Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of its brilliant characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a true literary genius. However OC characters that will appear here do belong to me, but as to whom they are, I will leave that to be revealed with the story.

Author's Note: Ah, now that the last chapter is behind us, we can get on to the fun! Yes this story is a bit dark…at least for now…but that was how I imagined it in my mind. I promise there will be lighter parts too. And now, on to the story!

Chapter Two

Sherlock Holmes sat in his familiar armchair by the fire looking at the letter in his hand for what must have been the hundredth time. A fleeting sense of joy and hope filled him, but was quickly joined by dread and anticipation. Watson was finally returning to England. It had been over a year since Mary had died and he had left for America at the insistence of his family. The letter was frank, but still had a tone to it that was distinctly Watson. Holmes was unsure what he would find of the man he had once known. Would he be exactly as before? Would he be the broken shell of a man that had left? Or some mixture of a half rebuilt life? Sherlock was not an emotional man. It was below one of logic such as himself. But even that did not prevent him from admitting that he had become rather attached to his ex-flat mate. Watson was perhaps the closest friend he had ever had, if not his only. He often longed for the days before Mary's existence had occurred when the two of them would run around on cases, fighting crime, and enjoying each other's company around the house. Not to mention the bickering, nagging, pranking, and all other sorts of mischief that occurred in 221B Baker Street. The halls had become rather quiet and lonely without the presence of the kind doctor, and Holmes was eager to have his compatriot live with him again, although again, there was the question of how much of that man was still in existence.

Holmes was disturbed from his musings when a sharp knock came to the door downstairs. At least one thing had not changed about John Watson. It was the same distinct rap that he had always used since the day they first met. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of the detective's lips. It was a pleasantly familiar sound and he welcomed it.

John took in the familiar shape and color of the front door of 221B Baker Street and felt an odd sense of homecoming. He would be lying to say that it was easy to return to London, but if there was ever a refuge in the entire large and boisterous city, it was in this small dwelling. Yes it had ties to Mary; even now the name tugged at the frayed edges of the hole inside his chest where his heart had once been; but it was also a home of sorts, and that was what he craved most now. He had spent over a year craving solitude, learning how to live again, how to breathe, how to eat, how to think. He wanted to die in the worse way possible. He wanted to escape every throb of pain that filled his mind and body from a wound that not even his doctoral expertise could heal. But now, he wished for some sense of normality. He wanted to escape the pitying looks, the hushed voices, the tear filled eyes. He wanted someone to treat him like a human being again. How else could he begin to feel like one again? There was only one person insensitive enough to ignore completely the actions that had happened to him over a year ago, and that was the refuge he sought now. It seemed ironic in a way, that lack of emotion that he had always scolded Sherlock for was now what he craved most. No emotions. Emotions hurt and emotions killed. He could do with a little less emotion.

The lock of the door clicked, drawing Watson back into the present. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips as he thought of his old hassled land lady and how she would react seeing him again. He knew she would be glad of his presence. After all living along with Sherlock Holmes was no easy task. To John's great surprise however, it was not Mrs. Hudson that opened the door. It was a young woman in her early twenties with soft chocolate hair twisted into a plait over her shoulder. She looked at him with soft blue eyes matching the blouse she wore and smiled.

"Mr. Watson I presume?" she asked. Watson blinked.

"Ah…yes…that's me." he fumbled. What sort of prank was Holmes playing on him now? The young lady held the door open for him.

"Do come in. Mr. Holmes is up in his study waiting for you. I'll get your bags." she offered. Watson stepped inside, bag in hand.

"No need, I can carry it." he gave her his best attempt at a friendly expression, which ended up as a polite sort of expression and a curt nod before he made his way for the stairs. He had to get to the bottom of this.

Holmes could hear the familiar sound of Watson's feet on the stairs, one footfall distinctly heavier than the other and the soft thump of his cane for support. It would seem his leg was giving him a little more trouble today. A quick glance at the window told him that the sky outside was particularly cloudy; an atmospheric reaction then. He counted Watson's steps and just when they reached the outside of his door he spoke.

"Come in Doctor." Sherlock called, thoroughly pleased with himself. John walked in, dropping his bag by the door, taking in the familiar sights and scents. For a moment he couldn't help the feeling of nostalgia as he smelt the scents of alcohol and pipe tobacco, the room dark and smoky as always. Holmes was sitting in the same chair he always sat in, looking at him with that same expectant smug look. The look he gave Watson whenever he was about to explain a deduction that would certainly make him feel 10 times stupider in its simplicity. Usually John wanted to hit him when he gave him that look, but today it brought a fondness that he had not expected to feel. It was good to see the detective, in all his irksome and quirky mannerisms. It was that thought that reminded him of the new woman downstairs, for Holmes was nothing if private, and liked his repetition, and this woman did not fit into either as far as he was aware of. Had, in his absence, Sherlock fallen in love and become domestic? The very idea made Watson's head spin. It seemed more improbable than the detective admitting that Scotland Yard was a group of intelligent well trained men, and he knew that was impossible.

"I know what you're thinking." Sherlock says with a look of amusement. John sighed. Yes, things were just as they were. With a humoring smile Watson leaned on his cane and steadied his gaze on his companion.

"And what is that?" he asks, humoring him.

"You wish to know the name of the young lady downstairs, who she is, and why she is here. And also the location of our dear keeper Mrs. Hudson." Holmes replies quite confidently.

"And?" Watson waits, knowing well that he didn't have to tell Holmes he was correct for him to know it.

"Mrs. Hudson chose to retire not long after you left. That is her niece, Lily. She has taken over Mrs. Hudson's job as our landlady slash house keeper. Not a bad cook though." Sherlock's response was as nonchalant as could be, the ending statement seemingly the most important of the whole discussion. Watson was at a loss. Mrs. Hudson retired? New landlady? He supposed that the kind woman couldn't work forever, and that change was bound to happen, but he had rather looked forward to returning to the place that never seemed to change at all, despite the rapid and continuous changes of the world around them. With a sigh John conceded. It wasn't as if he had a choice. If the young woman had earned the detective's respect enough to be allowed to walk freely around the house and cook food for him, then she must be a trustworthy woman. Holmes seemed to be aware of Watson's thoughts once again and gestured for him to take the seat across from him, a chair that had once been considered Watson's regular, and it seemed had been saved for him, even after all this time. Watson sat and sank comfortably back into the familiar cushions with a mixture of scents that distinctly had a sensation of home to him. Holmes studied him for a long minute, his brown eyes taking in every detail there was to see, and many more that Watson himself was unaware that he showed. The awkwardness of their reunion finally seemed to fill the air. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Well…I am glad that you are back….it's…good to see you old boy." he finally says, breaking the silence. Watson nodded.

"You as well old chap." he replies, slipping back into the same fond terms of their past. He toyed with his cane in his hand absentmindedly.

"Do you have any plans for the day?" Holmes asked, breaking another short pause. Watson shook his head. He did not particularly desire to go out. He was here, in this house, physically in London. That was enough for him, and far closer than he ever thought he would be. Holmes nodded in seeming understanding, though Watson could only wonder if he really did.

"I could pass the time with stories of my past cases." he offers. It was, after all, his favorite kind of story. A curiosity sparkled in the doctor's eyes, a light that had not been seen in them since before the last time Sherlock saw the man, since before Mary's death. Eager to continue to revive that life, Sherlock picked up his prized pipe, tapped it against his hand, and then began to fill it. Watson shifted into a more comfortable position and sat back, ready to follow in his mind on the many great adventures of his friend, if only in his mind. Holmes lit his pipe and took a puff before settling back to regale his stories.

The night passed quickly after that. Food was brought up for them and they ate without paying much attention to the food that entered their mouths as they talked for hours and hours. Sherlock told tales of cases big and small, intricate and simple, and how he followed each deduction with perfect detail. John spoke of America and his family and a bit of the time he spent over the past year, although those stories seemed to pull the doctor back inside himself. They settled, instead, to reminisce over the adventures they shared together before when they both lived at 221B Baker Street before, although both deliberately avoided any mention of Mary. It was the wee hours of the morning before they both turned in for the night, tongues tired and hearts content, feeling that once again some semblance of normality had returned to their lives and to the house.