning over your dead body, hands covered in your blood, unable to find a pulse, grieving for you. I'm still there. I don't think I ever left." Sherlock, furious at himself beyond belief, would not have any more of this.

"John, look at me." He got no response nor movement. "John Hamish Watson, look at me." Head whipping up, John saw the caring, concerned eyes of his best friend gazing at him softly. "I'm here, and so are you. I'm not going anywhere, not this time. I'm here." John stood, and Sherlock could see tears now freely falling, running down his face and dripping onto his clothes. Gently, Sherlock wiped the tears away, thumb brushing John's cheeks. John leaned into the touch before speaking as steadily as he could.

"I never even got a chance to tell you," he murmured, looking to Sherlock in despair.

"Tell me what?" He watched John gulp, closing his eyes as more tears fell.

"I never knew how to bring it up, whether or not to just tell you outright. I…" He let out a harsh breath. "I love you." Sherlock felt all the air leave his lungs at those words. "I never knew how much until I lost you, but you were the light of my life. Maybe it was more as family, maybe romantically. I still don't know, but what I do know is that life is almost not worth living without you…" Sherlock pulled him into his arms, embracing him tight as he felt a sob rip through his best friend.

"I don't deserve you, John. I'm no hero, no angel, no one's friend except yours. I can never be grateful enough for your friendship, your care. What I can tell you is that your feelings… They aren't unrequited." John pulled back, not believing his ears. It was then that they met each other for a passionate kiss, holding desperately onto the other, not daring to break apart except for quick catch breaths. They eventually found themselves tangled up together on John's bed, holding each other under the sheets as the kisses continued, along the other's jaw, neck, and back to their lips again. After a final, lingering kiss, John found himself falling asleep in Sherlock's arms, and just before he fell unconscious, he heard a timid, but clear, "I love you too."

XxX

It had been a month since the last murder from the case. No examining of the body in the morgue could yield any more evidence or clues about their killer. No stray hairs, fingerprints, DNA, nothing. No more leads. John and Mycroft had since debriefed Sherlock on the newest discoveries, and he found that a walk was a very good distraction from the information he had yet to fully process. Deducing passerby grew boring after a few hours, however, and his transport was suggesting food after his now four days of not eating. Deciding to head back to Baker Street for a meal, Sherlock turned, going past a mass of buildings at least ten stories high along both sides of the street. As he walked onto a new street, the sound of something being crushed- No. The sound of something landing heavily behind him, contents being crushed on impact, caused him to pause, as did the feeling of liquid splashing the bottom of his pants, coat billowing in the wind. Slowly, he turned, finding a woman who was clearly part of some secret government organization with her head smashed into the pavement, blood pooling around her head. A bundle of snowdrops were clutched in her hand, and a circle was carved through her kevlar vest, no doubt where the killer would burn out the victim's heart.

Glancing up, he could make out a shadowy figure covered from head to toe in dark clothing, making it impossible to distinguish features or height, not that that would've been easy this far down. They seemed to drop something before turning and disappearing from view. He quickly looked over the victim, not wanting to be seen looking over a dead body by a stranger passing by. Neck tattoo, snowdrops, no other physical injuries aside from the crushed skull and multiple broken and shattered bones upon impact. The burned out heart came last, he knew, meaning the killer went to the crime scene right after their victim's death to leave the mark. Except for this time. The killer had seen him, no doubt opting not to return to the body and finish the job. Sherlock pulled out his phone to text Mycroft.

4th and Westminster. Another murder. Killer in vicinity. They didn't finish the job. Bring John.

SH

As soon as he sent the text to Mycroft, whatever the killer had dropped was floating down towards him, within reach. He gently caught the folded piece of paper. The scrawl on the inside seemed vaguely familiar, but he ignored that in favor of the words he read. For the ones we've lost, it said, but there was something else as well. It may have been a trick of the light, an odd discoloration of the paper, but he doubted it. He ducked under the overhang above the building, pulling out a small UV penlight from his coat pocket. He shined it on the blank space at the bottom of the note. By the one who wants to be found. The one who wants to be found? The words did nothing but puzzle Sherlock further, and it wasn't long before Mycroft and a unit from Scotland Yard were pulling up in front of the building. Sherlock hid in the shadows, watching the forensics team scramble around the scene without a clue. Mycroft and John knelt down beside the victim, and Sherlock felt bile rise in his throat.

John. Oh God. He'd taken advantage of the man in his vulnerable state last night, told him he'd loved him. It was not a lie, but to carry on after, fall asleep holding him in his arms, wake up to see his tear streaked face… He didn't see how John could even look at him now. But look he did. He looked on longingly, as if aching to say something to him. Of course, he couldn't, not with Mycroft around, but the impulse was there. John turned his attention back to the body that lay in front of him, however, looking at the clothing for any evidence. The kevlar vest didn't seem quite right, so he poked and prodded until he came across the circular carving.

"Mycroft," John mumbled as he saw a small piece of paper underneath the carved circle in the vest. Ripping the circle off, he extracted the paper, throat going dry when he read it.

"What does it say?" Sherlock asked, causing Mycroft to take the paper from John and read it aloud.

"You're getting warmer." The two looked to Sherlock, who stared at the body, felt the note burning a hole in his coat pocket, felt a sense of dread and thrill. "Let's hand this over to Scotland Yard now, shall we?" This was Mycroft's way of telling Sherlock, Leave now, we'll discuss things later. Without another glance at either of them, Sherlock turned and disappeared between the buildings, briefly bumping into someone as he hurried on, deciding that a meal was out of the question now. He stumbled as his stomach growled and vision blurred for a moment. Maybe not.

He stumbled into the flat, wolfing down dinner leftovers and takeout boxes from the fridge. Despite this, his vision continued blurring, head suddenly feeling as if it would explode. A pinprick in his abdomen alerted him to the small slow acting tranquilizer dart sticking out of him. He quickly pulled it out, but couldn't stop himself from collapsing onto the floor from the kitchen table. His phone alerted him to a text from Mycroft, and he crawled to the sitting room, picking it up off the table.

Coming over now. You're hiding something.

M

He had just enough energy left to call his brother and fling the phone under John's chair before he lost feeling in his limbs, fighting to keep his eyes open. A familiar man walked into the flat, going over to and crouching next to Sherlock, smirking evilly. "You told me you weren't an angel. Mmm… Well, John Watson certainly thinks you're one. You don't know how to explain to him that, "I'm alive! I'm here! I came back!" He chuckled lowly as the detective's eyes widened as much as they could in surprise. "Sherrrlock," he called out in a sing song way. "Am I so dangerous… That you're willing to drive the man you care about most insane, to protect him?" He frowned at the confused look he got. "You didn't know," he realized. "Until the murders happened, you didn't know about the rest of my followers. Oh, Sherlock… An evil angel it is… Or maybe you really are clueless when it comes to people." Sherlock scowled at the man who should've been dead crouching beside him.

"Mor… iarty," he hissed.

"Hiiiii," he greeted, much like he had at the pool.

"Go… to Hell."

"No, don't think I will. I heard the customer service is terrible, and there's never any free rooms." All he got in response was a weak growl. "Sweet dreams, Sherl," he whispered as the detective's eyes slid shut. Halfway across town, in a car breaking the speed limit at a good ninety mph while weaving through traffic, Mycroft dropped his phone, currently on speaker, horrified. John felt his heart stop, anger and panic warring for control underneath the surface.

Moriarty was back. More importantly…

Sherlock was alive.

Closing A/N: Cliffhanger I did not expect to write so soon, OOC John, and more angst than probably necessary. So… Moriarty's back, and John is finally realizing that Sherlock is, in fact, alive. Let the character introductions and drama begin next chapter. :)