Synopsis: This is an alternate storyline starting from the point that Sherlock confronts John in the restaurant after returning from Serbia. An accident forces John to consider what it would be like to lose Sherlock twice in the same lifetime. But was it an accident? Or is there something more nefarious at work…an old enemy is targeting the boys of 221B Baker Street. This takes place prior to the subway scenario with the bomb.

Author's Note: This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock. In an effort to avoid an unfinished story, I've written the entire story and will update on Saturdays, apart from the initial post. I am originally from Britain, but now reside in the states (and have for a long time), so if I get something wrong (locations perhaps…) please don't eviscerate me for it.

This is not SLASH. Friendship between Sherlock and John only. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like.

Also, I write heavy angst and action with injuries…so if you don't like that, you may not like this story. I wanted to write something different for the opener of series 3…so that is this story.

PLEASE REVIEW: Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!

Disclaimer: Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece. I am not making any money from this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read along.

Chapter 1

Not Dead

It should have been easy, coming back from the dead. But like everything in Sherlock Holmes's life, it wasn't and was fraught with complications. The plan had been quite simple and the consulting detective had executed it flawlessly. Those that had been necessary to the successful completion of the Lazarus plan had also played their parts to near perfection. Had there been prizes for their acting skills, surely they would have swept the ceremony.

And yet something had gone terribly wrong and returning from the grave hadn't gone the way Sherlock had planned. Nothing about the Lazarus plan had gone the way it was supposed to…

It had all started when his older brother Mycroft Holmes, the British Government himself, had suggested that they outsmart one, James Moriarty. And between the two Holmes brothers, they had done exactly that. At least that was the way it had seemed as Sherlock had stepped out on the roof at St. Barts hospital.

But they had both misjudged Moriarty's desire to win and the cost he was willing to endure. The moment that Moriarty had placed the barrel of that gun in his mouth, Sherlock knew he'd lost. Because he wasn't going to be walking out of this trap the conventional way. No, he was going to have to see the terrible plan that he and his brother had concocted through. The very idea that he would be travelling the world unspinning the spider's web, had been exhilarating, at the very least.

What Sherlock hadn't understood, at the time, was the incredible cost of their plan. Not only on himself but also on his best friend…John. The one person that Sherlock Holmes considered essential in his life; everyone else could fade away into obscurity and the, self-proclaimed, high-functioning sociopath would never even notice, but not John Watson

That would be one Doctor John Hamish Watson. Formally of the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and former Army doctor.

The only person in the whole of England, possibly the world, which Sherlock counted as indispensable; John was also the only friend in the world that Sherlock had…or had ever had. He was one of very few people in the detective's life that could handle being around Sherlock on a continual basis. Point of fact, John had actually chosen to live with the world's only consulting detective at 221B Baker Street.

He leaned back, allowing himself to sink into the soft leather seat of the aircraft chair, steepling his long pale fingers beneath his chin as he contemplated the last two years. The web that Moriarty had built had been much larger and far more intricate than Sherlock had anticipated. When the whole business with Moriarty had started, Sherlock had anticipated being away a few weeks, maybe a few months…he had not considered that it might be years before he saw his beloved London again. The beautiful architecture and the grey raining streets of the city that had a beating heart that only Sherlock heard.

He allowed his eyelids to fall closed as he sent his consciousness sliding down into his mind palace. It was the one place where Sherlock stored every relevant fact he'd ever learned. And some irrelevant ones that he couldn't quite seem to delete…though he had tried. Anything that involved John was firmly etched into the ornate walls of this mental structure and could not be wiped out…no matter how painful or dull.

Inside the many many rooms of his mind palace was everything that made Sherlock who and what he was, a brilliant and extremely complicated man. And inside these hallowed walls, was stored the entirety of the networks he'd committed to unraveling over the last two years. It had been difficult, dangerous, and the consulting detective had nearly died on more occasions than he cared to reflect on.

He'd had to give up many of the comforts he'd come to value. Ones that he'd grown accustomed to being an adult living in a large city with every amenity under the sun. But the most painful thing he'd been forced to endure had been the temporary suspension of his friendship with the army doctor turned blogger. That had been...most uncomfortable. It had plagued his mind palace and disrupted his sleep, which was generally allusive anyway.

It hadn't been his idea to keep John out of the loop about his fake suicide. It had been Mycroft's brilliant idea, though Sherlock had vehemently argued against it. As always his older brother had used logic and reason to undermine Sherlock's emotional reluctance about keeping the doctor in the dark. The younger Holmes hadn't known, he hadn't yet comprehended how much he'd come to count on his blogger's ability to focus his fractured, yet brilliant mind.

Mycroft believed that if Moriarty's people suspected that Sherlock was actually alive, it would put John, Detective Inspector Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson back on the assassin's 'to-do' lists. The elder Holmes had also argued that if John were truly in mourning over the death of his friend, then the world would believe it too. Because no one would believe that Sherlock Holmes would be so devious or so cruel as to leave his only friend broken into tiny little bits just for some scheme. As John would have said, that would be a 'bit not good'.

And yet that was exactly what Sherlock had done; although he hadn't initially processed it that way. It had simply been a new adventure. This was the ultimate game; one that the consulting detective would eventually win, though it would be at great cost to his own transport.

At the time he had believe that John would be fine without him. That it would be only Sherlock that would suffer as the result of their separation. The high-functioning sociopath had honestly believed that when he returned, and he would return, that John would understand. The doctor would understand why Sherlock had needed to fake his own suicide. He had even fooled himself into believing that John would understand the role he would have to play in this plan. The whining of jet engines pulled him back to his current situation on the plane.

Sherlock ran his long fingers through his disgusting hair and nearly groaned at the greasy feeling. He missed his expensive shampoo and…warm water, oh God, how I miss warm water…he had also missed John's fantastic cups of tea. The ones that the jumper-wearing doctor insisted on fixing at every occasion; and nicotine patches…he hadn't had one in almost a year and half. And while he didn't feel the overwhelming craving for nicotine, Sherlock really wanted one at the moment…or maybe a case could be made for an actual cigarette? He couldn't decide.

Over the last four months he'd been held inside a Serbian prison; the one that his older brother had finally found him in and retrieved him from. The beatings had taken a nasty toll on his transport; he stretched gingerly, feeling the pull of strained muscles and the tightness of old wounds and the newly healing scars.

Starvation had been the easiest to deal with, though usually when he didn't eat it was because he chose not to, not because he couldn't. Sherlock was now thinner than he'd ever been, which was saying something as he was extremely lean on a good day. He had also added to his previous collection of scars, although he didn't really mind that. For him they were like a map of his best cases; Sherlock supposed that they might bother someone else. But they didn't bother him. He mused with a half-smile. The smile died as soon as he considered John and what his friend's reaction would be when he learned how Sherlock had gained his new array of intersecting scars. John would no doubt demand to know where they had come from and Sherlock wasn't sure he was ready to go into the details yet.

This was the first time he'd allowed himself to think of his friend since he'd left London. Okay, so he hadn't been able to ignore the John that lived inside his mind palace. But he had not dwelled on the subject of his best friend during his waking hours. He'd carefully hidden John Watson away in his rooms inside the mind palace. The younger Holmes had ensured that there were mountains of books in there to keep the doctor busy. During occasions of enormous stress, injuries and even once when Sherlock had been close to killing himself from exposure, all for a case mind you so it was perfectly acceptable, John would talk to Sherlock. It wasn't the 'real' John Watson, he'd known that of course he'd known that, but it appeared a reflection of detective's own desire to live...and it always took John's form. He'd filed that little piece of information away for further assessment at later date.

Sherlock had known that if he let himself be distracted, by musings of John and home while in the field, he would likely die there. So instead, he'd kept a single-minded focus on the task at hand, when he'd been awake, which meant no conscious thoughts of John Watson. He'd focused on unweaving the deadly tapestry of Moriarty's network. Find every single person that could endanger England, and any of the people in Sherlock's life that he deemed important, and then obliterate every one of those threats.

"We should be landing in London within the hour. We'll go straight to my office and get you properly cleaned up." Mycroft's voice cut into Sherlock's trip down memory lane.

He reluctantly pulled completely out of his mind palace and blinked at his older brother before tilting his head to the side, assessing him. Sherlock's gray-green eyes narrowed as he evaluated his brother. He's been dieting again. He always looks angry when he diets. Food was Mycroft's only weakness…food and his 'junkie-detective' younger brother, Sherlock. While the younger Holmes knew he couldn't fault his brother for sibling responsibilities, he could rankle him about the sweeties his brother loved so much.

"Quite right. I have no intention of walking into Baker St. looking like a shaggy mountain man." Sherlock's baritone filled up the previous silence of the aircraft's cabin. "Dieting again I see."

"It's been a stressful two years, brother mine." Mycroft said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and pressed his lips together in response. A tight painful pulling of his lower lip reminded the injured man of the split that was still healing. He had been waiting for Mycroft's apology for letting the baron beat the bloody stuffing out of him before revealing himself. But so far, his insufferable older brother had remained irritatingly mute on the subject. He'd better not ask for a 'thank you' or I'll spike his tea with ecstasy next time he visits. Sherlock seethed silently.

221B 221B

John Watson looked about the living room where he'd shared so many of Sherlock's adventures. The cases that had truly brought the army doctor back from a war he'd been trying to escape ever since being shot in Afghanistan and then invalided home.

He hadn't even known what he'd needed when he returned to London. What he did know was that meeting Sherlock Holmes had saved his life in the most literal sense. Had things gone on as they had been, there was a very good possibility that John wouldn't be…well, around any longer.

Helping to solve crimes with Sherlock had given John's life a sense of meaning that had been missing since he'd been discharged from the army. Not to mention the adrenaline rush he'd needed to simply exist from day-to-day. It had occurred to John that while Sherlock freely admitted his own addictions, the army doctor was far more silent about his addiction. Danger. Adrenaline. Being needed. Each of these things was something that John couldn't live without.

He was fairly certain that his brilliant friend had deduced his addiction to danger on the very first night they'd chased after the cabbie near Northumberland. But he'd had the decency not to say anything to John about it. And generally speaking, Sherlock Holmes wasn't inclined to decency where other people were concerned, so that also said something about the depth of their friendship. The interesting thing was that that was the very first day they'd met…officially.

Sherlock, the insufferable sod, generally shouted out whatever was on his bloody mind…and oh God, do I miss him. John thought sadly. Even two years after Sherlock's…death, the doctor missed his eccentric friend with a depth that was still raw and painful. Not a single day went by that something didn't remind him of the consulting detective's absence. It had been a very difficult few years following his best friend's death…death…it sounded as though Sherlock had simply passed away. Instead of committing suicide brought on by Moriarty.

He forced himself away from those disturbing and dark thoughts; they never ended well for him. John was intensely grateful for the appearance of Mary Morstan. She'd come into his life, much like Sherlock had, at a time when John was rapidly approaching the end of his metaphorical rope. He'd been spending more and more time staring at his army Browning L1A9 and wondering if he should simply follow his friend on that last adventure. Mary had saved him from himself. Just like Sherlock had saved him that day in the laboratory at Barts. John sighed and slowly stepped inside the flat.

The living room was covered in dust, but nothing had been moved. The books were still sitting untouched on the shelves. Sherlock's skull was still staring, albeit a bit mournfully, from its' spot upon the mantle. It was an ever-present reminder of the eccentric man that had filled up 221B Baker Street.

Nothing had changed…not since John had officially decided not to return to their shared flat. It had been too painful; looking at the unfinished experiment that Sherlock had left congealing on the kitchen table, two years ago. Or the thumbs in the fridge that eventually looked like over-ripened carrots, swelling and changing color, before decaying into mush.

Then there was the violin…the beautiful Stradivarius that now sat silent in the ordinary case, stowed in the corner by the fireplace. John couldn't remember how many times Sherlock's incessant playing had kept him up at night. But like all things Sherlock, he was a master of that violin and sometimes the music was so painful and full of emotion that John couldn't help but listen, entranced by this version of Sherlock…stripped bare of his masks. At moments like this he felt like he was seeing a carefully hidden version of his friend.

John was fairly sure that Sherlock didn't realize he poured all the unwanted emotions, ones that he generally hid from the world, into his playing.

Everywhere he'd looked, the doctor had seen Sherlock…or rather he'd seen the absence of Sherlock. And it had been like a knife inside his heart, twisting until he could no longer be alone in the flat.

He had been unable to save his best friend that day on Barts roof. He had stood, like a helpless sod, on the street below the hospital and watched as the only man that had ever truly understood him, leapt to his death. And it had been because John hadn't been enough. His belief in the brilliance and innocence of the world's only consulting detective hadn't been enough for Sherlock. And he'd taken his own life. The absolute truth of this knowledge had killed the army doctor a little bit every day.

He shook himself from the damaging thoughts and finally turned toward the kitchen. John's blue eyes were drawn to the metal pan that still sat on the table and the rock hard thing inside it. A burning behind his eyes had John turning away sadly. Will it ever get better? He wondered when his chest tightened painfully. Will there ever be a day when I don't miss you…he seriously doubted it.

"So why come here now?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she followed him into the living room. She busied herself tidying up the place, removing the union jack pillow from John's chair and slapping it against her leg. The dust filtered through the air and made her sneeze. "I really should dust in here." She lamented as she set the pillow back down.

Her voice encouraged John's attention back the present situation and his reason for visiting this dusty reminder of his past. He swallowed thickly. "I've got some news." He finally managed.

Her face fell. "How bad is it?"

John frowned and then shook his head. "No, no, I'm not sick." He heaved a sigh. "I'm moving on."

"You're emigrating…" she breathed out softly.

"No. No, I've met someone." It felt strange to say it out loud. He'd been with Mary for a few months now and it had been the lifeline he hadn't known he needed. "We're getting married. Or I'm going to ask." He stammered out with a shrug of his shoulders.

Mrs. Hudson smiled genuinely, clapping her hands together in excitement. "Oh…that's wonderful." She took a breath. "So soon after Sherlock?" She added as an after thought.

"Well…yes." John answered slowly.

She smiled. "What's his name?" It was an enthusiastic question, but one that he had grown weary of answering.

A familiar pang of irritation ran through John at her assumption that he and Sherlock had been in a romantic relationship. It had always irritated him that people just assumed that of their close friendship. Honestly, John wasn't even sure if Sherlock was capable of having that kind of relationship with anyone. Hell, the man was barely able to have a friendship with someone.

"Mrs. Hudson, how many times do I have to tell you…Sherlock was not my boyfriend. I am not gay."

221B 221B

Sherlock reclined in the barber's chair soaking in the humanity of it. He'd felt so out of touch with civilized society over the past two years. Just having a shave felt like he was being given a piece of himself back. He'd left so many pieces of himself scattered around the world as he'd destroyed Moriarty that he relished getting a small piece back.

His fastidious grooming habits had taken a sharp decline during his time away form London. Mycroft was droning on about something or other, though Sherlock was trying not to hear anything his brother was saying. Something about the Baron… Finally, he heard the one thing that he would grace with a response.

"A 'thank you' wouldn't go amiss." Mycroft finished in that haughty way he had of saying absolutely everything.

Sherlock pulled in a low deep breath, better his brother think he was intensely irritated than know the true level of Sherlock's physical pain. "What for?" He heard Mycroft's huff of indignation and knew that his brother thought he was being obtuse.

"For wading in."

A pulse of genuine anger exploded through Sherlock and he lifted his hand, signaling the barber to stop. He didn't, after all, need to have his throat slit now. He struggled up into a seated position wanting his brother to see his face. Agony shot along his ribcage as the two that had been broken shifted uncomfortably. There were also several healing lacerations that pulled painfully. Sherlock hissed and struggled to keep his face neutral, his eyes remained shadowed in the low light of Mycroft's office.

"Wading in?" Sherlock bit out through clenched teeth. "I was nearly beaten to a pulp."

Mycroft rolled his eyes in denial, then look confused. "I got you out."

The sharp gray-green of Sherlock's eyes barely showed beneath the furrowed brow and appraising look he shot at his older brother. "No, I got me out. Why didn't you intervene sooner?" He tilted his head to side as he stared intently at the other man and tried to deduce a reason for his older brother's delayed involvement. When his sharp mind honed in on a reason, he ground his teeth together in anger.

"You were enjoying it." He hissed.

Sherlock narrowed his multi-colored eyes even further. He was thrown back into a memory of them as children, when he'd angered the next-door neighbor's son. His older brother had waited until Sherlock had a puffy eye and a split lip before he'd stepped in to scare off the larger boy.

"Definitely, enjoying it." He continued as his voice dropped into a deep rumble of disapproval. Why did Mycroft always think to teach him a lesson at the most inappropriate moments? Always when it meant that Sherlock would spend a few days convalescing as a result.

"Do you realize what it was like for me? Going undercover? The noise…the people." The older Holmes shuddered in distaste. If it hadn't been completely necessary to pull Sherlock out, then he would have sent one of his operatives. But he'd known that his little brother wouldn't take the news well from anyone other than him. So he'd learned Serbian and gone to retrieve the one person in the whole of England that could unravel the current plot threatening London…William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

"I couldn't risk giving myself away, now could I? In case you hadn't noticed, fieldwork isn't exactly my natural milieu." If his brother could have erased the unwanted reaction to, even the thought, of being around real people, Sherlock was sure he would have.

Sherlock carefully leaned back in the chair; the pressure on his ribs was starting to make it difficult to breathe, allowing the barber to finish his work. Anthea stepped into the room with clothing for him. Sherlock's keen gaze slid over to the sleek black coat, trousers and the tailored white shirt, he'd missed tailored suits. She hung the lovely suit on a hook and stepped out of the room, giving him some privacy to dress.

After the man had finished, Sherlock had slowly pulled his lanky form from the leather chair and padded over to the sleek clothing. He raised his eyebrow in approval at the designer label on the sleeve and high quality of the material.

Slowly he shrugged out of the dressing gown, allowing it drift toward the ground drawing his gaze toward the floor. He ignored the pale pink scars that now littered the tops of his feet. He didn't, however, miss the sharp intake of breath from Mycroft when the towel also slipped from around his thin shoulders revealing some of the startlingly new and, Sherlock assumed, fairly nasty scars that would no doubt stretch from his lower back to the base of his neck.

"It was a long two years." Sherlock muttered softly without turning to look at his older brother. He wasn't sure that he really wanted to see what his brother's reaction was, because while Sherlock was very good at deductions, Mycroft was bloody brilliant at them. It would only have taken the other man a few moments to catalog the injuries and come to his own conclusions about what the younger Holmes had gone through.

The tall thin man pulled the suit off the hanger and was pleased to see that whomever had bought the suit, and it certainly hadn't been his older brother, had taken his weight loss into consideration. The beautiful black clothing fitted like a glove. He was just tucking the crisp white shirt into the trousers when Anthea stepped back into the room, handing a report to Mycroft.

"All the chatter, all the noise concurs. There's going to be a terrorist attack on London." Anthea said softly.

Sherlock threw her a look and raised his eyebrow in response.

221B 221B

The restaurant was far more posh and sheik than John usually enjoyed. But this wasn't just any night out. This was the night he was going to change his life. At least he hoped it would turn out that way. He'd always thought that he'd get married, but a part of him had given up on that dream. Life with Sherlock had added all the excitement that he could handle and frankly? Keeping a girlfriend with Sherlock deducing her all time hadn't been all that conducive to keeping a healthy relationship. A pang of guilt washed through him for finding some semblance of happiness despite the loss of his friend.

John sighed and patted the ring that was securely nestled inside his jacket pocket. Mary had popped away to check her makeup, not that she needed to. John was pretty certain she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever been with…seen…or had the pleasure of…well, one doesn't need to go into that.

A pair of black pants stepped up to the table and without glancing up John ordered whatever the wine was that he suggested. The doctor's mind was so involved in his own upcoming proposal that he missed obvious signs that the man was trying to get his attention.

221B 221B

Sherlock forced himself to walk away from his friend. John, the bastard, hadn't even glanced up. So either Sherlock was doing better at the fake French accent or the other man was considering some major decision.

It was always difficult to get John's attention when he was pondering major life choices. Sherlock had once conducted an experiment concerning the explosive properties at bbq's, with propane, in the kitchen sink just to get his best friend to notice how bored he was. But that was all in the pursuit of science and John needed to pay attention now…dammit. The consulting detective was working really hard at surprising him and he needed to appreciate the massive effort it was taking.

He stepped away to find the wine that Mycroft had suggested and then Sherlock had recommended to John, thus securing his anonymity and validity as a waiter. His multi-colored eyes were drawn over to a blonde woman making her way back toward the doctor's table. She wasn't tall or rail thin but she was pretty, despite the alarming amount of eye makeup she had smothered on her face, and definitely someone John would date. Sherlock waited until she had been seated exactly 3 minutes before he marched back over to the table with the bottle of wine.

His heart was beating quicker than was normal and Sherlock was trying to decipher why he was concerned. Mycroft, the bloody bastard, had said some things that made the consulting detective wonder if he would be as well received as he'd anticipated by his friend…his only friend and the one person he'd been the most afraid of losing to the sniper's bullet.

John was leaning into the table, his face determined and nervous as he stared across at the blonde. The woman was laughing, obviously enjoying his company. Sherlock chose that moment to interrupt.

"Sir, I believe that you'll find this to your liking. The qualities of the…." Sherlock kept talking and somehow came around to a comment that allowed him to reveal himself. "…making one aware when he is staring into the face of an old friend." He reached up and pulled off the glasses in a flourish of movement that was grandiose and worthy of this performance. In his, not so humble, opinion it was rather excellently done.

John hadn't even glanced up; he'd been trying to get the obnoxious waiter to go away. "No, seriously…could you just…" And then his brain made the connection between the man standing above him and the man he'd lost two years ago. His heart stopped inside his chest and John found his breath caught in his throat as he stared. Because there, looking down at him, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. So unless a ghost had somehow gotten a reservation at this very exclusive restaurant, it was the flesh and blood representation of John's dead best friend.

Sherlock saw the exact moment when John realized it was he, that it wasn't a figment of the doctor's imagination. The shift in his blue eyes, the subtle shake of his body as he stared unblinking at the taller man. "Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Adds distinction to friends and anonymity to waiters." It was a bad joke, even Sherlock could tell that.

John's eyes shifted over to the woman across from him then back to Sherlock. She was trying to figure out who could have so thoroughly confounded John's speech, sending him into silence. He hauled himself to his feet; unable to stay seated any longer, the shock nearly vibrating through him. "John?" she asked softly. Her green eyes were wide and worried as she watched the shift in his demeanor. "John, what is it?"

Sherlock finally decided he should probably say other things. "Well, short version…not dead." He hadn't realized that saying those two words would feel as poorly as they did. In fact, he'd never considered how his antics would affect his friends at all. He couldn't, he wouldn't have been able to do the things he needed to if he had. But now as he stared into the confused and pain-wracked eyes of his only friend, Sherlock wondered if it would have been kinder to simply stay 'dead'.

He floundered on. "Didn't mean to spring it on you like that. I know, could have given you a heart attack. Still might. But in my defense it was very funny." Sherlock laughed and watched as John's eyes hardened at his dismal attempt at a joke. "Probably still will. Okay, it's not a very good defense." He conceded quietly.

The woman's eyes widened as she made the connection between the two men. "Oh no, you're…"

"Oh yes." Sherlock responded without really looking at her.

"My god." She breathed slowly, shock stealing her voice.

"Not quite." He responded flippantly.

"You died. You jumped off a roof."

Without taking his eyes from John, Sherlock answered. "No."

"You're dead." She finally whispered.

He reached for the napkin on the table. "No, I'm quite sure. I checked." Picking it up and folding it into a point, he moved to dunk it in her water glass. "Excuse me."

All this time John continued to stare without uttering a single word. But Sherlock knew his expressions well enough to know that John was beyond pissed off. So he made another attempt at a joke. "Does uh...yours rub off too?"

"Oh my god. Oh my god. Do you have any idea what you've done?" Her voice was breathy, like she was angry. But what right did she have to be angry? Sherlock hadn't done anything to her. In fact, why was she involved in this conversation at all? She should really just leave.

"Okay John, I'm um…suddenly realizing that I probably owe you some sort of an apology." And it was true. Sherlock hadn't considered that he'd need to apologize for saving John's life. But upon further reflection of his conversation with Mycroft earlier that day, he knew that his older brother had known how this would go down. And he hadn't thought it important to at least warn Sherlock of the uncomfortable feelings that would accompany this reunion. Rubbish older brother.

John slammed his fist into the table, pulling the detective's gaze back to his friend. Part of him was fairly certain that John was trying very hard not to punch him in the face.

The woman tried to keep him calm. "John. John, just keep it…"

"Two…" he couldn't even finish the words. His voice was stolen by the emotions that were currently trapped inside his mouth. He groaned and tried again. "Two years." Same result. The words barely made it past the anger and the hurt.

Sherlock watched John struggle and an uncomfortable tightening in his chest alerted him of an impending, and unwanted, emotional response. He was feeling something akin to guilt. Watching his friend struggle to find the right words to express his feelings wasn't any kind of fun. And it made Sherlock realize that Mycroft had been right. John may not want him back. That he may not get to go back to traipsing through the streets of London with his best friend at his side solving murders and cases. And that elicited a flood of emotions that the consulting detective wasn't really prepared for.

"I thought…I thought you were dead. Now, you let me grieve…" John pulled in a ragged breath. "How could you do that? How?"

The gray-green eyes remained averted and the dark-haired man tried to find a way to explain why he'd faked his death. Why he hadn't told John about it. But he could also see the anger and the pain bubbling beneath the surface. It was only a matter of time before John blew up with an aggressive response.

"Wait, John. Before you do something you might regret. One question. Just let me ask one question. Are you really going to keep that?" He had hoped to lighten the situation, but immediately saw his mistake when John's rage filled eyes lifted to pin him with an incredulous stare. It was only a moment before John acted on those aggressive tendencies and launched himself at Sherlock, knocking the consulting detective to the ground. Sherlock's head bounced off the tile and he felt an explosion of pain rocket through him. White sparks exploded around the edges of his vision and then his vision blurred slightly at the edges.

He pushed the physical response back down. He couldn't afford to lose consciousness now. Damn transport. John needed him. At least, he hoped that his friend still needed him, because Sherlock definitely still needed John. Needed the army doctor in a way that he had never needed anyone else.

John's hands shifted to the pale thin neck of his friend and for the first time it occurred to Sherlock that he may have crossed a line that he may not be able to un-cross.

221B 221B

Sherlock held a white linen napkin to the split in his lower lip. But it wasn't the pain in his mouth that was causing him distress; it was watching John crawl into a cab without looking back.

"I don't understand. I apologized, isn't that what people are supposed to do?" The woman, Mary as it turned out, looked up at him. A small smile on her lips and a…was that a sad look? Sherlock couldn't be certain, but it almost appeared as though she pitied him.

"Gosh, you don't know anything about human nature do you?"

He considered her comment for a moment and then answered quietly. "Nature? No." He glanced down at her and reevaluated his initial deductions. She was kind. A nurse. Orphan. The information just kept flowing into his consciousness as he stared at her. "Human? No." He continued softly.

The fact that John was walking away from him, from their friendship proved just how much Sherlock didn't know about people…especially John Watson.

"I'll talk him 'round." Mary said with a genuine smile. She likes me? His mind supplied without his permission.

"You will?" He couldn't stop the surprise from registering in his voice as he turned to look down at her. Why would she do anything for him? At no other point in his entire life could he remember someone doing something for him outside of John or his older brother, and that always came with strings attached. The only other person that had ever cared about how he was feeling was John…or at least it had been.

"Oh yeah."

Mary smiled sweetly. Her green eyes glistened with a kindness that made absolutely no sense to Sherlock. People didn't do things for him. He was a grade-A asshole and he was well aware of that fact. But that had never been his relationship with John. The doctor that made him eat toast and drink an ocean of tea. The man that had been concerned when a cabby tried to manipulate Sherlock into taking that damn pill…so much so that John shot the older man without a second thought and saved the consulting detective's life.

His gray-green gaze lifted to meet Mary's.

"Mary?" John called from the cab.

Sherlock watched as John held the door for Mary and then crawled in beside her without even glancing his way. It hurt. The potential loss of his only friend had been the one thing he'd been desperately trying to avoid by leaving. But now it appeared as though Moriarty had won their last encounter after all. Because removing John from Sherlock's life was the only way to truly destroy the detective…and Moriarty had known that.

TBC…

Author's Note: Please take a moment and let me know if you're interested in the rest of the story.