I'm not young, I turn 25 on Tuesday. But here's an update anyway :P

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Faye stood, frozen in place, not even being able to reach behind her and grab Bella like she wanted to. Her first overwhelming instinct was to save her daughter from whoever this person was and run out screaming for John. Who wasn't even there. Great, she was on her own with a baby and some arsehole had broken into her room. Because, despite her searching and collecting, her desperate and basic need for him to not have jumped, there was no way Sherlock was actually alive. It was absurd, he wouldn't have just left her to fall back into her own head, let her go through him dying. There was no way.

"Who the fuck are you?" She asked shakily and he rolled his eyes, stepping once towards her. She found her feet, stepping back into the bed, the Moses basket jabbing her in the back.

"Don't ask stupid questions, Mary." He retorted, "They don't become you." He looked around, eyebrow cocked critically as he looked over thei- her room. Her room. There was no 'their'. Sherlock was dead and Bella still slept with John, "I don't appreciate the changes you've made to my room, but if it's going to be your room too then I think I can cope." Faye just stared at him, her brain seemingly having frozen as she gaped at him. Then she reached down to her jeans pocket, groping for her phone. Which was in the living room, on the coffee table. She cursed loudly, startling him as she turned around, scooped up her daughter and practically ran into the other room. The man followed her, keeping away from the windows, she noticed, as she tried to calm Bella whilst dialling.

"What are you doing?" He asked her, concerned.

"Calling John." She snapped, "You're either not real or some crazy guy who had broken into our flat, and either way I want him here."

"No!" He cried, alarmed, holding his hands out in surrender, "You can't ring John."

"Watch me." She snarled.

"Please, Mary." He pleaded. Well, pleaded as much as Sherlock ever could. Which wasn't much, the man had too much pride. But he wasn't Sherlock.

"Faye, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked with a knock, the man diving around the corner as she entered the flat, just out of her vision as she took in the screaming baby and the wide-eyed, panicking mother, "Aww, are you feeling a bit overwhelmed, dear?" Faye's mouth opened and closed, nothing coming out and Mrs Hudson smiled warmly, holding her arms out, "Do you want me to take her for a little bit? Maybe feed her?" Faye glanced over at the man, who nodded his head once. If it was Sherlock, if he really was there, then she needed to sort this out now. And if it wasn't, if it was a crazy man or, as she was more inclined to believe at this point, a figment of her own imagination, then she had to get Bella safe. So she smiled gratefully and passed her gently to Mrs Hudson.

"Thank you so much. I just..." She trailed off, faking being upset and Mrs Hudson shook her head.

"It's quite all right. You've done well tonight. I've got formula, I'll settle her in the cot John brought down and you come get her when you're ready." Then the landlady walked out, cooing like a grandmother. Faye watched her go down the stairs then shut the door quietly. She walked over to the windows and closed the curtains, not wanting anyone to glance up and see her arguing with what could potentially be herself then turned to the man stood in her kitchen.

"I don't believe that you're here." She stated freely, "This isn't the first time I've seen Sherlock since he died."

"I don't doubt it. If you're prone to hallucinating about your childhood self, then your dead boyfriend isn't too much of a stretch." He replied and she narrowed her eyes.

"Don't get all condescending with me, you pompous arsehole." She scolded, "Why should I even believe you're here at all?"

"If you believe it or not is irrelevant." He dismissed, "I'm here to tell you to stop your little club searching for me." Her eyebrows shot up in disbelief.

"I'm sorry?" She asked, "That is why you're here?"

"If any details that may pertain to my whereabouts are leaked to anyone then my entire safety and the delicate work I've put into dismantling Moriarty's crime web will be compromised." He explained as his phone began ringing in his pocket, "You seem the be the ringleader these days, you have to throw them off the track."

"You son of a..." She rolled her eyes as he made no move to answer the increasingly annoying phone, "Are you going to get that?"

"No, it's just Mycroft." He dismissed and she laughed harshly.

"Oh, of course. Mycroft knows, I knew it. Who else?" She demanded.

"It's not important-"

"Yes it is!" She shouted angrily, "I want to know every single person who knows that you faked your death. Every single person that you deemed more important than me, every person that you hold above me despite the fact you claimed you loved me. I want to know who has been looking at me, watching me fall apart without you, knowing that you were okay!" He sighed, obviously annoyed at her emotional outburst, which made her even more mind-numbingly furious. How dare he act like that towards her, as if she was doing him some terrible disservice!

"Well, Mycroft, obviously." He started, "My mother and father." Well, that explained why they weren't at the funeral, "Most of my Homeless Network." Great, a group of random people knew when she hadn't, "And Molly." Her mouth dropped slightly, a physical shot of pain searing in her chest at the sudden overwhelming betrayal she felt.

"Molly knows?" She whispered and he nodded. They stood in a thick, tense silence as she mused it over. That was why Molly had suddenly become so friendly. Not because she was missing Sherlock, but because she had felt guilty.

"Honestly, I was expecting a much more welcoming return." He remarked. Her eyes narrowed.

"Oh, I'm sorry." She snapped sarcastically, "Let me make it up to you." The couple of strides over to him were his only warning before her fist connected with the side of his face. There was a satisfying crunch, although she wasn't sure if it was his face or her fist that made it but his head flew to one side. She pulled back, ready to punch him again when he grabbed her hand, holding it firmly in place. He then wiped the trickle of blood off his face, his lip bust from the impact and she felt a sickening sense of triumph at physically hurting him.

"That was unnecessary." He commented and she lunged for him again, this time not hitting him, but going for his coat pocket. She pulled out his phone, holding it aloft in victory, "What are you doing?" He cried, alarmed.

"Let's see what Mycroft has to say about this." She snarled, pressing the on button to turn the screen on. She froze again as the home screen was displayed, the image of a sleeping baby dominating the screen, "That's..." She swallowed, "That's Bella."

"Yes, it is." He reluctantly admitted. She looked up at him, stunned into silence, then down at the phone again. That was a picture of their daughter, asleep on pink blankets. So, it wasn't at Baker Street because she had all white and yellow stuff in the flat. And it was recent, as well. She could tell just by looking at her it was only in the last week or so. So it wasn't at the hospital either.

"This is at Mycroft's." She stated and he nodded.

"He sends me updates." Sherlock explained.

"Why?" She asked immediately and he sighed, shifting uncomfortably on the spot, not responding, "Why, Sherlock?"

"Because I asked him to." He muttered, having wanted to hide that little piece of information from her. He couldn't have her start to forgive him, or sympathise. He had to make her hate him, so she would stop looking for him and start looking after herself and Bella. However, he also really didn't want to be punched again. For such a lean woman, she had quite the left hook.

"You asked him..." She trailed off, looking down at the phone again, "This is why you're here, isn't it? Nothing to do with being found out, you just wanted to see your daughter."

"You need to stop blaming yourself." He told her, stepping forward. She winced, tears in her eyes. This was too much. He was alive, how was he alive?

"I didn't stop you." She whimpered, "She didn't have a dad, and it was because of me. How could I ever me a good mum if I can't even be a competent girlfriend?" He reached out, cupping her face with one hand. She leant into his hand and, like he had done so many times over the last year, he thought about how he'd made her cry. How many times had she cried because she thought he was dead? She'd broken so completely on his empty grave, each gut wrenching sob had tore through him and he never forgot it. Everything he'd done had been driven by the fact that one day he had the chance to stop her crying.

"I spent so many hours trying to make you smile." He murmured sadly, "And because of me, you never smiled again."

"Why are you doing this to me?" She sobbed and he rested his forehead on hers, forcing her to look up imploringly into his eyes.

"I thought that having a goal would be enough to keep me away from you." He replied huskily, "I was sorely mistaken. I can't live without you, Mary. Not again." He leant down, her lips too tantalisingly close to resist. She shook her head, quietly begging him stop, moving her head away from him.

"Sherlock, please. Don't." She whimpered pathetically. He missed his target a couple of times, the absent of the connection cold on his lips until he finally captured her mouth with his. He gently coaxed her to react, burying his hands in her hair and gripping hard to stop her moving away. Tentatively, her lips began to move against his and soon she was pressing herself against him, grasping onto his shirt tightly as he crashed into the kitchen table.