I've Done My Sentence, But Committed No Crime

...

He'd been twenty-five, still young, an idiot, and with a higher opinion of his abilities than, perhaps, he should have displayed so openly.

It had been a murder, so absurdly simple. He'd not known the man, but vaguely remembered brushing past him two or three days ago. Nothing more, nothing less.

It should never have gone so wrong.

The forensics team had been idiots, and had forgotten to pick up a key piece of evidence, and several of the detectives on scene didn't like him - that, at least, was a constant, always had been, nothing new, but it hadn't helped.

Too easy, he heard. No one can be this good.

Lestrade had been taken off the case. 'Conflict of interests', they'd said, and the detective had apologised, said that all he could do was to act as a character witness. Sherlock had scoffed, finding the notion that it would even be necessary frankly absurd.

Mycroft, importantly enough, had been out of the country, supposedly acting in a small role but in fact acting as the British government at peace talks with some foreign nation, and could not put the meetings on hold for even one day - he had arranged for Sherlock to have a good lawyer, but for some reason, it hadn't been enough.

Only now, years later - years, Mycroft, years. What took you so long - was he out, and in his own clothes, and free. He felt older, and not just in age, more cynical if that was possible, and worn.

But never had he been more thrilled to be back in London, back on the street, finally able to do what he had been doing before the interruption... put his mind back to work as a detective, even if the police would probably not allow him to officially be in on their cases any more for at least a while.

Mrs. Hudson had, within the past few months, lost her last tenants to better paid jobs and housing all of their own, and she had invited him to take 221b the moment she had heard that he was out of jail. It had, she'd said, been the least she could do.

So he'd moved in, with nothing at first, but gradually building up worldly possessions bit by agonising bit.

Some things had been simple, like the carpet and the cushions and the mirror. Others had been harder, like the moose and the chairs. That wasn't even going into the trouble he'd had trying to get a knife that he could use to keep his correspondence in check, or the lab equipment. For some reason, there were things that people generally didn't like giving or selling to ex-convicts, even if they had been found innocent, thank you very much.

It was for the same reason that business was getting off onto a rocky start. Cases came in dribs and drabbles, usually boring ones, which he took only because, damn it, but he needed the money, and it was just like starting anew. No one knew him any more, and he needed to rebuild his torn reputation.

That, however, still wasn't enough. He was, he was embarrassed to admit, finding it difficult keeping up with the rent. He even did admit it to someone - Mike Stamford, someone he knew through St. Bart's, one of the few places that would still let him through their doors. Which was good and useful, even if he would have found a way in somehow even if they hadn't.

"Well," Mike had said, a thoughtful look on his face. "You could always try a flatshare?"

Sherlock snorted.

"Seriously?" He rolled his eyes. "Who'd want me as a flatmate?"

Mike had laughed, but left the matter alone.

Later that day, he met John Watson.

Slowly, very, very slowly, the police started to trust him again. After all, he had been found innocent, and they knew that without him they'd be lost. They'd already experienced that once, and they had already started to come back to him like a pleading dog with its tail between its legs, begging for scraps. And he was only too pleased to comply, so long as it gave him interesting cases.

And then-

Moriarty.

He'd heard whispers, while in prison, whispers without a name, without a face, without anything but the notion - if you had a problem you wanted... solved... you went to that one man. He'd sort it all out. Fix it for you.

Finally he'd had a name a few weeks ago, but then- then things got personal, and that was when it became fun. It was a game, it was all one great game between the two of them, and it was all about winning, and this time, he knew the rules far better than he could have before, and was willing to risk anything-

Almost anything.

Lestrade would probably give him an earful for even touching a gun, and Mycroft for the plans, but he hadn't found it within himself to care less about either thing at that moment. He had the spider.

Or... maybe he didn't. But now he had a name and a face. That was more than he'd had before. And both he and John were still alive.

There had been, later on, when Mycroft and his... distinguished guest... had come into his flat uninvited, a momentary sense of brotherly solidarity that he doubted would reappear soon. His supposed client had suggested that he might not be completely trustworthy. Mycroft, risking quite possibly more than his job, had come back with a single sentence.

"He may be my brother, but I believe that it is this exact fact that allows me to say that he is, while entirely infuriating at times, perfectly capable of looking into the matter at hand with the utmost of confidentiality."

Their eyes met, with a certain understanding. For Mycroft's part, the look said at the same time I am trusting you with this and You had better not mess this up.

The smallest of mistakes in his chosen career could, as he had already experienced, cause the most sticky situations. As later events would happily remind him.

And now... there he was again.

"I thought it'd be poetic," stated the simple, rolling voice sitting on the edge of the roof. "Go back to the beginning, you might say."

"I can certainly see why you might think that."

Sherlock started to walk further on.

"It was easy enough to do, you know - almost too easy. Boring. Almost like everyone expected you to do it again, you know!"

Sherlock twitched in distaste. It had certainly been hard enough regaining everything he had lost the first time - this time... it would be hell.

But if that was hell, he'd take Moriarty with him, for better or for worse.

He wasn't an angel. Angels didn't play dirty, and Sherlock had learned from the best.

...

AN: I don't know where the inspiration for this came from, but it struck me this morning and would not leave me alone.

I'm glad it didn't, though, but the first bit with his 'arrest' was hard to write...

I might do more... at some point.