Hello! me again. It's been so long i don't even want to look at the last time I published. like i said last chapter, i'm finding it very difficult to write more. luckily, i have at least twenty chapters worth of content ready, so that's something at least - it gives me time to keep going.

please enjoy!

John Watson couldn't fucking believe it. Sherlock Holmes was back.

He looked over at the woman he wanted to marry. She was smiling slightly to herself. She liked him, she had said.

His mind turned to the girl he hadn't thought about in more than a year. He wondered if she was still alive.

He figured that he'd find out in due time.

Florence was slightly scared. She had been taken into Mycroft's office, the one with the nice ceiling that she always noticed, whenever she had been in there before. It gave off a nice light.

Arthur had gone, she didn't know where. Mycroft had left her for a few minutes, but she didn't know why.

She heard the door click as it opened, then click again as it shut. She shuddered in anticipation. This was not Mycroft – he would have knocked, even if it was his own office.

She heard a familiarly slow intake of breath as the figure behind her got ready to speak. It made her heart beat faster than it had ever beaten before, and she froze. She was frightened.

'I like your hair,' Sherlock Holmes began, and Florence felt hot, angry tears spring to her eyes.

'I know,' she began, her voice quivering. 'I know I shouldn't be angry. I know that'd be unfair.' she slowly stood up, pushing the comfortable chair behind her, and turning around slowly. She closed her eyes as she saw him, taking in his appearance. He looked no different, except his eyes were older. He had seen things no one could ever forget.

'And why is that?' Sherlock asked, seemingly oblivious.

'Because...' she used her shaking hand to wipe the tears from her eyes. 'because I did this to you. But for much, much longer. And you were angry, and I understood that. I left you for eight years. But now, because you only left me...' she said, her voice breaking and her face crumpling. 'for two...'

'Shh.' Sherlock attempted to sound soothing, but by the way his voice was shaking it sounded more abrupt. He closed his eyes in frustration.

'… I just...'

'It's okay.'

'It's not.'

'You're taking this so well.' he said as she sniffed. He hadn't seen her in so long, he didn't mind that she was crying. He was just thrilled to see her alive.

'I couldn't...' her breathing was hesitant. 'I didn't want to...' she brought her hand up to her forehead and held it like she had a temperature. 'I couldn't live without you...'

'Shh. It's okay. I'm here now.'

'But where were you?' she cried, bringing her hands down so hard they made a slap sound against her legs.

'That doesn't matter.' Sherlock said, his voice heavy, and deep. The truth was, it did matter, and it mattered so much – but she couldn't know that. She couldn't know what he had been doing.

'You... you were dead... I saw pictures... there was blood...' she was hyperventilating now, and Sherlock extended a gloved hand to her. She let him come, accepting his embrace. Under his arms, he felt her shaking like a leaf. He stroked her hair, an action that somehow came naturally. This felt right again, normal. 'I'm not.' she continued.

'You're not what?' Sherlock said, holding her away slightly and looking at her.

'I'm not taking this very well at all.' she said, and it was obvious she was trying to fight a smile. He let out a small chuckle, one that was almost completely silent save the small expulsion of air from his nose.

To Sherlock, this all felt very strange. It didn't feel real, not just yet. His back ached, every inch of his skin screamed in pain, which was the harrowing thing - he needed to remember where he was, and who was standing before him. His eyes moved down to the top of her head.

It was her. It was actually her. She stood in front of him, her green eyes looking up at his own, glistening with the threat of tears. She smelled the same. Her cheeks were thinner than he remembered, but when she wasn't there, he always pictured her as to how she was when she disappeared, the eighteen-year-old girl with adventurous eyes and a healthier glow.

'But that's okay.' he muttered.

'Are you going to stay?' she asked, her voice childlike, and cracking with emotion.

And this, this one sentence, this doubt, was enough to break Sherlock's heart.

He felt the tears in his eyes before he could stop them. He hadn't cried at all since he left, since that day in the graveyard, when he listened to John's plea – but now he felt he had to.

'Yes.'

'I trust England is treating you well.' Mycroft said, a cup of tea in hand. He was sat opposite Florence and Sherlock, who also had drinks, notably untouched.

'Wonderful, thanks. There are no torture chambers here.' Sherlock replied sarcastically.

'I was asking Florence, since she, also, just emigrated, but that's wonderful to know.' Mycroft sneered.

Florence rolled her eyes. 'Must I remind you,' she began, 'that this is meant to be at least partially a serious, if not joyous occasion?'

'I don't see how.' Sherlock said. 'I'm back. So what?'

'You're not seeing the bigger picture,' Florence replied. She turned back to Mycroft. 'I know I wasn't called back here for Sherlock alone. You wouldn't do that, you wouldn't think I cared enough to leave my life in France-'

'You're wrong in that sense,' Mycroft cut off. 'I did think you cared, otherwise I wouldn't have bothered. But you're right in the sense that that isn't it. Sherlock, would you like to explain?'

Sherlock breathed in as if he was going to begin talking, then he paused. 'Nah. You can do it.'

Mycroft sighed in frustration, thoughts like righteous ass, and dick running through his mind. 'Right. There is a terrorist th-' he paused, frowning. 'have we forgotten someone?'

'I don't think John is particularly interested in seeing any of us, Mycroft.' Sherlock replied, and Florence could hear the pain in his voice, even if it was subtle.

'Ah, right. Yes. Doctor Watson. I presume last night didn't go brilliantly, then.'

Sherlock scoffed. 'I caught him at a bad time.'

'I tried to warn you,' Mycroft said quietly, his voice lowered.

'It had to be done. He had to know I was back. What if he found out through the papers, or the fucking hashtag that's trending on Twitter?'

'You're trending?' Florence exclaimed, grinning.

'Yes. It isn't nice. But what if John found out that way? That would have been worse than last night.'

'Yes. At least you didn't crash my proposal,' Florence muttered sarcastically. Sherlock looked at her, like one would look at someone if they just found out that someone was going to die. It was his apologetic expression, and Florence had come to know it well.

Mycroft cleared his throat. 'Anyway,' he continued, giving them both a pointed look. 'Back to the nationally important matter at hand. There is a terrorist threat, a fairly serious one. That's why I called you both back. Sherlock, because... well, he's Sherlock – and Florence, because I knew he would have demanded your presence regardless.'

Florence frowned. 'What about Arthur?'

'He... could be useful.' Mycroft said. He cleared his throat again. 'Right. Now you know. Please, if you don't mind – I have a phone call to make.'

'So.' Sherlock began as they walked out of the building. 'What now?'

Florence ignored him. They trotted down the stone steps and onto the street, where Sherlock noticed her fists were clenched. He let out a deep sigh, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

'Oh. Okay. You're angry.'

'Two years.' she growled, delving through the crowds of people. Sherlock made sure to follow quickly, to hear everything she was saying.

'I know.'

'No. You don't.'

'Yes,' Sherlock took her by the arm and pulled her to the side so as not to be taken up in the current of people. 'I do.'

'You died. You were dead. Everyone thought you had made it all up. Mycroft made me undo that whole mess, Sherlock. He made me relive that fucking day over and over again. Then he shipped me out of the country, and had me read old case files with your name scrawled all over them. Now, I have no home, I don't know where Arthur is and I can't contact him because his phone was taken from him, and I'm probably going to see John Watson, even though I'm pretty sure he hates me.'

'I didn't expect you to understand.' Sherlock spat. 'I knew you'd all see it one-sided.'

'Did you give me a chance to see it a different way? No! Because you still won't tell me why you left.'

'Maybe, Florence Valentina Wood, I can't.' Oh dear, Florence thought. He used my full name.

'You've said that before,' she pleaded. 'So many times. It's wearing thin, William.'

Sherlock straightened to his full height. He knew things were getting heated, and he really didn't want his first impression of her to be negative. He tried to think of a way to diffuse her slightly.

'Flo.' he began. He figured she probably hadn't heard anyone call her that in the whole time he was gone. Her eyes closed. 'I can't tell you yet. I really can't. Please, please don't ask why. But we can call it even now, can't we? You went away for eight years, but you were alive. I died for two years.' ...and it really felt like I was dead... 'and now I'm back, and we're both alive.' ...barely.

'Thing is,' she said, and he watched as she tucked a perfect ringlet behind her ear. 'I'm so angry. But at the same time, I'm looking at you, and I've never been happier.' she sighed. 'these are the most violent mood swings I've ever endured.'

Sherlock grinned. 'Maybe I should go back to Serbia.'

Her eyes suddenly became wide with worry, just for a second. If that one joke scared her, he had to be more careful. He had forgotten how fragile she was.

She ran a hand through her hair. 'I don't know what to do now.'

'Has Mrs. Hudson rented out Baker Street? I visited her yesterday, but judging by what state she was in, I didn't see it polite to ask.'

Florence gave him a look. 'What do you think?'

Sherlock breathed in the musty scent of his home. It filled him with an unfamiliar joy, to be back somewhere so knowing. His muscles knew exactly where to put his coat, and his scarf, and how to drop into the black armchair, which, in turn, blew dust into his face.

He then noticed how everything had an inch-thick layer of dead skin cells lining it.

Florence giggled as she noticed his disgust. 'It's nothing major,' she tried to comfort him. 'I'll clean.'

Sherlock would have protested, but his back hurt, and as he got out of the chair, he felt a cut re-open. He quietly excused himself before the blood-soaked onto his shirt.

Florence stared after him, slightly concerned. He seemed off, and his eyes were sad. He still wouldn't tell her, though.

She set to work, a duster in one hand and polish in the other, until it didn't feel like things were living in your throat every time you breathed in, and when moving didn't set off another plume of dust into the atmosphere. She felt it was a lot more comfortable in here than when she revisited it the year before, and she even caught herself humming.

Sherlock watched her from the doorway, smiling slightly as she moved around the room. He had missed her. He had missed her more than before, when she had been gone for longer. He thought it was because he knew she was alive, and he knew she was missing him, and she was breaking. That's why he gave Mycroft all the distraction ideas, and even told him where to send her.

She had always wanted to go to France, and she could speak the language, so it made sense. And Mycroft could always keep an eye on her if she worked for him.

It wasn't easy, his lifestyle, but he always felt a little more at rest knowing she was okay - and John, too. He had met his girlfriend last night. She had seemed lovely. So normal. He knew he had not seen the last of her.

His mind turned to what Florence had said earlier, about John hating her. He wondered what had happened – and why they weren't speaking. It worried him, to think that they weren't friends anymore.

'Are you okay?' Florence's voice pulled him out of his trance. He was leaning heavily on the doorframe, and his head was fuzzy. The girl before him wore an expression of concern, and her arms caught him as he collapsed.

'Hello? Hello, can you hear me?'

Sherlock felt the rough pavement under his cheek, pressed against his shoulders, his waist, his legs. He was uncomfortable. Why was he on the floor?

'Alright, mate – do you want me to call an ambulance?'

He opened his eyes and looked at the man addressing him. There was a small crowd gathered around him, and he suddenly felt scrutinized.

'You don't look well. Rough night?'

It was cold, all of a sudden. He felt very cold. And hungry. Why was he so hungry? He didn't need food. Food didn't keep him alive.

'Do you want me to call someone?'

'No.' he replied curtly. 'I'm fine. Thanks.'

The man seemed slightly taken aback by his ferocity.

'You don't look fine, mate. I don't want to leave you in this state. Stand up, see how your balance is. I'll decide then.'

Sherlock scowled. Why was this man acting like he owned him?

He did as he was told, and stood slowly. He swayed slightly, but managed to keep his balance, and gave the man a hard stare of triumph.

He had lived to see another day.

Sherlock woke quickly and immediately wondered where he was. He looked around and found that he was in his own bed, in his own flat, in London – his own city. He breathed a sigh of relief.

He heard voices from the living room, and stood slowly, making sure not to overdo it – he ached with every step.

'All I'm saying is, I think we need to be a bit nicer-' Florence was saying. She was cut off by John's voice, which was harsher. Sherlock listened from behind a closed door.

'Be a bit nicer why? Last I heard, that man abandoned us.'

'He has his reasons, John-'

'He was dismantling-' Sherlock immediately opened the door as those words began to escape John's lips.

He was welcomed by three faces. Florence, John, and Mary – John's girlfriend. Or fiancée. Sherlock wasn't quite sure yet.

'What's the time?' He asked. Florence blinked in confusion, then looked at her phone.

'Quinze heures et demi.' she said, and John and Mary stared at her. She squeezed her eyes shut in frustration.

'Ah,' Sherlock replied, 'good afternoon.'

'What was that?' John asked.

'French, she's been living there for the past year and a half.' Mary replied. John looked at her, and she smiled. 'We had a little chat whilst you were in the loo.'

'I think in French. I have done since I started learning it, about ten years ago. It's so much easier, and helped me learn. Now it's a habit.' Florence replied. 'Then I spoke it all day, every day, and it is a bit difficult to revert so suddenly. For me at least. I know actual bilingual people don't struggle, but, you know me...'

'You're doing quite well.' Sherlock grinned, and she offered him a wilted smile back. Her expression was slightly cautious. He deduced she had seen something – maybe the cuts on his back – when he collapsed.

'Thank you.'

He turned back to John and looked at him warily. 'You're not going to hit me again, are you?'

'Watch it.' the doctor replied, his voice deep and dangerous. Florence scoffed, and John looked at her pointedly. Sherlock deduced further that they had not ended on good terms.

He also saw that Mary was very much on Florence's side. He made a note.

'Just making sure, before I come and sit next to you.'

'You will get it in a minute.'

'Fine, fine.'

'I was just remarking on how quickly The Squirrel on John's face was gone after you left, Sherlock.' Florence said in a snarky manner, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs. Mary laughed, and John looked at her, eyebrow raised.

'Oh, yes – I do have that effect on people.' Sherlock grinned.

'What, you make people want to take a razor blade to the face?' Florence said, which made John breathe out in an amused manner.

'Yes-' Sherlock began, then realised what she had said. 'Oh. Yes. Hilarious.'

'Why are we here?' John asked.

'I don't know,' Sherlock replied. They turned to Florence.

'How would I know? You just turned up.'

'I presumed there was something to talk about. You mentioned a terrorist threat.' John said, putting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward.

'And I presumed you weren't interested.' Sherlock snapped. 'You certainly gave that impression.'

'Oh, come on, Sherlock. How did you expect me to react?'

'I would have thought knocking me out was a bit far.'

'I didn't knock you out.'

'You nearly did.'

Florence and Mary exchanged an exasperated look. Florence rolled her eyes at her, and stood up. 'Shut,' she began, 'the fuck up.' The two men stopped bickering and turned to look at her. 'Honestly. You've aged two years, you're not two years old. I don't think.'

She was still standing, and had her arms crossed. For the youngest in the room by at least three years, she quite clearly had everyone in it wrapped around her little finger. She pointed first at Sherlock, then to John. 'You two need to sort this out, and stop acting like children. You can't be that proud – I mean… look at John. He manages to show his face here. Where's your sense of pride, hm?" she said, a deadly glare aimed in John's direction.

She walked swiftly out of the room, and Mary made a face as she followed. 'That,' she said, catching up with her in the hallway after closing the door on the living room, 'was incredible.'

Florence laughed.

'I mean it! John's so stubborn. And you just absolutely dominated him.' She did not seem to mind that Florence had insulted her fiancé, and in all honesty, Florence didn't care either.

'I was getting a headache.' She mutters, almost exasperated.

'I'll say.' she smiled. 'Now. I have a feeling they're going to be a very long time. Do you want to get a drink?'

Sherlock stared at the wall behind John's head. John stared at the floor. They could both hear Florence's breathy laugh from the hallway, and the soft murmur of their voices. They then heard footsteps down the stairs, and the door open and close.

Eventually, John breathed in. 'Cuppa?' he asked, standing up.

Sherlock made a noise in approval, and John nodded. 'You take milk, don't you?'

'No.'

'Sugar?'

'Yes. Two.'

'Ah. Yes. I remember now. Haven't made you a cup of coffee in a long time.'

'Yes. Alright. I get it.' Sherlock sighed. 'You don't keep having to bring it up.'

'Oh, sorry, yeah – I forgot. It's too difficult for you, isn't it?'

'John-'

'Too bloody difficult for you to handle.'

'You nearly told her.'

'What?'

'You nearly told Flo where I was. You can't.'

'Why?'

Sherlock breathed out quickly, frustrated. 'Because I didn't get them all.'

'What in God's name are you talking about?'

'Moriarty's network. I was dismantling it. Or, trying to. I got all but two of the men working for him. I don't know their names, or where they are. They could be anywhere, and she's still their target. Their only target.'

'Oh.' John said quietly. 'God.'

'Yes.

'Uh,' John began, pouring the boiling water into the cups. 'Florence and I, we had a bit of a row-'

'I gathered-'

'and I said some pretty shit things to her, about her.'

Sherlock frowned. 'Oh?'

'Yeah. It was about two years ago. Just after the funeral, in fact. I, uh... said it was her fault, and all that. Something about how you were only putting the whole genius thing on to find her when she was gone, but it stuck afterwards – that she was the cause of it all.'

'You what?' Sherlock asked, incredulous. He stood, and turned to face him.

'I was out of my mind. I was proper angry with you, and her, and everyone, really. We got talking, she was upset, and then I became upset, but it was more rage than sadness, and I snapped.'

'Jesus.'

'I've apologised. Twice. But I think that put her in a really shit place, and for ages I was worried she'd do something drastic.'

'You're very lucky she didn't.' John laughed slightly. 'Is something amusing you?' Sherlock snapped.

'No. Not really. It's just, you're back. It's you. And I don't know whether to hug you, or hit you.'

'In all honesty, I'd take a punch over a hug, any day.'

'If you're not careful, that's what you'll get.'

'I'm still very angry.' He replied, and John nodded.

'Likewise. Glad we've settled it.' He paused, frowning, then wrinkling his nose. 'how long has this coffee been here?"

until next time - which I think is going to be a lot sooner than the last "next time"...

THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR STICKING WITH ME. i know these are trying times and I desperately hope the product of my imagination is helping you get through it, even if it is just a tiny, tiny bit.

Please do not hesitate to leave a comment, they make me so happy :))