A/N: Okay, I have no doubts this is very likely to offend at least some of the canon readers and even Grenada series fans. I am a devout fan of both. However, for those who have not read my profile, I am going to restate my position.

This is a work of fanfiction. I do not take it seriously, it is for fun and exercise. The following stories posted in the Sherlock Holmes fanfiction categories were NOT originally intended to be such. They started off as a series of snapshots for an original work I am dealing with from about the same time period. I have since decided to adapt them and post them.

So, the real warning is this: These will, obviously, be AU. There is just no pretending otherwise. Secondly, there is going to be some OOC. I don't know how much yet, since I am still adapting the the characters to the story and vice versa, depending on the parts. In all honesty, I really have no idea where this is going or how it will end. Sometimes my muses take different guises and will not allow me a moment's peace until I agree to do their bidding. Such is the life of a writer, I suppose.

What I'm looking for: My writing has been suffering for many years and has been a desperate struggle. At this point in time I'm very much looking to improve and would greatly welcome any suggestions in how and where to do so. However, given the fact that one of the most epic and time-consuming original works I've ever produced to date is from the same time period and closely related to the locations involved in these fics, I would also greatly appreciate anyone who can help me in dealing with historical inaccuracies more so than canon inaccuracies.

Above all, please enjoy this pathetic offering of fanfiction from an unworthy writer. If you do not enjoy it, do not suffer reading it. I have no wish to inflict my writing on anyone unwilling. No one is forcing you, and disliking it does not hurt my feelings. Please move on to the next admirable writer here in this fandom; for I have found many, and would happily give suggestions where to start.

~ Azolean

Prologue: The Day After

de·ni·al [dih-nahy-uhl]
1. an assertion that something said, believed, alleged, etc., is false
2. refusal to believe a doctrine, theory, or the like.
3. disbelief in the existence or reality of a thing.
4. the refusal to satisfy a claim, request, desire, etc., or the refusal of a person making it.
5. refusal to recognize or acknowledge; a disowning or disavowal

As the rising sun heralded the beginnings of a bright new day, the people walking beneath the windows of the sitting room at 221B Baker Street in London could not even begin to imagine that a dead man now walked amongst them once more. All of the world had read for themselves only months before Doctor John Watson's account of the death of the singular man they knew as Sherlock Holmes. Below those windows a handful of people had begun to stir as Holmes watched unnoticed from his vantage point. He fancied he could almost feel the city's more respectable citizens coming alive with the dawn, much as a bear from hibernation. While those night-time spectators of the darker side slunk off to their abodes, Holmes relished the feel of the city around him once again.

Light or dark, this city was his home, and he had been away for far too long. Turning away from the early daylight scene before him, Holmes drew his gaze back toward the most comforting sight of all. At some point during their long night both he and Watson had dozed off in their chairs beside the cold fireplace as if unwilling to leave after so long a time away. Having woken to a room devoid of light, Holmes realized that even Mrs. Hudson had been just as unwilling to disturb them now that they were both back where she felt they belonged. The knitted blanket that still covered his friend peacefully sleeping away the morning was further proof of her previous presence.

Though most of his thoughts had been taken up with concern for what sort of reaction he would receive from his dear friend upon his return, Holmes only now realized what a profound effect his return had also had upon their dear landlady. Briefly he wondered exactly when it was she had stopped regarding them as simply tenants and more like her own sons. Brushing this thought aside, Holmes quietly resumed his seat across from Watson as the light began to reveal more than he had had a chance to take in the day before. While his thoughts had been so occupied with the case and the chance to regain his freedom and livelihood in London, he had only taken such time as was needed to assess his dear friend's most basic appearances.

Now, as the sunlight began to filter into the room around him, he was able to take in more than he had ever seen before. Immediately Holmes had noticed the abundance of gray hair and lines of care about his friend's face that seemed to clash with the mental image he had drawn from his memories. He couldn't help a frown that marred his own features as he realized how profound the changes really were. Beneath the layers of neat clothing and blanket sat a man Holmes only recognized from a distant past memory. He could remember a time when his dearest friend appeared just as physically frail as he did now. But he could not remember his friend ever seeming so very weary and worn down. Even during the most gruelling cases mingled with overnight vigils when Watson had pushed himself to the point of illness and collapse he had not looked so very...fragile.

Holmes very nearly started in his chair as he realized that that had been the exact word that came to mind upon the sight of his friend now resting peacefully. Taking in the full image, he deduced that it was likely the first sound, peaceful sleep his friend had had in quite some time. Loathe to disturb it, he continued his observations in silence. Despite his attempts to learn more than what he could see for himself or what he already knew, Holmes could not seem to get beyond that one word he had never thought to attribute to this man before him. It disturbed him deeply that even in sleep, his friend appeared both fragile and plagued by a grief.

For a time Holmes lost himself in these observations. He knew of the death of Watson's wife some five months ago. He knew now his friend had suffered greatly at the apparent loss of his only friend. The rest he only knew through his reading of Watson's publications of their adventures. He could only gauge so much through the written works as to what his friend had been feeling during those times. Some seemed more lighthearted than others. Then there were those that seemed almost to be a desperate clinging to the ghost of a friend that had abandoned him.

Before his thoughts could turn down that darker path of guilt yet again, Holmes watched as Watson's brow furrowed slightly as the man began to wake. Keeping his silence, Holmes schooled his features to one of amusement as he watched his friend emerge from the depths of sleep. Those green eyes swiftly flew open in surprise at realizing he was not in his own bed. Moments later confusion and panic flitted across his features as he began to realize that he was not, in fact, in his own home at all. As that gaze fell upon his dearest friend in the matching chair opposite his own, Watson's grip upon the arms tightened.

"Good morning, Watson," Holmes replied brightly.

"Holmes," Watson whispered in awe. "So it wasn't a dream? I'm not going mad?"

At this Holmes could not help the chuckle that greeted these words. "Not unless we're sharing that dream along with Mrs. Hudson and the rest of London. As to the question of madness, I would like to believe you to be the better judge of that in any case."

These lighthearted words instead had an opposite effect that made Holmes' heart skip a beat. For one brief moment Watson's face became a mask of barely contained grief before he bowed his head and freed his hands from beneath the blanket to scrub at his unshaven face. When he looked up again it was as if the moment had never happened as he smiled wryly at his friend.

"Well, if I have gone mad, then it would seem I am at least in good company."

Again Holmes found himself chuckling as the momentary tension left them both and Watson's dearly missed sense of humor caught him off guard. Still searching for traces of what he thought he had seen in that unguarded moment, Holmes watched his friend groan his way through some stretches to work out the stiffness from having slept in his chair.

"For some reason, I seem to remember this chair in a fonder light. I don't recall it being quite so uncomfortable," Watson commented, eyeing his friend. "You don't seem to have suffered for your sleeping there."

The comment seemed to contain at least some element of question to it Holmes felt compelled to answer, as if to assure his friend he had, indeed, slept. However, before he could do so, the anticipated knock upon the sitting room door had him bounding swiftly to aid Mrs. Hudson in laying out their morning repast.

"My, but it is good to be doing this again," Mrs. Hudson commented, laying out all the dishes in precise order to what she remembered to be their liking.

"Agreed, my dear lady," Watson added warmly, taking his seat before the table.

"It looks to be an excellent breakfast, Mrs. Hudson. You've outdone yourself!"

"Between the two of you, I've got my work cut out for me. You can expect more of the same as long as you're actually eating it," she scolded gently, patting a somewhat abashed Watson on the shoulder as she turned to exit the sitting room.

For a moment Holmes grinned at Watson who gave every appearance of a chagrined schoolboy. In return Watson summoned all his former dignity and cocked an eyebrow at Holmes as if daring him to say something. This familiar silent exchange warmed some part of his soul. After all these years, Holmes had not dared to receive such a warm and forgiving welcome from his long-suffering friend. Smiling into his cup of perfectly brewed coffee, he set aside the issue of Watson's appearance and set to the meal with a fervor that surprised even Watson.

Though Watson appeared to thoroughly enjoy his own portion of their repast, Holmes took note of the fact that he didn't eat very much at all. Again, letting this go for a later time if needed, he simply took in his friend's increasingly relaxed and comfortable demeanor. As they both pushed aside empty plates and turned their attention toward more cups of steaming coffee, Holmes wondered how to broach the subjects he'd compiled in his most recent observations. Somewhat uncomfortable as to where to start, he instead turned to his pipe collection at the mantle. In the moments it took him to stuff his pipe from a pouch he'd kept on him, Watson had also abandoned the breakfast table in favor of wandering their sitting room.

"I suppose there is much you wish to catch up on with your return to London," Watson commented quietly, looking anywhere but at Holmes.

Holmes finished lighting his pipe to his satisfaction before resuming his seat before the fireplace. "As to that, old chap, I had hoped to impose upon your time and patience. After all, you've been here this whole time and would know more than I could glean from my simple wanderings."

Holmes was rewarded with a delightedly genuine smile from Watson. "Of course, Holmes. And it wouldn't be an imposition at all."

"What about your practice? Have you already sought a locum for the day?"

To Holmes' dismay Watson's features closed off as if a mask had slammed into place. The smile that had only moments before lit his green eyes now barely tugged at the corners as he fought to keep it in place. The eyes themselves had taken on a rather piercingly hollow luster as he waved off Holmes' questions. "Yes, of course. Though, I would not mind freshening up and a change of clothes. Shall I meet you at my practice in say, two hours, then?"

Feeling somewhat put off and on edge by this rather unexpected turn in his friend's demeanor, Holmes nodded his agreement placing a patently false smile on his own face. Again Holmes watched with keenness as his friend's features changed swiftly to unquestionable joy at the prospect of spending a day with his dear friend after so much time apart. He watched closely as Watson gathered his coat and few other possessions and quickly left the sitting room. Alone with his thoughts, Holmes again wondered how much his friend had changed and how much he was keeping to himself.

Though their morning together had been amiable enough, Holmes' few attempts to discuss Watson's side of the last three years were deftly evaded with surprising ease. Recalling the conversation of the last hour or so, he only now realized how easy it had been for his friend to turn the conversation back to the events of his travels without ever once seeming to evade answering. In the same token, Holmes had been all too happy to share his own experiences.

Perhaps too much so, he mused to himself.

His natural curiosity aside, there was something of an air of grief and sorrow about his dear friend that lingered quite strongly even when he seemed most eager to hear more. Holmes could not quite put aside the uneasy feeling he was missing something very important. Watson's body language and facial expressions had always been an open book to him. Closing his eyes, he recalled in minute detail everything he had observed of his friend thus far. And, for the first time in his life, he realized how much now lay beneath the surface that he could only speculate. Somewhere in the last three years, his Watson had learned to school his features and hide much. To almost anyone else, Watson would likely have appeared openly relaxed and even happy. But, for Holmes, the details of the tiniest nature jumped out at him all the more painfully.

Yes, painfully, he realized now. It hurt him in some way he could not quite identify to understand that his friend had not only been forced to learn such tactics as hiding his thoughts and feelings from others, but that he had done so even in the presence of his most trusted friend. How badly had the man suffered to feel he must control himself so tightly even around Holmes? The sense of loss Holmes now felt was not quite unexpected, but no less disappointing. He knew all too well he didn't deserve his friend's forgiveness, and very nearly couldn't believe how easily Watson had accepted his presence in his life once more.

Tossing aside his pipe, Holmes quickly rose from his chair to begin pacing the sitting room. His thoughts turning once more to the tight bundle of carefully controlled dread he felt to the depths of his soul. On more than one occasion in the last years he had dreamed of his return to London and his friend, Watson. Almost as many times, he had also woken in a cold sweat fear from nightmares of what he knew he deserved. His mind still beheld a sense of wonder at his friend's astoundingly forgiving nature. The man's courage was matched only by the greatness of his heart. It was one of the things Holmes had admired the most in all their years as partners.

Now Holmes had to question how much damage had been done to that heart. He knew at least some of the blame rested on his own shoulders. Despite Watson's quick, unquestioning forgiveness, Holmes still feared what the next few days may bring. Perhaps once the astonishment and joy of his return wore off Watson would at last confront him with those feelings of abandonment. Maybe then he would have a chance to help relieve his friend of some of what plagued him just behind that mask he now wore.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself for a confrontation he knew must come eventually, Holmes forced these thoughts to the back of his mind for the time being. For today, he would simply allow the both of them to enjoy these hours and see where the day would take them. He knew there was nothing more beneficial he could do for his friend than to be together and let Watson speak of his thoughts in his own time. Until then...

With a mischievous grin and a wicked sparkle in his eye, Holmes turned to this unused bedroom to rummage around for what he knew he'd left behind. Perhaps it was time to practice some of his older personas once more. And what better person to practice his skills upon than the man who knew him best?