Shame and hate and fever and dazed, torturous nightmares. That was the first week. Seven days, bedridden, delusional, ill until my stomach practically tore itself inside out. I hated everyone and everything. The hum of the air conditioner infuriated me, for no reason other than it never felt as though it was doing its job. John made me angry for hitting me back at Sherlock's funeral. Sherlock made me mad for jumping in the first place. Moriarty infuriated me for making me choose between being drugged and saving Sherlock. My brothers were immediately hated for never being around. I was just all around angry, but mostly at myself.

I wanted more. The thought of the drug made my heart race but also filled me with shame. I actually went out and found a dealer and bought some, but I couldn't use it. I hid it away and curled up with my cat, staring at where I put it for hours. Halfway through the week though, someone noticed. Bobbie. The annoying friend I didn't want was the only one who saw that something wasn't right. He came for me and, though I was more than sick and irritable at the time, he took care of me. He threw out the drug upon finding it, nursed me back to health and fought to convince me that I needed to return to school. He saved me when even my brothers didn't notice. He pushed me to the edge numerous times, but never once gave up on me. I owed him my life.

For the next two years, I finished my schooling and got my degree in Criminology before getting a PI's license. It was slow going. Missing pets, cheating husbands, lost stuffed toys. The prices were up for negotiation—the most I got was two hundred dollars and the least, a piece of chocolate—so I had a job as waiter on the side to keep myself afloat. Bobbie helped and we dated happily for a year or so, until I got my first big case: tracking down the man who killed him during a convenience store robbery.

I hadn't known what to do. His parents blamed me, thinking it had something to do with my job. I blamed myself, for complaining how I desperately needed a pack of licorice; something I used to keep me from smoking while stressed. And when I got the news, I knew it would take me all of twenty minutes to go track down a dealer and get what I wanted. But I couldn't. I needed to focus. I took the case. A distraction to keep from losing myself. From giving in after a long year of struggling. I owed him that much, after everything he did for me.

I couldn't stay in New York for much longer after that. While catching the man had put me in the good graces of the police there, I only took another half a dozen cases before selling my place, grabbing my cat, and fleeing to England. My brothers saw me off, surprisingly enough, though it wasn't exactly a happy reunion. A simple 'take care of yourself', 'we're sorry', 'goodbye'. I stayed in a motel the first month or so, before regaining my courage and calling up a familiar number. Mrs. Hudson had missed me and the hustle and bustle of what used to be 221B. I told her of my situation and if she had anyplace I could go, but she said three words to me that I won't ever forget.

"Come back home."

And I did. 221B was messier than ever with boxes of Sherlock's things scattered about, but John wasn't returning anytime soon with his new girlfriend and soon-to-be-wife Mary, so I took his room. My cat settled in easily enough; claiming Sherlock's chair as his napping place, and I soon found a decent job and solved some of the crimes on Sherlock's old blog that people were still using on occasion. I cleaned it up a bit too, getting rid of the old messages from when people believed him to be a fake. And then I went straight onto my next task; unpacking his things and putting them back where they belonged, because I missed the memories. I missed him. It was all I could do to keep sane anymore. And after a year and a half, I finally broke down into tears, curled up in the middle of Sherlock's bed.

"…after extensive police investigations, Richard Brook did indeed prove to be the creation of James Moriarty…" The television chimed; it's viewer ignorantly lounging sprawled across a chair.

"…amidst unprecedented scenes, there was uproar in court as Sherlock Holmes was vindicated and cleared of all suspicion…"

A black cat lounged asleep in their master's lap.

"…but sadly, all this comes too late for the detective who became something of a celebrity two years ago…"

Mrs. Hudson walked upstairs and rapped on the door, only to smile softly at the sight.

"Questions are now being asked as to why police let matters get so far."

The landlady shuffled over to Sam, carefully lifting the woman's reading glasses from her sleeping face and setting them aside; the black cat glancing briefly at her with slow-blinking yellow eyes.

"Sherlock Holmes fell to his death from the top of London's Bart's Hospital. Although he left no note, friends say it's unlikely he was able to cope with—"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and clicked the television off, draping a blanket over the woman sleeping in Sherlock's chair.

"You poor dear." She murmured. "I don't know how you can stand living in this dreadful place. But then, I suppose, you and him grew close that year."

John crossed the street to 221B, unlocking the door with his old key and looking at Mrs. Hudson's door. Immediately, he was overcome with the sound of soft violin, remembering his times going up those stairs to see Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson though, walked out and broke him from his reverie. He lifted a hand in greeting and then followed her into her flat where she got him some tea and biscuits; slamming the china down on the table.

"Oh, no. You don't take it, do you?" She asked, pointing to the sugar bowl.

John paused, seeing that she was upset and feeling a bit sheepish. "No."

"You forget a little thing like that."

"Yes."

"You forget lots of little things, it seems." She pressed.

"Uh-huh."

"Not sure about that." Mrs. Hudson commented, gesturing to her lip in a mocking of John's mustache. "Ages you."

"Just trying it out."

"Well, it ages you." She said harshly and he swallowed thickly, bringing a hand to his brow.

"Look—"

"I'm not your mother." She cut him off. "I've no right to expect it."

"No—"

"But just one phone call, John. Just one phone call would have done." She cried and he nodded.

"I know."

"After all we went through. Even Sam called."

"Yes." John bobbed his head, trying to apologize. "I am sorry."

She sat down. "Look. I understand how difficult it was for you after… after…" She couldn't quite say it.

"I just let it slide, Mrs. Hudson. I let it all slide." John explained. "And it just got harder and harder to pick up the phone, somehow… Do you know what I mean?"

Mrs. Hudson reached out and grabbed his arm, letting out a deep breath. They soon decided to go upstairs and John opened the door; stopping just inside as Mrs. Hudson flicked on the lights.

"He never liked me dusting." She commented, opening the curtains.

"No, I know." John nodded, spotting that she had been dusting though.

"So why now? What changed your mind?" She asked him as he wandered towards the kitchen, rather curious as to why Sherlock's things were all still lying about after Mrs. Hudson claimed to have boxed them up before the funeral.

"Well, I've got some news."

"Oh, God. Is it serious?" She asked, fearing the worst.

"What? No. No, I'm not ill. I've, uh… Well, I'm… moving on."

"You're emigrating." She sighed sadly.

"Nope. Uh, no. I've, uh… I've met someone."

Mrs. Hudson grinned, clapping. "Oh, lovely."

"Yeah. We're getting married. Well, I'm going to ask, anyway."

"So soon after Sherlock?" She questioned.

"Well, yes."

"What's his name?" She smiled, curious.

John let out a long breath. "It's a woman."

"A woman?!"

"Yes, of course it's a woman." He complained and she laughed.

"You really have moved on, haven't you?"

"Mrs. Hudson, how many times—Sherlock was not my boyfriend."

"Live and let live. That's my motto."

"Listen to me. I am not gay!"

"Sh!" She shushed him. "I don't think she's up yet and she's grumpy when people wake her."

John frowned. "Wake who?"

Something brushed up his leg then and he stepped back, looking down to see a black cat winding between his legs.

"A cat? Why is there a cat in here, Mrs. Hudson?"

The landlady sighed, not answering him as she moved to the kitchen. "Is your dish empty again, Smith? She never refills it for you, does she?"

"Smith? She? Mrs. Hudson, what's going on?" John asked, only to turn as a yawn echoed from the hall and a disheveled figure walked in, in a dark red dressing gown.

John stared in shock as the figure transformed into Sherlock before his eyes, only for him to blink and they returned to normal.

"You're spoiling him, Mrs. Hudson." Sam complained lightly, moving right past John as though he wasn't there and sitting in Sherlock's chair; legs hanging over the arm as she closed her eyes. "Hi, John."

"S-Sam? But what—" He looked at her and then around the room to the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson filled a small bowl of cat food; laughing nervously as realization dawned on him. "Y-You live here?"

Sam hummed, not opening her eyes.

"But how? Why? What about your brothers?"

"Busy. They sent me off at the airport though. I'd say it was nice but I hadn't see them for nearly three years." She commented. "Mrs. Hudson? Can I get some breakfast, or should I eat out?"

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "Dear, it's hardly time for breakfast, but I'll make you a sandwich."

"Love you." Sam smiled as the landlady rolled her eyes.

"But I'm not your house keeper. Dinner's on you."

"Righto."

John though, was still very much confused. "No, no. Now, hold on." He pointed at Sam. "Why are you living here?"

Sam finally glanced at him. "Because I couldn't stay in New York and Mrs. Hudson offered so long as I would go through Sherlock's things and be halfway decent."

"But your school—"

"Is over and done with. I graduated with a degree in Criminology and have my PI's license." She commented, sitting up and accepting the cup of tea Mrs. Hudson brought her. "I've been doing some of Sherlock's small-time cases, if you're wondering. People still post on his blog."

"His blog?"

"The one where he posted his findings on the differences of tobacco ash." Sam replied, sipping her tea with a small smile. "Some think it's Sherlock back from the dead solving their problems."

"No, no." John snapped, stepping forward. "You can't do this. You can't be here! You can't just replace Sherlock, Sam!"

Sam calmly set her cup down. "I never said I was replacing him."

"Well, you sure are acting like it!" John snapped. "In his chair, wearing his dressing gown, acting like you know it all, taking cases! The hell do you think you're doing?!"

Sam suddenly stood, facing John with a stern glare and standing a few inches taller than him now.

"Coping." She spat heatedly, surprising John with a tone he'd never heard her use before. "I am keeping him alive in the minds of the people in the only way I know how. I'm keeping myself sane and able-minded by taking his left-over cases, and what are you doing, John? You're shoving him to the back of your head like everyone else. So I don't want to hear you talking to me like I'm the one doing something wrong. Now, I suggest you look around and start remembering him, as you intended to do when you came here, or get the hell out of my flat."

"She actually said that?" The blonde smiled. "Ooh, I like her."

"Mary!" John complained.

"What?" She asked innocently. "You must have done something to upset her."

"Me?" He gaped.

"Well, she's had a hard time dealing with what happened just as you have." Mary mused, sipping her drink. "Except you had me and she had no one. She had to find some way to cope and she wouldn't have snapped at you the way she did without a good reason, I think. From what you've told me, she seems fairly level-headed. So, you've upset her in some way."

John cleared his throat, loosening his tie and looking away sheepishly as he winced at the memory of the funeral.

"You killed Sherlock Holmes and I'm never going to forgive you for that."

"John, what did you do?" Mary said seriously then, knowing the signs he was presenting to her.

"Well, see, I told you about her whole… knowing things, right?" He said quietly and she nodded.

"A sort of psychic or something, yeah. You mentioned."

"I was rather upset about what had happened, right? And she had vanished after it all only to show up at his grave. Things were tense and I… wasn't exactly in the best state of mind. So I may have… lost my temper?"

"John Hamish Watson." Mary scolded him sternly, brows furrowed and a frown of disapproval on her face as John winced. "Tell me you did not."

He said nothing.

"Tell me you did not hit her and blame her for what happened."

"I-I was angry." He tried to excuse. "She knew that he was going to die and didn't say or do anything to stop it. I-I honestly wasn't thinking right, Mary. You know how I was back then!"

"Have you apologized?" She asked then and he sank a little in his chair. "No, you have not. Well, no wonder she's angry with you. I would have done a lot more than that, to be honest. You're lucky she isn't upset about it."

John blinked, confused. "What? I thought you said she was upset about it?"

"Oh, no." Mary waved off. "She could care less about whatever you said to her back then. She was probably already blaming herself. My guess is that something happened these last two years."

"What do you mean?"

"Please, John. Open your eyes." Mary chided him. "You said it yourself, she's acting like him. Said she was trying to cope. If she respects Sherlock as much as you say, then something must have happened for her to suddenly be doing her very best to live up to his image. It takes a lot for a woman to hide her grief, but even more to disguise it as something else." Mary pushed out her chair and stood. "Now I'm going to go wash up in the lady's room for a moment. I'll be right back."

"Alright." He said, before remembering something and hurrying to take it on before he was speaking louder than appropriate for the fancy restaurant he was in. "Don't take too long! I have something I need to ask you. It's, um, very important."

Mary smiled in amusement at his fumbling and he groaned, grabbing a menu and frowning down at it. God, I'm an idiot. No, focus. Need to find a good champagne. A waiter wandered over then, a heavy French accent attempting to draw John's attention him.

"Can I 'elp you with anything, sir?"

I let out a long breath, eyes shut with Smith asleep on my lap, a chiding voice in my ears.

"That wasn't very nice you know. What you said to John."

"So? I was angry. I have every right to be angry with him." I complained as Bobbie sighed.

"Doesn't make it right, Sam. I know you're upset, but he's coming back, Sherlock. We both know that. You won't have to be on your own anymore."

"You say that like it's a good thing. Maybe I want to be alone for a while."

"That's not true and you know it. If you wanted to be left alone, you could have stayed in New York."

I scowled, brows furrowing in annoyance. "That's not why I left and you know it. I couldn't stand to be in the same country as those bastards. Loneliness had nothing to do with it."

"Guilt did." He said shortly.

"Shut up." I muttered, chest aching.

"You left because you couldn't stand being in our flat anymore. Seeing my ghost everywhere you went. Having a nightmare only to wake up without me beside you. Just admit it, Sam. You left because you blamed yourself for me and this was the only other place you could go.

"Shut up!" I shouted, startling Smith from his perch as I snapped my eyes open and sat up in my seat.

I panted in anger, which quickly turned into a deep wave of sorrow; dropping my head into my hands with a shuttering breath as Mrs. Hudson rapped her knuckles on the door.

"Are you alright, dear?" She asked and I dropped a hand from my face, not lifting my gaze from the floor.

"Sorry. I'm fine." I replied, before catching a whiff of a familiar scent. "Was I smoking?"

"I'm afraid so." She said, moving into the kitchen with some groceries. "For the last few hours. You were smoking when I mentioned I was going out to do the shopping. I don't think you heard me."

I lifted my head and spotted the ashtray with a number of snuffed out cigarettes, wincing. "He hated it when I smoked."

"Who's that then?" She asked curiously, meaning no harm.

"Bobbie." I muttered, standing to help her put things away. "My boyfriend."

"Oh! You never said you two were a thing." She cooed, patting my arm as she passed me to put away the tea and coffee. "I always assumed you were going to be another one like Sherlock."

"Gay?" I quipped, earning a small smile from her.

"No, deary. Distracted."

I snorted, putting the milk in the fridge. "If that's what you call it."

"Him always off in his work and you trailing along after him."

"You make me sound like a lost puppy." I muttered, making her chuckle.

"Back then dear, you almost were. You and him had something special, I think, despite the age difference. You understood one another. There were times when…" She smiled, pausing. "There were times when I would come in and think you had just woken up, only to return a minute later to you sleeping as Sherlock played his violin. And you always knew just when he wanted a cuppa. No word from him, just one minute everything was fine, then you were up and in the kitchen. And he always drank it. Doesn't always do that for me. It was like clockwork with you two."

I smiled softly. "I miss him."

"Don't we all?"

Sherlock nursed a split lip at the third shop they'd come to having said all the wrong things apparently while revealing himself to John. He couldn't help one more though.

"Seriously? It's not a joke?" He asked, gesturing to his lip. "You're really keeping it?"

John cleared his throat. "Yeah."

"Sure?"

"Mary likes it.

"Mm, no she doesn't." Sherlock argued.

"She does."

"She doesn't."

John turned to Mary, who shook her head, attempting to say something, but John understood.

"Oh, brilliant."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't know how to tell you." She apologized.

"Brilliant. No, no, this is charming. I really miss this." He stabbed a finger at Sherlock, taking a second before getting in the man's face. "One word, Sherlock. That is all I would have needed. One word to let me know you were alive."

"I've nearly been in contact so many times, but—" Sherlock tried, John laughing in disbelief. "—I worried that, you know, you might say something indiscreet."

"What?"

"Well, you know, let the cat out of the bag."

"Oh, so this is my fault?!"

Mary laughed at that.

"Why am I the only one who thinks that this is wrong?! The only one reacting like a human being?!"

"Over-reacting!" Sherlock chimed in, making John shout.

"Over-reacting?!"

"John!" Mary tried to calm him.

"Over-reacting?! So you fake your own death—"

"Sh!" Sherlock shushed him.

"—and you waltz in here large as bloody life—"

"Sh!" Sherlock hushed again.

"—but I'm not supposed to have a problem with that. No, because Sherlock Holmes thinks it's a perfectly okay thing to do!"

"Shut up, John!" Sherlock finally shouted. "I don't want everyone knowing I'm still alive!"

"Oh, so it's still a secret, is it?!" He shouted back.

"Yes! It's still a secret!" Sherlock calmed down then, remembering where they were and there were others in the building. "Promise you won't tell anyone."

"Swear to God!" John snapped, before finally letting out a breath and calming.

Sherlock took his chance. "London is in danger, John. There's an imminent terrorist attack and I need your help."

John stared at him in disbelief, turning to Mary and back to Sherlock. "My help?"

Sherlock grinned. "You have missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world. And Sam, of cour—"

John cut him off by grabbing his lapels and rearing his head back to head-butt the man; getting them thrown out for the third time as Sherlock dabbed at his bloody nose with a napkin.

"I don't understand." He muttered, confused as John went to hail a cab; standing beside Mary who had watched in silent amusement at the two's interactions. "I said I'm sorry. Isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

"Gosh. You don't know a thing about human nature, do you?"

"Mm, nature? No. Human?... No. Sam's usually around to be the buffer."

"Love to see how she does that." Mary smiled. "I'll talk him round."

Sherlock paused, looking at her in surprise. "You will?"

"Oh, yeah." She smiled and Sherlock looked her over, making some deductions, but nothing that would explain why she would help him.

After all, most of John's girlfriends hated him. What made her so different?

"I still have to get him to apologize to Sam." She mused. "That's easier though. He already feels guilty after I chewed him out at dinner."

Sherlock raised a brow. "Apologize? For hitting her?"

Mary gave him a look. "Oh, of course you were there… Though I suggest keeping that a secret from John. If he knew you were watching him then, he'd give you a lot more than a bloody nose."

"Hm." Sherlock hummed, acknowledging that.

"She knew though, yeah? Sam? With her future knowledge or whatever?"

Sherlock whipped back around. "She told you?"

"John told me." She corrected and Sherlock groaned.

"This is why I didn't tell him I was alive."

Mary chuckled. "Yes, well, I suggest checking up on her too. Even if she knew you weren't dead, I get the feeling she might need you."

"Need me?" He asked. "What for?"

"Just something John said. Call it… women's intuition." Mary smiled as John called out to her and she left with him; leaving Sherlock to wonder what had happened in the two years he was gone for Sam to need him, like Mary said.

Sam slept peacefully on Sherlock's bed, having only just returned from a case. Namely, finding Smith after Mrs. Hudson had accidentally let him out. He hadn't been pleased when she found him neither, earning her a nice scratch across the face that narrowly missed her eye as it went down her nose and onto her cheek. She'd merely wiped it clean before collapsing in Sherlock's bed; having stayed up the last few nights attempting to figure out a code someone sent her via Sherlock's blog. Said code wasn't a threat—as the client feared—but turned out to only be their college roommate who was studying linguistics writing up a grocery list. Smith was curled up beside her as well, despite his earlier mood, and stirred when footsteps were heard entering the building.

Mrs. Hudson's scream rang out a few minutes later, but the cat merely lifted his head and blinked before settling down again; his master having not stirred. She'd needed the sleeping draughts again. The steps moved to the stairs and soon into 221B, roaming around until they sought where Sam was resting. A tall figure walked into the darkened room; Smith paying no mind as they approached the slumbering woman. A hand reached down towards her, coming within inches of her, before her eyes snapped open and Smith was forced from the bed as Sam abruptly launched herself at them.

She'd hit them hard upside the head, but her foot caught in the sheet and she fell down with him. She was quick though, rolling to the side and grabbing a gun from Sherlock's old sock drawer. With a click of the hammer, she stood and towered above the downed figure; moving to switch on the lights as they groaned.

"Move, and I put a bullet in you." She snarled, flicking on the overhead light only to frown as she saw who her attacker was.

Sherlock blinked at her in annoyance, a hand placed on his bruising jaw. "Well, that is not quite the welcome I was expecting."

"Sherlock." Sam said, lowering the gun and unarming it as she brought a hand to her face to pinch the bridge of her nose. "The hell is your problem?"

"Hello to you too." He grumbled, getting up before giving her a once over as she sagged against the doorframe.

Exhausted, fighting off a drug to help her sleep, no doubt. Taller, claw marks on face. Too small to be a dog's, cat's then. That one? Didn't clean herself up before collapsing in bed. There's a twig in her hair from one of the hedges outside. That cat then. His eyes narrowed at the black feline that hopped back on top of the bed and started to get comfortable once more. Her cat. Ah, she lives here now. Couldn't keep her away, as I thought. Seems better though. No recent track marks, but she's been smoking more. Excellent reflexes, however. There's something about her though. Something off.

"Get out." Sam grumbled then, drawing him from his thoughts.

"Excuse me?"

She scowled at him, eyes unfocused. "We can do this tomorrow, can't we? I'm two seconds from collapsing, you probably won't be sleeping. Not while 'the game's afoot' or whatever. We can do the whole 'hi, not dead' bit later. Goodnight, Sherlock."

And with that, she slammed the door to his own bedroom in his face; him having not even noticed when she'd maneuvered him out the door. She opened the door again though, peering out tiredly.

"There's icepacks in the freezer and medical stuff in the bathroom." She informed him with narrowed eyes. "Do something about your back, or it'll get infected."

She shut the door again and Sherlock snorted with an amused smile. Same old Sam.

"Sherlock!" John's shout rang in my ears as I shivered and quaked in the inky blackness that surrounded me.

Moriarty laughed manically and I was soon on my feet, running as far and fast as I could. My body ached and the crook of my arm itched. My old bullet would felt on fire as I rounded the corner and saw flashing red and blue lights. No… I hurried over, trying to duck under the crime scene tape only to be held back by officers.

"No! No, let me through! Bobbie! H-He's my boyfriend, please! Let me see him! Bobbie! Bobbie!"

I was shoved back, just as I caught sight of his bloody body just inside the convenience store. I tripped and stumbled, falling and just barely grabbing onto the side of a cliff. Water roared behind me as I clung desperately to the rocks, fingers growing numb. I tried to haul myself up, but his laughter rang out again and I bit back a cry of pain as a polished shoe stamped on my hand.

"What's wrong, Sammy? You don't honestly expect him to save you, do you? Sherlock Holmes?" He mocked me as I grit my teeth. "Oh, but I don't even have to do this, do I?"

He removed his foot and I glared up at him.

"Oh, don't make a face like that. You know you'll do it yourself. The Fall. I don't even have to force you. You just need the right motivation." He smiled, sickly sweet as he leaned down and whispered into my ear; the noise of the waterfall behind me going mute. "Because you're all alone, aren't you, Sammy?"

My brothers leaving me at the airport.

Bobbie being shot.

John hitting me at Sherlock's grave.

Sherlock himself giving me a passing glance before jumping off St. Bart's.

My resolve cracked and he chuckled.

"Oh, my poor Sammy. All alone. So why not just give in? Why not just let go? Hm, Sammy? Why are you so desperately clinging to this hope of yours?"

My fingers loosened as his words slithered into my head and dug sharp talons into my mind.

"That's it. That's it, just let go. You would be so much happier, don't you think? Just slipping off, falling, finishing this game. Just let go, Sam."

His face and voice morphed; dark curls accenting his pale face and blue scarf.

"Just let go."

My fingers released and I fell. Down, down, down until I hit something and water raced up to drown me. Water dark and thick like oil, suffocating and throwing me about. A gasp of air, then more water, air, water, air, water, water, so much water. No, I don't know anything… Water… No, I won't tell you anything… Air, then water. P-Please… Stop this… Drowning, suffocating, can't breathe. Can't breathe! Somebody! Anybody!

"You're all alone, Sammy."

I shot up with a gasp, panting and wheezing as my hand grabbed at my throat and I closed my teary eyes against the panic attack threatening to take a hold. I brought my knees to my chest and entangled my hands in my short hair, tugging on it to use the pain as an anchor to keep me bound to reality as my nightmare threatened to topple my world. My shoulder was on fire, burning as it always did after I remembered Moriarty and the crook of my elbow tingled, itching for a fix that I didn't want to indulge in. There was a small scratching at the door and I knew Smith was on the other side. As comforting as it would be to curl up with him, he never was one for cuddling and only did so on his own terms. This was not one of those times. He just wanted the bed. Thinking about this helped calm me enough so that I uncurled myself and got up.

Bad move. Everything shifted for a moment and I grabbed the nightstand as my equilibrium steadied itself once more. I was still light-headed from my earlier panic, but I forced myself to move. I grabbed a change of clothes and left the room for the shower; not bothering to look at Sherlock as he stared at some sort of collage he'd stuck to the wall above the couch. The shower helped to further ease the tension in my shoulders, though not entirely. Watching the water go down the drain reminded me only of the water I'd drowned in in my nightmare. The sound of the water hitting the tile, like the waterfall at the cliff edge. I grit my teeth and slammed my fist into the wall beside me; anger at myself and my actions in my nightmare coming loose like the fraying edge of a sweater. I could feel myself unraveling, but I did what I could to shove it all aside; wind it all up to piece together later. I can't do this right now. There's bombs in the subway tunnels, Sherlock and John are having issues, I'll be needed.

I turned off the hot water and stepped out, drying and pulling on my pair of dark jeans and a grey turtleneck; attempting to do my best to ignore the ghost-like image in the mirror as I walked out. I was not pleased to see that Mycroft had joined Sherlock while I'd showered, but paid them no mind as I moved into the kitchen and heard the back-end of their conversation.

"All really interesting, Sherlock, but the terror alert has been raised to critical." Mycroft commented. "And unless Sam is willing to give anything away, we're stuck waiting on you."

"Boring. Your move." Sherlock replied, and I could feel eyes on me.

Whether they were Mycroft's or Sherlock's, I didn't bother to find out. I'd since grown a tougher outer shell. Nasty comments hardly bothered me, be they the Holmes' or the press.

"We have solid information. An attack is coming." Mycroft urged.

"'Solid information'." Sherlock mocked. "A secret terrorist organization's planning an attack. That's what secret terrorist organizations do, isn't it? It's their version of golf."

"An agent gave his life to tell us that."

"Oh, well, perhaps he shouldn't have." Sherlock said abrasively. "He was obviously just trying to show off."

I set down a tea cup and saucer, as well as two mugs on a tray and frowned; not realizing I'd made drinks for everyone until now. I'd only been attempting to make my own coffee, but apparently had zoned out. There was no going back though, and I took the tray into the living room as Sherlock moved a piece from the game of Operation; having left the chess board on the coffee table. I passed Mycroft his cup and he raised a brow at me, but took it. I then handed Sherlock his, only to pull it back when he reached for it.

"Apologize."

"What?" He frowned, confused.

I gave him a look, gesturing with my head to Mycroft and he rolled his eyes with a sigh.

"Apologies about your… agent."

Mycroft looked a bit surprised, but nodded his head in acknowledgement as Sherlock held out his hand again for his coffee.

"Two years?" I pressed, urging him to apologize to me too.

He scowled. "But you knew what was going on."

"Doesn't mean I couldn't have gotten a phone call on how you were doing." I argued. "Besides, my information was limited on those two years. I knew the general idea of what you were doing and I knew you were in Tibet until Mycroft pulled you out, but everything else is not important enough for me to know, apparently." I complained, silently blaming the need for Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat to be mysterious about Sherlock's death, resurrection, and his missing two years. "A call would have been appreciated, that's all."

I passed him his mug and took mine to the couch, curling around it as I lifted the lid of my laptop to see if there was anything worth doing on Sherlock's website. Silence came from the two men for a minute or so, before Sherlock muttered out something I barely heard.

"Sorry."

I hummed in quiet appreciation, before him and his brother got back on track.

"None of these markers of yours is behaving in any way suspiciously?" Mycroft asked, glancing over my head at the web of photos Sherlock had set up. "Your move."

"No, Mycroft, but you have to trust me. I'll find the answer. It'll be in an odd phrase in an online blog, or an unexpected trip to the countryside, or a misplaced Lonely Hearts ad. Your move."

"I've given the Prime Minister my personal assurance you're on the case." Mycroft added as incentive.

"I am on the case. We're all on the case. Look at us right now." Sherlock replied, before there was a buzzing noise from the Operation game and Mycroft scowled.

"Oh, bugger!"

"Oopsie!" Sherlock joked. "Can't handle a broken heart. How very telling."

"Don't be smart." Mycroft scolded him and I scoffed, ignoring the glare sent my way.

"That takes me back." Sherlock mused, making fun of Mycroft some more. "'Don't be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one'."

"I am the smart one." Mycroft grumbled.

"I used to think I was an idiot."

"Both of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock. We had nothing else to go on 'til we met other children."

"Oh, yes. That was a mistake."

"Ghastly. What were they thinking off?"

"Probably something about trying to make friends." Sherlock guessed.

"Oh, yes. Friends. Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now."

"And you don't? Ever?" Sherlock questioned his brother.

"If you seem slow to me, Sherlock, can you imagine what real people are like? I'm living in a world of goldfish."

Sherlock steepled his hands as I glanced at him. "Yes, but I've been away for two years."

"So?"

He shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a… goldfish."

"Give it a couple of years, Sherlock." I piped in, looking back at my laptop screen and struggling to not smile at Mycroft's disgusted face.

"Change the subject. Now." Mycroft snapped, standing and moving to the fireplace with his tea.

"Rest assured, Mycroft, whatever this underground network of yours is up to, the secret will reside in something seemingly insignificant or bizarre."

Understatement of the century. I mused, remembering how long it took Sherlock to realize that the simple word 'underground' was the secret. Mrs. Hudson walked in then and Mycroft smirked.

"Speaking of which…"

"Behave." I chided him, as the landlady walked in with a tray of biscuits and a grin on her face. "Morning, Mrs. Hudson."

"I can't believe it." She cooed happily. "I just can't believe it! Him, sitting in his chair again. Not that you doing it didn't remind me of him, Sam, but oh. Isn't it wonderful, Mr. Holmes?" She questioned Mycroft who forced a smile as he answered sarcastically.

"I can barely contain myself."

"Oh, he really can, you know." Sherlock tacked on, but she wasn't convinced.

"He's secretly pleased to see you underneath all that."

"Sorry, which of us?" Mycroft asked.

"Both of you." Mrs. Hudson and I replied together.

She smiled at me and chuckled, walking out as Smith emerged from Sherlock's bedroom with a stretch and wandered to Mycroft. Said man scowled at the feline as he sniffed the man's shoe and proceeded to rub up against his calf.

"What is this… thing doing here?"

"Call him a 'thing' again and I won't help you when he scratches you." I mused, lifting my gaze to the frowning Holmes. "Believe it or not, he does get offended. I called him a pain in the ass when he got out last night and I'm sure my face speaks for itself."

"Hm, quite." He said tensely, glaring at Smith and I rolled my eyes, getting up.

"Smith, come on."

Hearing his name and spotting me moving to the kitchen, Smith quickly abandoned Mycroft for some treats. After getting him to sit and beg, I gave him a couple and scratched him behind the ears, earning a short purr of contentment. He hardly makes a sound though. Thought he was mute for so long until he let out a meow. Purrs are near silent and makes an actual noise perhaps once a month. Clever though. Can sit and beg, knows when to come, but still working on lie down. I sighed softly as I returned to the living room as Mycroft tossed a hat at Sherlock.

"The earlier patches are extensively sun-bleached, so he's worn it abroad; in Peru."

"Peru?" Sherlock questioned and I sighed at the bonding moment between two clever brothers trying to one-up the other.

"This is a chullo. The classic headgear of the Andes. It's made of alpaca."

Sherlock smirked. "No."

"No?"

"Icelandic sheep wool. Similar, but very distinctive if you know what you're looking for. I've written a blog on the varying tensile strengths of different natural fibers. Ask Sam."

I hummed. "And tobacco ashes."

I'd noticed Mrs. Hudson hadn't come back in and assumed she'd seen that I had already made tea and coffee for everyone, deeming another trip up pointless. Changed something already. Oh, well.

"You said he was anxious." Sherlock added, awaiting an explanation.

"The bobble on the left side has been badly chewed, which shows he's a man of a nervous disposition but—"

"—but also a creature of habit because he hasn't chewed the bobble on the right." Sherlock finished.

"Precisely."

Sherlock sniffed the hat with a grimace. "Brief sniff of the offending bobble tells us everything we need to know about the state of his breath. Brilliant." He said sarcastically.

"Elementary."

"No one really says that." I tacked on, earning another glare from Mycroft as I typed a response to one of the cases on Sherlock's blog.

"But you've missed his isolation." Sherlock continued, briefly giving me a curious look.

"I don't see it." Mycroft admitted.

"Plain as day."

"Where?"

"There for all to see." Sherlock teased, tantalizingly.

"Tell me."

"Plain as the noise on your—"

"Stop messing with him and say it already." I complained, earning a smirk.

"Well, anybody who wears a hat as stupid as this isn't in the habit of hanging around other people, is he?"

"Rude." I grumbled.

"Maybe he just doesn't mind being different. He doesn't necessarily have to be isolated." Mycroft commented.

"Exactly."

Mycroft frowned in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"He's different. So what? Why would he mind? You're quite right." Sherlock put the hat on his head. "Why would anyone mind?"

Mycroft gave him a disbelieving look at what he was implying. "I'm not lonely, Sherlock."

"How would you know?" Sherlock said seriously, ripping off the hat as I spoke up.

"You know, if you two weren't brothers, I'd be telling you to get a room."

Both brothers made faces at that, but Mycroft moved towards the door.

"Yes, back to work, if you don't mind. Good morning."

I snorted, calling out after Mycroft as he walked out the door. "It's a coworker, if you really want to know."

His step faltered for a second before he continued on and I chuckled slightly before returning to my email.

"Right, back to work." Sherlock muttered, but instead of moving to work with his photos some more, he sat in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his mouth.

"You want to talk." I concluded, not looking up as I finished and sent the message to the man who felt the need to ask if he was being cheated on.

"Hm, you've changed."

"It's been two years." I countered as Smith wandered over and I begrudgingly set the computer aside so he could hop up and nap on my lap as I sipped my coffee; which was getting cold.

"Night terrors, bags under your eyes, twitching fingers, stiff shoulder from where your old bullet wound is bothering you. You're depressed and itching for a fix."

I frowned at him. "And? Again, you were dead for two years. Someone had to deal with the mess you left behind."

"Which is why you've been solving my cases. The dull ones. Not so much cleaning the mess as creating a distraction." He sat up and dropped his hands, looking at me. "Something happened. Something which has you showing your true colors on your sleeve and hiding away everything that made you feel weak. The stutter, the shyness, the anxious tells, even your expressions. You're all blunt and sarcastic with eyes that can cut through stone. Eyes like mine. You're not trying to impress anymore, Sam, you're trying to cope."

"You know, most people just ask what happened." I complained. "But you're not most people, are you?"

I twitched at the line, feeling my shoulder ache in remembrance of Moriarty, before I stood and made to grab my coat.

"Where are you going?" He questioned.

"I don't want to talk about it." I said, pausing and running my fingers over the scarf Bobbie had gotten me back when I was so sick that I couldn't feel warm. "I know he could want me to, but… perhaps some other time, Sherlock."

I could feel him watching me, a little surprised when he spoke.

"Mary said there was something wrong."

I frowned, looking back at him. "What? I've not met Mary yet."

"Which is why I found it odd." He said, getting up and heading over to stand before me and look at me with a curious expression. "She said she had the feeling you might need me."

I didn't move, continuing to watch him in confusion as my stomach twisted in worry.

"And I'd say she was right." Sherlock finished and I swallowed thickly before turning away to leave.

"I'll see you in a bit, Sherlock." I muttered, reaching down and scratching Smith behind the ears. "And the secret's in the wording."

"Wording?" He questioned, confused.

"Hint of the day." I replied, lifting a hand to wave over my shoulder. "Later."