John was shocked. There, standing less than fifty feet from him, stood Sherlock Holmes himself. He didn't look dead; on the contrary, he looked very much alive (though the blonde did wash him out a bit). He was still his tall, lanky self, and his cheekbones were still abnormally sharp. He was dressing somewhat more casually; he seemed to be enjoying donning a pair of relaxed jeans and a t-shirt advertising some bar, probably from America. John noted the look in his eyes when they saw each other: angst. It had been over a year, and there he was, standing in the middle of 221B as though he'd never left. Suddenly, John felt the sudden urge to punch him, and he gripped the edge of the table for support. Sherlock allowed himself to give a small twitch of a smile, then his jaw was stone yet again. They stood there, staring at each other, for at least a minute.
"Well, isn't this a cozy reunion?" Irene drummed her recently-manicured fingernails on the table, (she'd sat back down after realizing she didn't want to miss the reunion) causing them both to glare at her. Her input wasn't needed- nor wanted- from either of them. John turned back to Sherlock.
"How the bloody hell are you still alive?" He gritted his teeth, trying not to spit at him. Shock overwhelmed him, and he felt his legs shaking.
"Very carefully. How are you not dead yet? This place reeks of alcohol." Sherlock walked by a bookshelf, dragging his finger across it. "And it hasn't been cleaned in days. Have you not spoken to Mrs. Hudson lately? She seems to be forgetting her job."
"Actually, I've been sleeping most of my days." John gripped the table again. Sherlock was speaking as though he'd just been gone on a very long vacation and was just settling back in. It angered him to think Sherlock could just walk back in there as if nothing had ever changed. The papers had never exploited him, John had never received threatening phone calls or harassment by repulsive reporters, and Mrs. Hudson hadn't lost interest in renters because they thought she supported fraud. Their lives had crumbled around them, and it was all at the expense of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
Or whoever he truly was.
"Obviously. I guess we'll just have to take care of that. If I had half a mind, I'd call Mrs. Hudson up here right now. However, I have news." He seemed to be talking to Irene now, who was gazing at him with a look of disinterest. "Mycroft said he'd check into his vast knowledge of uprising threats. However, I'm not so sure he'll remember it after he wakes up. Poor bloke, hit his head when he fainted."
Irene chuckled, washing her plate off in the sink. "That surprised, huh? You'd think he'd take it better." She nodded over at John. "At least this one's still standing."
"For now," Sherlock added, half-smiling. "At least you don't appear too disheveled. But you do need a shower." He wrinkled his nose.
"Sherlock, darling, I made you a plate. You should eat. Airplane food doesn't nourish the body well. I'm afraid I must leave you two to you lonesome for a moment while I change. I'll never make a good impression if I appear in this getup." Smiling, Irene headed into Sherlock's old room, shutting the door behind her.
Sherlock grabbed his plate and took a couple of bites. It was good, but he wasn't hungry. In fact, he was rather excited. It felt good to be back in London, where no one recognized him because of his changed hair and taste in clothes. He'd spent the past couple of days shopping, changing himself to a better disguise. "How've you been Watson? Besides drunk, at least."
John shrugged, taking care of his plate. So you want it to be just like normal, eh? "Oh, you know, just emotionally damaged. As usual. Yourself?"
"Dead. As usual."
John nodded. "I'm guessing Ms. Adler informed you of the current... situation?"
"Mhm. I'm intrigued that people still remember me."
"She said it was someone who was trying to impersonate Moriarty."
Sherlock actually laughed. "Of course. That was what she was supposed to say. Truthfully, all we know is that someone if trying to bring me back. As a... villain, you might say. It's quite hilarious, actually. Makes for a good story." Sherlock poured himself a cup of coffee.
John sighed. "So was he really texting Ms. Adler?"
Sherlock nodded. "Yes. And quite flirtatiously, might I add." There was a sudden change in his voice, and John eyed him precariously. He may've been drinking more than usual lately, but he knew jealously when he heard it. And the look in Sherlock's eyes wasn't very hard to read, either.
"Well, it is her job."
"Was, Mr. Watson. Was," Irene interjected as she emerged from Sherlock's old room. She was presently inserting a silver hoop earring, and her matching necklace stood out against her pale skin. She donned a pair of navy dress pants, as well as a light blue pullover v-neck sweater. The neckline was questionable, classy but enough exposed to leave you wanting to see more. Her nude-colored patent heels made her tower over both of the men, however, her height was closest to Sherlock's. She had the impression of power, even though the colors she sported were of the passive and calm family. The way her hair was done- a classic sock bun at the top of her head with small tendrils from the sides- gave the impression of regality. Irene was beautiful, and she knew it. "Now I'm just an interested business woman. One who enjoys a mystery." Handing a charm bracelet (one like those "Pandora" bracelets John had seen commercials for) to Sherlock, John watched as he clipped it around her wrist carefully, dragging his thumb softly across her hand before dropping it. "Thanks, love."
"So, when are we leaving again?" John glanced at his watch. "It's past ten-thirty."
"We can leave as soon as-" Sherlock's phone started to ring, and he pulled it out of his back pocket. "I've been waiting for this call. Hello, brother dearest. How's your head?"
John and Irene heard shouting on the other line, and Sherlock held the phone away from his ear. "There's no need to shout, Mycroft. It's not my fault you fainted. At least John didn't faint." More shouting. "Brother, you knew I was still alive." Less shouting. "I know, I should've informed you of my changed hair. And when I was arriving. But you don't understand how great it was to see your face." Reasonable conversing. "Why, thank you. We can be there in an hour or less. No need to babble, brother. See you soon." Click. Sherlock smiled at the two waiting patiently. "Mycroft has a friend on the way who says she can help trace your phone. He told us to meet him in an hour. At his house." He grabbed his jacket.
"Oh, please do tell me you're not going dressed like that, are you?" Irene's voice was shrill. Sherlock arched an eyebrow.
"Why not? You're only as good as your disguise, my dear." He winked.
Irene walked into Sherlock's old room and returned with a pair of dark wash jeans and a forest green button down. "Because no partner of Irene Adler's will ever present themselves to someone of higher stance dressed like a commoner." As she handed him the clothes, which he reluctantly took, she whispered in his ear, "Besides, a man in dress clothes does make me... curious."
John watched, rolling his eyes. A few minutes later, Sherlock emerged from his old room dressed, his hair fingered a bit more professionally. Grabbing his coat and linking arms with Irene, who'd donned a tan trench coat, the three of them headed downstairs and into the city.
It was sunny outside, the air crisp. There was a new feeling in London, almost like the weariness was gone. Instead, a new feeling had emerged. The sun had finally come out from behind the clouds, and it seemed as though people were being friendlier. The sidewalks were more crowded, and cars were driving casually, as though to take in the day like it could be gone in an instant. London had missed Sherlock Holmes, and now he was home. For a brief moment, all was right in the world.
This was a bonus chapter, mainly because it's Easter. I know sunny days are rare in England (at least, that's what I've heard), so that's why I included the last little bit. Remember to review!(: