A/N: A slightly shorter chapter here to lead us into the excitement that will be chapters 8-10. Hope the questions and suspense aren't getting too tedious for you here. ;-)

Chapter 7

The drive from Camden to Earl's Court took some twenty-five minutes, the near entirety of which Sherlock spent scribbling hastily on paper he'd procured from Molly's flat. At one point, John hesitantly asked what he was doing, not wanting to break his singular focus. Sherlock responded with a vague and distracted, "Notes, for Mycroft," and didn't even break pace with his writing. "Information was the price of getting access at the airport."

"But then why didn't you-?"

"John." Sherlock's hand finally stilled and he looked up sternly.

"Sorry."

And he was back to it. John looked blankly out the window. These short, northern November days and dusk was already upon them, making it feel later than it truly was. There was a time where this would have been a pure adrenaline rush but now, he was just exhausted. John Watson was getting old, domesticated. Which reminded him somewhat guiltily that he should text his wife with whom he had not spoken since Heathrow. Well, she was the one who had suggested he spend more time with the sleepless and energetic detective in the first place.

He was just done assuring her that he would be home tonight but no, could not say precisely when, when Sherlock looked up again from his notes. "I saw her a few times while I was, you know…

"Dead."

"Gone." John flushed as he spoke overtop Sherlock, but then reiterated. "Gone. Who? Molly?"

"Irene." His brows rose in surprise. "I had enough of an idea of where she was headed after we parted ways in Pakistan, it was not much work to track her down."

"Bit dangerous, wasn't that?"

He shrugged. "Foolish, at the least. But in a strange bout of sentiment, when I truly craved the company of my blogger, the next best thing was…"

"The company of her flogger?"

"A familiar face," Sherlock scowled. "Really, John, such pedestrian humor does not suit you." He turned to watch the lights of passing cars and shops. "She assisted me a couple of times when I was injured or sick."

"She gave you that violin, didn't she?" Sherlock nodded once, curtly. "Where is she now?"

He turned back to look at John, brows furrowed thoughtfully. "In all honesty- I don't know."

X-X

The next time, it was a year. The only communication they shared in that time was a postcard she received some seven months after he left, a postcard with no message and no return address. On the front was an artist's depiction of the ancient Pharos lighthouse in Alexandria; she had texted him from Egypt, told him to come relieve her of boredom, come have dinner. She could not be positive it was from him, of course, but the likelihood of anyone else sending something like that, something meaningful, if only slightly, to two dead people…

Even thinking the postcard was from him, she hadn't really expected him to come back again. But there he was one Tuesday afternoon as she returned from the market, sitting casual as ever in the front parlor, a cup of tea- he must have made it himself- sitting on the table beside him.

"You startled me."

"An unequivocal falsehood, you displayed alarm in neither gait nor expression."

Well, he still sounded like the same Sherlock Holmes.

He may have sounded the same, but he was different this time. The year's absence had wrought change on him, subtle yet glaring. Change that manifested in his unwillingness to touch the violin; his regular appearance in her company, if only to sit quietly. It wasn't that he was particularly more loquacious than before, but he seemed hesitant to… be alone?

But her soft promptings as to his whereabouts or doings in the past year went unanswered as ever; he showed no signs that he even heard the questions.

X-X

"My arm healed nicely."

For an hour they had both been sitting in the same room in total silence, as they had done every day for the past two weeks since his sudden arrival. It was the first she recalled him breaking the silence unprompted; it reminded her of more than two years prior now when his murmured, 'Coventry,' had interrupted his violin plucking. He had been speaking to an absent John at the time though.

"Good. Doctor Mihra is very good."

"The housekeeper was roaming my rooms again today." A questioning pause. "You trust her? Anita? Adari?"

"You know her name, Sherlock," she chastised. And she's been with me five years."

"You trust her?"

"She knows my story; she's my eyes and ears where I can't go. I trust her with my life."

They lapsed into another lengthy silence before he said so softly, "Have you ever thought about going back?"

Sherlock Holmes, dealing in the hypothetical, in the fantastic. "Of course. London is home, after all."

"To feel sentiment for a place…"

"It's not just a place. It's familiar people, daily comforts."

"Friends; people you like, people you don't like…"

"What?"

He shook his head, emerging from a sort of reverie. "You could probably return eventually. Soon," he clarified.

"What, and give up all this?" she teased lightly.

"You are not happy here."

"I'm safe from the prying eyes of the CIA, your brother. James Moriarty and his cronies."

"Safe," he scoffed. "Safe is dull. Boring."

"Yet you're still here."

He didn't have a response to that.

X-X

Most of the time, Irene was thankful that she did not experience the world with the hyper-awareness possessed by the consulting detective. But there were moments, few and far between, where she would have given anything to be able to read him with the skill he used to read her. And the moment where she wanted it more than ever was when he coolly, calmly, casually, informed her, "I will be gone by morning." He'd spent nearly a month in Mumbai with her, so his departure was not unexpected; but never before had he come and gone with any warning whatsoever.

"For how long?"

"I don't know. Regardless, you should never count on my return; each time you see me may well be the last."

Well obviously. She steeled herself, not keen on getting emotionally riled right before he left. "Sherlock, why are you here?"

His expression closed off abruptly. "If you'd rather I not return, I can-"

"That's not what I said," she cut him off. "Why? You obviously have resources to get by well on your own, you don't need to come here, it's certainly out of your way."

"Being out of the way makes it a good place to avoid detection."

His faux-obliviousness was overwhelming. "Yes. But you have all of Mumbai, the rest of India, or hundreds of other places I'm guessing you could retreat to when whatever you're up to gets to be too much," his eyes narrowed. "Why do you continue to return here, to my house?"

He was quiet long enough that she assumed he was ignoring her question. At last though, he spoke up softly, hesitantly. "Familiarity, the reminder of home… it has become everything, with the rest of me reduced to nothing."

X-X

Following a similar protocol as before, the cabbie dropped them just off the main road, Sherlock unwilling to give a more specific destination, and leaving them to walk several blocks in the chilly darkness. Head down, hunched against a cold breeze and hands shoved into his pockets, John followed him quietly, wondering what a prominent German crime lord was doing in a posh London borough but unwilling to voice the question he knew would be ignored or deflected.

After ten minutes, Sherlock turned so suddenly up the path to a modest townhouse that John nearly barreled on past him. Wondering whether this was a break-in or an unannounced arrival, he was vaguely surprised on the stoop to find it neither, as Sherlock simply turned the doorknob and found it unlocked.

Everything that Molly Hooper's flat had been, this house was not. It was harsh, all angles and sharp lines, pristine and pure as though it had never actually been inhabited. As much as the pink had made him cringe, this place was too neutral- white walls and beige carpet, furniture in hues of brown and not a splash of character, of color, to be found in the place. It felt cold.

Heightening that perception- and perhaps betraying some of the others- was the lone figure sitting on the sofa. Legs crossed casually, he was a man of medium height and build, perhaps in his fifties, gone grey but he wore it well. He had a light smile that served to soften an otherwise harsh face and dark eyes that were taking in every detail of Sherlock before he even deigned to spare John a second glance.

"My dear man," the stranger- was this Karl Müller?- rose to his feet. His voice carried just enough accent to require some effort to understand, but not so much as to render him incomprehensible. "Oh, how long since I've seen your face- your hair is longer, I like it," he circled Sherlock, sizing him up and down; the detective did not move, only followed him with his eyes. "I burned the image in here though," he pointed at his temple. "Burned every last memory of you and clung to it, used it to hold on to myself through it all…"

When he returned front and center- at some point, John had moved out of his way but had no memory of it, had simply obeyed the unspoken demand- he reached slowly for Sherlock's hands and, to John's amazement, the detective complied without hesitation. "These hands," Müller spoke adoringly, "these talented hands. During the long and cold nights, I envisioned these hands, playing Bach, playing his Sonata, bringing me to tears…"

He pulled Sherlock forward and down slightly, their foreheads barely brushing. John stood awkwardly by, feeling wholly lost and out of place but sure as hell unwilling to let the pair out of his sight. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. "It was the last time," he spoke quietly. "I could not bear the memory, the guilt," a single tear dropped from his lashes in both eyes, leaving unchecked wet streaks down his cheeks. "Though it can bring no consolation, I hope you realize his death was not my intent."

Müller pulled back slightly, opening his eyes; sensing his gaze, Sherlock followed suit. "I never dreamed it, my friend. Not once. Though I'm sure you realize it changes nothing for us here, tonight."

"Of course."

The frown on John's face was deepening. If Müller was here, seemingly alone and unarmed- why had they not just grabbed him and taken him in, called Mycroft or even Lestrade to arrest him?

It was becoming painfully obvious that there was far more to this than Sherlock had let on.

"Your friend is confused. You have not told him the role he is yet to play tonight?"

"He'd have been too noble to allow things to come this far," Sherlock murmured, looking at John with a trace of apology in his eyes. And that was when John knew, without a doubt, that something had gone horribly, horribly wrong. "Would have only worked himself silly attempting to contrive an alternate solution."

Müller smiled broadly. "Ah- a loyal friend then. But of course, to trust with the most important of tasks. I am glad we understand one another, Sherlock Holmes," he said the name as though testing it out for the first time, rolling it around in his mouth and his head for a moment. "Sherlock," he repeated. "You know me well enough to know I am uncompromising in this."

"Yes, Karl."

"Then let us sit."

John stepped in front of his friend and held up a hand. "Sherlock…"

"Go upstairs, John-"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Go upstairs," he repeated firmly. "Second door on the right. You'll understand everything. Go on," he gestured. "I'll still be here whenever you're done. Take as much time as you need."

And with an ever-growing sense of dread and trepidation, John walked stiffly towards the stairs. It was against his better judgment to leave the two men alone downstairs, but the burning curiosity was too much.

Müller led Sherlock to the sofa as they watched him disappear from sight. "Blindly devoted to follow you this far without the truth."

"He does deserve rather more."

"I understand you made quite the scene upon your return from death." Sherlock murmured noncommittally. "You'll require proof of life, of course."

"Naturally."

"We will wait for your friend before making the call. In the meantime," he withdrew a small envelope from his pocket marked with a familiar logo, "our rendezvous this evening." Sherlock opened the envelope and withdrew a ticket; he flinched. "The London Symphony is no comparison to Vienna," Müller sighed wistfully, "but I should like to enjoy the music one last time with a true aficionado. I know it is hard," he laid a land gently on the detective's knee, "we shall only stay for half."

While they made their agreement, John Watson was standing beside a dresser in the second room on the right, reading an impossible letter, and realizing that everything he thought he knew about Sherlock Holmes had gone and flipped upside-down and sideways while he wasn't looking. And as he realized the meaning of the mysterious Bluebell, he was torn between laughter and tears, and eventually settled for a choking sob that was a combination of both.

X-X

It wasn't the tip that came barely two hours after the incident at Heathrow that surprised Mycroft Holmes, but rather that the tip yielded seemingly fantastic results. It spoke a bit too much to his superior faith in his brother's investigative abilities above the intelligence services, that he expected one lone detective and his faithful sidekick to locate a terrorist before a team with all the substantial resources of the British government at its disposal.

Yet the tip about the suspicious van in the vicinity of Piccadilly Circus certainly had not come from Sherlock, and turned up quite a substantial quantity of explosive that matched the signature of that used in the terminal along with several thousands in pounds, dollars, and euros. Two suspects were on their way to be interrogated but by and large, it looked as though the entire process had gone quickly and smoothly for a surprising change.

So what was his brother up to? With a sigh, he withdrew his mobile, contemplated texting Sherlock, thought better, and sent the message to John Watson instead. The doctor had already proven himself willing to goad Sherlock into responding, even if those responses were infuriatingly unsatisfactory.

Suspects apprehended- so who is Sherlock after? –Mycroft Holmes

It had been a tense, exhausting couple of hours, his attention divided between trying to locate his wayward brother and following the official efforts among intelligence to identify and locate the bombers. But with his text to John, he allowed himself to feel marginally optimistic that he might bring Sherlock in tonight, discover the substance of his antics, and begin delving into his brother's past endeavors.

He was so close to writing off the entire scene with Bluebell and Sherlock's interest in the one dead woman as a bizarre red herring of sorts- when his aide tapped on his door, a mildly apologetic expression on his face. "Thomas," Mycroft acknowledged warily.

"Sir, you wanted anything unusual about Aditi Prakesh?" His slender brows shot up towards his hairline. "Well, we've got it- there's a passenger unaccounted for from the Los Angeles flight, can't be located among the dead or the survivors- booked on the same itinerary as Prakesh."

X-X

A/N: Thanks for reading!