Molly is eating her dinner while the bell rings. One time. Two Times. Three Times.

- I get it, I GET IT!

She opens the door to find a guy panting and leaning with both hands at the sides of the doorframe, his gaze fixed on the pavement: he wears an old baseball cap, a hoodie and a worn out pair of jeans.
Molly notices the scratched and bleeding knuckles: her eyes widen, feeling her heartbeat pulsing in her throat, and she slowly reaches for the mobile still in her pocket.

- Don't. It's me. Let me in. Now!
- Sherlock?
- No, the fairy godmother.

Molly doesn't have time to reply that Sherlock is already in, flopping down on the couch and waiting for the young pathologist to ask stupid questions.

- So…welcome back. Do you want tea?
- There you go.
- I'm sorry, what?
- Nothing. No, I don't want tea; I just need a place to hide for a couple of days.
- Well, you got it.

Sherlock looks around him, frowning and sniffing the air, while Molly is trying to finish her dinner, willingly avoiding him.

- You have a dog.
- I have a what?
- A dog. There's a chewed rubber ball under the coffee table and…this smell. Also, I can see a tail behind that armchair, but it's not moving, so maybe you don't have a dog, you just killed one and-…
- Sherlock!

He looks at her, raising his eyebrows and waiting for an explanation.

- His name is Proust.
- Proust? The novelist or the chemist? Never mind, who names a dog "Proust"?
- Beats me, it's not mine.

Sherlock stands up and walks around the living room, touching random objects and brushing the dust off the bookshelf; Molly follows him with her eyes while sipping her tea.
He holds his hands behind his back and looks straight in front of him.

- À la recherche du temps perdu. Right, Proust?

The little dog's tail begins to thump against the ground and Sherlock smiles.

- It's John', isn't it?
- How do you-…
- Why is it here?
- Oh, they're out of town for a couple of days so…
- They?
- John and…Mary?
- Oh, right. That…thing.
- You mean the "thing" that John is now engaged to?

Sherlock crosses his arms and looks down at his feet: he's okay with John moving on and having a life, he's just wondering how a cute, petite blonde girl would interfere with their work.

Our work?

- Yes. That thing.
- Are you okay?
- Yes, I'm fine, I'm not a kid who just lost his toy.
- Are you going to tell him?
- I think it'll be quite obvious when he'll see me.
- So are you going to see him?
- Molly, please, do keep up. I have a 16-hour journey on my back, I think I just punched a man to death for no apparent reason apart from the fact that he attacked me on my way here; I just spent the last seven months running after a criminal network bigger than the entire royal family and now I have to face the angry King who seeks revenge and wants my head on a silver plate. At the moment, I'd like to spare myself the burden of other people's clueless lives.

Molly is used to this, the verbal abuse that Sherlock displays when he feels the need to protect himself from unwanted discussions, avoiding topics he doesn't even know how to handle. It's a different kind from the one that Sherlock usually shows off while successfully trying to make you feel stupid, but it's annoying nonetheless.

- Yeah, of course, how silly of me to ask questions after almost eight months of silence, without being able to tell anybody about you, what you did or what I did, for you. I don't expect you to thank me, I never did and never will, I don't want you to apologize either, just…

She waves her hands between the two of them, nose wrinkled and brows furrowed, trying to find the right words with an angry look on her face.

- just…God, you're so frustrating at times. I'm going to bed. Don't traumatize the dog.

While she marches up the stairs Sherlock hears her muttering to herself: "John is a saint".

He couldn't agree more; of course, giving John the satisfaction of knowing that isn't an option.
He lies on the couch and takes his phone out of his pocket.

- Mycroft?

The next day, around midnight, Sherlock enters Mycroft's office for the first time in eight months.
He stops at the doorstep with his hands in his pockets, waiting for his brother to talk.

- So. Back from your little getaway. London missed you.
- How's John?
- "Thank you, it's good to see you too Mycroft, you lost weight".
- That's some good example of science fiction, yada yada yada.

Mycroft stands up and walks around his desk to stand in front of his brother in the middle of the room, his eyes trying to adjust to the transformation Sherlock went through.

- Your hair is…red. And that awful beard.
- You've always been so sharp and intuitive. I see your hairline is receding more and more every day.
- Did you stick to your plan?
- Yes. Actually no. I got rid of the bishops and the knights.
- You came back for the King.
- Exactly.
- How very…poetic of you.

Sherlock is now leaning with his forehead against the window: under the unforgiving glare of the street lights he looks even thinner, more exhausted than ever, and Mycroft has to fight the uncontrollable urge to check his arms.

- So how's John?
- Engaged.
- That's trivia I'm not interested in.
- Of course you're not.

The younger man can sense the spiteful sarcasm but he doesn't have time for bickering.

why do people always assume I'm a love-struck teenager when it comes to John? If he's happy, I'm…okay with it. Sure, I don't know how that can be happiness, living a boring life as a doctor with a plain wife and some kid drooling all over you, John of all people should find this excruciatingly tedious but-….

- So how will you end this chess match?

Sherlock comes out of his thoughts, almost startled by his brother's voice.

- I have to wait for his next move.
- And you know what it will be?
- Of course I do. By the way, I may have killed one or two people around the globe, would you be so kind to take care of that if my name comes up? Don't worry, they were really bad people.
- That's what brothers are for.
- I also need my flat back.
- Baker Street?
- No, the rooms I have at Clarence House. Of course Baker Street!
- That shouldn't be a problem. Are you sure it's the right move? What about the housekeeper?
- Landlady. She's visiting her sister; she won't be home until next week.

As if he's reading his thoughts, Mycroft finally brings up the elephant in the room.

- John moved in with Mary Morstan, a couple of months ago.
- Should I care?
- I know you do.

The older Holmes shuffles with some papers on his desk, searching for the right address.

- A nice house in Walham Grove. She comes from a wealthy family, but she still works as a librarian.
- Classic.
- I had the same thought.
- Right. I'd better be off. I want to sleep in my own bed tonight.
- Took you months of chasing after criminals to finally admit you need rest.

But Sherlock is already out of there.