DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Sherlock, nor any of it's characters.

The 'Car Crash' in this fanfiction happens as the Reichenbach Fall's replacement. Moriarty, instead of dying at the Reichenbach Fall, was 'killed' earlier, before the car crash happened.

Author Note:

Sorry for so much delay guys! I haven't written anything in quite a long while, even RP wise! This is one habit I really hope to get back into :3

Anyways, I chose to update this story first because I feel that it has the most potential of the ones I am currently writing, if you have requests for any other updates, feel free to PM me or write a review on that story.

Thanks again,

Love chu all~ Keep Reading :)

~Scar

Chapter 2:

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, the world had returned to its usual state. A comfortable kind of boring. He felt frail, as though all of his strength had been drawn out of his body in the operating room. A long, sad sigh escaped from his lips, and as he had no other source of entertainment, he began to deduce. But before he had the chance to learn anything more about his situation, a door had opened. It was a rather awful, creaky, old door. The kind that seemed to set you on edge for no real purpose at all, but nonetheless, it had opened. And now, emerging from it, was a short young man with an overly excited demeanor.

"Sherlock! You're awake! My god, you sure do like your beauty rest," the man was grinning ear to ear. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion, and just as he began to sift through his memories to find the newcomer's face, another joined the crowd.

"Brother dear," said Mycroft, looking a bit cross, "You worried me, well, in retrospect I'm just one of the masses. You've got half of England waiting outside to see to your safe return. Made quite a story, you being hit."

"Hit?" Sherlock's voice caught on the way out, tangling somewhere in his vocal chords and making the word sound awfully wrong.

"Indeed, with a car," Mycroft raised his eyebrows, "Can't say I'd never thought about doing it, myself."

"Mycroft!" The stranger snapped, "Now is not the time to be joking about that."

"Speaking of, who's this?" Sherlock's gaze swept from the man's slightly angry face to Mycroft's, "Isn't this area for family only? He a friend of yours Mycroft? But no... you don't have friends."

"Sherlock..." The stranger's face had become tight with worry, fear dancing in his eyes, he laughed nervously, "Now really isn't the time for fun and games, okay?"

Sherlock. The man had said his name twice now, indicating that they were 'familiar' in one way or another. "Fun and games?" Sherlock pressed his fingertips together, studying the man closely.

"A-are you-"

"John, I think it'd be better if you left, now," Mycroft murmured, worry lining his own face as well. John? It was just about then that a short, slightly overweight nurse pushed her way into the room.

"John! Oh, terribly sorry to be a bother, I just need you to initial once more. Silly really, forgetting to- what? What is it?" All three pairs of eyes had shifted to the woman in the doorway. It was then that the stranger- John, he had been called- stood; his demeanor was suddenly hostile, as he stared at Sherlock.

"God Sherlock, I swear, if you're taking the mickey..." Sherlock met his gaze with a vacant stare. The man laughed, "Getting better at acting aren't we?!" Every word of the phrase sounded desperate, in denial, hopeful.

"I am afraid I am not aware of our relationship... John," Sherlock said, very clearly, his voice returning to it's crisp, accentuated English tone.

"O-oh, oh god, I am so sorry John," The nurse murmured, her hands clasped together painfully. "But, he could be completely serious-"

"Or a complete git," He practically spat the last word. "It isn't funny Sherlock. It ISN'T."

"John, please..."

"No, Lauren, stay out of this." Mycroft was completely silent, watching the scene unfold before him as though it were some kind of play. Lauren, whom Sherlock identified to be the stout nurse, rested a hand on John's arm.

"I can not allow you to stay, I'm sorry, but it's not good for patients to go through this much mental stress so soon after an operation," her voice was soothing, soft. "Please, follow me to the waiting room, and we can talk about it."

"Do you want me to leave as well?" Mycroft looked down at the two individuals.

"No, no, I think it'd be better for you to stay, see if you can do something to jog his memory," John had fallen silent, his face completely and utterly crestfallen. "Mr. Watson?" The pair shuffled out, John leaning slightly against her.

"That was a cruel thing to do, you know," Mycroft murmured, his eyes following them to the door, before fixing on Sherlock.

"What on Earth did I do?"

"You forgot," He sat himself next to the bed, drawing another cigarette from his pack, "Brother dear, you forgot all about John Watson." He sighed a swirl of smoke.

"Forgot?"

About... John Watson?

"Bloody Hell..." murmured Lestrade, as a very pale, very shaky John Watson was seen exiting the waiting room through the glass windows of the neurosurgical wing of Barnet General Hospital. "I wonder what's going on in there." He leaned back on his heels, raising his eyebrows. "Sherlock couldn't have keeled over while he was in recovery, I wonder..."

"Oh, do you really think that's a possibility?" Asked Molly, frightfully, her fingers were clasped together tightly, and the last of her tears were still visible, wet against her pale face.

"Don't scare the poor girl," scolded Mrs. Hudson, as she looked at Molly with high levels of sympathy. "I'm sure it was just the shock of seeing Sherlock back again, that's all."

A loud, obnoxious snort of indifference was heard plainly. "Shock? Did you see his face?" Anderson was in an altogether bad mood today. Mrs. Hudson cast him a venomous look, and he fell silent.

Sally, who had been quiet up to this point, looking down at the floor with a grim expression on her face, spoke then, "What are we all doing here in the first place? This freak doesn't deserve our attention." She laughed slightly, no one else did.

The atmosphere was thick, tense; almost palpably full an oppressing sort of darkness... The kind of aura that makes you feel like you're choking on your own emotion. The grounds just outside the hospital were full of cameras, reporters dressed freshly speaking into their microphones, the monotonous beep of each camera as it started recording. And at the very edge of this crowd, was where he stood. The solitary figure that embraced the darkness with a sense of ease, smiling a crooked smile. And this man, who watched from the sidelines with such a casual air, went unnoticed. That was how he had always liked it, secretly; unnoticed was a good place to be, a place where you could get away with so much more.

Getting away with things was the man's specialty, you see. Chess. Life was chess to him, one wrong move and he was in jail. But he was a master, he played his pawns with precision, the black and white tiles were nothing compared to his skill. Yes, life was a game of chess.

And he was on his way to winning this particular game.

His crooked smile never faltered, remaining plastered on his face like some kind of gruesome he mouthed the words.

"Did you miss me?"