Chapter Eight

"How is my brother doing?" Mycroft asked as he drank his tea in the sitting room.

"Really well, actually," John told him. "He's come farther than I expected in a month."

"Considering your own experience, you mean," said Mycroft.

John's eyes shot up to him as his cup froze halfway to his mouth.

"I work for the British government, John," Mycroft told him in slight exasperation. "I looked through your records the night you first met my brother."

John gave a little smirk. "Why am I surprised?" He took a drink of his tea.

"It's one of the reasons why I didn't try to pay you to leave London," said Mycroft.

"No, you only tried to pay me to spy on your brother."

"You and I both know that was a test. You passed. Congratulations. Not many have."

John smirked again as he drank his tea.

"So, Sherlock has done nothing out of the ordinary, given the circumstances?" asked Mycroft.

John shook his head. "Not really." He shrugged after a moment. "Well, he did ask me if he and Molly had been in a relationship, but that's about it."

Mycroft made no move whatsoever. He only stared at John. "Really."

"Yeah, I think he got a couple things mixed up," said John. "I told him it was only Molly that felt that way."

Mycroft stared at him for another moment and then nodded. "Has he had any other…mix-ups?"

"No, not really," John replied. "But then again, he doesn't really comprehend emotions, so it's understandable."

Mycroft just kept staring at him. "Yes, perfectly understandable."

John frowned as Mycroft's constant stare started to get under his skin.

Mycroft broke his stare and set his tea down. "Well, I must be off. A country to run and whatnot." He stood, turning to grab his coat.

"You know, it might help Sherlock if his brother actually stayed and visited," said John.

"Trust me, John," said Mycroft as he turned back towards him, "it wouldn't." He then walked out of the sitting room towards the front door.

John watched him go before giving a sigh. "You're probably right."

John watched as Sherlock let his mother hug him one last time before she and her husband went out the front door. Instantly, Sherlock's indulgent smile dropped, and he turned and stropped off towards the study.

John smiled. "Problem?"

Sherlock turned back around. "She's suffocating. All she wants to do is hug me and cry over how her youngest son is back. I understand she's glad I'm not dead anymore, but can't she control herself?"

John laughed. "Now, that sounds like the Sherlock I know."

Sherlock sighed, pausing. "I'm really not into sentiment, am I?"

"Told you," said John.

Sherlock turned and made his way to the study.

John followed behind him. "What are you working on in here, anyway?"

Sherlock moved around a desk where a few chemistry items were set up: a Petri dish, beakers, pipettes and chemicals. "I'm testing the reaction of bromine with human saliva. Nothing exciting so far."

"And what prompted this?"

"Molly told me the other day how experiments helped distract me," Sherlock explained, looking down at the Petri dish. "Thought I'd give it a shot."

"And?" asked John in interest.

"And I'm certain it would work if I had my equipment from 221B," muttered Sherlock. "As of now, there's not many experiments I can do with—"

"What did you say?" John interrupted, holding his hand out to him. "221B?"

Sherlock had looked up at him with a frown. "Yes."

John smiled, dropping his hand. "I never put our address on the blog."

Sherlock blinked a couple times. "No…you didn't, did you?"

"You remember the street name?" asked John, the hope barely disguised.

Sherlock's eyes tracked off to the wall, thinking. 221B… In the next moment, his own voice seemed to echo in his head.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."

Sherlock looked up at John. "Baker Street."

John smiled. "Good! That's great! Do you remember anything else?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, and he could swear he heard violin music, but the next second, it was gone. He looked up at John, shaking his head sadly.

"That's all right," John told him. "Clearly, it's all coming back. It'll just take time."

Sherlock nodded and looked back down at his experiment.

Sherlock sat in his bedroom, occupying his time with reading. Ever since Molly left a few days ago, things had become boring again. He so wanted his memory to come back so he could go back to Baker Street and solve cases. Mycroft had said that he had given evidence to Lestrade so he could start clearing his name, but Sherlock didn't know how much more he could entertain himself here before he went crazy. Was he usually like this?

Sherlock flipped to the next page of the book he was reading, finishing the paragraph. "It had to be a primate of some kind." He flipped a couple pages to get to the last couple paragraphs. He nodded. "An orangutan. Obvious." He tossed the Edgar Allen Poe short story compilation to the foot of the bed and reached for the next book.

"—Sebastian Moran—"

Sherlock's head snapped up to look at the news report he'd had on in the background on the television. It was showing a breaking news story with an old army photo next to the anchorwoman labeled "Moran at Large."

"—and theft—has been spotted this evening—" the anchorwoman continued.

Sebastian Moran, why do I know that name?

Sherlock grabbed the remote and rewound the news footage, pressing play.

"—has been rescheduled for this Tuesday the twelfth," said the anchorwoman. The photo of Moran appeared on the screen. "And in other news, Sebastian Moran—wanted for his suspected involvement in multiple counts of murder, kidnapping and theft—has been spotted this evening just north of London."

Sherlock frowned. That's not right. Why? Why isn't it right?

"Citizens are advised not to approach Moran but to dial 999," said the anchorwoman. "Moran is considered to be extremely dangerous."

If he's in London, then we're all in danger. Why? What can't I remember? Why are we in danger?

Because he knows.

Sherlock's eyes widened as it all came back to him: the cases, John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Mycroft, Moriarty, Moran. And if Sebastian Moran was back in London, that meant he knew Sherlock was alive.

The television switched off as the lights all went out.

John!