Sherlock Holmes – or the man who used to be Sherlock Holmes – was coming home. It had been three long, drawn out years since he had graced London with his presence and, anyway, he needed to see a doctor ~
His appearance had changed slightly, Mycroft was quick to comment on the even more pronounced dark smudges around his eyes and the flecks of stubble on his jaw.
"You've been neglecting yourself again, Sherlock" was his first remark. It wasn't untrue; the detective had barely eaten or slept in the past week and it really did show. "What would John say, hm?" Sherlock gritted his teeth at the mention of John's name, still angry with himself for letting the good doctor believe him to be dead for so long. "I don't know, brother. He'd tell me to eat something, I suppose."
Mycroft gave a simple nod "He wouldn't be wrong. When was the last time you 'refuelled'?" Sherlock shrugged "Monday. I've managed for longer periods of time without eating." Mycroft sighed "That doesn't make it any better. And when are you paying John a visit?" "I'm just on my way there, actually" He replied haughtily "Goodbye, Mycroft." Sherlock turned and made his way towards the exit. Just before he opened the door, Mycroft called after him. "He never moved on, you know. Never stopped missing you." The great detective couldn't help the small smile that played on his mouth "I know."
He left Mycroft there, and made his way to Baker Street.