22nd July, 2016.

…

'Dearest William,

I glad to see you found my note. I had no doubt that you would. Bright as ever. Built yourself quite the pretty little reputation now, haven't you. I would go as far as to say I'm proud.

I do hope that you weren't too cut up by your little surprise. However, if I remember rightly, you two never were all that close. How could you be...? He was never around.

Speaking of elders; how's Mycroft these days? It's been an age. Perhaps I shall go and pay him a visit... I'd very much like to see you again, Sherlock. Have you made any friends yet? Bet you look different now. All grown up.

Did you get the little joke with the ribbon? I always did prefer the personal touch.

Don't blame yourself, by the way. You and I both know he had it coming for a long time.

Yours, always…'

…

Sherlock's shaking hands messily folded the letter in half. This was the sixth time he had read the scribble and each time he tried to slap himself awake convinced he was still dreaming. He'd walked all night through the dampened, dreary streets of London. He couldn't sleep. He didn't want to sleep. His mind was cluttered with doubtful lies he'd tried to convince himself with to replace the alternative truth. And now, he stood upon the centre Westminster Bridge in lemon lamplight, a new day breaking before him.

The warmth and light of the rising summer sun had begun to burn away the covering clouds to reveal a dim, pink streaked sky. The charcoal coloured, sodden streets, once empty, slowly began to fill and filter bright red buses and barren black cabs; ingratiated by the lack-lustred faces of the late-nighted Londoner, dragging their feet tiredly to the tedium commonly referred to as work.

The heavy, reverberating toll of Big Ben brought Sherlock's iridescent eyes to its face. It was 'half past five' in the morning. He'd been out for seven hours and the fatigue was being to show in his countenance. Shivering slightly in the caress of the morning mist, Sherlock pulled his damp coat across his angular frame and struck off in a stride to the north bank.

He walked its edge, under an avenue of thick, green, lushly adorned maples. Breathing deeply, Sherlock allowed the smile of the odd optimistic passing cyclist, and the gentle hush of lapping water, lull his anxious temperament. Clean, chilly air filled his lungs; reminding him how desperately he need a cigarette. John had hidden all of his...Again.

He crossed over the Bank's duel lane through a small arch, the young detective turned left into Downing Street. His pacing feet came to rest outside the shinnied black door of number 5. He paused for a moment, staring at the brass knocker. Perhaps he was over reacting. Maybe he was just mistaken earlier, I mean, he has been considerably sleep deprived for quite some time now. It was all probably just a trick of the mind; all of this, just some sort of wind up by a smart-arsed murder who is trying to-

'Sherlock?'

The young detective jumped, head whipping round in surprise. Somewhat to his relief, he was confronted with his elder brother's deucing, green eyes.

'Hello, little brother. For what do I owe this pleasure? I do hope you weren't planning in breaking into my office again, you know how that ended last time.'

'That was not my fault.' Sherlock quipped. 'Besides, it was of national importance.'

'Doctor Watson's middle name was not of national importance.'

'It could have been.'

With a sigh, Mycroft, in his champagne, three piece suit, gazed Sherlock over from head to toe. 'Why are you here?'

'Just thought I'd pop by and say hi.'

Mycroft smiled sardonically. 'Now, brother mine, we both know that's not strictly true.'

'Why couldn't it be?'

'Because you're a Holmes and we don't "pop by," that would be verging on sentiment. No, something's happened. What's happened, Sherlock?'

'Nothing.'

Mycroft tilted his head sideways, expelling a loud breath. 'Sherlock, you're hesitating on my office doorstep at thirty-seven minutes past five in the morning. It hasn't rained in two and a quarter hours yet you're soaked to the skin. You haven't been home all night. Your bottom lip is split and your eyes are red raw not to mention your shaking hands. I would have hedged my bets on you relapsing if it we're not for the face in the past three minutes you and I have been standing here your eyes have flickered down to that piece of paper.' He referenced to Sherlock's right pocket with the tip of his umbrella. Sherlock looked down unknowingly.

'You've folded and unfolded it no less than five times...Let's leave the lies for John, shall we?'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Sherlock-'

'-And it was six times not five.'

'Sherlock, stop.'

There was a hollow pause. Sherlock peered up into his brothers eyes. '…He's dead.'

Mycroft was motionless. '…What?'

'Sherri…He's dead.' Sherlock's voice faltered him momentarily but he was quick to get a hold of it. 'Murdered in the early hours of yesterday morning.'

'Is that what you wanted to tell me? Is that what was in the letter? – Sherlock?'

Sherlock glanced towards the ground. 'Yes.' After a moment, he turned, hastening his way back to the river. He shouldn't have come here. Mycroft took a step forward, grasping his brother's arm. 'Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I-'

'Don't touch me!' The young detective suddenly screamed, pulling back.

Mycroft put his hand down; the expression on his face turning to one of concern.

Sherlock tried to bite back tear threating to spill down his face. 'I don't- want you to touch me.' he hissed.

Mycroft expression became lopsided. 'Sherlock, I understand how your feeling-'

'No, you don't!'

'Sherlock-'

'How could you possibly know?'

Mycroft reached for his younger brother's arm again. Sherlock pulled away. 'Just leave me alone, Mycroft!' He stormed back up towards the main road. 'If you want the details contact Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Other than that, stay away from me!'

…

'I'm sure he'll be back soon, dear.'

'I know, I know. I'm just worried.' John paced back and forth across the red worn floors of 221B and had been doing so for the past forty minutes, biting his lip restlessly. 'I mean what if he's blacked out or something?'

Mrs Hudson gave the Doctor a warm smile. 'I'll go make you that cup of tea. Don't worry, John, he'll be alright. He's Sherlock.' The landlady departed, hurrying off down to her flat.

'Exactly. That's what worries me.' He muttered under his breath, looking to the windows overlooking the murky, grey street below. The sun was coming up, fingers of light beginning to curl their way around the spiring rooftops. John collapsed onto his armchair with a sigh.

He'd left Lestrade alone at the crime scene not long after eleven that evening, catching a cab back to the flat on Baker Street. He'd ascended the cool, wooden steps to find their cozy rooms ominously empty. Since then he'd spent the night wandering the cold, dark, damp streets of London in fruitless search of his best friend. It had been about five o'clock by the time John had returned to 221B, a sense of dread rising in his chest. He'd hoped in that time Sherlock would have come back or at least got in contact with him but he hadn't. John closed his eyes, running a hand through his damp hair. 'Come on, Sherlock. Come home.'

Suddenly, as if an exterior force had been listening, John heard the front door slam. His eyes sprang open. 'Sherlock?!' he called out, swiftly getting to his feet. He leaped across the chaotic room into the hallway. Leaning over the banister, the soldier let out a great sigh of relief as before him stood his sodden, paled detective. 'Hey,' he breathed. 'Are you okay?'

'Fine.' Sherlock's swept past John into the dimly lit kitchen. John watched hesitantly as his flatmate removed his trailing Belstaff coat, draping it across the back of one of the wooden table chairs. He moved towards the counter top, picking up a mug. John moved to his flatmate's side. 'Sherlock.'

'I'm fine.'

'Sherlock.'

'I'm fine, John.'

'Sherlock!'

The detective ignored him, filling the cup with water.

John stepped in front of him. 'Sherlock, stop.' He removed the ceramic from his flat mate hands, almost slamming down onto the counter top with a thin, dull thud. 'Sherlock, I want you to actually look at me when you tell me you're alright because right now you're in your generic, "Say what will make John happy and leave me alone" mode, and from what I saw earlier, Sherlock, I don't think that's the truth.'

Sherlock looked out of the window in front of him before casting his eyes to the ground. 'I'm fine, John.' He slid the mug from the counter and walked off down the gloomy, shadowed corridor. John pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh as he heard his bedroom door close with a slam. Getting out his laptop, the doctor moved aside some of his flatmate's chemical experiments, sat heavily down at the kitchen table and began to type.

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