It wasn't especially long before Lestrade arrived. He was the first Detective Inspector on the scene, though the ambulance and fire department had arrived almost forty minutes before he had. Crowds had gathered only to have their views of the incident blocked by white sheets, as police officers cordoned off the scene.

Everything happened in a sort of haze. Blue lights flashed. Hoarse officers barked commands. The murmur of the crowd occasionally rising above the noise of the city.

Sherlock hadn't been able to sit on the curb for long. He had paced back and forth for the majority of our wait. He muttered details under his breath, trying to recall events from so many years ago. Randomly he would stop, taking a moment to stare at the grisly scene in that fateful intersection, only to shake his head in disbelief – a miscalculation even he couldn't have imagined making.

Lestrade briefly surveyed the situation before making his way over. He pulled us aside from the commotion asking we explain exactly what had happened, though I had provided him with a majority of details via text, undoubtedly as a means of distracting myself from the gore before me. I had seen worse in my time of service to the queen, but no matter one's familiarity with death is it never comforting to be around.

Lestrade scribbled a few details on his pad before insisting that we return to 221b. He would meet us there shortly in order to retrieve the items from Langdale's satchel as evidence in Mary's case. Sherlock tried to insist on our staying, though Lestrade had two officers escort us to a waiting cab.

The ride back to the flat was somber. We sat next to each other, though neither of us dared speak. Sherlock starred blankly out the window, more composed now than I had seen him in some time. His fingers rapped a subtle beat on his knee. He sighed when we pulled in front of the flat, exiting the cab hurriedly, briskly making his way inside and up the stairs.

I followed behind, greeting Ms. Hudson with a small kiss on the cheek as I passed through the entryway. Mycroft was waiting upstairs, seated in Sherlock's large armchair. He peered up over his reading glasses from one of Sherlock's books he had taken to reading. His lips pursed together in a small note of agitation.

Sherlock didn't say a thing as he tossed his jacket carelessly to the couch, playing down his frustration at his brother's presence. He shoved his hands in his pockets, pursing his lips. His eyes were cold and piercing. He raised his eyebrows questioning why Mycroft was there.

"Seems like you've had quite the morning already Sherlock," his voice was drawn and stern. Sherlock shrugged, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being right. Mycroft waited a moment, observing Sherlock's every move, hoping it might provide him some insight into his brother's mind.

"Unfortunately it seems as though he ultimately he got away… Nevertheless it's over…" He stopped short, rising from his chair. "Regardless of however you're feeling at the moment, Mary got the justice she deserved, as did the miscreant who cut her precious life short that day." He gathered his coat and umbrella, grabbing a bowler from the table.

He sauntered slowly toward the door patting his brother on the shoulder as he passed. With a final turn he finished, "John, keep an eye on this one. He's wild. There've only ever been two people who could keep him even remotely in check, and I can't afford to lose another.

"As for you Sherlock… Its comforting to have my brother back." He tipped his hat and made his way quickly down the stairs and onto the street.

I turned back toward Sherlock, "He doesn't think we're…" I trailed off gesturing with my hands back and forth. Sherlock jerked his eyes down toward me quickly shaking his head.

"Because we're not…"

Sighing he held his hand up stopping me midsentence.

"Good," I whispered in relief under my breath.

Sherlock turned back toward the empty room. He stood for a moment just looking, unsure of what he should do next.

I stood watching over him, the letter weighing heavy in my jacket pocket. I wanted nothing more than to blurt it out to him, but restrained myself.

"Perhaps you'd like to take a seat?" I started nervously only to be interrupted.

"John I appreciate that you're a physician, but honestly I'm fine," he said making his way toward the hearth.

"I'm steady," he continued holding out his hand, "sure footed and therefore not dizzy. I don't have cramps. I'm neither flushing or blanched." He peered into the mirror.

"My pupils aren't dilated," he pulled his eyelid back to more closely examine his eyes.

"All in all, I feel wonderful," he turned back toward me with a sly smile.

"Honestly Sherlock, please I think it would be best if you take a seat, just for a moment…"

He interrupted me yet again, "John, I'm thankful for your concern, but you're my colleague and friend, not my doctor."

"I have something I think you'd be interested in. From Mary," I blurted out. With the words his face flushed, and his expression changed. Unconsciously he reached for his armchair, pulling himself down.

I pulled the letter from my pocket, tapping the envelope against the palm of my hand as I made my way over. There was so much I wanted to tell him, yet my mind fumbled over the words. My thoughts jumbled and incoherent.

"Mycroft gave this to me. We didn't want to distract you until everything was over," I heard myself say reaching out and handing him the yellowed and dried paper.

He quickly snatched the parcel from my hand. His eyes filled with rage and intensity at our having withheld such a letter. He hastily pulled the note from the sleeve, his eyes darting across the sheet, wildly reading each line.

I stood silently watching, trying to observe and sense his being. Without notice he sprung from his chair.

"Tea?" he questioned, pushing past me heading for his coat.

Surprised and dumbfounded at his reaction I stood for moment in what I could only describe as shock. He snapped in my direction as he made his way out the door and down the stairs. Quickly I rushed to follow.

I trailed the man for a few blocks, half running and half walking in an attempt to keep up with him. Finally he stopped at a small café, taking a seat on the fairly empty terrace. With his foot he slid my chair back from the table, smiling in my direction.

As we sat sipping our tea he took in the surroundings occasionally smiling. Though it was early winter, the weather was unusually bearable.

"This was her favorite tea house," he mused.

"Tell me about her," I said.

A bee landed on the table a few inches from Sherlock's teacup. He looked down at it glowing, his eyes softening, and the hint of a smile on his lips. He reached out taking the bee onto his hands, admiring it as it crawled across his fingers. With his other hand he pulled the letter from his pocket, unfolded it, and laid it on the table ensuring it would blow away.

I glanced down at the letter, it image still burned in my head. Its words, her small sketch in the corner.

"She hated bees," he said the insect taking flight and disappearing. A small tear fell down his cheek.