The Returned

Some things in life were constant. The sun rose in the morning, cats and mice didn't get along, and little old ladies gathered ever Sunday morning at Speedy's, the little coffee shop next door to 221B.

They were usually a lively bunch, but on that particular morning the ladies were positively radiating excitement, which, John suspected, had nothing to do with English breakfasts, and everything to do with the absentee Mrs Hudson, and more to the point, her tenant.

"There's Doctor Watson now!" Marie Turner exclaimed, somewhat to the chagrin of her companions. Her hearing started going off a decade ago, which she'd deny fiercely if asked.

John smiled, inclined his head politely, and walked a little faster.

A wonderful aroma greeted him at the door. Something freshly baked and probably delicious. Mrs Hudson, bless her, had broken out the kitchen appliances. He took the stairs two at a time, only to find to his disappointment that the entrance to the flat appeared to be blocked.

"Um, Mrs Hudson?" John called. The sofa was standing vertically against the entrance, and John pushed at it until he could wedge himself inside, finding the flat in utter disarray.

The last time he'd been there, it was clean and tidy. Now it was pure chaos; Sherlock's endless supply of knick-knacks and memorabilia were strewn across the floor, books were stacked in uneven piles, and the the less said about the furniture, the better. It looked, basically, like a tornado had moved in.

Mrs Hudson, as expected, was busying herself in the kitchen. "Yoo-hoo." She waved a mitten John's way, smiling brightly. "Oh John, you've heard haven't you?"

He nodded, coming for a quick hug and a biscuit. "Making himself at home, is he?" he asked, mouth full. A sharp "screech!" of dragging furniture nearly made him spew. He shook his head, sincerely sorry for Mrs Hudson's hardwood floor.

Then, remembering the conversation from last night, he said, "don't worry about charging him for the damages, okay? He, um, he can afford it." He bent down to pick a picture frame from the floor. "Is there any particular reason he's tearing the place apart?" he wondered.

Before she could reply, Sherlock made his appearance in a blur of limbs and house robe. Ignoring them both, he made a bee-line to the violin, still perched on its stand, a token of order still left in the room. Then, to John's never ending bafflement and fascination, he stopped to glare at it.

"Sherlock-"

"Shhh!" Came the sharp answer. With evident disgust, he picked up the instrument with the pads of his fingers, as if he could not bear to touch it. He shook it once, glared some more, and then - hurled it through the open window. It hit Mrs Hudson's bin with a horrible crashing sound.

"What the hell are you doing?" John cried.

Sherlock flashed him with his least reassuring smile. "Termites, John," he said to his slack-mouthed companion, before disappearing up the stairs.

John turned to share an incredulous look with Mrs. Hudson, but she was looking wistfully at the spot Sherlock had just vacated, eyes beginning to mist ever so slightly. "He's been at it all morning," she said. "It must have been so awful, he was away for so long at who knows where. All because of that horrible man." She shuddered.

John, a bit winded, righted a chair before sitting down. In a quiet voice, he asked, "did he tell you about that?"

She shook her head. "No, but you know how proud he is, it must have been so hard for him. In hiding all this time."

A new voice buttered into the conversation. "It was for your own protection as well, Mrs Hudson. Moriarty was and is a very dangerous man." Mycroft ambled into the flat, wearing a crease-less three-piece suit that no one had any business wearing on a weekend morning. He was also carrying a large case, his eternal umbrella, and a look of smug achievement.

"I'm simply relived he allowed us to protect him." Mycroft added smoothly. John's bafflement must have been evident on his face, because Mycroft shot him a pointed look that stopped any questions he might have asked.

"Did you bring it?" Sherlock demanded, emerging at the sound of his brother's voice. He was manic and bedraggled but looked happy like he never looked in Mycroft's presence. He grabbed the case Mycroft had brought with him, hugging it to his chest in a rare display of affection before collapsing in a graceful crossed-legged heap on the floor. He then removed the violin from the case with delicate care.

John raised both eyebrows. He pointed his thumb at the window. "So that was…"

"A prop," Sherlock said. "Obviously, John." He placed the violin between his jaw and shoulder, mimicking the drawing of a bow.

"You're welcome," Mycroft smiled, for once looking and sounding entirely sincere.

"Look at you two, back together again," John joked. Turning to Mrs. Hudson, he asked with a smile, "so how did you take it?"

"She slapped me," Sherlock piped, eyes still closed in reverence.

"You earned it!" Mrs. Hudson shot, laughter in her voice. "Now you three, there's plenty of baked goods to go around." She pointed at Sherlock. "That includes you too, young man. You're just skin and bones."

She was right, of course. Except for the way he'd buttoned his shirt all the way up to his neck, Sherlock was dressed in his usual style; a black dress shirt and matching trousers. John was glad to see the scarf and gloves had been forsaken, but even with the house robe on, he looked incredibly thin.

Operation Feed Sherlock is a go, he thought.

"Well, I shan't stay." Mycroft announced. "I could barely step out of the office as it was." He studied Sherlock silently for a moment, who continued fondling the air in reverent gestures, and then started to exit, calling as he went, "John, a moment outside?"

John followed him down the stairs. Mycroft looked at him contemplatively. "I'm going to have to ask you to spy on him for me," he said, flatly.

John smiled without humour. "No."

Mycroft hummed, inspecting the all too sharp end of his umbrella. "I thought so. It was worth to try."

"Mycroft," John started. He pointed his finger at the stairs, keeping his voice low. "Is he safe now?"

"No." Mycroft said. "No until James Moriarty is fully neutralized."

"But you have him, he's not getting away this time." John demanded.

Mycroft smiled. Powerful men, leaders of nations, often found themselves straining under that smile. John's gaze did not waver.

"You will find, John, that I can be very resourceful." He glanced up the stairs one final time before departing. "Goodbye John," he said, one foot past the door. "Make sure he doesn't do anything exceptionally foolhardy."

A gentle melody John did not recognise brought an unexpected lump to his throat. He sighed, making his way back to the flat. He found Sherlock on his feet again, swaying minutely with the music. Mrs Hudson sat watching him, hand to her cheek, eyes misty and far-away.

John was not entirely certain when Sherlock had stopped playing, but when he did John found to his surprise that the sun rays from the windows had shifted, and that his eyes were unexpectedly bright as well.

He cleared his throat, running a hand to his eyes superstitiously. "Um, was there anything on the news about last night?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched in a brief display of amusement, but he did not reply. While Sherlock busied himself by delicately setting his instrument back in its case, John took the liberty of brushing past him for the television. Surprisingly, it was still in order. Later, John found that Sherlock had taken it apart that very morning, but had put it back together again, minus a small pile of electronics, which Sherlock deemed, "unnecessary."

An anchorwoman, one of the high profile ones - a telltale sign of a major story - was speaking, "-some of the world's most nefarious criminals were apprehended in a spectacular operation that lasted throughout the night-"

Sherlock snorted. "They were interrupted during supper. It was over in under an hour."

"-some of which have been evading arrest since as early as the eighties. We have been hearing rumours of a possible prisoners' exchange in the near future, although details at this point are still vague. Our contacts suggest a key witness, one Colonel Sebastian Moran-" the reported paused, lifting her hand to her earpiece. "I've just been informed that the Prime Minister is preparing to deliver a speech-"

"That git," John said, shaking his head. "He's going to take all the credit."

"Would you turn it off?" Sherlock said. Done with his task, he righted his leather armchair and sat down in one of his 'thinking' poses - hands steepled and gaze distant.

"Look, Sherlock, " John exclaimed, though he was promptly ignored. At the bottom of the screen was a scrolling news report:

• MOD confirms Sherlock Holmes alive and well! •

"That's all?" John frowned as the text continued to scroll.

• Teachers strike enters its fifth day •

"A bit anti – climatic, isn't it?" John said. He narrowed his eyes when a photo of Moriarty was called to the screen, naming him as one of the people who'd been arrested the night before. "Wait..."

"In a shocking turn of events, one of the persons taken for custody is none other than James Moriarty," the reporter's voice turned incredulous at the mention of his name. "Previously known as the Crown Jewel Thief, then as Richard Brook, the victim of a ploy by amateur detective Sherlock Holmes, now once again awaits trial under lock and key."

"In an even more shocking turn of events, we have received candid reports that Mr Sherlock Holmes, previously thought to be deceased, has resurfaced, alive and well, following Mr Moriarty's arrest. What appears to be the stuff of science fiction, has been confirmed by our contacts at the Ministry of Defence to be true. That Mr Sherlock Holmes, once a fraud, now possibly a victim of circumstances, had spent years in hiding for fear of his life."

The camera panned out, allowing the image of Sherlock in one of the deer stalker hats to be displayed beside the reporter. "Mr. Holmes is currently residing in an undisclosed location" – John snorted – "and has so far been unable to provide a statement." The reporter continued drawling on, but John shook his head in disgust.

"That's the angle you're going with?" John asked. "That you hid till Moriarty was nabbed?"

"An angle, John," Sherlock said in dejected amusement. "But the one that you'll also put in your blog."

The reporter had returned to the subject of Moriarty, displaying photos and short video clips of him, from his arrest three years ago to the interview he conducted at that same studio almost a year ago.

"They don't have any recent photos of him," John said.

"Obviously not. He'd been beaten to a pulp. They're going to have to wait until he's properly healed before they can show his face on telly…" Sherlock trailed off, eyes flickering at the screen for the first time.

Then he stood, and clapped his hands. "Well, there's still 37% flat left to sweep. My brother's voyeuristic tendencies are a public menace. If you want to make yourself useful, John, the pipes in the bathroom still need to be checked. Mrs Hudson, if you're done weeping, kindly fetch three standard plastic bags and a medium to large steak knife..."

XXX

The Very Late Sherlock Holmes

You may have head that Sherlock is alive.

The last few days have been... strange, to say the least. I suppose there's just no right way of going about this sort of thing. It feels like I'm living in two realities, one where my best friend died, and another where he lived - and I can't get my head around that it's both. It's incredible, impossible, mad. It's Sherlock.

The thing is that I can't stay angry with him. He didn't do it for his own protection, not really. He did for my safety, and for the safety of people I care about. More on that in a bit.

So how did Sherlock survive the jump? You can read all about it on his website, The Science of Deduction, which is up and running again. He also included some illustrations and schematics, against my advice. Go ahead and tell him he's brilliant, but please, for the love of God, don't try it yourselves.

What I'm trying to say is that the how is easy enough to explain, but the why is a bit more complicated. I'm sorry I can't really disclose much (thanks to the Official Secrets Act). I'm sure I don't really understand it all the way, to be frank. What I can say is that Sherlock had been under some sort of witness protection program. He had to lay low until Moriarty could be captured and his criminal organisation exposed. Six feet under kind of low.

Again, thanks to the Official Secrets Act I can't say too much, but I can tell you that the government had been secretly feeding the media false information about the supposed investigation on Sherlock's 'criminal activities'. They wanted to drag Sherlock's name through the mud, in order to lull Moriarty into a false sense of security. Apparently. I was actually making things worse by keeping this blog.

When I said Sherlock did it for my protection, I meant that literally. Sherlock was supposed to take his own life in exchange for the lives of his friends, yours truly included. If Sherlock hadn't jumped, I wouldn't have been here today.

I actually met the assassin Moriarty sent after me, if you can believe it! His name is Sebastian Moran. Moran was once also a military man, like me, and apparently Moriarty's wingman. Moran had his rifle's sights set on me again, but Sherlock saw him coming and delivered him straight into the Yard's hands. And what do you know, the guy is just who they needed to set the whole thing, because Moran was more than happy to snitch. I suppose Moriarty should have chosen his lackeys more carefully.

It's a story that deserves its own post, but the short version is that Moriarty and his mates were caught, and they're going to be locked away for a very, very long time.

I'm going to take a break from writing this blog, at least for now. It's not the ending we were working for, but I couldn't have asked for more. Thank you all, for your faith, support and hard work, and in this case I'm speaking for Sherlock too. Thank you.

10,000 Comments (Maximum Number Of Comments Reached)

Finally! I'm been refreshing non-stop all day! STILL CAN'T BELIEVE IT :D :D ;D
Jacob Sowersby 07 July 23:14

An adequate depiction of the events, but honestly, John, I could practically hear the violin music in the background.
Sherlock Holmes 07 July 23:14

Welcome back, Sherlock! :)
Molly Hooper 07 July 23:14

Thank you, Molly.
Sherlock Holmes 07 July 23:14

In that case you might want to stop making love to that violin for longer than five minutes. I'm sure your neighbours would appreciate it.
John Watson 07 July 23:19

Are you Jealous, Johnny? :) And Sherlock, welcome back to the land of the living! Don't do it again.
Harry Watson 07 July 23:22

Sherlock Holmes IS James Moriarty! Don't be fooled! Open you're eyes, people!
The-Truth-And-Nothing-But-The-Truth 07 July 23:23

Your*
Sherlock Holmes 07 July 23:23

[Comment deleted]

[User The-Truth-And-Nothing-But-The-Truth has been banned by a moderator]

The-Truth-And-Nothing-But-The-Truth 07 July 23:25

Really, Sherlock?
John Watson 07 July 23:25

XXX

John pushed his laptop away and yawned hugely. He picked up his now empty cup, and took it to the sink. His phone beeped. He stretched, scratched a little behind his ear and looked at the fridge in contemplation, debating on a middle of the night snack. He picked up his phone, absent-minded, and glanced at the incoming message. His blood froze in his veins.

Moriarty's escaped. MH.

Author's note:

Haha.

For the record, this chapter should have been posted months ago and I am a horrible person. A horrible person.

I always had a head-canon that BBC Sherlock's violin is indeed a Stradivarius, and the story of how he came by it is a fascinating tale, complete with a dash of mystic, a lot of adventure, and a handful of ridiculous plot twists.

Or maybe he won it on eBay from someone who had no idea what they're selling. Either way, Mycroft thinks such an instrument should have waited for Sherlock in a security vault somewhere and not in a burglar happy neighbourhood.

You know, this story is very close to my heart, because I've literally spent years going back to it. On one hand I adore it, because it is my playground - but on the other hand, I hate it, because the writing is honestly all over the place and the entire saga needs extensive editing. It might happen one day, but if I wait for that - this story won't ever be brought to completion and there are wonderful amazing people out there who are waiting, and they deserve to have the whole story.

The next chapter is coming soon. Like, in the next five-ten minutes. Stay tuned.