There is a brief mention of suicidal thoughts in this chapter. If you'd rather not read skip the last section.

Sherlock stirred at the familiar voice a wave of anxiety pulling him fully awake as he remembered the circumstances.

'Any room for me. You take the one with the view.'

Mycroft.

He felt different-after. He wasn't sore exactly, aware, that was it. He hadn't the time to unpick the sensation or the combination of guilt and embarrassment that floated through his half asleep brain. He was more immediately concerned that the scent of Irene would be clinging to his skin like an illicit cigarette. A fluid motion got him up and into the bathroom, he ignored the voices from below. Irene offering tea, coffee, breakfast, somehow the hostess.

When he emerged his brother was sitting on his unmade bed. Dressed in casual clothes, not unlike what had been left for him. Three piece suits not being appropriate for the closest Mycroft had likely been to field work in years. He looked better, rested. Sherlock knew Anthea would nag him into a zoplicone and an early night if she thought he was just too shattered. Maybe she'd resorted to that.

'Can I go home yet?' He said, pulling the towel from his waist. His brother got up, sighing at his childishness, and went to face the window while he got dressed.

'Tomorrow, we can leave here tomorrow. Are things in place with that tramp fellow?'

'If you mean Wiggins yes. It will take some days to set up.' Sherlock paused.

'There are people I'd like to talk to first.'

'Sherlock this was discussed at the outset...'

'I'm discussing it again now.' He broke in, resolute.'John cannot find out from rolling news.'

'Very well.' Mycroft conceded, perhaps too easily. 'I'll look at his schedule and we can try and arrange something appropriate. 'I warn you though not to expect open arms.'

'I brought you something.' Mycroft nodded towards the bedside table. Sherlock delightedly picked up the violin case, realising at once it wasn't quite right.

'That's your school one, from home. John Watson has the other. It seemed well...' Mycroft broke off and they both backed away from the messy sentiment.

'You've not asked me about Miss Adler.' Mycroft adjusted the cuff of his fleece jacket with a frown of distaste before steadily meeting his eye.

Sherlock didn't flinch. 'I think she's earned fair treatment.' He said taking the instrument from its case and looking it over.

'What has she done to deserve that I wonder. The woman who told us she wasn't playing fair anymore.'

Rarely bested. Sherlock didn't answer or correct him.

'Come and explain the living room wall to me.' His brother said finally. 'It looks like a child's collage.'

################

Mycroft Holmes could cook.

Irene would have assumed that something as mundane as sustenance would have been passed off to Anthea or that he perhaps ate solitary, joyless meals at his club, like so many of her former clients. So she was surprised when he asked her to assist him in the kitchen.

He had obviously shopped with some care and was now methodically turning venison, vegetables and what she knew to be rather good red wine into casserole. Bramley apples waiting their turn to become crumble or perhaps pie, he hadn't decided yet. The domesticity of the scene was absurd in the circumstances but she found herself comforted by it all the same as she chopped onions mushrooms and carrots as per his meticulous directions.

Irene and Anthea, by some silent mutual understanding, had left the brothers to their own devices in the living room for the better part of the day. They needed to talk, plot, bicker-hug it out perhaps. Who could really know. Irene had spent the morning and the early part of the afternoon tinkering with her memoirs to little effect after an early walk on the beach. Anthea seemed to spend whole hours standing on a rickety picnic table in the garden, presumably the only place she could get a signal for the BlackBerry. Any noise that came from the closed living room door was open to interpretation. An archly raised voice, a thud, a few discordant notes from the violin.

Casserole underway, she started to peel the apples. She had a vague notion that one long strip of peel was considered lucky in some way but she couldn't remember how. She couldn't manage it in any case. Mycroft poured a generous glass of wine and pushed it towards her.

'Sherlock says you are looking for a clean passport, an identity, is that all?' He didn't look at her as he diced butter and tossed it with flour in a bowl.

She had assumed that he would want to have a conversation out of his brothers earshot, she hadn't expected it to be so civilised.'Yes, you'll never hear from me again.'

He sighed thoughtfully. 'I plan to take you both back to London later tomorrow, it would help if you could tolerate a similar arrangement for a while longer.' She almost smiled at this, as if she had somewhere else to go.

' As you can imagine there is a plan in place, though we do find ourselves on an accelerated timetable.'

'I can do what's needed. Can I ask, will you be watching me or am I watching Sherlock for you? I don't mind, both are to be expected, I just want to be clear.' She looked at him boldly but he continued focussing on his hands working butter into flour in the bowl.

'A little of both I should imagine. I trust Sherlock implicitly- with everything in the end- except his own safety.'

There was a movement in the darkening garden and they both looked out. Sherlock and Anthea were perched on the picnic table, huddled together against the cold, smoking cigarettes like sneaky teenagers.

'They know each other?' Irene said, putting down her knife to sip her wine.

'Oh yes, they were lab partners in university. When it became clear Sherlock's academic career was going to be patchy at best I asked him to come and work for me. He declined, we both know what he did instead. He did ask for a job for Anthea though. I was doubtful, but agreed to interview her. She was-impressive.' Mycroft looked down the garden rather wistfully.

'She's worked for you since?'

'She was a field agent for a number of years. A good one, a knee injury put paid to that unfortunately. She's worked in my office since.'

'..and they were partners?'

'Just lab partners.' He looked at her sharply before turning back to his flour. 'My brother is not an easy man to like but I've noticed over the years he seems to bring out a fierce loyalty in people who should be smart enough to know better. Pie I think.' He said smiling, filling a jug from the the cold tap.

'What are you getting at?' She turned to face him.

'Try not to read too much into anything he says or does at the moment, unless it's to do with the work of course.'

' He is an adult. ' She was getting defensive. It irritated her all the more for the fact that she knew it had been his plan all along.

'All I ask is you consider his... fragility.' Mycroft finished uncertainly before visibly stiffening.

'There will be a full debriefing at some point, not immediately but you will eventually tell us everything you know - and not just about Jim Moriarty. You will hand over any associated documents and photographs. Whatever you have acquired by whatever means. For that I will exchange a clean, safe identity. Agreed?'

She took a few moments to exhale slowly. 'Agreed.'

She went back to peeling the apples.

##########

Mycroft was using his twin coping strategies. Food and formality. Sherlock wondered how close his brother had came to lighting the two silver candlesticks-a centrepiece perhaps.

They sat at the long dining table, absurd with just the four of them crowded at one end. Sherlock had a memory of another over-catered meal a few years ago. He had been on day release from rehab (they didn't call it day release of course, but that's what it amounted to) and Mycroft had insisted on cooking. His parents were so appallingly nice. Gushing about the gravy and Yorkshire pudding. Sherlock had wished they would shout, scream. Their disappointment, masked by faux cheerfulness had been more than he could take, newly clean and utterly raw.

The ubiquitous BlackBerry buzzed and Anthea handed it wordlessly to Mycroft.

'Excellent. Things are arranged. An unofficial safe house. Hardly central but near the tube.' He said as if they were planning a weekend away. He handed the phone back with a small smile and Anthea replaced it precisely beside her side plate.

'Other people know about us?' Irene stopped with a forkful halfway to her mouth.

'Not about you as such. If I tell someone in my department I need a safe house, official or otherwise, they tend not to ask questions. It's better all round.' He glared at her a little but she raised her eyebrows and carried on eating unperturbed.

'We got rather lucky with this one being available.' He continued. 'It was originally acquired to debrief occasional KGB defectors who appeared off fishing boats on the north coast. It's survived numerous budget cuts because some of my colleagues enjoy chasing stags across the Heather.' He said scornfully.

'You're happy to eat them though?' Irene gestured at the food and Sherlock smirked, she was enjoying baiting him, couldn't help herself.

'Unlike some of my colleagues Miss Adler I recognise that the dirty work is not for me and leave it to those with a taste and talent for it. There is nothing worse in this line of work than a desk agent blundering into a field operation - as I'm sure you know.'

'No one wants the trouble of tracking a wounded animal when things don't go to plan.' Sherlock supplied, continuing the laboured metaphor.

' Just so.' Mycroft replied, they ate in silence for a few minutes. The brothers pushing their plates away almost simultaneously. Sherlock was surprised at how hungry he had been.

'I looked into John's schedule.'Mycroft began again, voice softer. 'He has a conference in Scarborough at the beginning of next week, geriatrics. If you insist on speaking to him at this stage it is likely the best opportunity.'

'Her?' Sherlock couldn't quite bring himself to say Mary's (likely false) name.

'A hen party in Tenerife apparently.' Anthea said.

'Any idea yet what she's actually doing?' Irene asked.

Anthea shrugged, beginning to clear the plates. I'll be watching of course,but as far as we can tell it's genuine. One of the other nurses in the surgery is getting married in six weeks. Mary lives her cover. It's to be admired in a way.'

Anthea moved off to the kitchen with the plates, Irene following with the serving dishes.

Mycroft leaned towards his brother. 'Sherlock he'll hate you for this. You must understand that. I'm sure in time he'll come round but now-he might turn quite nasty. I can't blame him. You absolutely cannot mention anything about Morstan till he gets used to the idea of you being alive.'

'I had realised that.' Sherlock flopped petulantly back in his chair.

'Look, I'll take a few days. Come with you.'

'When have you ever 'taken a few days' You once spent Christmas day on the phone to the German ambassador. No-I'll be fine-it's John.'

##########

Later Sherlock lay on the shaky picnic bench looking up at the stars. Unpolluted by streetlights, the excellent view was only marred by smoke and the glowing tip of his cigarette as it moved in lazy arcs to his violin lay at his side. After so long the strings had stung the tips of his fingers. He imagined it was what people called a 'good pain'.

Irene came out to sit beside him, snagging the cigarette from his hand. 'John told me once you wrote sad music.' She said inhaling deeply and regarding the ember. The suppressed cough telling him she hadn't smoked in a while. 'That new year. Care to play me some?'

He wasn't normally shy of playing but the self indulgent melancholy of the piece John had doubtless been referring to was like reading a teenage diary. He sat up and played a few bars all the same. It was easier than talking.

'I was some sort of first wasn't I?' She said as the notes died away. 'Jim was wrong about you, not a virgin but there was some occasion to last night.'

He fiddled with the instrument, it had been left unplayed too long. Tight and slack in all the wrong places. 'I've never been clean before, always high. I know we'd been drinking a little but - I've never been so present I suppose.'

'Should I be flattered?' She smiled and he felt himself grow awkward under her gaze.

'Don't worry. I have no expectations.' She patted his thigh, the gesture felt oddly platonic in spite of the conversation.

##########

Once they were settled in the anodyne suburban villa his brother agreed he could go out, walk the streets. It was on the understanding that he didn't reveal himself to anyone (even Molly and Wiggins) until Mycroft said so. He started to feel like himself again but a different version. An earlier less polished version that could easily and anonymously move round London, working himself into its gritty surface.

In the years before his 'death'(especially since John and the blog) he had cultivated his persona. The coat, the suits and (against his better judgment) the hat. In the early days though he had been low key, slipping effortlessly, unnoticed, between the boroughs and the social classes. It was how he'd got on in his work abroad against Moriarty's network and it was invigorating to be able to do it on home turf again. Days passed before he got the green light from Mycroft.

Talk to who you must but prepare yourself for hostility. MH

That was certainly what he expected at the first name on his list. The front door was stripped of paint when he knocked and the skip on the street suggested more work inside. He wasn't sure what to expect when the door was opened but it wasn't the snort of laughter.

'I suppose you'd better come in.' She said, the familiar tone of challenge in Sally Donovan' s voice. He walked through the short hall past a half tiled bathroom into a newly modernised living room. The hall itself still a patina of nicotine staining on twenty year old wallpaper.

She folded herself onto a sofa, tucking her feet underneath her and picking up a glass of red wine.

'Not a good look for you.' She said sharply, running her eyes over him.'You've not surprised me you know, not really.'

'No, your enquiries were noted. Of course your new duties didn't allow you time to continue, did they Inspector.' Her face slackened under his gaze for a few seconds.

'They told me it was on merit. I bloody knew it.' She took a,gulp of wine.

'Of course it was on merit. You came closer. than anyone to working it all out. You had my brother on the back foot for weeks it was a joy to watch.'

'Why did Anderson get fired then?' She shot back.

'Anderson made himself ridiculous, more ridiculous. That had nothing to do with us that was all New Scotland Yard. Frankly his gang of online idiots did me a favour by making the idea that I'd survived absurd. I particularly enjoyed the one where Moriarty and I were secret lovers. Brightened a dull night in Athens no end reading that.' He paused, settling into the chair and crossing his legs. Sparring with Donovan, it was like he'd never been away.

' Anderson is no concern of yours now anyway. Lestrade recovered from the divorce is he?'

She looked incredulous.

Really Sally, after all the times we've done this.

'Shaving foam, unusual brand considerably more expensive than anything else he uses. I'm surprised he still has hair left with that appalling shampoo.'

'You didn't come here to talk about Greg's grooming though.' She set her empty glass down.

'No. You don't like me. I can thoroughly understand why. That's why I need to ask you about John. I know you won't hold back out of misplaced delicacy or concern for my feelings.'

So she offered him wine (which he refused) as she refilled her own glass and she told him. Chronologically, from the day at Barts.

Told him about the first days and weeks when they had taken turns sitting with him to give Mrs Hudson and the newly sober Harry Watson a break. Or more commonly sitting in the living room while John lay staring at his bedroom ceiling for hours, days at a time.

She told him how John had seemed to pick up after the first few months. He'd returned to work but it was a veneer, a brave face, going through the motions. Something happened at the surgery one day, they were never sure what but John had came home in tears, broken. Sherlock's friend, his bravest strongest, truest friend was trapped in limbo. Wandering the rooms of a dead mans home. Unable to move on or to wondered if on some level John had known but he shook the idea away.

Sally paused, shifting, considering her next words. Sherlock looked at her steadily.

'One day at the Yard we got a call from reception. Telling us some mad old woman was at the front door in tears asking for Greg. When we went down it was Mrs Hudson. She had John's gun.' Sally shook her head.

'Still loaded and wrapped in bloody Marks and Spencer carrier bags, she'd brought it in a cab. We couldn't get any details from her but she said he wasn't safe with it.'

Sherlock sprung out of his seat and paced. He'd suspected John had fared worse than Mycroft let him know but not this.

'And then?' He prompted.

'Then after Greg and I had risked our jobs securing an illegal firearm Greg stormed off to see your brother. Wouldn't let me go with him, God knows how he even knew how to find him, but I'd have liked to see him get an earful. Anyway by the end of the day John was whisked off. I don't know if he was actually, you know...'

'Sectioned, admitted? I doubt it, that's not how Mycroft works.'

'After that he was in hospital. Some private place near Bournemouth. Greg visited once, Said there was no sign outside or anything. He thought maybe it was where MI6 types get sent.'

'I believe I know it.',Sherlock said softly. Greenwood Hall was, as Sally said, where people were sent to recover from the psychological problems caused by their service. More string pulling from Mycroft. Sherlock was grateful but livid he'd not been told.

'After that?' He snapped, still pacing.

'He was better but he'd changed. He moved away. We hardly see him now. He's got a girlfriend,serious. Greg's met her but he says he's not sure about her.' Sherlock turned sharply mid-pace.

Sally' s eyes narrowed.'Is that why you're here?'

Before he had a chance to answer there was a rattle of a key in the lock. 'Greg?' Sally shouted.

I've stubbed it out-it's gone.' The other DI' s voice replied and Sherlock had a wave of panic. Sally had never liked him but Lestrade had been almost a brother to him over the years.

'Never mind the bloody cigarette- get in here we've got a visitor.' She shouted back.

When Lestrade turned the corner into the living room it took him a few steps across the wooden floor for him to realise what, who, he was looking at and freeze.

'Those things will kill you.' Sherlock said after a few seconds, the silence excruciating.

'You bastard.' Lestrade bounded across the room. Sherlock readied himself to dodge a punch but instead was enveloped in a bear hug. Sally smirking at his obvious discomfort.

Greg disappeared into the kitchen climbing on a chair to get into a high cupboard insisting this was an occasion for his good scotch. The Lestrade Sherlock had known before would have had the 'good scotch' closer at hand, probably on the coffee table after his wife left. Sally must be good for him.

'Aren't you going to ask me then?' She said quietly. Interesting. She hadn't told Greg about her doubts around his suicide.

'I thought it was just me who liked to be the smart arse. Go on then.'

'Barts, when I saw your text to Moriarty. I wondered, why Barts? You know the centre of London better than anyone. If you thought you were going to kill yourself you'd know dozens of places you could do it. It had to be Barts for a reason. That and..' She paused to look at him gently. 'John. You'd never have made John watch, unless it had to be that way.' She finished in almost a whisper as Greg came back in with a dusty bottle of Talisker and three tumblers grinning stupidly. He poured generously, handing the drinks round.

He stared at Sherlock for a few seconds. ' I'm going to ask you know, lots of stuff, but not today.' He shook his head, lifting his glass.'Slainte and all that anyway.'

They clinked glasses and drank. 'Do you need anything?' Lestrade said after a few seconds, recovered slightly but still unable to take his eyes off Sherlock.

Sherlock sat his glass down carefully. 'Well since you're both here anyway. I may need some help in a few days time, to get arrested.'