A/N - Thankyou so much for all the reviews, story follows and favourites. I never expected such a good response to this story! This chapter is based around Sherlock and it's a bit angsty but as always enjoy!

Thankyou also to my wonderful Beta, TruffleHead, for working her beta magic!

Disclaimer - I do not own Sherlock.

4 months after the fall (1 month after finding Molly's note)…

Sherlock sat in a small café in Bordeaux, France, sipping coffee that was both a bit too hot and not quite strong enough. In the months since his fall, Sherlock had travelled all over Europe taking down Moriarty's web; or, at least, he was trying to. For months, he had been travelling from city to city, gathering information about the web, and eventually, if he was lucky, he would capture a member of the network.

However, Moriarty had anticipated that someone, if not Sherlock, would attempt to bring down his web after his demise, so he had put into place security measures to protect his empire. Every time Sherlock attempted to bring down a branch of it, he was stopped by firewalls, encryptions and big scary henchman with big scary guns.

He had thought it would be relatively easy to eradicate any trace of James Moriarty. He had thought that with Moriarty gone, the web would be in complete and utter chaos, his minions aimlessly blundering about without any orders. He'd expected low life scum at the outer reaches of the city working for some mildly intelligent scammers who would be committing mindless crimes, just waiting to be caught.

What had he found, however, was far more complex.

Each individual branch included two collaborating teams: the brains, and the brawn. The 'brains' would deal with the more delicate tasks, such as computer hacking and bringing down security measures, so that the 'brawn' could do the dirty work, like collecting packages acting upon threats.

The two teams on the branch would then report directly to a superior. The superior was usually part of a gang or a sect who would have a few men at their disposal to deal with any hassle. That superior would then report to an informer. The informer would screen the information gathered, and look over a progress report of the team's activities, deciding what to pass on to Mr. Moriarty.

The information would then be passed to Sebastian Moran, an ex army colonel and Moriarty's right hand man, to be assessed. Anything above a seven would be passed on to Moriarty himself, who would be sitting in an oversized office looking important. That was the web, as far as Sherlock understood it.

Some things were still bugging him, though, niggling at the furthest edges of his mind. For example, Sherlock couldn't help but draw comparisons between Moriarty and himself. Two great minds of the 21st century battling against each other. And Moriarty had Moran. A man willing to move the very earth to please Moriarty. Sherlock had had John. The operative word being had. That wasn't his life anymore; it couldn't be. He had given up that life the very moment he stepped off the roof of Bart's.

Sherlock still thought about John; how could he not? The biggest part of his life was gone, and it was his own doing. John had always been there for him. A constant in the chaotic, fast flowing torrent of his life. John had been able to reign him in, tell him off when he went too far, and keep him fed and watered when he, himself, neglected to.

John had been his very first friend, and now he had shattered that friendship beyond recognition. Even if he was able to come back from the dead, there was no guarantee that John would still be waiting for him. John deserved a normal life, and Sherlock would just get in the way of that. I'm better off alone, Sherlock thought to himself, but he supposed he could always hope.

To add to the chaos that was currently ensuing in his mind palace was the recurring thought of Molly's note. She had left London. Left because she couldn't stand it anymore.

He had ruined her life.

He had known, of course, how she had felt about him; how could he not? The signs were obvious, but he had never acted upon them. He couldn't; he was a sociopath, after all. He didn't have these feelings. Admittedly, he did care for some people, namely John and Mrs Hudson, but that was different, and he certainly did not care for his pathologist.

Molly had loved him, though. Perhaps Molly would be the only person to ever truly love him-and not just for his talent, like The Woman had. But no, he stopped that train of thought instantly. He would not allow himself to think that way. He did not care for Molly Hooper- small, mousy Molly Hooper from the morgue.

He had shed a tear when reading her note-he had found himself... feeling something, a gentle, but persistent little tug in his chest - but that had been a moment of weakness. A blip in the circuitry of his fine- wired brain. But if that was so, why couldn't he get the image of Molly Hooper's face out of his thoughts?

Goodness, the situation must be getting to him. Yes, that was it, it had to be.

Sherlock finished off his mediocre coffee and exited the café. As soon as he was outside, he lit up a cigarette and blew out a puff of smoke. He observed the simple people milling about in the town centre. A lawyer, a pastry chef, and a student; no deep dark secrets to unearth. The people in this town were terribly good natured and easy going; it was so different from what he was used to in London.

The situation is affecting me more than I thought; I'm getting sentimental, Sherlock scoffed at himself as he meandered down the small alleyways towards the B&B he was staying in.

Sherlock brought out his phone and sent off a quick text to Mycroft who, much to Sherlock's chagrin, had helped him quite a lot since his 'death'. Mycroft had provided him with documents so he could leave the country, and even brute force when it was needed.

Coming home. No more leads here. Have my room ready. - SH

2 weeks after his resurrection...

They had kept it quiet at first. Sherlock had decided there was no point of staying in hiding; Moriarty's network that had been in London had been dealt with anyway, but one man still remained - Moran.

Sebastian Moran was eluding Sherlock. Sherlock would hear whispers and rumours of a tall, muscular blonde man hanging around various criminal haunts, but he could never manage to track down the man himself. Sherlock had gotten so worked up that he had taken to not speaking for days at a time; all his time and energy had been dedicated to tracking down Moran.

In the end, Sherlock worked out a deal, although grudgingly, with Mycroft. Any information Mycroft was able to acquire about Moran's whereabouts would be passed directly onto Sherlock. Unbeknownst to Sherlock, there were also high- end security measures placed upon himself and the three people who were originally targeted: Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and John. Mycroft could not stand the possibility of him losing his brother again to this man, and not to mention there was loads of information that could be gained from Moran if Mycroft's men did indeed get a hold of him.

So Sherlock came out of hiding in an attempt to lure Moran out; dangling the bait in front of the sniper's nose and hoping he would be vengeful enough to take it. It seemed the only way to get the sniper to come out from behind enemy lines and give Sherlock a chance, no matter how slim, to take him down. If Moriarty wasn't around to pay for what he had done to Sherlock in the past seven months, then Moran would have to do.

However, there were some problems. Sherlock's return was not received well. In fact, it went the opposite of well. He thought it better to show up at 221 B in person, rather than have Mycroft do it.

At first, John had just stared in disbelief at how his friend had returned from the dead, but then, he had gotten angry- really angry. Sherlock had expected this, however, and had braced himself for the punch that landed straight on his jaw. He had not expected the second, though, or the third. After John had tired himself out, there was a lot of choked sobs and a few angry words; from both men.

At the end of John's outburst, Sherlock finally had a chance to really look at his friend. John was a lot slimmer than usual, dark circles outlined his eyes and more wrinkles had appeared around his frown line, and the flat was a mess. Sherlock could see what John had been through, and he felt guilt. For the first time in his life he experienced guilt, deep down in the pit of his stomach, and it wouldn't go away. Sherlock didn't know if it would ever leave him.

After the initial shock was over, John was much more talkative. They talked for hours on end about how he faked his death, why he hadn't told John, and what he had done for the past seven months. John also told him about Mary Morstan, a nurse he had met a week ago, and how they met. Sherlock did not usually indulge in such chatter, but somehow he found it comforting to have John back to talk to although John had made it clear that he was still angry with him and would need time to think properly once he had slept.

Lestrade had taken the news much the same way, but he was also very glad that Sherlock was back. Lestrade had been disgraced at Scotland Yard for still believing in Sherlock after the fall. He had been demoted to a desk sergeant! He couldn't wait to show his superiors the file Sherlock had handed him, proving Richard Brook was a fake and that James Moriarty was the real criminal nehind it all. He had asked Sherlock how he managed to get this evidence, but he had only received a, "Best not to ask, Lestrade," from Sherlock, who had then promptly walked away.

When he had revealed himself to Mrs Hudson, at first she had simply slapped him, but then she had hugged him tightly and scorned him for all the trouble he put everyone through. The whole ordeal had involved a profuse amount of apologizing on his end.

It was now, sitting in his armchair, that Sherlock allowed himself to enter his mind palace. The last few days had been unsettling to say the least, and Sherlock desperately needed to organize his thoughts. It wasn't long, though, with his mind wandering, that Molly Hooper came to the fore again. He found himself wondering where she was. He could easily get Mycroft to find out exactly where she was, and probably what she was doing as well, but she wanted to be left alone; didn't she? He would leave her alone. After all, he didn't need her, anyway. He told himself that he was just curious and that he harboured no feelings whatsoever toward the pathologist, and that she could do what she wanted with her life; it was none of his business. A strange stirring sensation, though, was beginning in his gut. Was it more guilt? No, this was different. A strange sort of tingling sensation creeping towards his chest...

Stop it, Sherlock urged himself, you do not need these feelings or stirrings, whatever they are; ignore them.

And that was what he did. Sherlock got up from his armchair and picked up his violin, caressing the wood as he gently lifted it to his neck. He brought the bow to the strings and softly eased out a melody from the instrument.

It's good to be back.