As always: Thank you.

Coming Home

It was raining.

One of those London rains that came down with a vengeance, instantly drenching passers-by and shrouding the streets in a white mist. People were hurrying along, heads down, cursing at the cars sending up fountains of water; gutters and sewers were overflowing, flooding Baker Street with a torrent of rain, dirt and litter.

God, how he had missed it.

Sherlock stood watching from the shadows, relishing the sting of cold raindrops on his skin: they made him feel alive. But more importantly, they made people unobservant. He had identified every single agent Mycroft had posted around his flat; his brother was careful, although he never suspected that Sherlock would dare to return to Baker Street.

But he did; and he relied on his homeless network to distract Mycroft's men. He was now waiting for the signal to move.

And there it was: the beggar crouching under a doorway two houses down tugged at his cap. Sherlock hurried across the street, timing his crossing effortlessly to be hidden by passing cars. Key in the lock and the heavy door of 221B fell shut behind him without any of Mycroft's agents noticing.

There were three reasons why he took the risk of returning: first, he needed his old computer – lamentably outdated after three years, but still a minefield of information and set up to break into Mycroft's security system. Second, he needed a place to think. Third: he wanted to go home. Actually, that was the only reason. Sherlock smiled ruefully.

Mrs Hudson was home. And she was coming to see who had arrived.

This was the difficult part. He had tried to prepare himself, but he was not sure how he would react to her embracing him – he found any intrusion into his personal space intolerable. He had carefully avoided or bluntly rebuffed all attempts to be hugged or touched since his return, and the only exception had been his own assault on John at Battersea. It had worked then; he had been prepared, running high on adrenaline, feeling neither pain nor revulsion, only the need to protect.

It had not worked, however, during their second encounter in the MI6 office – his mind had been stuck in a loop of panic, paralyzing him, and the result had been disastrous. He could not do that to Mrs Hudson; he knew her need to touch him and reassure herself he was alright would be overwhelming, and Mycroft had certainly not warned her of his sensitivity problem. Sherlock's return to Baker Street had not been part of the plan, so why worry the poor woman?

The door to her flat opened. Sherlock straightened up.

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson threw her flour-covered hands into the air and, in defiance of her frailty, dashed towards him, virtually throwing herself onto him. "Sherlock! I can't believe it! Oh, my boy, it's really you!" She hugged him with surprising force, leaving white marks of flour dust on his back. "Are you all right, dear?" She pulled back to look at his face.

"I'm all right, Mrs Hudson," he assured her, giving her his best boyish grin.

"Oh, look at you–" she stepped back, firmly grabbing him by the arms. "You look dashing! Apart from that nasty cut along your throat, and have you been in a fight? There's a bit of bruising under your eye, but heavens, Sherlock, if I may say so, it makes you look more masculine!" She giggled like a school girl and pulled him back into a bone-crushing hug. "Oh, sorry, love, now you've got flour all over you – I'm making scones, you know, you have to try some, with a nice cup of tea!"

He almost cried at her words. Oh, if she knew … but she never would. Carefully, he embraced her too, taking in the familiar scent of her perfume, her soft hair and papery skin, and suddenly he felt a rush of elation running through him, for there was no pain, no fear, no feeling of being stifled – it felt like home. He was home.

At least for a few merciful moments.

It took him a while to convince her that he had work to do upstairs, and no one was to know that he had returned to Baker Street, least of all his brother. She only let him go after thoroughly brushing the flour from his coat and making him promise he'd have scones with clotted cream later. And another hug, of course.

17 steps and a creaky door. He pushed it open with his fingertips, taking in the familiar smell of dust, paper, and more dust. Lingering in the floorboards was a vague chemical scent, a legacy from numerous experiments; what was missing, however, were the smells of tea, toast and John. Thus, it was an empty home.

Mrs Hudson had not removed anything. All his possessions were left in boxes, but what could not be moved was still in place: the chairs, the smiley, the bullet holes, and for whatever reason, the skull. Sherlock stood taking it in for several minutes. Then, he silently walked into every room, memorizing the changes, noting every missing bit, mentally filling it in.

John's room was completely empty. Of course, he would have taken his few pieces of furniture to his new home in Kensington. Disappointed, Sherlock realized that three years had destroyed every trace of scent and most other signs of John's presence, too.

The bathroom – just empty. Not even a forgotten piece of soap.

He entered his own bedroom. It was the same as the living room – the furniture was still there, but the smaller objects were stowed away; he found Goethe peaking out from a Fed Ex box next to the riding crop, but the photo of his brother had been wrapped in tissue and placed in a tea chest, along with his torch, magnifier and notebook.

He opened the drawers of the closet and grinned: his underwear was still there. Probably too personal to pack away, he thought with a smirk. His suits were in the closet, too – though he quickly closed the doors again, the smell of moth powder was simply overwhelming. Mrs Hudson's desire to preserve his Spencer Hart suits had not only kept away the ever-hungry caterpillars of tineola bisselliella, it also sent Sherlock straight into a painful coughing fit, reminding him of the persistent problem of a developing pneumonia. Not now, he grumbled to himself.

He could not find the violin. Strangely, this upset him so much he stood rooted to the spot for a full minute, his face pulled into a dark frown and his mind reeling. Mycroft's doing?

And then it hit him – no, John had taken it. John had refused to inherit anything, but he had taken the violin as a memento of his dead friend.

Oh.

Sherlock felt the maelstrom of emotions boiling up again, and he tried to turn his mind away – there were much more urgent matters to attend to.

He failed. Miserably.

So he sat down on his bed and began to dissect his feelings. He would not have done so three years ago … but now, it was necessary: his mind did not function properly under the onslaught of emotions. He knew he could not turn them off, but once he identified them, he could restore some sort of order, keeping them in check. Just like he had done with the flat, he began by taking stock what troubled his mind. Or rather, who.

There was Mycroft. The relationship with his brother had always been strained; but his dependency on Mycroft during the hiatus had changed the nature of it. His brother had become the only link to his old life, the life he so desperately wanted back, and Mycroft had never let him down, had talked him through many bitter nights, and had rescued him from his torturers. He knew that Mycroft was impressed with his work – not even his best agents had ever come close to achieving so much in only three years, and he had done it in ways Mycroft had thought him incapable of. His work had earned him Mycroft's respect.

But now Mycroft had betrayed him: he had intended to section him, breaking his promise to help him capture Moriarty. From Mycroft's point of view it was certainly a logical and necessary decision – really, Sherlock thought, it was his own fault, for he had seen through his brother's plans too late. After all, he had known about Mycroft's doubts that Moriarty was alive. He had not realized, however, that his brother was utterly convinced that he was delusional and suicidal. He had assumed Mycroft had only recognized the post-traumatic stress disorder and the problems caused by his damaged memory – which did not warrant compulsory hospitalization.

So, he had failed at hiding his pain properly. 'Really,' Sherlock thought with a wry smile, 'my own fault.'

He raised an eyebrow at himself: honestly, it was a compliment to Mycroft's observational skills to have read him so accurately; and as always, he had acted out of concern. Sighing, Sherlock decided he did not hate his brother.

But maybe this was only because he was too tired to do so, and this did not mean he had to forgive him. Fine. Nothing changed, then.

Then there was Mrs Hudson. She was the last person he had expected to throw him into such inner turmoil – and all simply by hugging him. Until she had embraced him, he had thought he could never tolerate anyone's touch again. But now there was hope – hope, that he could indeed heal.

My dear old lady.

Finally, John. Always John. It caused him enormous distress to think about him. He had hurt him so much; and he wanted his forgiveness more than anything else. Why was it so important what John thought of him? It was an endless mystery; he did not particularly care about his brother believing him to be delusional, but if John did – the idea made him cringe. It was of utmost importance that John knew what was going on in his mind, therefore he had kept up writing the diary, and he had to make sure he received it. If John believed he had lost his mind, so be it; but it was vital that he knew Sherlock had not acted out of cruelty, but because he cared.

John had to know he cared. Nothing else really mattered.

Therefore, he had to finish Moriarty's game. And maybe there was the tiniest chance that he would get out alive … strange, he smirked, only this morning staying alive had not been a priority. Quite the opposite, now. Everything had changed.

Feeling slightly better, he got to his feet. There was work to do.

It did not take him long to find his laptop – it sat right next to the microscope, all neatly bubble-wrapped in an cardboard box. He dug it out, unwrapped it, and plugged it in. It was booting up instantly, and within a few minutes, he had transferred the data he had stolen from Mycroft's phone to the laptop in order to review it.

Much later, he sat down in his leather chair, chin resting on his fingertips, thinking. God, how he had missed it.

He kept his mind floating, not entering his damaged mind palace, only puzzling together the pieces of information he had. He arranged and rearranged them, sorted some out, added others, filled gaps, and suddenly, everything fell into place.

A nuclear warhead.

A secret meeting.

The heads of security of five principal nations.

The pride of London.

Vanity.

Sherlock's eyes widened. How elegant; how very elegant. He lowered his hands and exhaled slowly. Now he knew what was going to happen.

He did not know, however, how to prevent it. Slowly, he got to his feet and walked over to the sofa. Ignoring the dust, he lay down. He did not dare to close his eyes, afraid of falling asleep; exhaustion weighed him down more heavily than ever, but he could not rest, he had to solve this conundrum.

Strange, he thought, that Mycroft hadn't made the connection; but then again – it was logical. Once you rule out the impossible … and his brother had ruled out something as impossible which was not: Moriarty was alive. Mycroft, mighty Mycroft, dear Mycroft, his beloved brother who had guided him through the darkest night, had made a mistake. He had assumed the Consulting Criminal was dead. Then, all Mycroft's actions were perfectly logical, wonderfully reasonable, painfully dull. And all driven by worry.

His thoughts were straying … and how strange that his feelings, so utterly dead only days ago, were now rearing up with a vengeance. Stop it. No time.

Another round of plotting, then. He was better at that.

One hour later, a slow smile spread across his face. He had a plan. A dangerous one.

He jumped up so fast that the world went black. Swaying and growling with annoyance, he waited until his vision cleared, then scrambled for his phone to make several calls. There was a lot to organize – and timing, timing was crucial. In fact, everything hinged on timing.

And because of that, he had some time left before he could take the next step.

After having finished with the phone calls, he sat down in his armchair. He still had a promise to fulfill: writing the last chapter of his diary.

Sherlock sighed and calmly faced the demons his memory unleashed from their dark pit, attempting to chain them with words. It had to be done; John had to know.

It left him exhausted. Signing the last entry with his customary initial, he hoped that this would not be the last message John ever received from him. The chances were slim, though.

But now it was time to act: he slid the phone into his pocket, stood up and ransacked the living room until he found the bottle with the yellow Michigan hardcore spray paint, then grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled a message on it. He phoned another member of his homeless network and in less than ten minutes there was a knock on the door downstairs. Mrs Hudson answered and, as instructed, gave the kid the paint, the message, and a generous tip.

Sherlock stood hidden by the curtains and watched. The red-and-black IOU sign, Moriarty's message, was still there, obviously refreshed, taunting Baker Street. Now it was about to receive an answer.

Sherlock's lips curled into a smile as the kid cast a furtive glance around the corner and sprayed a new message in big, yellow letters next to the IOU. The boy finished just as one of the neighbours appeared, and ran off, throwing the bottle at the man with full force.

"Oy, you punk!" The man yelled, but the offender was already gone. Puzzled, he stood in front of the glaring letters, reading them again and again, hands on his hips.

CC

Want to blow up paradise?

Meet me in the sky, before nightfall.

No devil there.

SH

The man could not make heads or tails of it, and eventually, he shook his head, dismissing it.

So did Mycroft's agents, of course.

Sherlock smirked. "The game is on, Jim. Come and play."