It had all seemed so simple at first. Indeed, part of him had expected his return to be a personal victory lap, as he revealed himself alive, bragged about his cleverness, explained how he'd outwitted Moriarty, protected them, and gone on to clean out most of Moriarty's network. Secretly he'd imagined shock, and, yes, some anger as they realized they'd been tricked yet again, shown up yet again. And, yes, very well, some anger over having thought he'd died. But then there would be joy, welcome, surprised delight. After the obligatory, if rather distasteful hugging and crying and so on and so forth that ordinary people insisted on, they'd bathe him in their awe and admiration, their bemused fascination with his genius and sang-froid. He'd expected them to shiver as he told about his own fear as he released himself to gravity and plummeted down with no assurance he'd live, other than reliance on Molly's skill, talent, and thoroughness –and, well, after all: Molly! They'd be amazed he'd trusted his life to so apparently thin a thread, and more amazed his judgment had proven so overwhelmingly correct—almost as though he'd invented Molly himself.

His return didn't go according to script. Indeed, his friends…former friends? No, damn it, his friends didn't appear to know their lines, their blocking, their cues. Instead they seemed to be taking part in some entirely different play, and to be waiting for him to deliver lines he didn't know. When they didn't get those lines…

John did indeed punch him. He had to—only when Sherlock was doubled over John's fist was his head low enough for John to nut him—the man had a skull of titanium, Sherlock was willing to swear it. And then, as Sherlock staggered back, he landed a swift jab to Sherlock's nose. And if that was bad it was nothing compared to the first minutes of screaming silence after Sherlock approached him. The shock and pain and aching betrayal on John's face as he saw, recognized, denied, accepted, and realized what his friend had done to him…

A fist in the stomach, a bash on the head, and bloody nose had seemed a small price to pay. And then John had made it far too clear he didn't want to room with Sherlock. And then he implied he'd found someone, and was getting married, which changed everything in ways that left Sherlock beyond confusion…and almost grateful he'd been punched in the gut: it gave him a good excuse for his sudden retreat to the loo.

Mrs. Hudson had seemed easier. At first. She'd stopped short, as though she'd seen a ghost, and her hands had come up to cover her mouth as she murmured, "Oh, oh… Oh, Sherlock… You stupid, stupid boy… whatever did you do?" Her eyes had filled with tears—but when he went to hug her she'd smacked him on the arm, and snapped, "You were dead, Sherlock. Dead! And that poor, nice friend of yours crushed like…like… I don't know like. Like a daisy on the sidewalk. Just smashed." Then she'd wobbled, and grabbed the wall, and declared she needed a bit of a sit, and refused to let him help her…and refused to invite him in. "I've got to think about it, Sherlock. Lord love you, I know you've no more idea what you've done than a cat that's stolen the last bit of meat in the house… well, we all know what you're like, after all. But—" In a completely baffling muddle of conflicting actions she'd rushed forward and hugged him, pushed him away, called him a dear, dear boy, announced he was an idiot, smacked him on the arm again…and raced into her flat, slamming the door behind her.

He'd stood in the hall and listened to her cry…soft, muffled sounds, as though she'd shoved one of her vulgar decorative cushions with the twee embroidery mottoes against her face to mute her sobs. He'd had no idea what to do then. He still had no idea.

Oddly, Lestrade had been the least difficult…and even then it wasn't what one could consider a jolly sort of adventure. Sherlock had waited to meet Greg in the car-park after work, thinking to avoid a scene in Scotland Yard. The DI had spotted him and stopped—not shocked, not amazed, but almost wearily, like a man who's been burned once too often, and isn't sure he wants to reach for the bright, shiny flame yet again. After a moment he'd quite obviously sighed—a sigh deep enough to be seen at a distance, and begun a weary trudge to his car, where Sherlock waited. As he approached, he gestured lightly, shooing Sherlock away from the driver's side door.

"I see you're back."

"I see you knew I might be." Sherlock hoped that forewarning might improve Lestrade's reactions—at least, as compared to John and Mrs. Hudson's.

"No. Didn't have a clue. Learned a bit about Moriarty afterward, during the cleanup, though—enough to know he'd been playing you for a total berk. Learned enough to think maybe you'd figured out how to take him with you when you went. But I went to your funeral, just like the rest…wore a black armband and everything, and didn't give sod-all what Sally and the rest had to say about it." He opened his door and tossed an armload of case files across to the passenger's seat. Only then did he stop and look into Sherlock's eyes. "We got bits of information from upstream. Not enough; never enough. Enough to think there were people-who-can't-be-named who were making a point of clearing your name. Enough to think maybe there would be more story, someday. But…" He shrugged. "It was enough to make me think maybe you didn't have another way out. But it's not enough to make me like it. I have a damned hard time believing you did less damage this way than if you'd…lived."

Sherlock at least felt on solid ground: Lestrade was hitting him with reason, of a sort. Sherlock was good at reason. "I don't know. If I'd lived, you'd have been the one dead… Dying seemed like a better idea at the time."

"Yeah. Well. Maybe I think dying would have been easier for me, too," Lestrade said, voice not angry, or bitter, or challenging. Just tired, and worn out. "But I didn't get that choice. You did." He sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair, and leaned against the frame of the car. At last he said, "I'm glad you're back. But…it's not the same. I don't think it will be, either. But—welcome back." He held out his hand, and Sherlock forced himself to take it and shake hands, as though they were simply friendly business associates reunited after a long separation…

And, he thought, maybe that's all they were. Maybe that's all they'd ever been.

They'd talked a few more minutes. Lestrade had given him his current contact information. They'd agreed that maybe someday they should get together for a beer and a chat…but had set no date or time. Then Lestrade had slipped into his car and driven away, leaving Sherlock in the echoing cement car-park, the wind blowing around his legs, batting the heavy hem of his coat against his shins. Even hunched into the heavy wool with his collar turned up high, he'd felt cold. Suddenly he missed Islamabad: minarets, danger, heat, and clean, clean alienation from the entire world around him.

He knew he was in trouble when he accepted a dinner invitation at the Diogenes Club with Mycroft. They ate in silence, only the clatter of the diner's silverware on china breaking the hush of the dining room. Even the waiters were silent, offering menus without a word regarding the special of the day or the particularly fine chateaubriand and accepting orders given by nothing louder than a pointing finger moving along the listed entrees and starters. Only when they were finished and ensconced in the Stranger's Room did Sherlock get a chance to tell his brother what the past week had been like. It was a good thing he'd never really expected sympathy, as he received none.

"It seems to me you've nothing to complain about, Sherlock. None of them killed you. None of them shunned you. Asking more would be entirely too optimistic. They have suffered to stand at your graveside. You will have to suffer them time to come back. If they ever do. I told you it would be better to let them go."

"Better for whom?" Sherlock snapped.

"Better for them, of course. As I understand the theory, as their friend you're supposed to value that over your own desires." His deep eyes were as they'd been for years: still and chill, with the cold of someone who'd hurt and hurt, and finally chosen never to hurt any more…and who'd failed, and yet still fought on.

Sherlock didn't know what to say to those cold, aching eyes. He never did. It always angered him. So he did what he always did, and left on the tailwind raised by a few cutting remarks.

His hotel room suited him less well after being trapped in it for a week. The comfortable aura of being broken in had somehow turned to a sense that it was merely broken down.

Only one person so far had seemed glad he'd returned, he thought. Of course, she was one of the very few who'd known to expect the possibility, and one of the few who'd ensured that return was possible.

He hadn't texted her in over a week.

She hadn't texted him.

Well, of course not. Molly, after all. She wouldn't. She'd twitter and fret and worry that he'd feel imposed on, and wish he'd text her, and dither, and fuss.

He showered, wrapped himself in a silk shalwaar, and proceeded to brood in the dark room. He'd pulled the curtains wide, tonight, and he stared out into the street bellow, regretting he was in a place with no view worth mentioning. It would have been nice to stare out over London only to have the London eye stare back.

The phone in his pocket sighed a sensual, abandoned sigh. He found himself grabbing it like a lifeline.

I hear you're not dead. Have you dined?

With Mycroft.

Where's the fun in that? No…no need to answer. There is none.

Not much, no.

And how is the weather in dear old Blighty? No…no need to answer that, either. Cold,wet, and windy.

Quite.

It makes being dead look so much more appealing. It was thirty degrees* today: I wore that little top you like so much. I had lamb khoresh for dinner. I finished with pomegranates. Sabiha counted us out six pips each and served them over yogurt and honey. We ate on the balcony as the sun went down.

He didn't know what to write back. He could imagine the spacious, blue-tiled Indo-European flat with the wood-railed balcony that looked out over the roofs and minarets of the town. He could smell the warm breeze. Two weeks ago he'd been there, half-mad in his readiness to return to England. Now, he ached to go back into exile.

She'd noted his failure to respond. You can always die again, darling. He could imagine her wicked, feral smile, the look of a dangerous demon in her eyes…

No. It appears one death was already more than I was entitled to.

So you won't come back and rule in hell with me? You make such a compelling Hades.

You just like pomegranates and playing Persephone.

Queen of the dead and the damned? Of course. You can't say you didn't relish your own role in that little play.

No. He couldn't. He'd enjoyed it dangerously much. He could have played it forever…

I had to come back.

We've got it backward, Mr. Holmes. It's Persephone who returns to the land of the living. And she's got the good sense to go to Greece, in spring—not to Blighty in autumn.

Persephone was a maiden. I think that counts you out.

By the time Persephone returned home, I think she'd lost her bouquet. But, still, I admit you're the better choice: far more convincing as the deflowered virgin. You've just got the season wrong.

She was an education; an education and a half. Apparently it took a remarkable depth of knowledge to be all women to all…clients. But the sexy, suggestive texts reminded him of how much work she was…and how pointless it would be to type in "Do you miss me?" The answer would be no, not really. Never really.

Depending on the time or the mood, he could find that wonderful and freeing…or not.

Tonight the answer was "not."

Still, he knew how to play the game, now. He'd learned. She was an excellent teacher, and she knew what motivated him. His fingers flew, and letters spooled out onto the screen.

Maybe we've got it backward. After all, winter in England is hell. Look for me in springtime, Persephone.

Islamabad in summer is hell, Sherlock.

Not when you're there.

What a clever boy you are.

Clever enough.

You'll do.

And undo.

Yes—and you'll go on all night rather than be the one to quit. I'm not so stubborn, and Sabiya is calling me. Good night, my prince of darkness.

Good night, he typed back…but he expected no reply.

He stared at the phone. Slipped it back in his pocket. Pulled it out again. Put it back. He paced the room. Missed his violin. Paced the room some more. Considered going out for a pack of cigarettes. Considered going out for…other stimulants.

He was bored, he thought.

He opened the mini-fridge, and pulled out a seltzer water and a tiny bottle of whiskey. He almost poured himself a drink—but then the thought of being trapped in this room drinking whiskey and soda from a tiny bottle and a can out of a mini-fridge just seemed too bleak even for him.

His hand slipped into his pocket. He pulled out the mobile phone. He woke it up. He pulled up a name.

Are you awake? SH

Yes.

John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are all angry with me.

Yes. You knew they would be.

I didn't know they'd be this angry.

I think you probably did know…or could have, if you'd given them as much time as you'd give a case you were solving.

Ouch…you've learned knife fighting since I've been gone, Molly!

Scalpels. Tools of my profession. I'm good at post mortems.

Are you saying all my friendships are dead?

She didn't respond for a long moment. No. At least…no more dead than you've been.

Then they'll come back to life, sometime?

Maybe.

When?

When they're ready to risk you, I guess?

Did I really hurt them that much?

You know you did.

I didn't think I had.

Yes, Sherlock. You did. You always do. You always know how deep you've cut. You just keep hoping we'll admire the skill so much we won't notice we're bleeding.

The words pulled up memories of a Christmas party he preferred not to remember.

He didn't like this. It wasn't the comfort he'd hoped. But he'd made the call, and he couldn't be the first to end it. He wouldn't.

I think you're an imposter. Where have you hidden the real Molly Hooper?

You're the detective, Sherlock. You figure it out. I'm going to bed now. Goodnight.

Molly?

Yes?

I thought we could talk.

I was out with John and Mary, today, for lunch.

What does that have to do with anything?

It doesn't. It just means I'm not feeling like talking, tonight. Goodnight, Sherlock.

What are you doing tomorrow? We could go out to eat.

Sorry. I'm busy.

Doing what?

Got a first-round interview at a med school.

What?

Later, Sherlock.

No, wait. What?

Med school, Sherlock. I'm turning the phone off, Sherlock. Good night, Sherlock.

He typed and hit send five more times…but she never answered.

*Thirty degrees Celsius – eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit.