Author's Note: This is not a generic, one-author story written by yours truly. It is, instead, a collaboration - essentially, a roleplay done between myself and the most brilliant Kaelir of Lorien. As such, a few things should be noted by the reader...

1) Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, and Molly Hooper will be played by Setep Ka Tawy. John Watson, Jim Moriarty, and Mycroft Holmes will be played by Kaelir of Lorien. This list may be updated as more characters appear.

2) There will be a lot of switching between POVs. Whereas in most of my stories, you get the thoughts of only the main character portrayed, in this work you'll be getting the thoughts and views of multiple (though not all) characters, most particularly Sherlock and John. Similarly, there will be a heavy emphasis on dialogue and character interaction, as opposed to more fast-paced action.

3) This roleplay, in its rough form, is actually still in progress, and so will be updated accordingly. Some editing will be done before each chapter is posted, but the essentials will not be changed. Similarly, the plot may at times seem to be rather winding, though considerable efforts have been and will be made to link everything together as the story progresses. And yes, there is a plot.

4) Kaelir and myself, being somewhat obsessive, have attempted to make this as technically accurate as possible, even doing research with the ever-helpful Google always standing by. However, we do not promise perfection or complete accuracy, and some creative liberties have been taken. Therefore we apologise in advance for any physical, mental, emotional, spiritual, technical, or hypothetical inaccuracies (or, more likely, improbabilities) that may crop up. John's blog has been equipped with a special comment section for any complaints which may arise.

Warning: Contains spoilers for "The Reichenbach Fall".

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RETURNING TO TOMORROW

Prologue

Genius detective proved to be a fraud. I read it in the paper, so it must be true.

The house was a handsome one - tastefully overstated at its front, with lines meant to enhance its stature in the eye of the beholder. Large windows glinted from three broad floors, looking down at the street below as well as at the hedge-enclosed surrounding yard that marched out from beneath the rear veranda. The numerous rooms inside the building were expansive and sumptuously furnished, featuring many hard and prominently polished surfaces offset by the heavy, expensive textiles covering the chairs and sofas. In other words, a house that clearly expressed the financial and political position of its owner.

Sherlock Holmes had just about had enough of the damn place.

His expression set in a scowl, he stalked across the room, which appeared to him to be a cross between an office and a small parlour in Buckingham Palace. He didn't care that his brother had made it exceptionally clear that certain rooms were for "official functions only"; if Mycroft actually expected him to obey such petty restrictions then clearly the other man needed to see a psychiatrist. Besides, deliberately going out of his way to annoy the hell out of Mycroft was about the only fun Sherlock had gotten out of his situation in many weeks now.

He let out a loud breath, reaching with one hand to twitch back the curtain from the almost floor-to-ceiling window. For a few moments he stared absently at the traffic passing by on the road beyond the gate, but soon lost interest. It was the same scene he had been looking out on for God only knew how long, and quite frankly, he was sick of seeing it. What he wouldn't give to be able to actually be out there, breathing in the pulse of the streets again...

Sherlock let the curtain fall back into place and turned away from the boring yet tantalizing view. The scowl on his face had changed subtly into a more contemplative sort of frown. He walked slowly over to a stately-looking sofa and sat down, adjusting the folds of the dressing gown draped loosely around his slender frame. Automatically, it seemed, he pressed his fingers together near his lips, while his brain got down to some serious pondering.

Six months, he realised after a moment. He had been stuck here for six months now, and the strain of it was becoming almost unbearable. The atmosphere of his brother's living space - and, indeed, of his brother himself - was just so stifling. There was no excitement, nothing to analyse, hardly even anyone to whom Sherlock could speak, since the only visitors were there for "official" reasons, and being in the same room with Mycroft more often erupted in cold silence than any semblance of what could even remotely be termed a conversation.

And of course, it didn't help that this isolation had been almost completely voluntary.

Sherlock leaned forward slightly, closing his eyes. He didn't regret this, not really, though the same could not be said for the reasons behind his semi-willing confinement. It had been a necessary step at the time - even Mycroft had seen that, after Sherlock had gone over and explained (most of) it to him. But the younger man's insatiable store of energy did not appreciate being suppressed for days on end, and nor did his constantly over-active mind. And the two had, with increasing frequency, been teaming up - with or without Sherlock's conscious permission - in an attempt to find an outlet. This had resulted in some rather tense moments over the passing weeks, namely when Sherlock's boredom got the better of him and Mycroft returned from a meeting to find his sibling doing, for instance, something bizarrely inexplicable with the antique silver candelabras in the dining room.

Sherlock opened his eyes again suddenly, his mind firmly made up. He didn't care what drivel his brother might start spouting about "precautions" and "laying low". He was going to get out, and he was going to find something interesting to do.

"I'm warning you again, Sherlock: don't even think about it."

Mycroft's voice was low and testy, as it had been for a majority of the time spent in his younger brother's presence. His eyebrows, always so expressive, were drawn down to create almost one line along his brow, and in his position just inside the doorway, he looked very much the part of a disapproving parent or school teacher.

Sherlock didn't even seem surprised when he heard Mycroft's voice echoing slightly from the doorway; he had rather grown accustomed to having his brother appear out of nowhere, as though trying to catch his reluctant guest off-guard. The unwillingly-semi-retired consulting detective paused, then glanced up, raising his own eyebrows slightly into a look of contrived innocence.

"Think about what, exactly?" he asked, his tone curiously mild.

Mycroft pressed his lips together. He appeared to be holding back a great deal of what he would have liked to say in response to that. "You know exactly what," he answered pointedly after only a moment's pause. "Don't think I'm too preoccupied to notice when you start getting ideas."

Sherlock gave his brother a look of slight reproval. "Are you so bored that you have to resort to watching me via security camera?" he asked.

"I don't have to, since I always know I can find you in a part of the house you're not supposed to be in." The forced little smile that followed this comment appeared as more of a grimace.

Sherlock glanced around the room, taking in the ornate wood paneling and elegant furniture. "Am I not supposed to be here?" he said then, looking back up with an expression of slight surprise. He could almost see Mycroft's thin veins beginning to throb.

"Don't be impertinent," Mycroft replied sharply, straightening and taking a few slow steps toward the sofa where his brother was seated. "You know you aren't, which is, I imagine, exactly why you chose to sprawl yourself in here - half-dressed, I might add." His eyes took in the bare feet and dressing gown with something close to contempt.

The half-teasing look in Sherlock's expression dropped away. "Well, it's not as if I have anywhere to go, is it?" he responded pointedly. "And that is your doing, so you can stop sneering at my reaction to it."

Ignoring that, Mycroft continued to stare down at him, looking severely annoyed. "And you, Sherlock, can put any thoughts of sneaking out of this house out of your mind. Is that perfectly clear?"

Sherlock returned his brother's gaze challengingly. "Fine then," he said, his voice cool. "I won't sneak out - I'll just walk out of the front gate."

"No, actually, you won't." Mycroft's tone was dangerously low, a sure indication that his nerves were being pushed slowly but surely to the breaking point. "If you recall correctly, Sherlock - and I'm not convinced you do - it was your suggestion to come here in the first place." He raised his chin slightly. "I am, in fact, holding you to your own word."

"That was six months ago!" Sherlock raked a hand through his hair in frustration before glancing up again and fixing Mycroft with an irritable glare. "Exactly how long were you expecting me to imprison myself here under your benevolent thumb?" He couldn't help but let the cold sarcasm seep into his voice; after week upon endless week of being in such close contact with his brother, any buffers between thought and word had been worn extremely thin.

Something in Mycroft's face tightened, but all he said was, "As long as is necessary."

"And how long," asked Sherlock slowly, rising from the sofa to lock his brother with an icy stare, "do you consider to be necessary?"

Mycroft returned the stare with one of his own, equally cold. "I'll be sure to let you know when the time comes," he replied evenly. "But until that happy hour..." It trailed off, almost a threat.

Sherlock lifted his chin slightly. He wasn't about to let Mycroft brush him away again, like he had so many times previously.

"Sixth months," he repeated, more forcefully, emphasising each individual word. "I think that's quite enough time spent in your company, brother. And you're no happier with the arrangement than I am. So why don't we make it that happy hour now?"

Drawing in a slow breath, Mycroft turned his eyes to the ceiling as though seeking patience. "Absolutely out of the question," he said flatly.

"Why?" Sherlock snapped back immediately. He took a step closer, as though daring Mycroft to look at him again. "By what right do you justify keeping me locked up here for any longer than I want to be?"

"Because, Sherlock, you are no longer a celebrated public figure - or should I possibly say that you are, in the loosest and most infamous sense of the word?" Mycroft glanced down again, almost accusingly.

Sherlock only continued to glare at him, unwilling to admit that his brother had scraped a nerve with that unpleasantly keen assessment. "It's been long enough," he said harshly after a few moments, trying to make himself believe it as well as Mycroft. "And it's my risk to take, not yours."

"Has it?" his brother enquired mildly, but there was something sharper underneath his words. "Is it?"

"Yes," Sherlock gritted out adamantly, resisting the urge to swear loudly at his brother's continuous twisting of the situation at hand. Throwing the other man's words back at him, he added pointedly, "Is that perfectly clear?"

"The fact is, it isn't - as you should very well know."

Sherlock blinked, frowning for a brief moment as he tried to work out what was meant by that. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

"The fact is," Mycroft explained tersely, "you do not know the current state of what we shall call the public spirit. The fact remains that Sherlock Holmes committed a very nasty and very public suicide, and not everyone will have forgotten it."

"The fact also remains," replied Sherlock, his voice low and hostile, "that the individuals for whom the spectacle of that act was intended are no longer in the picture. And as you very well know, I don't care what the public thinks, particularly six months after the fact."

His brother did not answer right away; he appeared to be chewing on the inside of his lip. "Not the public, perhaps, no," he agreed softly after a few seconds of apparent deliberation. "And what about John?"

"What about him?" Sherlock shot back, almost without thinking, though he knew perfectly well what Mycroft was implying. He caught sight of the expression on his brother's face then, and his eyes narrowed. Of course the other man would try to interfere with that aspect as well.

"How I deal with John has nothing to do with you, Mycroft," he said finally, something like a warning in his tone now.

"Or how you don't deal with him, as the case may be. It appears that even six months hasn't been long enough for you to make that particular decision."

"Well, it's rather difficult to consider my options when I haven't even had a chance to test any of them out," retorted Sherlock, acidly, trying to hide the fact that his brother's words had actually stung him.

"Coming from you, that's merely a poor excuse for indecision," Mycroft replied, without even a moment's hesitation.

Sherlock stiffened visibly at that. "Just stay out of it, Mycroft," he hissed after a few more seconds of glaring at the other man. He pivoted abruptly and began stalking away towards the door, unwilling to stand there and continue to exchange barbed words with his sibling. "In fact, stay out of my way entirely." Halfway through the door, he paused to turn and throw a nasty, threatening look back into the room.

"Because if you don't," he breathed pointedly, "I promise you, brother, I will make your life hell."

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