April 1894

Mycroft idly watched his brother pace the Pall Mall rooms. Being trapped indoors when not in disguise was a trial for the detective's active nature, and he glared at the windows as if they were conspiring to prevent his escape.

"Sherlock, you know Colonel Moran is still out there. It would be no use to anyone if you got yourself killed here in London after three years in the most inhospitable places," Mycroft said reasonably.

"I would hardly call France inhospitable," Sherlock said irritably.

"Oh, you know what I meant," Mycroft said, leafing through the reports Sherlock had brought back from his journeys. "These will come in very useful in the Foreign Office, thank you."

Sherlock ignored him, "I think I will take a turn about town. I need to get to know the city again, Mycroft."

"It's hardly changed," Mycroft said with a small shrug.

"You never travel beyond Whitehall; I need to see it for myself," Sherlock said.

Mycroft sighed. He wished his brother would go and bother Dr. Watson instead, but the doctor was still ignorant of Sherlock's return. Thinking of this, he looked up, "Are you sure you don't wish to send a telegram to Dr. Watson? I would be glad to have him come here so that we can explain why this deception of yours was necessary."

Sherlock sighed, "I will tell Watson when I am ready. I need to make sure the plan is well underway first; we will have all the time we need afterwards."

Mycroft shook his head, "Sherlock, you lied to him for three years. Did you imagine that he will greet that news with joy?"

For the first time, Sherlock's expression faltered as he began putting on his disguise, "I never considered that. Do you truly think he will be angry?"

"No, I didn't think you had. Keep in mind, Sherlock, the man has only just lost his wife. The news of your return after a three-year deception might not be welcome."

"I would have come back earlier if you had managed to get the message about Mrs. Watson's death to me sooner! In any case, I'm sure he will understand the necessity of my disappearance," Sherlock said, although his expression was suddenly slightly fearful, and Mycroft took pity on him.

"I'm sure he will, Sherlock. Dr. Watson is nothing if not understanding." Understanding was an understatement; Dr. Watson's nature was exceptionally honest and open; moreover, his regard for the detective was so strong that he would likely take Sherlock at his word. "I would caution against too dramatic a reveal though."

Sherlock grinned, his disguise finished. Instead of his brother, Mycroft saw only a stooped, old bookseller. "Now, Mycroft, you know I cannot resist the dramatic." He waved gaily as he left, and Mycroft shook his head. If Dr. Watson was too angry, as indeed was his right, he suspected Sherlock would be lost. He had likely been living in hopes of this reunion for three years.

Mycroft hardly needed to worry; before a few hours passed, a telegram arrived:

Spending day with Watson before tonight. All is forgiven.

Truly, Dr. Watson was a better man than his brother deserved.

May 1894

Mycroft allowed his cousin's conversation to fill the Strangers Room without necessarily paying much attention. Maurice Verner was a good sort of fellow; friendly and honest, and he never was much bother (compared to some relatives Mycroft could think of). However, he was very talkative, and Mycroft was finding it grating on his nerves.

He saw Sherlock enter the room, and stopped himself from waving in relief and hurrying out the door. For his part, the younger Holmes stopped when he saw their cousin and seemed to be sincerely considering leaving the way he came before he was noticed.

"Cousin Sherlock! I didn't expect to see you here as well! I was just telling my wife the other day about your return from the unknown. Sophie, I said, they always said my cousin Sherlock Holmes could do the impossible, but now I truly believe it. Can you imagine it? Our own family causing such news?"

"Thank you for your kind compliments, but I was never in the 'unknown,' as you put it so eloquently. It was a necessary departure, and now that it is over, I think we should forget all about it," Sherlock said, once he managed to get a word in edgewise.

Verner laughed, "Of course, no doubt you are enjoying being back in London. I know how much you always loved the place. And I do too, of course. I only wish I could make my way in it as easily as you!"

"Are you in some difficulty?" Mycroft asked. He knew Verner had trained as a doctor, some years after Dr. Watson had done the same, but had been under the impression that he had built a successful career in Charing Cross Hospital.

Verner sighed, "Yes, I regret to say I am. Once I was married to my dear Sophie, I found the hours and demands of my hospital work a drain. I was often on call for successive nights a week, and traveling to the hospital from our lodgings was becoming a daily chore. I handed in my resignation six months ago, intending to start a practice, or else to buy an existing one, but alas, I have had no luck and our savings are nearly depleted." His emotions, always close to the surface, threatened to overwhelm him before he looked ashamed of himself. "Forgive me. I did not come here to moan about my financial difficulties. I know there is nothing anyone can do. But please tell me why you are smiling, Cousin Sherlock?"

Mycroft looked over at his brother, who was, indeed, smiling widely. Feeling that this was a tactless response to their cousin's difficulties, he nudged his brother's foot with his own under the table.

Sherlock shook his head, "I am sorry, let me explain. You see, I know a man who has been looking to sell his practice for some time, but has been unable to find a buyer. You, dear cousin, may be the solution he has been looking for."

Verner looked his cousin over with a shrewdness that, while unusual for his guileless nature, nonetheless marked him as sharing blood with the Holmes brothers. "You are speaking of Dr. Watson, I assume?"

Sherlock looked up, shocked, for Verner had never displayed much in the way of deductive abilities. "Yes, indeed. Have you already heard of the sale of his practice?"

Verner shook his head, smiling, "No, cousin, but who else would it be? You are known to count almost no one else as a friend."

"You are mostly correct in your observation," Sherlock conceded. "The practice is a good one in the Paddington district, and here is the price he is asking for it." He wrote down the necessary information on a piece of paper and slid it across the table.

Verner's eyes, which had lit up with interest, became downcast. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I simply cannot afford that. I could pay perhaps half with what is left of my savings. It's a shame; it would have answered all my problems!"

Sherlock waved a hand, and to Mycroft's astonishment, said, "If you are unable to find the funds, I will be happy to lend them to you. I have no small savings of my own, thanks to the French government in return for some assistance I once lent them."

Verner was almost overcome with gratitude, shaking both their hands multiple times and saying he would gladly meet with Dr. Watson to settle the matter. "And I will pay you back every penny, Sherlock, I mean it."

"I don't doubt your word," Sherlock said. "Only, do not tell Watson it was I who found a buyer for his practice."

"He will take it badly, I daresay?" Verner asked.

"Oh, no, not at all," Sherlock said. "He will simply be happy to have a buyer no matter what the circumstances. I dislike credit, even in my cases. That the matter is finished is reward enough for me."

Verner nodded, "Well, thank you very much, my dear fellow. I had no idea I would come here and find an answer to my problem!"

"You are very welcome," Sherlock said heartily, watching his cousin leave. "What are you staring at, Mycroft?"

Mycroft shook his head, "You continue to surprise me, Sherlock."

"It is not so surprising," Sherlock said with a shrug. "I had asked Watson to return to lodging with me, as he is a single man again. He said he would be most glad to, but he has had a great deal of trouble selling his practice. What a lucky chance Cousin Maurice happened to be looking for one."

"That is not what I mean," Mycroft said. "You are paying for it!"

"I have the funds to do so. Watson really cannot accept less than the price he is asking. Money troubles again," Sherlock said, in answer the inquiry in Mycroft's eyes. "I am happy to make up the difference. I believe he has been most unhappy in that house since Mrs. Watson's death."

"Sherlock, I handled your finances while you were 'deceased,' I know how much money you have. But do you truly not want the credit? Or, even more, do you really want to hide yet another thing from him?"

Sherlock flinched ever so slightly, and then said, "I know he will feel beholden to me if he knew it was my fortune that bought his practice. I do not want that, not when I am the one who should be beholden to him."

Mycroft sat back and took some snuff, unable to argue the point. His own disposition was very placid, never varying. His brother was prone to highs and lows, and clearly needed a grounding influence. Dr. Watson had been that influence for many years now, and Mycroft knew he very likely owed the fellow his younger brother's sanity, if not his life.

"You are fortunate, then, Sherlock, that our cousin wandered in here today," Mycroft finally said.

"Indeed. Everything is getting back to normal," Sherlock said gaily as he left. Mycroft considered that the now-famous duo of Holmes and Watson back in Baker Street was "normal," although he doubted anything that went on within its walls fell under the definition. Gunfire indoors, indeed!