Again, thank you for all the sub/fav/reviews you are giving us. Sorry this chapter was later than the rest. Every Monday and Tuesday night I stay at my Nan's which has no internet connection. Rayne and I apologise, mainly me, but we have been continuing to write this via texts and mobile phone access. I just finished editing it so I could get this to you as soon as possible.
Again, feel free to review. We appreciate your views and ideas.
Mrs Hudson was sat at the table, a cup of tea in her hand. Sherlock was pacing up and down the kitchen and John was sat across from her, watching Mrs Hudson's movements and checking for signs of shock. She was watching Sherlock's pacing. Sherlock was watching his hands and mumbling to himself.
"John," Mrs Hudson whispered. "how long has he been back?"
"Um.. He was back here yesterday about ten."
"I didn't see anyone come in..." She looked confused, a slight crinkle formed between her eyebrows.
"But it's Sherlock." John sighed, his eyes sliding across the room to settle on the pacing Sherlock.
"Mhmm." Mrs Hudson nodded, she was still watching Sherlock. "He doesn't look happy."
"I know." John sighed. "I don't know what to do about it."
Mrs Hudson reached out and took John's hand. "You just need to be there for him. He'll sort himself out eventually."
"I- I just want to help him." John said quietly. Mrs Hudson nodded, she knew that feeling more than anyone else - who wasn't John. She smiled and pulled her hand back, standing up she called to Sherlock.
"Sherlock, would you like some cake?"
"Cake?" Sherlock looked up as though Mrs Hudson and the idea of cake were alien. His eyes focused, he nodded slightly. "Cake would be good."
"Come sit down with John and I'll get you some cake." Mrs Hudson smiled and gestured to the seat she'd just vacated. "Cake, John?"
"Sure, Mrs Hudson." She smiled again before wandering off into the kitchen. A soft whimper reached the ears of John who let out a sigh. "You couldn't have been more delicate, Sherlock?"
"She's a strong lady. She'll be fine."
"You burst into her living room declaring you weren't dead."
"Only stating a fact." John shot a glare towards Sherlock.
"I'm going to go and help Mrs Hudson in the kitchen." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and began to scan through the knitting magazine Mrs Hudson had left on her oak side table. John stormed into the kitchen to find Mrs Hudson sat down at the kitchen table. She was still as pale as the moment Sherlock had stormed through her front door. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Mrs Hudson looked up as John sat opposite her. "I should expect it from him, dear. What about you though?"
"I'm still in shock, angry too. Glad he's back..." John's voice trailed off as the fridge door opened. Mrs Hudson, who had brought out a Victoria Sponge and a knife, began to cut the cake into sections.
"You know what I mean," she shot him that questioning look she usually would when they had been talking in the weeks of Sherlock's absence. "I'm not just an old fool, dearie."
Releasing John from her grasp, Mrs Hudson finished cutting and plating the cake. She offered John his and picked up the other two plates herself. "Do you think you will tell him?"
"No, I don't think I shall. I'll just continue acting the same. He's oblivious to matters of the heart anyway. Come on, Mrs Hudson. He may blank out when we come and go but we best get back and eat this cake." Mrs Hudson gave John a sympathetic smile before walking back into the living room. Sherlock was on the puffy armchair reading a book on bees. He looked quite engrossed. Upon hearing the heavy footsteps of John, he tore his eyes away from his book and saw Mrs Hudson offering him the piece of cake he had agreed to.
"Thank you." Sherlock took a bite of cake as the other two took their seats. "I think I owe you an explanation, Mrs Hudson."
"That would be nice, Sherlock. You had John and I upset."
"It was necessary," Sherlock placed his cake down on the side. He had eaten enough to pass as polite. "There was a man who wanted to kill me and he wasn't afraid to go after you or John to get to me. It was for your own good."
"But faking your death. What would your mother have said?" Sherlock snorted forcing John to roll his eyes. Mrs Hudson looked at John who gave her a look of'don't ask' but it was too late.
"My mother. Yes, what would she say? My mother wouldn't care, Mrs Hudson. She said it was an inconvenience. I mean nothing to her but oh how she worried about Mycroft during it all." Sherlock laughed again. "Explain it to her, John. I'm going to hack Lestrade's computer."
Sherlock quickly walked away, back upstairs and to his computer. He sat down and began a frenzied typing. "John?" Mrs Hudson asked, like always not understanding what Sherlock had just said.
"Sherlock and his family have a... strained relationship," John said. "His mother's a cold woman who cares for Mycroft more than Sherlock."
"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson mouthed. "Poor Sherlock."
"Yeah," John said, putting his plate down, "his mother basically said she preferred me to him this morning. I don't even know her properly. Or at all."
There was a muffled thump and it sounded like something hit the wall upstairs.
"Welcome home, Sherlock." John sighed. He stood up and walked to the door. He reached out to open it when Mrs Hudson cleared her throat. He turned around and raised an eyebrow.
"Don't worry, love." Mrs Hudson said. "We both missed him."
"Yeah," John glanced upwards towards where Sherlock would be crashing about. "We did."
Mrs Hudson walked over to John and forced him back into a hug. Wrapping his arms around her, he sniffed briefly in before releasing from her grasp. "You best get back up to him, dearie."
"Yes. Goodbye, Mrs Hudson. I'll probably pop down later in the week for a... chat." They shared a look that meant they both were in an understanding of one another.
"Bye, John." Mrs Hudson closed the door after she had watched John slowly walk up towards 221B. The slight limp that had returned during those many weeks had now disappeared.
Sherlock stood over the desk, looking down at the laptop, The heavy thud had been Sherlock throwing the glass paperweight - that John had been given by Mycroft after the funeral - at the wall. Sherlock was glowering at the computer, waiting for something to load. Whether the loading was on the computer, or Sherlock's head, John couldn't tell.
"John," Sherlock looked up as John walked into the room. His eyes - John noticed - were the most perfect shade of slate blue. "I need you to do something."
"Yes?"
"Don't interrupt. I want you to go to tell Lestrade that you'll take on some cases, any cases that he needs help with."
"I can't." John said, walking over to the paperweight.
"Can't? Why not?" Sherlock asked.
"He would want to know why, I'd have to explain to him and - those idiots - the police still think you're a fake."
"Morons."
"Yes, I know." John said, placing the glass paperweight on the table. "Look after that, your brother gave it to me."
Sherlock looked down at the paperweight. It was a black glass ball with gold stripes, like the reverse of a tiger, and about the size of Sherlock's fist.
"It's a camera." Sherlock said. "Bubble cam controlled by Mycroft's operatives. Pretty though."
"Pretty?" John said, picking up the glass ball and peering at it. "I didn't think you thought anything was pretty."
"In the conventional sense." Sherlock said blankly. "Still, I won't have it near me."
"Ah," John could feel the conversation dying. He wasn't ready for it yet. "About Lestrade, Sherlock?"
"Hmmm?"
"He's on our side." Our? Why on earth did he say our?
"I know. Been texting him for weeks off a secure line. We agreed that once I sent him the trigger text everything would begin." John put the ball back down and collapsed into the sofa.
"You told him?" John stared at the floor, the ache in his chest burning again. "You told him and not me? He went with me to the grave. Every weekend."
Sherlock looked down at John. Probably the wrong thing to bring up. Knowing how John was emotionally. "I know, John. I was there for every one."
John quickly raised his head to meet eyes with Sherlock. "You bastard!"
"Do be more imaginable with your insults, John. You're becoming very singular. He had to know. To help you." Walking over to the window, Sherlock began shuffling the papers quickly beginning to scatter his desk. "Anyway, who else would have plausibly helped me to clear my name without being noticed?"
John sank in his seat and looked at his feet. The news that Sherlock had been there, seen him, possibly even heard him, every time. Even, dear God, that time when he admitted to shooting the face when he missed Sherlock. Was he also there for the time when he told the grave that he still made two cups of tea, even though he didn't need to. Did he notice the slight limp John developed? Or the fact that he began to need his cane again? Did Sherlock notice the blue scarf?
"I... Okay." John said. "I understand."
Sherlock looked up, John's shoulders were slumped and he was rubbing his leg. The 'injury' was playing up due to emotional stress and turmoil, Sherlock reasoned. He put the stack of papers down and walked over to John and placed a gentle hand on John's shoulder. He quickly walked away, picking up his oversized jacket and throwing it over his shoulders.
"Want to come and protect the others from me?" He asked, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth. "I think we'll start with Lestrade."
"With you? I'd go anywhere," He tried to hide the eagerness in his voice but it was a lost cause. "Lestrade should be fine. He knows already, right? Would just be the rest of the world now."
"True. Knowing my brother the papers tomorrow will be publishing the work Lestrade and I have been collecting. Mycroft talks to Lestrade frequently. Knows he's been gathering a case in my favour. That being the case any chargers against me shall be dropped. Mycroft again. Should help at least." John smiled slightly. Yes. Mycroft and Greg did talk frequently. He always wondered why. "So... ready to throw that stick back in the closet, John?"
"You know about that then?"
"Yes, John. It started before the funeral." John looked at his feet. Again. Damn Sherlock. "Anyway, we need to go to Molly, the Yard, especially Anderson. I think I can tolerate his desperately low IQ for one night. Oh and we'll have to organise a press release. I need cases, John!"
"It's only been a few weeks. Can't you rest?" John pleaded.
"John," Sherlock paused. "You do realised it has been two and a half years, don't you?"
John sighed and slightly nodded. He had gotten into the habit of only comparing it to a few weeks. In his head it was weeks, his blog was something else. By referring it to weeks it made the time seem less. Like Sherlock had not been gone very long at all. Like it was nothing. Two years of his life wasn't nothing, as it? To John, without Sherlock... it was.
Sherlock began humming as he skipped down the steps. A slow, steady song that both calmed John and set him on edge. The calmness of the humming contrasting with the jerky, quick movements of Sherlock. John stepped forwards, his leg no longer aching any more. He quickly followed Sherlock down the stairs and out of the door.
"Taxi!" Sherlock called, waving his arm out at the road. "Here it is. Good. John, get in."
John climbed in the taxi as Sherlock shouted the address to the driver. Quickly, Sherlock jumped in after John.
"We're just going to pop by and say hello to a few people." John laughed, "I'm popping around town with a dead man. And even if he isn't dead, he's a man who will cause a lot of trouble with the police."
"That's another thing, John." Sherlock remarked, looking out the window. "I won't be able to go into the building. Not dressed like me. You'll have to get Anderson and the rest of his... gang outside the building to talk to me."
"Anderson hates you."
"He's just jealous." Sherlock sighed.
"Sure. You being obnoxious and insulting has nothing to do with it." John rolled his eyes. "Where are we going anyway? That wasn't the address of the Yard at all."
"We have to make a few stops along the way."