A/N: It really was supposed to be a one-shot with Mycroft and Sherlock, but then it turned to this. This part is most likely the last one, because I don't want to write a reunion fic and Reichenbach-Return type of story. Well, too late - "Something decent" is post-Reichenbach and "Powrót detektywa" is a reunion type of fic. Anyway - I promise that if I get attacked by an English plot-bunny again, I will start a new fic, not expand (AGAIN!) this one.

Thank you all for reviews (love them), story alerts, favouriting this story or me (love it even more ;) ).

Beta again by jack63kids.

Disclaimer: Characters don't belong to me (Mofftiss and BBC are the happy owners), I just borrowed them for fun, with no intention of breaking any copyrights, making profit or whatever. Don't sue me.

Punch punch punch, angry growl, adrenaline pounding in his ears, not allowing the body to finally collapse, he knew he had to practically half- or kill the man, because he was going to pass out and then everything would be for nothing, because the creature beneath him was going to kill him anyway.

Punch punch punch, panting, silence, no more struggling from the man he was beating. He didn't even feel pain in his knuckles. His world became slightly more grey. He could barely breathe. Over, it's over, he's unconscious, you can get on your feet and run away.

Easier to think than actually do.

He backed away from where he was kneeling and practically toppled over, to lay on his back and try to stay awake. He heard some commotion a few rooms away, but with his body slowly shutting down because of drugs in his system, he had no strength to get up and hide. And he cared less every passing second.

Someone shouted "Clear!", he heard lots of heavy footsteps (five people, not soldiers, more likely security, army boots), then someone with very familiar, London middle class accent ordered to check on the bodies. Someone approached him, took his pulse.

"This one's dead", he heard somewhere close by. Since he felt he was still alive, the comment must have referred to the man he'd just beaten. To death, apparently.

"Sir?", started the one above him. "He's alive."

He moved slightly.

"And barely conscious," was added.

"Christ...", hissed the leader with London accent. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the team leader.

"Hello, Lestrade," he mouthed, tried to smile, then lost consciousness.

He felt himself being moved. Placed on something firm, like a stretcher trolley, then wheeled away. Then warmth. Safety, even. He haven't felt safe in a long time. It was a somewhat new experience for him.

Someone was holding his hand.

Is this what death feels like? Was he actually dying?

He fell asleep again.

The next time he woke, he was able to open his eyes. He found himself in home-like, spacious, cozy room, on a double, simple, wooden bed, covered with warm, white cotton bedclothes. He was dressed in pyjama bottoms and t-shirt. It would be surprisingly normal if he hadn't felt the drip hooked to the crook of his left elbow and bandages around his knuckles, wrists, ankles and chest. He felt nicely detached from world, probably thanks to painkillers. Good thing he was actually able to think, so he had the right to be a little bit surprised when he saw Molly Hooper entering the room.

"Hi!" she exclaimed when she saw him awake.

"Where am I?" he asked. His voice was hoarse.

"Some very secret place only your brother knows about," replied Molly, looking hesitant.

"You don't know." That wasn't a question.

"Not really," she smiled shyly. She handed him a glass of water and a straw. He sipped slowly, swallowed. God, it felt so good.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I was told I'm the closest to fit the description of 'trusty with medical degree, but not John Watson'," she replied, visibly uncomfortable. "You weren't too badly hurt, so I wasn't able to do much more damage to you." She smiled again.

"You look nice," he heard himself speaking. Where did that come from?
Well, she did. And he missed familiar faces so much...

"And you are stoned, ohmyGodI'msosorry!", she squeaked, but Sherlock tried to smile and probably failed.

"I am," he admitted, shifting in his bed.

"Well, then get some more sleep. You'll feel better soon."

He replied her with short "mhm" and closed his eyes.

He still felt safe.

He lay on his left side, with his left arm (still with the drip) outstretched. He felt a little bit stronger. Maybe he was being given something more than just painkillers, because he didn't believe bed rest would be that miraculous. He opened his eyes, saw the person sitting beside the bed reading the screen of his mobile phone, and sighed.

"So I have a reunion with all of my friends, now?", he asked.

"Just the two of us," replied Lestrade, not looking from his mobile. "John remains happily unaware."

"Or I'm the lucky one. He'll probably shoot me," Sherlock said, closing his eyes.

"Probably." He sounded neutral.

Sherlock felt like he was being watched.

"So, Molly Hooper knew from the beginning," started Greg. "Then you told Mycroft to clear your name. Then Mycroft hinted that 'our world would be normal again' and I started to wonder what he'd meant. Then he swore me to secrecy and sent me to the old warehouse, when I'd found you beaten up and drugged, on top of a guy clearly responsible for your state. I just want to know..."
"The guy in the warehouse was the one supposed to shoot you the day I'd had to jump," Sherlock explained, not opening his eyes.

"And you're bloody lucky he didn't kill you."

Sherlock just nodded.

He knew that. He would be dead if Moran hadn't left. He'd been in no state to fight them both, but his opponent had underestimated Sherlock's will to live. It was easy. After they had found and captured him, they'd hanged him by his tied wrists, but he had been able to touch the floor with his feet, also tied at the ankles. They'd beaten him and cracked at least two of his ribs, trying to force some information from him, unsuccessfully. Moran had left. His colleague had drugged him and turned away, staying close. That had been his mistake.

Sherlock shuddered at the memory.
He heard Greg putting away his phone and shifting towards him. Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at the familiar, healthy (rested: his life have been fairly easy and satisfying recently, despite finalised divorce, concerned face of the closest thing he'd had to a friend before he'd met John. He could see his reflection in big, brown eyes of the trustworthy, open-minded, now-former policeman. He remembered that look of concern from the old times, times that would never return. Sad times.

Being beaten and vulnerable made him more prone to emotions, but Sherlock somehow managed to avoid tearing up and admitting he missed Lestrade.

He cleared his throat.

"Baker Street is still in danger," he said. "That's where I'll go when you let me get out of here."

"Well, it won't happen for the next few days. You're barely able to stay awake and about fifteen kilos underweight, so your mission to save John and Mrs. Hudson will have to wait," Greg replied, still leaning towards him, with elbows on knees and hands held together. "Mycroft placed some of his security there, already."

They watched each other for two minutes.

"You're not alone with this, not anymore," Lestrade said. "Mycroft knows you're the one who has to take down the last shooter, but let us help you."

"I need John for this," Sherlock whispered, lowering his eyes.

"I know. But we're still here, remember?"

Sherlock lifted his gaze again. Lestrade's eyes were still warm, caring and friendly.

"Lestrade, I...", Sherlock started, but Greg cut him off.

"No need to say it. I know you," he smiled. "Give yourself a few days. We'll get you back to London."

He stood up.

"Get some more sleep, I'll look for something to eat. Everybody hates drips."

He left the room.

How come Sherlock realised how many friends he really had only shortly before his "death"?

The ride to London was long and quiet. Lestrade was driving. Sherlock and Molly were sitting at the back, shielded from the world and prying eyes with tinted windows. Sherlock stared into space somewhere behind the glass, Molly stared at him.

"Sherlock...", started Molly. Sherlock practically jumped. "Pre-planning the whole event doesn't make your sacrifice less noble."

"What?", he asked, turned towards her and narrowed his eyes.

"You were worried about it, remember?" she tried to explain. Sherlock shot a glance towards Lestrade. Greg pretended not to notice or overhear. "You were prepared to record the whole conversation with Jim," she continued. "Asked me... You know... To...", she trailed off.

"To help me fake my death," Sherlock helped. "I hoped I wouldn't have to resort to that," he added, again looking through the window.

"I know that, but..."

"Molly, don't believe in everything you can read in the papers," Sherlock said, not looking at her. "They will always doubt me after that Rich Brook case, no matter what we say. They may have believed in the recording, but the doubt will always linger somewhere under the surface. I'm used to this and I don't care."

Lestrade stayed quiet. He knew what Sherlock and Molly were talking about. When the recording from Sherlock's phone was published, some papers pointed out that the detective was well prepared for clearing his name, therefore the fact he actually jumped in the end meant less. They all silently suspected that after Sherlock's return those voices would become louder. Sherlock pointed out he hated his 'fame' and was going to keep as low profile as possible.

Greg reacted to Sherlock's return with great understanding. He was really friendly and supportive, and promised to provide a backup for Sherlock's meeting with Moran and even serve as a spokesman on various occasions, including inevitable meeting with Yarders. Sherlock wasn't worried about that. Now he was thinking about John. His Doctor was, on the surface, easy to read. He was nice, helpful, had a slightly wicked sense of humour, was one of the bravest persons Sherlock have ever met, accepted his flatmate with all his eccentricities and would never doubt him. On the other hand, he could be really unpredictable. Sherlock could expect a strong blow to the face as the first thing John would do after seeing him alive, at least, if not a plain attempt to strangle him. Therefore it was safer to see him at work, not in the Baker Street flat, where the ex-soldier has easy access to his gun and there would be no witnesses.

Everything depended on how much John would hate him for making him believe he was dead for over a year.

His time in hiding was ending, but life wasn't going to be much easier.

When they reached London it was early afternoon, still working hours. Lestrade dropped Molly off at her flat (she could barely climb the stairs after receiving a short goodbye-and-thank-you kiss on the cheek from Sherlock) and started driving towards the neighbourhood of John's workplace. Sherlock was silent, but he noticed Lestrade's worried glances at him through the rearview mirror.

"You ready for this?", Greg finally asked. He stopped in a quiet alley two streets away from John's clinic.

"Not really," Sherlock admitted with an uncertain smile. He rubbed his hands. His knuckles were still bruised, faint traces of rope burns were still visible. He'd had a hard time and it wasn't over. He wasn't even sure whether he would survive that evening. Everything was planned, but his opponent was intelligent and wouldn't give up easily. He didn't want to kill anyone. John was the one used to killing. Sherlock felt sick every time he remembered the man he'd beaten to death in the warehouse. Self-defense, sure, but still it was a life taken from someone.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Now or never," he murmured. He didn't see Lestrade's nod in agreement.

"I'll be waiting for you on Baker Street, just as we planned. If anything changes, let me know."

Sherlock opened his eyes.

"Greg...", he started. Lestrade turned towards him. Sherlock again stared into those big, familiar, warm eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Lestrade replied, seriously. "Now go. See you afterwards."

Sherlock got out the car, pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and went towards the clinic.

"Fingers crossed," Greg murmured to himself, watching him.

He knew the plan and could imagine the title of new entry on John's blog, the name of the case he would probably describe.

The Empty House.

THE END.

I swear.