A/N Okay, so I'm about an hour late on this chapter for it to be still Sunday, but if we play pretend we might be okay :D Sorry it's so late again but I think I was a little being a little ridiculous/overambitious/stupid to try and write this Fanfiction while I'm on my final exams :'( Anyway, thanks so, so much to everyone who favourite-d, alerted and most of all, reviewed! I love ya'll so much :')

I hope you enjoy the chapter, just one warning though: Two minor swear words are used in this chapter! Just thought I'd tell you guys :S

Disclaimer: After using only a small diamond, a flying monkey, a priceless Ming vase and a cactus to escape, I am now in possession of 5 bendy straws, a lollypop stick and a tube of kitchen roll and am currently creating the satellite of all satellites! Estimated time: … my maths isn't great… so I'm estimating an approximation of 20-30 minutes, tops…

John was greeted with a raised eyebrow from Sherlock as he came back to the living room, still a little dazed after what Mycroft had said to him.

"I hope you're not going to lecture me about being nicer to Mycroft, you do it every time," Sherlock said

"Sorry, what?"

"My brother," Sherlock reiterated, "Whenever my brother and I talk you're always telling me to be nice, I hope you aren't going to lecture me on it again. I had a right not to tell him, I was keeping it a secret from everyone, not just him." Sherlock sounded indignant, as if he had fully expected his brother to have understood and was outraged at Mycroft's lack of comprehension. John smiled, sitting down to finish his now cold breakfast.

"For once," he said, "I actually agree with you."

Sherlock gave him a look from over the top of his laptop screen. "Really?" he said. John nodded, trying to act nonchalant.

"Yeah," John agreed. He thought for a moment if Sherlock knew about what Mycroft had done already but from the way Sherlock had spoken about him, he doubted it. It was better that Sherlock didn't know just yet, at least, not from him. John whole-heartedly wanted to see Mycroft explain it to Sherlock; however he didn't want that bombshell to be dropped when Sherlock had only just returned from somewhere that had obviously been more stressful than the situation Sherlock was in now. Even with his brother angry with him and trying to fit back in with life at 221B, Sherlock's alarming drop in weight evidenced that wherever Sherlock had been, it hadn't been a healthy or safe environment and no doubt John would have disapproved greatly of it.

He looked at Sherlock's breakfast plate and was relieved to see that Sherlock had at least picked at it a little while John was downstairs. It was only nibbling around the edges but at least it was something. It was worrying because John knew that Sherlock would only eat at all if he was really, really hungry. To Sherlock, food was just transport and so for him to eat something of his own accord, even a tiny bit, must mean that Sherlock knew he was underweight and had actually taken the initiative to do something about it. He wondered if he could prompt Sherlock to eat anymore but the last thing he wanted to do was push him too hard, especially after his meeting with Mycroft. It was like treading on broken and one wrong step would result in painful consequences.

Deciding that it was best to tread carefully rather than run in, John tiptoed around the subject. "Mycroft didn't tell me he was looking for you. In fact, he hardly spoke to me at all the past few months," John said, keeping the real reason to himself. Sherlock nodded slowly and John kept his face neutral as Sherlock studied it. Sherlock's attention flickered away from him and John guessed that either he had got all he wanted or he had lost interest although he wasn't sure which was more likely. Sherlock seemed a little edgier, even more so than usual and John couldn't really tell his mood as he had grown used to. It was as if the distance between Sherlock and the rest of the world had grown wider and the chasm in-between was gaping at John, nothing but blackness and a need to get to the other side.

Sherlock's attention flicked away from John and he spun around in his chair, grabbing the TV remote and turning up the sound. John blinked as he realised the man on the news and wondered if Sherlock's brain had been set to listen for familiar names as John hadn't even been able to properly hear the TV from where he was sat. But then, he wasn't the world's best and only consulting detective.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, recently reinstated to his post after an embarrassing dismissal to a lower rank just three months ago, is giving a statement live from Scotland Yard," a voiceover read and John saw the Inspector on the screen, sat at a press table in the familiar surroundings at the New Scotland Yard. John shot a look at Sherlock but the detective was closely watching the screen and John returned his attention to it as Lestrade started speaking and the camera zoomed in on him.

The Inspector looked as bad as John felt. John was never sure of what Lestrade really thought of Sherlock but he did know that, of all the police in Scotland Yard, Lestrade had been the most loyal to Sherlock and not only that but, although Sherlock would not admit it, Lestrade was a friend. Lestrade was the only person other than Molly that John and Sherlock had had over at Christmas. He had stood up for Sherlock right up until the end and most of all, he had trusted Sherlock. John hadn't had contact with Lestrade over the past three months but now he knew why. Lestrade had been demoted and, by the sounds of it, humiliated. Of course, it was to be expected as he had put blind faith in someone that had been labelled as a fraud; however John could barely imagine what it had been like. Not only had he had to deal with thinking that Sherlock was a fraud and had killed himself, but he had also had to suffer the embarrassment and hardship of his demotion. Not to mention the trouble he already had with his wife and John was surprised that Lestrade had managed to keep up appearances as well as he did. It was understandable that he hadn't been in contact with anyone, let alone John.

He looked tired and his usually clean shaven face was now covered with a small amount of stubble that looked like it hadn't been shaved simply due to a lack of time rather than simple neglect. Everything about him had an air of tightly pulled tension and stress that was palpable even through a television screen and as a doctor John would have immediately recommended rest and several types of medication but he doubted Lestrade had the time for either of those things. His clothes were a little rumpled as if they hadn't been ironed very well and although John didn't have the deductive ability that Sherlock did, he guessed that Mrs Lestrade was no longer living with her husband or, at least, was no longer ironing his shirts. A wave of sympathy came over him as he looked at the sorry state of Lestrade's crumpled, resigned face as he faced the press. He looked as if he was facing a pack of wolves and was just about ready to give up the fight and be eaten.

"As you all already know by now," Lestrade began; his voice strained and tired sounding, "Our internal investigators have been working very hard at finding the true cause of Mr Holmes' death and looking into a number of cases he was involved in on a consultative basis. New evidence has recently come to light that Mr Holmes was not connected to the attempted robbery of the Crown Jewels, the Bank of England or the freeing of the inmates at Pentonville Prison and was in fact working against the man known as Richard Brooks, who we now believe to be, in fact, James Moriarty."

"Are you saying that Sherlock Holmes didn't invent James Moriarty? That the article published was incorrect?" A reporter from the front row of seats asked. She was a pointed, slender woman and reminded John a little of a crow.

Lestrade nodded and readjusted his position. John hadn't noticed her until now, but he could just make out a small row of seats behind Lestrade and Sally Donavon was sat on one of them, her expression utterly blank. It was hard to tell if she was angry or disappointed in what Lestrade was saying, but he imagined she was.

"Yes, we have reason to believe that James Moriarty existed all along," Lestrade said and he looked almost as if he was going to continue but then shut his mouth and sat back a little in his chair, as if he was afraid of an oncoming question. John saw Sherlock look disheartened at his silence and realised that Sherlock was waiting for some kind of clue. He seemed unaffected by seeing the Detective Inspector again but that was Sherlock's way with most things, so John let it slide.

"How does the Yard explain the death of Mr Holmes then? Was it a murder?" a large man in a BBC jacket asked from the forth row. John was surprised to see Lestrade's expression flicker sadly. He had never been able to gauge Lestrade's friendship with Sherlock as he never knew if they only cared about the practicality of any friendship they had, the assets they were. Sherlock was a valuable asset to the police and Lestrade was Sherlock's ticket into cases however the shiny tint and saddened look in Lestrade's eye seemed to betray a friendship that meant more than deductions and detective work. John almost felt proud of the man. Even though Sherlock was rude to him every day on cases and Lestrade had told John stories about Sherlock before they had met where Sherlock could be downright cruel (one story had ended in Lestrade giving Sherlock a fully justified black eye and after that Sherlock had, although he never fully respected Lestrade, seemed to grow more regard for him and, even though he did still mock him, he mocked him less), Lestrade had trusted and befriended the consultant.

"We're unsure as yet of the circumstances of Mr Holmes' death however I can assure you that we are looking into it."

"John," Sherlock said suddenly, cutting his attention away from the screen, "We're going to Scotland Yard." John blinked.

"What? Now?"

"Yes, it's of upmost importance," Sherlock insisted, "As usual Lestrade has skirted around everything of importance. We're going to Scotland Yard ourselves."

"Everything of- Sherlock, what are you talking about?" John asked, confused. Sherlock was already up, rummaging around for his coat. John had almost thrown his coat away but for some unknown reason, the reason why most of Sherlock's stuff was still here, he had kept it. Perhaps it had been the faith in the idea that Sherlock would come back or maybe it was because he simply didn't want to admit his best friend had died and he was going to have to part with everything he knew of him.

"Yes John!" Sherlock said and there was a hint of the old exuberance there, the flair of his arms as he finally found his coat and shrugged it on, buttoning it over his still slightly rumpled shirt and making himself look reasonably presentable. John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock's tired eyes and unruly curls. He was going to have to try a little harder in order to look halfway decent but apparently Sherlock didn't care. To Sherlock, going to see Lestrade seemed to have little need for an effort on his part. It was just Lestrade. Not in a derogatory way but in a way that John imagined that Lestrade had seen Sherlock worse off than this anyway and that seeing it again was now no longer Sherlock's concern. Lestrade knew about Sherlock's drug problem before John and there were only so many ways that Lestrade could know about that, most of them involving a very unsavoury thought of a high detective.

"Lestrade reinstated after trusting me? My name suddenly cleared? A little odd don't you think?" Sherlock cried. John almost smiled. Sherlock almost looked like his old self, tackling a case and wanting to shout it from the rooftops. Almost. There was still a slight over-intensity to the way he spoke, an edginess to his action but it seemed close to normal for Sherlock's often erratic behaviour anyway. John looked forlornly at his breakfast, realising that he wouldn't be getting the chance to finish it now. Sighing, he got up, grabbed his cane and followed Sherlock out of the flat.

Sherlock hailed a cab with his usual flourish. He noticed John's cane but he didn't say anything and John didn't know if he was grateful for that or not. It made him feel helpless and for some reason, insecure. As if Sherlock would decide that he was bored of waiting for John and would take off somewhere that John couldn't find him and didn't know if he was okay. The startlingly close comparison to the past three months felt like a self-diagnosis and John realised just how afraid he was of Sherlock disappearing again, so much so that he was self-conscious of his own downfalls as a possible factor in Sherlock running off. It was a silly idea, Sherlock had left him standing at a crime scene time and time before but John always knew he'd be back at Baker Street at some point. It was just the way Sherlock worked. It was a silly idea to think that Sherlock cared about his cane or if it really was psychosomatic. It was strange as even though Sherlock could be the rudest person alive, he didn't care what people looked like. Other people could be prejudiced about what people looked like, they judged them and yet the most tactless person on the planet was the least judgemental of them all. To Sherlock, people were just people, regardless of what they looked like. To Sherlock, John was just John and nothing else.

They arrived at Scotland Yard, the man at the reception giving Sherlock a look that almost made John snort with laughter as the man recognised who Sherlock was and then apparently tried to tell himself that it was impossible and silly. He had agreed to take them to Lestrade but constantly looked back at Sherlock as he led them through to Lestrade's office, gaping at him. John could imagine the very thought process going through his head. That can't be Sherlock Holmes, it can't be. It looks like him but it can't possibly be him. He's dead. Isn't he? Or at least disbelieving words to that effect. Sherlock for his part remained passive, ignoring the shocked looks as he strode past the offices. John felt a grin creep onto his face as a semi-hush followed them as they walked. The place felt ridiculously familiar to John as they crossed through the rows of desks but he noticed that Lestrade's office had been moved to a new room, perhaps since they reinstated him. The receptionist knocked on the door before entering, beckoning for John and Sherlock to follow him in.

The office was decorated much like Lestrade's old office; white walls with a large window, a bookshelf and cluttered desk. Lestrade was stood with his back to the door, speaking with two gentlemen who appeared to be angry with him. If Lestrade's defeated stance was anything to go by, they were winning whatever argument it was, however from the lack of speech from Lestrade, John guessed that it wasn't so much of an argument as a severe telling off from two people Lestrade didn't have the power to dispute with. John felt sorry for him as his shoulders looked slumped, his head barely held up to look them in the eye as they pointed fingers at him angrily. John took in the scene and saw Sherlock survey the entire office, eyes sweeping over everything before falling on Lestrade once again. The receptionist looked mildly embarrassed for a moment and shuffled his feet a little. John decided he liked him. The young man obviously still respected Lestrade and was obviously embarrassed to have walked in on him being berated.

He gave a cough and managed to speak up; his voice a little quieter than it had been when he had spoken to John and Sherlock.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat, "Detective Inspector, you have some visitors." Lestrade took a few seconds to turn, the two men looking over at the receptionist in disdain and finished off their admonishments.

"Thanks Clark," Lestrade said, turning around to greet the young man. His eyes fell on John and then Sherlock and for a second John thought that Lestrade wasn't going to speak at all as his mouth fell open slightly and he stared at Sherlock, his face going a little pale.

"Bloody hell."

It wasn't the most eloquent of greetings, but given the circumstances, it was acceptable. There was a long moment where Lestrade simply stared at Sherlock and it wasn't until Clark cleared his throat loudly that Lestrade snapped out of it and hastily turned back to the men. He said something hurriedly to them and they gave him a glare. John felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he saw Lestrade give a subdued nod at the men's hateful glares as they walked out of the room, shoving past the receptionist.

"That'll be all, Clark, thanks very much," Lestrade was able to choke out and Clark nodded, gave one final, long look of disbelief at Sherlock before he left the room, shutting the door.

The silence that filled the room was awkward and Lestrade stared at Sherlock for a second before he walked to his desk and sat down in his chair, pouring a drink of water from a bottle and taking a large few gulps. Sherlock seemed to be watching him carefully, waiting and observing. Finally Lestrade seemed to be able to talk.

"It's a joke isn't it?" he said at last and Sherlock gave a small smile, as if he had expected that.

"Not a joke I'm afraid Inspector," Sherlock said, "John's repeatedly told me I'm not very good at jokes." Lestrade stared at him.

"It can't be you," he said and it was like he was trying to convince his head into believing the impossible, like John had had to do, "You're dead… the body, we took a statement from-"

"Molly Hopper," Sherlock completed from him and John remembered Molly's help in the situation, reminding himself to call her later, "You saw the body, filled out the report. Suicide." Sherlock rolled his eyes, impatient for waiting for Lestrade to comprehend.

"You contested the article written about me and was promptly demoted by your superiors, hence the change of office, for your part in allowing me on cases and for throwing a spanner in the works when you continued to try to prove my innocence. You took the wrap for it all in order to protect your subordinates from getting a demotion also, which is why Sally Donavon was at the press conference today with the same badge she's always had," Sherlock said quickly and John realised too late that it would only be a matter of seconds before Sherlock's deductions led him to saying something no doubt close-cutting, "You jumped at the chance to work on my case when it was re-opened and as such got your job back however the demotion has taken its toll. Rumpled clothes; your wife left you after all or you left her, however more likely she left you as you as you tied your tie well this morning, suggesting a hallway mirror and not a cab rear view mirror which you would most likely have used if you had been staying at a hotel further away from work and had to rush in. You've lost weight; not eating. There's a full box of donuts in your bin suggesting people have noticed and bought you food but you refuse to listen. Stubble; two days old suggests that you've been busy, perhaps getting your position back to its previous standards-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted and Sherlock snapped his head to look at John, lost in the deduction. Lestrade for his part seemed dumbfounded.

"Bloody hell," he said again, "It is you." John smiled at that. Only by being a complete arse could Sherlock prove it was actually him to Lestrade. Typical. Sherlock looked mildly pleased at the notion.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked. Lestrade's face turned immediately a little embarrassed.

"Actually, you were pretty darn close," Lestrade grumbled, his eyes downcast. It was hard enough to admit that his work career had dive-bombed sharply downwards in the past months, never mind his private life. He decided not to add in the fact that, although Sherlock's deductions were almost completely correct, he had lost most of his weight in the month after Sherlock's death. He hadn't been as close to Sherlock as John but he had been shocked by his death and, even surprising himself, upset by it. He refused to admit he missed Sherlock's arrogant presence or insults but Sherlock Holmes had been an incredible man and, more importantly, a friend.

"Good," Sherlock said and the usual arrogance was there, a shining veneer. He moved forward and sat down in one of the chairs at Lestrade's desk. John followed, propping his cane up on the arm.

"Where did you go? After…" Lestrade didn't seem to be able to finish that sentence, unable to come up with what exactly it was that Sherlock had done. John knew the feeling, having experienced the same thing only yesterday.

"Sensible question," Sherlock said, "But, as usual, it's entirely irrelevant. Where I've been doesn't really make any difference whatsoever. The question should be how I did it, my finest trick, or, even more relevant, what it is I am doing here today."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow and gave a chuckle. It sounded almost like relief, like the arrogance and familiar insults had only confirmed Sherlock's identity to him.

"Well," he said softly, "At least you haven't lost your charm."
"And you your incompetence," Sherlock said and John gave Sherlock a kick under the desk. Any other day and it would be just a regular insult, something Sherlock would say to anyone without a second thought, but today wasn't just any day and John believed that Lestrade had earned the right for Sherlock to be at least a little more tactful. Sherlock cleared his thought, an apologetic sound and he looked at John with that "not good?" look that he sometimes gave him. John shook his head.

"The new evidence," Sherlock said, changing the subject, "What is it?" Lestrade gave John a grateful look and it lingered, the thankfulness turning into a mix of regret and apology.

"I'm sorry I didn't call John, I meant to but… things were hell here at the Yard and, well, what could I say? There was no investigation as such; I didn't have anything to give you. I knew it'd only be a disappointment to you," Lestrade admitted, addressing John for the first time.

"Oh, um, no of course, I mean, you're right… I don't think it would have helped me," John said, surprised at the sudden change of conversation. Sherlock visibly looked more impatient with the difference in discussion and he sighed, irritated. It was another change that John had noticed recently. Sherlock was more impatient, more urgent, even more so than he was before. He didn't have time for anything and it didn't say anything good about the lifestyle he had been living of late.

"The evidence, Lestrade, what was it?" Sherlock pressed and Lestrade turned his attention back to him, like a father having to deal with a particularly persistent child.

"Alright, alright, hold your horses Sherlock. We got a new bloke in at the Yard, top brass who had come in 'specially for your case, he said he was interested. Anyway, he organised the task groups and everything and a few weeks later we'd turned up with some new evidence. We'd got a hold of some of Brook's bank details-"

"What?" Sherlock intervened.

"His bank details," Lestrade repeated.

"How? Moriarty is too good to leave bank details accessible," Sherlock said. Lestrade shrugged.

"I dunno. He must have left 'em open when he disappeared. Apparently they got in contact with someone who knew him," Lestrade said, "Don't ask who, all I know is that they turned over some of his details." John thought about the reporter who had written Moriarty's story and wondered if she had been the one to turn over Moriarty's details, perhaps she felt guilty. However, despite the fact that she was obviously on Moriarty's side when it came to a payroll, he doubted Moriarty kept people like her on his side closely enough to know details about him. For a second, John thought of Mycroft. If he had given Moriarty so many details about Sherlock's life, maybe he had found a little something about him too. It seemed likely since Mycroft had been guilt ridden over what he had done and he had a hundred different ways to feed the details into the force anonymously. But if he had the details, John would have thought he would have done what Sherlock would have done: Revealed Moriarty himself. But who else was there who would have those details and want to share them?

"An anonymous set of details didn't worry you?" Sherlock asked, as if he had read John's thoughts. Lestrade sighed, rubbing his forehead like he had a headache coming on. Truth be told, he had headaches most of the time these days.

"Of course it did, it stank something rotten but I didn't get a say in it. I just had to follow orders, trace up the details," Lestrade said.

"So, let me get this straight. A new top brass comes in, promotes you to lead his Sherlock investigation and actually wants the investigation in the first place. He then uncovers evidence to clear Sherlock's name and take down the fake Richard Brook's name," John surmised, his brain feeling fried after months of mundane living suddenly being zapped from it, "Who is this guy?"

"The new Chief Superintendent, Bob Sherrinford" Lestrade explained, "Came in about two month ago. I've actually got a meeting with him in about fifteen minutes; I reckon he'll find Sherlock a lot more interesting than he'll find me."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure," he said, "Well, we're always happy to meet new people, aren't we John?" John gave a small laugh at the jolly tone of voice and Lestrade gave a snigger.

"Yeah, you're a regular ray of sunshine," Lestrade said, standing up, "Come on, I can take you to his office if you want." Sherlock nodded and stood, waiting for John to heave himself up and grab his cane before he strode off. Lestrade and John followed behind, Lestrade silently smiling at the fact that Sherlock would need to fall back at some point since he didn't know where he was going, however his smile faltered a moment as he realised that this was Sherlock Holmes; he had probably already deduced where the Superintendent's office was.

"I really am sorry for not calling, John," Lestrade said as he fell into step with John, "I didn't-"

"It's alright Greg," John said, "I understand it." Lestrade gave a look of pure relief, as if he had been waiting to say it for so long that it had become a fervent worry for him.

Sherlock had waited at the door for them to follow him and he rolled his eyes as he opened the door and stepped out; straight into Sally Donavon. The pair stood, staring at each other for a moment, Sally's face one of complete shock and her eyes widened like she was wearing uncomfortable contact lenses.

"Sergeant Donavon," Sherlock greeted.

"W-why the hell is-" She didn't manage to finish her sentence as the chain of command in her head momentarily slowed as she tried to comprehend the appearance of the man stood in front of her. Finally she seemed to come around and addressed Lestrade who was stood with John behind the consulting detective.

"Sir, what the hell is the freak doing here?" she choked and Lestrade looked guiltily at her.

"I know you don't like him Donavon," he said, "But like it or not, Sherlock isn't actually dead."

She didn't say anything for a few moments and there was a strange moment where she was unsure of what to do: hit him for still being around to annoy her, arrest him for her still suspicious nature of him or, strangest of all, hug him. It wasn't that she liked Sherlock, she couldn't stand the man. She didn't trust him. She didn't see any reason to, he wasn't part of the police, he hadn't worked hard to get here and yet he was still aloud where she wasn't even aloud. However, she could hug Sherlock Holmes right now because he was alive and that meant that Lestrade hadn't fought for nothing. She could see Lestrade, standing taller than he had in months behind Sherlock Holmes, where he had always been and yet, he was ten times the man Sherlock Holmes was. He wasn't as smart as Sherlock, but he made up for it in dogged persistence, heart and loyalty and Lestrade was probably one of the few superior officers here that Donavon both liked and respected. She had never seen anyone fight so hard for another person as Lestrade had fought to clear Sherlock's name and it had almost destroyed him in the process and now Sherlock was alive and back like some weird parody of a miracle and Lestrade's work hadn't just cleared Sherlock's name, but it was as if her boss had been rewarded for his efforts. She didn't know why her boss respected Sherlock so much, but he did and that was really all that mattered.

She glared at Sherlock, deciding to carry on as she normally would. "You listen to me, freak, last time you were here you were under suspicion of kidnapping two kids, so don't think I've forgotten it, you hear me?" she snapped, "I don't care if you're back; I'm going to be watching you. People around here think it's all roses and daisies now your names been cleared, well I'm telling you, I ain't forgotten why it was in the need of clearin' in the first place, alright? And if you dare to put us in a position where we have to clean up after you again, I'll arrest you myself." It was weird, like talking to a ghost and she tried to hide the fact that her hands were shaking slightly in shock. She wondered briefly is she had been too harsh but she shook it from her mind. Sherlock deserved it. He'd almost lost them all their jobs, jobs they had worked hard to get and not only that but she had helped to ruin Lestrade too and, by the looks of it, John had had a hard time of it too. He deserved a little grilling for that.

John waited for the snide remark, the jibe that would put Sally in her place but it didn't come. Instead, Sherlock merely looked her in the eye and quietly muttered "I know."

John gaped. The words had sounded hollow and heart wrenching, jarring in their sudden, out-of-nowhere honesty. He sounded almost sorry and it made John wonder if Sherlock thought he deserved that. He'd pulled off a miracle, who was Sally Donavon to-

"Donavon," Lestrade cut across John's thoughts as he spoke to Donavon, "You can drop those files in my office, I'm taking these two to see the Superintendent." He gestured to the files in Donavon's hand and he too looked a little shaken by Sherlock's response, almost as much as Sally, who was looking at Sherlock in a mix of suspicion and regret.

"Yes sir," she said and she pushed past Sherlock, avoided contact with him as if he was Death and it was catching. John caught the slight tremble of her hands as she passed and almost felt sympathy for her. She had painted over her shock but in all truth, everyone was affected by Sherlock's return. At the moment he was like a lightning storm, striking different people in different intensities but in the end all striking the same chord, which the same effect.

Lestrade shot John a look as Sherlock lingered in the doorway a moment in thought before continuing on and the message was clear. What was that? John shrugged. He was as in the dark about it as Lestrade was.

They reached the Chief Superintendent's office without Lestrade even having to give directions, Sherlock obviously deducing his way there. John didn't mind and left him too it. He seemed like his old self when he was deducing, like a kid playing pretend suddenly switching back to themselves.

"Just, listen, try not to be completely… yourself when you meet him Sherlock," Lestrade warned him as they got to the door of the office, "He does control my job after all, so be-"

"Nice, yes, yes I've got it. The last time I did that it didn't work out so well," Sherlock added. John gave a look of agreement to Lestrade who sighed and muttered something about losing his job before he knocked and entered.

The office inside was bigger than Lestrade's and decked out in the best furniture, old fashioned bookshelves and a cabinet of war medals stood in one corner, looking slightly out of place with the modern desk and chair. The man inside the room seemed to look a little out of place too but in a way that made John feel like he was immediately in the presence of someone powerful. He was a tall, wiry framed man, neatly tucked into a suit and his light brown hair tidied just as neatly with a small amount of hair gel so it stayed perfectly styled into a professional, business type fashion. He turned from studying a file by his window as they entered and John saw the professional expression on his face falter when he saw Sherlock. He looked right past both Lestrade and John and locked eyes with the detective, sealing his gaze on Sherlock's face. John looked at Sherlock and was shocked to see a look of recognition, along with a tumult of other expressions on his face.

"Sherlock," the man said. Sherlock kept his eyes on him and the sound of his name didn't seem to register; either he had expected it or he wasn't surprised by it.

He straightened a little, matching the man stare for stare before he spoke a single word.

"Father."

A/N Okay, okay so I dunno if that was any sort of shocker but hey ho :D I wasn't sure if I liked this chapter and how it turned out but I enjoyed writing it and I *think* I like how it's turned out :S

Sorry for any spelling/grammar/research mistakes, as always :D

Also, sorry if the use of swearing offended anyone, but it was minor and fitted in with Lestrade's accent/personality. I never noticed how really, really Londoner Lestrade sounds till I wrote him and then I wrote Sally and I was just like "is that what us British sound like to people watching our shows?" XD (I'm from Yorkshire though, so my accent is nice and broad and farmer-like :D) but yeah, I just found it interesting/surprising.

Anyway, thanks for reading, reviews are my favourite things in the world so please feel free to drop me one if you liked/hated/wished I'd changed something in it and I'll see ya'll next time!