Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (the show or the original works by A.C.D.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Ana.

49. A Near Explosive Conclusion

Ana sat at an interior table at a café only a stone's throw away from New Scotland Yard. There was an empty mug sat by her left arm, and a half-full one by her right hand. A half-eaten scone rested on a small plate just beside the half-full mug. Between her arms was a notebook, in which she scrawled out the day's agenda––for the fifth time. Each time the handwriting got a little more meticulous and she'd managed to fit everything that had to be done on a single, organized page. It was boring, time-consuming work, but it was distracting. It distracted her from how tired she was.

It distracted her from what had happened the night before.

For most of the night, Ana had laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling. A hand had rested over her forehead like it might suppress her rambling thoughts. Thoughts that all revolved around the man who had come back from the dead. Who wanted to step back into her life like nothing had happened. Ana felt like she was at war with herself because she wanted him to waltz back into her life and kick up the chaos she'd grown to miss. But she knew it couldn't and wouldn't be that simple. It was going to be difficult and painful and gritty if she decided that she could trust him enough to let him back into her life. It was something that both she and John were going to have to go through; and it was going to be just as difficult as grieving for him.

"Morning," greeted Lestrade, who took the seat opposite Ana. His tone was carefully even, not as cheerful as it usually was. Ana looked up from her notebook and nudged her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. The detective inspector was eyeing her carefully, like he was searching for a sign of something.

"Morning," she replied. She swapped her pen for her coffee, which she brought eagerly to her lips.

Lestrade cleared his throat and started to tug his scarf off. He eyed the empty cups of coffee pointedly, brows quirking upwards. "Did, uh… did you… have a good evening?"

The question froze her for a second. She gulped down what little coffee she had in her mouth and set the mug back down. Ana met Lestrade's gaze and dipped her head into a nod. "You know," she said.

Lestrade shifted like a restless child trying to refrain from running right at a pile of birthday gifts. He pitched forward slightly, bent over the table to keep their conversation secret.

"He showed up in the parking garage last night," Lestrade confirmed. He let out a long breath of air, shaking his head as the memory must have replayed in his head. "Thought I might hit him. Hugged him instead." He laughed, a smile pulling across his face. An ache formed in Ana's chest at the thought of hugging Sherlock, at being that close to him again. She shook her head, as though it would banish the thought, and arched her eyebrows.

"John hit him, apparently," Ana said, propping her elbows up on the table. Her tone was falsely bright, as though the situation didn't bother her in the slightest. She and John had partaken in a late night phone call that carried on till two in the morning. There was a lot of stunned silence, quite a bit of swearing, some crying, and a whole lot of questioning of what they were supposed to do now.

"Did he really?" breathed Lestrade in both surprise and amusement.

Ana hummed and picked her pen back up. She started to tap the end of it against the table, unable to keep herself from fidgeting. "Sherlock had a nice split lip, bit of a bloody nose, too; John got some good hits on him," she confirmed. A choke, a punch, and a head-butt, according to John. Then, the tapping increased speed a little and Ana shrugged. "I might've slapped him, myself, too."

"How'd he take it?"

"Insufferably well."

Across the table Lestrade grinned and laughed. He shook his head and started to bite at a cuticle.

"It's… odd, isn't it? Talking about him in the present tense again. Knowing that we've… seen him walking and talking. Knowing he's alive… It's odd, but it's a good kind of odd, I think," he elaborated.

The pen tapping ceased and Ana leaned back in her seat. Her fingers drifted to the handle of her mug, grazing porcelain delicately. Her thoughts drifted to Sherlock, how he'd stared at her on her doorstep, how sweet her name sounded on his lips.

"A good kind of odd… suppose so," she murmured.

For a moment, the two were quiet. They didn't know how to proceed in their conversation; it wasn't every day a once thought-to-be-dead friend rose from the grave. How one went about discussing that was tricky. Difficult. It's not like they were discussing someone who'd come back from holiday, they were talking about someone who had pulled a feat that seemed biblical. It wasn't as simple as saying they were overjoyed that he was back; there were years of grief and mourning and lifestyle changes to take into account. Webs of complex emotion. Behind each surge of happiness there was a pang of hurt. Behind each pang of hurt there was a rush of relief. And so on and so forth till Ana felt like her head was spinning.

"You don't sound nearly as excited as I thought you'd be," admitted Lestrade. "Are you, uh… glad he's back? Happy?"

The question was no easier being asked by Lestrade, as it had been asked by Sherlock. Ana snorted gently. She started to aimlessly twist her mug around, steam rising up to warm her palm. "Y'know, he said the same thing… sort of. He said he thought I'd be 'pleased' he was back. Like it's as simple as that…" She looked up to find that Lestrade had arched his brows promptingly. Ana clucked her tongue in a tut. "'Course I'm happy; how could I not be?" She laughed gently. That laughter subsided quickly and she cleared her throat. "Though 'happy' feels a bit juvenile, a bit too easy. I'm… thrilled he's alive, really, I am. But I'm right pissed with him as well, lying like he did. Frustrated he didn't come back sooner, the git… Left us all to grieve without so much as a word…"

Lestrade slowly nodded, eyes focused hazily on nothing in particular; he quietly concured with the situation, the feeling. The idea that no word or phrase could properly capture how exciting and frustrating it was to have a loved one back with them, after two years of deceit. It wasn't a fairytale where everyone would greet Sherlock with open arms, praise, and joy. There would be tears, anger, confusion, and complications. The man had been back in London for less than twenty-four hours, and he was already stirring chaos up in the lives of those he'd left.

"Bit weird, isn't it? This whole thing."

"A bit?" scoffed Ana, smirking wryly. Lestrade chuckled a little and nodded to agree with the absurdity of the whole situation. "We finally got what we were all hoping for––for Sherlock to be alive, but…" She shook her head helplessly. "Doesn't feel like it should, I don't think. Two years ago, I thought I'd be… elated if he ever showed back up, for whatever reason. I guess reality's a bit more bitter, isn't it? Bit more real."

Lestrade continued to nod gently. Then his eyebrows furrowed quite quickly and he leaned forward against the table. When he spoke, he spoke lowly, like they were sharing confidential information. Preemptively, Ana leaned forward to catch ear of whatever was to be said. "Does it feel lost to you?" he asked curiously. "The way everything was before, does that feel too far removed?"

"Well, it'd be different now, wouldn't it? He's expecting me to fall back into assisting him, I think. But I've got a job now, a proper one, and I can't just go… gallivanting off with him again," Ana pointed out. She laughed a little and scratched at her temple. "I don't really think we can go back to the way everything was before, not really. There's no more… government bases to break into, no more smuggling rings to break. I've got my life and now he's got his again."

Lestrade shifted around in his seat, uncomfortably almost, and his expression became a little more crinkled. A little more worried, Ana realized. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she watched her friend and boss avoid looking at her directly.

"Yeah, right, but if he were to start assisting on cases, and you were still on at the Yard," Lestrade clarified, shifting his arms so they rested over his chest, crossed. He darted his eyes up and over at her, forcing his expression into one of nonchalance. "Would you, uh… you be alright with that?"

Ana let out a puff of breath, arching her eyebrows to consider the possibility. "I dunno, Greg. I don't know if I'd be able to handle seeing him in that element again," she admitted on a sigh. Her shoulders rose and fell in a mild, tired shrug. She brought the mug to her lips, and watched Lestrade carefully. A slight wince tugged at the corner of his mouth. Before the coffee even touched her lips, Ana set the mug back down. "Greg, what've you done?"

His whole expression had crumpled apologetically. He sat forward and dropped his forearms onto the table, his jacket rustling as he moved. "I may've asked him to help out on one of our tricky cases," he said through a wince.

Very briefly, it felt like all the sound in the café had disappeared. Ana simply held Lestrade's gaze, his words processing very slowly. When they finally sank in, they sank in sharp and heavy. Sherlock would be attending one of their cases. That meant that they would be working––existing––in the same space again for god knew how long. Spending just a couple hours with him the night prior had nearly wrecked her; she had been hoping for a couple day's reprieve before she would even consider when she would––could––see him again.

"You've what?" It was asked quietly, almost child-like in its nearly timid nature. Lestrade cleared his throat uncomfortably and scrubbed a hand over his short-cropped hair. With a quiet groan, Ana dropped her face into her hands to hide the way her expression had crumpled.

"I'm sorry, Ana, I should've asked you––" Lestrade started, regret heavy in his voice.

Ana cleared her throat and started to shake her head upon lifting it. "No, no." She rubbed at the corners of her eyes, trying to avoid smudging any makeup. "You don't have to consult me on those types of things, I'm not… I'm just your PA. 'Sides, if it's for the good of a case… we both know there's no one better to contact."

Ana dropped her chin into one hand, her eyes focused out the café window. Her gaze followed people as they passed, cars as they zipped by, and the occasional pigeon on the pavement just outside. It seemed like such a normal morning; but, just like the evening before, it was anything but. Nearly no one knew that the infamous Sherlock Holmes was alive, breathing the same air as them, existing in the same space, ready to get back to work. Ana half expected for him to come striding into the café, announcing he had a case before he dragged her from her daily responsibilities. A part of her, a part that existed as a dull, painful ache, hoped that he would.

After a quiet moment, Lestrade reached out a hand and placed it over Ana's. He gave her fingers a squeeze, which drew her attention away from the cloudy light of the morning. The detective inspector was fixing her with a very earnest look, an apology in his eyes.

"You… you don't have to talk to him, or… be in the same room if you don't want to. Won't hold it against you," Lestrade assured her.

With a tired smile, Ana squeezed his fingers back, and let out a sigh. "Thanks." She pulled her hand away and grabbed her coffee, throwing back the rest of the lukewarm liquid with a slight grimace. It was too sweet, the sugar having settled to the bottom in a thin, soppy layer. Ana pushed the mug aside and shook her head at herself. "Greg, I'm utterly useless. Here I am, feeling sorry for myself when, by all means, I should be… dancing down the street with a grin on my face."

"Now, I don't know about that," Lestrade drawled. He splayed his hands out and held his shoulders up by his ears in a partial shrug. "Like you said, he lied to you––to us. I didn't expect you'd be singing Sherlock's praises or anything." He shifted in his seat a little and sat forward, face scrunched. "But… I don't think we can avoid him. I don't think he'll let us." His tone was confidential and considering.

And, with a snort, Ana wordlessly agreed. Because if there was one thing Sherlock was good at, it was making his presence known. And if there was one thing that he never failed to do, it was drag his friends into the chaos of his life with a simple flick of his coat tails. Ana propped her elbow up on the tabletop and pressed her mouth against her fist. Her eyes shifted out the window, as though she might see those chaotic coat tails flap around the corner. There was a strange spark of hope rooted in Ana's chest that she might see Sherlock standing there, waiting. That sense of hope was warm but sharp, like a hot piece of glass embedded in her sternum. It sent her head shaking.

"I don't know if I can do it, Greg," Ana admitted quietly, words muffled by her knuckles. "Not yet. Not… today. It's not even been twenty-four hours. It's… all still a bit too fresh, y'know?"

Ana dragged her eyes away from the window and allowed them to snap back to Lestrade. His lips were pursed and his brows had furrowed gently. Unable to bear the almost pitying look, Ana groaned deeply and dropped her head into her hands. She forwent worrying about make-up, even if the smudging of mascara and eyeliner would cause her to look just as tired as she really felt. It had started to feel like there was a pattern going in her life: just as things started to go some sort of way, something flipped it in a completely different direction suddenly, and unexpectedly. It wasn't a pattern that Ana favored at all.

"I've got work back at the office you can do," Lestrade said in a decided tone.

A surge of guilt rushed through Ana's system and she lifted her head. With a crumpled expression, she waved a hand through the air while the other shifted to press against her forehead. "No, Greg––"

"You said it yourself, you don't feel up to it," he reiterated. He leaned forward over clasped hands, hovering low over her forearms. "You're not being selfish, if that's what this is. I don't blame you; don't think I ever could. Hell, it's probably gonna be too much for me, too…" Lestrade chuckled at that and shook his head at himself. But then he fixed Ana with a stern yet understanding look. "You can go back to the Yard and do some busy work. It's not much and it's not fun, but it's what you need."

Ana allowed Lestrade to hold her gaze for a moment so long, it likely would have made any on-lookers uncomfortable. But when he raised his brows promptingly, Ana slumped back in her chair. The tension in her shoulders melted away and the same wave of relaxation washed over her face. Her eyes fell shut.

"Thank you, Greg."

"Don't mention it. Now." Lestrade raised a hand to flag down a waitress. "Let's have some more coffee."

OOOO

On the list of days that never seemed to end, Ana would chalk up the one she'd just experienced as one of the worst. The Yard had been quiet, but the stares had been unyielding. On her lunch break, #SherlockLives had started trending, and people started whispering. She'd made the executive decision to blast music through her headphones while on the Tube. She tried to keep her eyes closed, almost in a meditative state, in between checking what stop she was at. People simply wouldn't stop gaping. It made Ana feel as though she was an attraction at an old timey freakshow. It made her feel like she was supposed to have some outlandish reaction to the news. She was, quite frankly, shocked that the tabloid reporters hadn't descended upon her like vultures. Every hour of prying eyes and muttered remarks felt like several. By the time Ana's class had gotten out for the evening, she was thankful she could just go home.

The city wind was a bit biting, the November chill already beginning to set in. Ana started her way down the street, lamenting the fact she'd been so frazzled earlier she hadn't grabbed a scarf. So she tugged at her collar to keep the chill off her neck, shuddering as a gust swept down the sleepy street. Ana started off down the street, hands balled up in her pockets, and eyes narrowed against the wind. It was a miserable evening. The cold and the wind did little to lift Ana's mood, which had been foul for the majority of the day. The faster she got home, the faster she could have some take-out, a hot-toddy, and go to bed.

"Excuse me, Miss!"

The call from ahead drew Ana's attention out of her own head and towards the pavement ahead of her. A man was briskly walking towards her, a hand raised to catch her attention. Initially, Ana slowed her pace wearily, worried the first bold reporter had tracked her down; it wouldn't have been the first time they'd waited for her outside the university. But then she noted that he held something in his hand––a city map. It was open and flapping. He looked confused, if not mildly distressed, and his nose and cheeks were pink with cold.

"Could you help me with directions a moment?" he asked. He gestured to the map with a sheepish shrug. "I've got myself turned around I think."

Ana eyed the map, which looked like it had been shoved unceremoniously into a pocket a few times. She darted her eyes up to the man's pleading face. There was no need to be needlessly bitter towards someone who just wanted directions. There was no reason to be needlessly bitter at anyone. So Ana put on a friendly smile and then held her hand out for the map. "Where is it you're wanting to go?"

The man let out a relieved exhale and passed the map to her. Right off the bat, Ana noticed he'd been holding it upside down, which struck her as a little funny; but, then again, when one was helplessly lost with a paper map, you tended to turn it this-way-and-that.

"Crabtree Fields," he said.

Ana's brow furrowed as she slipped her finger across the map to locate the park. Once she located it, she shifted a little so she could let the man see where she was pointing.

"Right, so that's Crabtree Fields. We're… about here on Cleveland Street. If you just keeping walking along, and turn onto Goodge Street, then right on Whitfield, you should be there." The furrow between Ana's brows deepened as she eyed the square of green that indicated the mentioned park. She glanced over at the man then back down at the map. "Funny, I thought that the park closed at––"

There was a sudden stinging pain in the back of Ana's neck. A pained sound choked out of her mouth and she tried to shy away from the pain. She listed directly into the stranger, who curled a tight arm around her waist, holding her steady against him. The map of London fell from her hand as she batted at the man now holding her. The pain, which only existed in the size of a pin-prick, disappeared in a throb. The man's other arm wrapped around her chest, and Ana caught a quick look at what looked to be a needle and syringe. Her hands rose to tear at the arm crossed over her sternum, but a strange drowsiness started to overtake her senses. Fingers clawed, but weakly. Her body thrashed, but sluggishly. In a last ditch attempt to break free, Ana pitched herself forward, hoping the shift of her ever-deadening weight would cause the man to let go. It didn't help a single bit. Instead, she could feel the blood start rushing to her head, which made her feel dizzy. She pulled at his arm again, with a childish sort of weakness.

What strength Ana felt that she had left went numb. She groaned as her knees went weak and her eyelids fluttered. The feeling that coursed through her body drowsily was foreign, but familiar––she'd been drugged. And no matter how hard she told herself to fight, to push away, to scream, her body wouldn't respond. Her eyelids and limbs got heavier with every passing second. The last thing that Ana could recall looking at before her eyes slammed shut was the map of London, which condemned her for being kind-hearted.

OOOO

When Ana regained consciousness, it felt like she'd had the worst sleep of her life. Her chin was tucked to her check, head dangling, and neck stiff. All her limbs felt like they'd been filled with cement, heavy and unmovable. The first thing that she tried to do in her newfound state of semi-consciousness was lift her head. It was a slow, surprisingly difficult feat. A groan pulsed from her chest, brows and lips twisting at the effort. Her head thunked unceremoniously against something, arresting her movement and leaving her head supported in an upright position. Her eyes opened for a fleeting moment before they slammed back shut. Restless, Ana groaned a second time and forced her eyes open for a little longer. Wherever she was, it was dark.

Exhaustedly, Ana's head lolled heavily towards her shoulder, where she caught the overwhelming stench of gasoline; her lungs rejected the tained air and forced her into an instinctive coughing fit. Ana tried to pull her hands towards herself––to cover her nose, hide from the smell––but her hands didn't move. The coughing fit started to subside, and Ana groggily opened her eyes. Again, she tried to pull her hands in to rub at her eyes, but was greeted with a sharp pull around her wrists. With brows pinching, she tried to blink hard to rid them of blurriness. When they opened, things were a little more clear. The lights she was seeing were city lights, framed in the oblong rectangle of a car's windshield. Ana dropped her gaze to her hands, only to find that either wrist was encircled in a thin band of silver. Handcuffs. And those handcuffs were looped around the lower half of a steering wheel.

"Wha…" Ana grumbled to herself. She pulled at her wrists again and found that, indeed, she was cuffed to a steering wheel. With some of the grogginess giving way, Ana pulled at the cuffs a little harder. They didn't budge. A couple more useless pulls yielded the same result. It was then that her brain started to kick in gear, despite the physical grogginess of her body.

Immediately, her head lolled to look at the interior door handle and lock––it appeared that both had been removed. A shuddering breath passed between Ana's lips, and when her gaze rose, it focused in on something taped to the window. Two keys––one larger and one small and silver––had been plastered to the outside of the window with packing tape. The larger one was a car key. The other, perhaps for a pair of handcuffs. Just beside that was a stop-watch––seven minutes and counting––counting down, that is. Ana turned her gaze out the windshield and let the dark world around the vehicle come more into focus. There were trees in the distance, and a few lamp posts lining what must have been a path. But the area around the car was open and flat––she was in a park, she must be.

It was what was strapped to the hood of the car that made Ana's heart drop into the pit of her stomach. Fireworks. And there were a handful of wooden crates surrounding the car, with firecrackers and fireworks alike poking out of the tops; they were not professionally placed, and not professionally organized, that much was clear. The fireworks, paired with the overwhelming amount of gasoline the car must have been drenched in, meant bad news. Very bad news. The events of the evening came rushing back at her like a freight train––the man with the map, the needle in her neck, the wooziness. It was Guy Fawkes Night. All over London, fireworks would be bursting, exploding. And that's what the car was rigged to do, she realized.

Ana began to pull at the cuffs a little harder, urging her muscles to wake up faster. The metal pulled and bit at her skin painfully; they'd been put on too tight.

"Help!" Ana cried. Her voice cracked upon yelling. The car shook as she pulled as hard as her weary muscles could, pressing her body back as far as possible against the driver's seat. Her skin stung more and more with each pull, and it instinctively discouraged her from pulling too hard. Desperate sounds slipped from her mouth with each pull and yank. Just as she felt some of her skin chafe and tear, Ana slumped back against the seat hopelessly. The muscles in her arms trembled, and her legs felt like they were filled with pins and needles.

Four minutes, forty-five seconds on the watch.

Ana let her eyes fall shut. God it had been so long since something like this had happened. Two years prior, she would have liked to think she'd have had some trick up her sleeve to get out of this situation. Or that she'd have been observant enough to find some escape route. But her head was still swimming, and her body was still numb. And the whole situation felt like it was set up for her failure––the handcuffs, the missing door handle and lock mechanism, the keys on the outside of the window. She was being taunted about her imminent failure; a failure that led to a very swift, but very violent death.

There was a sudden thump against the window, one which caused Ana to jolt her eyes open. She shuddered against her seat at the disturbance and her heart thudded hard against her ribcage. When considering one's imminent death by explosion, a loud bang was like to be horrifying. Ana twisted her head around to peer through the driver's window––and practically melted with relief. Peering through the window was none other than Sherlock Holmes, a half-curled fist resting against the glass. His eyes were wild, his hair wind-swept, and his nose scrunched; it was the look of a man on the hunt. It felt like a dream to see him there, just as it had felt the night before. But this time around, she was nothing but relieved, nothing but thankful that the formerly deceased detective had swept back into her life. Ana darted her eyes to the stopwatch pasted to the window. Her eyes flickered back to Sherlock's, wide and pleading.

"Three minutes," Ana breathed brokenly, unsure if he could hear her.

Regardless if he had or hadn't, Sherlock tore at the packing tape that kept the keys pressed to the window. It pulled away with a harsh snapping sound, which sounded deeply unpleasant on the inside of the car. Ana watched Sherlock snatch the car key off the tape with gloved fingers, watched as breath rapidly puffed out of his mouth in clouds of condensation. Her heartbeat had become a constant, scared thrum. Each second passed like an hour, and the stopwatch on the window seemed to laugh at her as the time continued to drop. By the time the clock hit two minutes and thirty seconds, the key had been fitted in the lock of the door, and it had turned the lock over. The minute the door opened, and a rush of fresh air rushed into the car, Ana gasped in a deep breath. It was cold and chilling, but it was a taste of freedom.

"Oh, thank god…" she exhaled.

Sherlock pushed himself half inside the door and tore the smaller key off the strip of tape. He fumbled, only for a second, to get the key into the locking mechanism of the handcuffs. With a quick twist, the right cuff disengaged; with a quick cranking sound, Sherlock wrenched it open, which allowed her wrists to finally drop away from the steering wheel. Before Ana could sigh in relief, both of her arms were pulled to loop around Sherlock's neck. It became clear very quickly that whatever she'd been drugged with, had left her almost uselessly weak. The detective pulled her out of the driver's seat with a few tugs, and her legs flopped uselessly to the grass below. For a moment, both Sherlock and Ana slumped towards the ground, but he was quick to scoop her up with an arm braced under her legs, and the other around her back.

The wooziness Ana had felt earlier returned twice as bad. The world swam around them as Sherlock began to move, and it left her groaning into his chest. He was running, she thought––at least, it felt like he was. The swaying that she felt jolted in time with the panting of Sherlock's breath. The only thing that she could focus on––other than the nausea building in her stomach––was the comforting familiarity that was Sherlock. The feel of his arms, the smell of his clothes, the beating of his living heart. Instead of being surrounded by the smell of gasoline, she was now wrapped in him, and it was absolutely lovely. It lulled her half to sleep despite the jerkiness of the running. But then, suddenly, that loveliness was disrupted.

There was an ear-tearing bang and the world was thrown off kilter. Ana could feel herself hit the ground, feel Sherlock's weight curled over her; her fingers curled tightly into the back and collar of his coat. She clung to him as fireworks popped and firecrackers crackled. The smell of soot and fire started to bleed through the comforting smell of the wool of his coat. The dizziness she felt swimming behind her eyes urged her to keep them closed and to keep as still as possible. She felt a hand grasp her knee and slide up the outside of her thigh. Sherlock had started to pull away, but Ana clung tighter, whimpered quietly into his shoulder. But he pulled back a little more insistently, his hand finding a comforting hold on her hip. Ana's eyes opened to find Sherlock hovering over her. Their gazes locked nearly immediately

"Are you alright?" he panted.

Ana took in a shuddering breath as tears began to sting at her eyes. Her hands grabbed his lapels and scrunched the wool up in a relentless grip A pounding had started in her head, as the weight of the happenings of the evening settled down on her. She had been drugged and kidnapped. Locked in death-trap. She had escaped death, thanks to Sherlock, by a minute. It was all suddenly so overwhelming, and a stuttered breath was sucked in between her teeth.

"I want to go home…" Ana breathed, voice broken and tired. Sherlock nodded, but did not move. He raised his brows gently, which softened his previously scrunched, worried expression. It was a look she'd seen only a handful of times, but it had always warmed her heart when she saw it.

"The paramedics will be en route; I'll get you back to your flat once you're cleared."

"No." The word was said so firmly that, through her tears, Ana could see surprise flash through Sherlock's eyes. With her grasp loosening around his lapels, she let out a little sigh. Her flat was empty and lonely; no matter how long she'd lived there, it wasn't home to her. It never had been. And she suspected it never would be. "Home."

OOOO

Ana sat on the sofa with a mug of half drunk tea cradled between her palms. Her eyes traveled around the room slowly, taking in every inch of it with careful consideration. The place had been disconcertingly clean when John and Ana had left, and it had become a home to dust after their departure. But now it felt less like an old museum piece, as it once had. It felt lived in again. Papers had already accumulated on the table again. The violin had finally been moved––and dusted. In fact, the entire flat had been dusted heavily. Papers had been pinned to the wall behind the sofa. But the nick-nacks on the mantle remained unmoved. The pillow on John's chair had been fluffed with care. The curtains were drawn, but it was apparent that the windows were still yet to be fixed. The books on the shelves had been tidied up a bit, though they still slouched this-way-and-that since a third of them had been removed. And, oddly enough, a game of Operation sat on John's small old side table. Though it still smelled vaguely musty, it didn't smell like cleaning products, and it didn't smell of disuse. Life had been breathed back into 221b Baker Street; and it proved to Ana that Sherlock was, indeed, the man who had breathed life into it in the first place.

"Finished?" asked Sherlock in his typical cool, even tone.

Ana tore her eyes away from the fireplace and over to where the detective stood. He stood at the far end of the coffee table, a measured distance to where she sat in the middle of the sofa. She wondered if, perhaps, her outburst the night before had spurred him to keep some distance between the two of them. The thought of it was simultaneously heart warming and heart breaking. Warming because he was taking her feelings on the situation into consideration, breaking because part of Ana desperately wanted him closer. And that need, that want was growing a little more the longer she meditated on the fact that he was alive. Ana cleared her throat and nodded. Sherlock wordlessly held a hand out, and Ana passed the mug over to him. She watched him return to the kitchen, entranced, like she was watching a clip of a dream.

It was absolutely bizarre to be back in 221b again, and with Sherlock bustling around. Yes, she had asked to be brought here, but she hadn't anticipated how… strange it would be. But how could she have suspected? Her head had been reeling and her emotions running high. No matter how much the straight-laced, rational part of her head yelled at her to say it had been a bad idea, a more powerful, gut-feeling told her it had been the right decision to make. It didn't feel like life had picked up where it had left off; it felt different, altered, but it didn't send her into an incensed burst of tears like she might have feared.

Both of Ana's hands rose to press against her eyes. Her skin smelled like soap, a bland store-brand smell that wasn't terribly attractive. Upon Sherlock's urging, she'd showered upon returning to the flat. She had been dead on her feet, but he had insisted that smelling of gasoline wasn't going to help her relax much. So now she sat with skin that smelled of generic soap, hair that smelled like Sherlock's shampoo, and a spare set of his bedclothes. Her clothes had been brought down to Mrs. Hudson, she'd been told, and would be clean by morning. Exhaustion was setting in again, but this time Ana felt compelled and comfortable enough to give in to it. She slouched sideways into the comfortable familiarity of the couch, the leather groaning slightly under her weight. Her head landed on a throw pillow that she had bought years ago, and she groaned in relief.

"I fear that you and John both took your mattresses when you left," Sherlock announced. Ana struggled to pry her eyes open, as they pleaded to stay comfortably shut. But upon opening them, she found Sherlock stood on the opposite side of the coffee table. He was watching her with a soft expression that still managed to be unreadable.

"That's what happens when you move, you take your bed with you," Ana murmured. She blearily pat one of the sofa cushions. "'S'why I'm bunking down here." Sherlock shook his head and gestured in the direction of the bedrooms. Ana arched her brows. "I'd rather not put you out of a bed."

"You won't be. Between John being put in a bonfire and your nearly… explosive evening, there's much for me to be looking into."

Ana pushed herself up immediately, jaw having gone slack. "John was what?"

The detective waved a hand through the air, almost dismissively, and his brows briefly furrowed. "He's perfectly alright, just suffered a bit of smoke inhalation." It was rattled so casually that it almost came off as uncaring. But it was a tone of voice Ana had heard countless times before; one that was quick and flat as not to betray how he felt. And it had been so long since she'd heard it, that she couldn't help but laugh a bit. She scrubbed at her eyes with her fingers and shook her head.

"Right, good." That hand flopped into her lap and she considered Sherlock for a long, quiet moment. Ana cleared her throat and tucked her hands between her knees; sleeping in a bed did sound nice, especially after the hell of an evening she'd had. She glanced up at him questioningly. "You're sure you're alright with me taking your bed?"

Sherlock's response was wordless again. He nodded and swept a hand towards the kitchen. His gaze was soft and there was no tension in his face. When Ana didn't move to accept the offer, Sherlock quirked his brows gently. "Please."

Ana held his gaze for a quiet moment, and something in the air around them seemed to shift. It crackled and filled with something weighted. A silent plea of some sort, a call for one, or both, of them to say what they were trying not to say. As that weight settled on her shoulders, Ana nodded.

"Alright." She rose to her feet and started to shuffle out from behind the coffee table. She focused her gaze on her hands, which was pulling at the drawstrings on the lended pajama bottoms. When she started to walk round the coffee table towards the kitchen, Ana paused. She looked over at Sherlock, who watched her with a strange forlornness pinching his brows together. Silently, Ana reached out and took his hand in hers. The warmth of his palm bled against hers delightfully. His fingers shifted to hold her hand properly, calloused fingertips skimming the soft skin on the back of her hand. She squeezed his hand tightly as a slight well of tears rose to her eyes. "Thank you."

Sherlock inclined his head in silent acknowledgement.

For a quiet moment, neither of them moved to pull their hands away. Ana didn't want to, not really. The warmth of his hand was intoxicating, almost, and she didn't want to lose it. Because as stubborn as she wanted to be about keeping him at arm's length, she knew it would only be a matter of time before she couldn't do it anymore. Because she loved him––even after the hell he'd put her through, she still loved him. And it hurt to be far from him, just how, at the moment, it hurt to be so close to him. The slightest of smiles rose to Ana's lips, eyes cast down at their hands, but it slipped away rather quickly. With a couple of nods, she gently pried her hand away and pressed it against the other. Without a bidding of 'good night,' Ana shuffled back towards the hallway.

Both the door that had led to her room, and the one that had led to John's were closed tightly. Sherlock's bedroom door was left ajar, and the warm light from his bedside lamp created a welcoming glow. Ana paused in the doorway and pressed her hands against her stomach, taking in the room she'd not set foot in since the day of the Fall. Upon moving out, she and John had conversed about how worried they were they'd forget the important details of the flat. And it struck her, then, that she hadn't remembered what Sherlock room really looked like. She couldn't tell if there was a new standing lamp in the corner or not. Or that his bedside table had been so short. Albeit, she'd not spent much time in his bedroom; but she'd stood in his doorway plenty of times, watching as he rifled through disguises, or urged him to get up for a client. Even the fact that she'd forgotten that there were two different types of wallpaper, and two different shades of green on the walls, bothered her beyond belief.

With a shake of her head, Ana slipped into the bedroom and shut the door carefully and quietly behind her. She plodded over to the bed, the comforter on which had been turned down, and gingerly seated herself on the edge. Each movement that she made was measured––she pulled her feet up before turning to tuck them under the blankets. She shifted the blanket up to her waist before laying down. She moved as though she was worried she'd rupture the bubble of a dream; like she would wake up in the morning in her flat, alone and melancholy. Ana curled up and pulled the blanket up to her chin. The blanket smelled vaguely of cologne and aftershave, a comforting mix that lulled Ana into shutting her eyes. She, once again, felt as though she was enveloped in everything that was Sherlock. There in his room, in 221b, everything felt like it should be. For the first time in years, things had started to feel right again.

But there was an emptiness beside her. A cold spot where a warm light should be. Sherlock, though he was in the sitting room, felt like he was miles away. There was nothing that Ana wanted more, in that moment, than to get up and ask him to stay with her. To hold him and bask in the fact that he was alive. But she didn't. She couldn't; not yet. Instead, she buried her face in his pillow, hugged the blanket as tight as she dared, and let herself drift into a quiet slumber.

OOOO

When Ana woke up the next morning, her arms were curled tightly around one of Sherlock's pillows. She groaned into it, face pressed into the grey casing, and curled up a little tighter. Her head ached a little, which she attributed to the stress of the night before. Ana quietly allowed herself a moment to wake up, stretching her arms and legs, rubbing her eyes, and staring up at the ceiling. The hum of nearby traffic was barely audible, but it made a small, sleepy smile cross her face. The ebb and flow of traffic around Baker Street was something that she'd become accustomed to while living there. And it just didn't sound the same where she lived now; it was a funny thing, to miss the sound of traffic. But she had. And it was comforting to listen to it, snuggled into a plush comforter.

After allowing herself a moment to luxuriate in waking up, Ana sat herself up with a yawn. Some part of her felt as though she was still dreaming. That, in a moment, she'd blink and wake up in her own flat, to the quiet emptiness that she so often attributed to it. But no matter how hard she blinked and rubbed at her eyes, Ana was still at 221b, still in Sherlock's room, completely and assuredly awake. Hair, tangled from being slept on wet, had flopped into Ana's eyes, so she pushed it back, only to pause when she caught sight of her wrists. Her pleasant smile started to fade. Around each one was a thin ribbon of red, the skin rubbed raw and chafed in certain spots. A reminder of what had occured the evening before. It was a striking reminder of how real everything was––from Sherlock's reappearance, to being drugged and trapped in a car bomb. She probed the skin of her left wrist gently and winced at how tender it felt. Ana quietly replayed everything that had happened the night before. She tried to parse out details for anything that might tip off who had orchestrated the whole event. But most of that portion of the evening was steeped in foggy vision and equally hazy memories.

With another, larger yawn, Ana got out of bed and shuffled towards the sitting room. Wading through the memories of last night was something she needed to do over coffee. If Sherlock had coffee. If not, she'd pop down to Speedy's and grab her old usual; it had been a long while since she'd had their cappuccino. While she contemplated her coffee choices, her feet carried her along a familiar path, carrying her easily towards the sitting room. She expected to find Sherlock poised in front of the sofa, eyes flying restlessly across the papers pinned to the wall. Instead, what Ana saw paused her immediately. Two people were sat on the couch––an older couple, a man and a woman. The woman was in a coat, the collar up-turned, and the man wore a thick tan jacket; they'd either just come in, or weren't planning on a long stay. They smiled at her.

"Good morning, dearie," hummed the woman. Whoever she was, the woman seemed to be kind; the gentle smile on her lips was welcoming, and her pale blue eyes twinkled.

Ana blinked at the couple and cleared her throat. "Good morning," she offered lightly, though the pinch between her brows betrayed her confusion.

The man, who seemed the epitome of pleasant, nodded his head with a smile. "Morning." The corners of his eyes crinkled from years of mirthful looks, his smile was easy and kind. They seemed perfectly normal, and that was what made them so out of place; especially when sat in front of the splay of papers on the wall behind them. And it was that stark normalcy, the suddenness of their appearance that brought Ana to one conclusion.

"Are you here for Sherlock?" she inquired.

"Yes, we are," the woman agreed.

"I… don't know where he's gone, but I'm sure he'll be back soon. He's not wont to keep clients waiting." That was a lie. Sherlock was always wont to keep his clients waiting, as it was 'his time they were going to waste.' But it was never good to let perspective clients in on a little secret like that; and falling back into making those lies came far too easy for Ana.

The man and the woman shared a look before they started to laugh. It was the kind of laughter that was easy, easy from years of marriage and familiarity. It was like they were in on the joke of what she had said; like they knew it was a lie. It was as she took this moment in that Ana realized that something about them was familiar. She couldn't put her finger on it, but the two of them struck a chord of familiarity deep in the pit of her stomach. She wondered if, perhaps, they'd been clients years ago and she'd forgotten them. The woman waved a hand towards the door, which was open as it once had always been.

"He's just popped downstairs, he'll be back up in a moment," said the woman.

Ana nodded, a little lost, and pushed some hair behind her ears. Then she jabbed a thumb over her shoulder, towards the kitchen. "Can I make you some tea while you wait?" She offered this not knowing if there was enough tea in the cabinets for them, but it was what she had always done––offered clients tea.

The man chuckled and looked to his wife. "She's quite lovely," he commented.

The woman nodded with a smile. "Just like he told us," she agreed.

A sudden stiffness overcame Ana's shoulders. Comments such as 'just like he told us,' gave her pause. Because years ago 'he' could've meant Moriarty. It could have meant any number of London baddies that had it out for her flatmate. It inspired wariness; it still did. Especially after the previous night. But she pushed a smile across her face, which she was sure seemed a little more than tense.

"I'm sorry––who told you?"

Both the man and the woman turned matching, pleasant smiles on her. "Sherlock."

"And… you know Sherlock how?" she ventured carefully.

"Well, we're his parents," the woman tittered pleasantly.

Visible shock washed over Ana's face as the realization flooded her system. "Oh!" Ana breathed. Her eyes bounced between the couple on the couch; and she was suddenly struck with why they had seemed so familiar. Sherlock had his mother's eyes and his father's lips. High cheekbones ran in the family, it seemed, too. It was suddenly so easy to recognzie these two people as his parents, that she almost felt dumb for not noticing it before. "Oh, it's a pleasure to meet you." She stepped forward to offer her hand, and then winced and gestured at her attire––their son's sleep clothes. The pants pooled around her feet, the shirt was baggy and wrinkled; it was not exactly the way that Ana had ever thought she'd meet Sherlock's parents––or anyone's parents, for that matter. "I'm so sorry for being so… out of sorts."

Mrs. Holmes shook her head with a loving sort of kindness. She sat forward and took the offered hand. "Don't worry, dearie. We're all always out of sorts in the morning," she reassured.

Ana offered a relieved smile of thanks and then offered her hand to Mr. Holmes. He smiled a smile filled with warmth and clasped her hands between both of his. It was less of a handshake and more of just a hand hold, but it was kind, and it suited him perfectly.

"You're fine, my dear," Mr. Holmes promised.

For the first time since she'd woken up––and perhaps for the first time in twenty-four hours––Ana really smiled. The Holmeses were not what she expected. She had expected someone like Sherlock and Mycroft, lofty and calculating and precise. But, as she had observed before, they just seemed… normal. In the best way possible. Mrs. Holmes seemed like the kind of woman to offer you dinner if you just stopped by to drop off a borrowed book. Mr. Holmes seemed like he painted model ships in a backyard workshop. They seemed so warm and inviting and lovely.

"Sherlock's told us lots about you, Anabel," Mrs. Holmes enthused sweetly.

Ana cocked her head to the side, brows slightly pinched. She cast a look towards the door, almost expecting him to come striding through. "Has he?"

"Oh, yes," hummed Mr. Holmes. He nodded in a solemn way, eyes falling shut. When they opened he arched his eyebrows. "Loads."

Mrs. Holmes reached out and whapped her husband's arm in reprimand; his joking solemnity broke and he smiled. "Oh, stop it, you! You'll frighten her, make her believe we think poorly of her." She then turned her attention to Ana, her expression softening. "It's been nothing but good things."

"Really?" Ana breathed. That was information she found genuinely surprising. She didn't take Sherlock as the 'babbling about my relationship to my parents' type. Or to babble on like a love-sick teenager in any respect to anyone. 'Good things' to Sherlock usually entailed 'knows how to listen,' or 'has an acute memory.' Things that made people bearable to be around for him.

"Yes, of course! We've been dying to meet you, but any time we've made an attempt to come to London, he's always shooed us away." Mrs. Holmes held up her hands, a little more serious, now. "We've given him room to do his work, but we simply had to come up and see him."

"We thought it would just be a family visit, but this is a pleasant surprise," said Mr. Holmes, beaming. "Our boy loves you quite a bit."

Ana felt her heart squeeze and swell simultaneously. She'd gotten so used to people telling her that over the last few years––'he loved you, remember?,' 'he had always been in love with you,' 'he loved you till the last.' But the present tense of the word––loves––was so striking. And coming from his parents, it hit even harder.

Mrs. Holmes sat forward, clutching her purse in her lap. The look she shared with Ana was one that made it feel like they'd been friends for years; like this wasn't the first time they'd met. It was the look of confidentiality, of gossip between old pals. "He's quite funny in how he expresses things, I'm sure you know."

"Yes." Ana laughed a little, eyes glassing over a bit. She nodded. "I know."

"You are very special to him. That much has been clear for a very long time. Whenever we called, there was always mention of you. When he mentioned that you moved in, I told Mr. Holmes––"

Mr. Holmes nodded, a smile on his face. "Oh, yes, she told me."

"––I told him, 'this woman is something special.' We had never heard Sherlock mention any… women or girls before, not even in passing! Not once!"

"Not once," echoed Mr. Holmes brightly in agreement.

"But he always spoke of you."

"Always." Mr. Holmes, who seemed to be a man of few––but meaningful––words, fixed Ana with a very particular look. His eyes glimmered beneath raised brows, and there was a sly but charming smile playing across his lips. Then he winked and his shoulders shook with a quiet chuckle. "My son takes his intellect from his brilliant mother." He reached out and placed a loving hand on her knee; she smiled at him and placed her hand over his. "But I have always believed he has taken after me in my romanticism."

Mrs. Holmes lifted a hand and placed it beside her mouth, as though sharing a secret. "Hopeless romantic, this one."

"Absolutely hopeless!" Mr. Holmes emphasized. He and Ana shared a chuckle; she seated herself in one of the chairs at the––still too clean––table, and leaned sideways against its splat. Mr. Holmes arched his brows and sat forward a little. "Sherlock has always cared so wholly for things. For people. But kids were cruel to him when he was young."

"Absolutely monstrous," Mrs. Holmes added in a clipped, displeased tone.

"They poked fun at his interests. Called him names. So he started to… bottle that care away, keep it hidden to keep himself safe. Created this… shell to ward off the slings and arrows of the world. Hides behind his intellect because that's where it feels safest for him. But you, my dear, you seem to have broached that shell. Coaxed out the softness and love. He might not show it, but he's hopeless for you, terribly hopelessly in love."

A smile had bloomed across Ana's face some time while watching the married pair interact. And it had lived long while she listened to him, growing at the corners every so often. It wasn't even necessarily because they were affirming Sherlock's love for her––though that was nice, especially when she'd been feeling as though he'd abandoned her––it was just them. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were just so perfectly lovely. It was hard not to smile with them or at them. It was hard not to be drawn to their lively dynamic or their special, witty banter. They were so perfect for and with one another, that she couldn't bear not to smile.

"That's why he did it, you know," chimed Mrs. Holmes.

"Did what?" Ana asked. Her eyes flitted between the couple, who shared a quiet look.

"Why he went away," Mr. Holmes clarified.

'Went away.' It was such a light way to put it. Such a casual way to put it. The pleasant upturn to Ana's mouth faded quickly. The way she looked between Sherlock's parents was a little more pronounced. Her head moved with her gaze. It struck her then, as they stared back at her empathetically, that they'd known. Of course they'd known. Neither of them had been at the funeral, just as Mycroft hadn't been. Ana fidgeted with her hands, the genial nature of the conversation taking a sharp turn.

"When he told us, I asked him who else knew. I presumed he'd have told you, to spare you from having to question all that slander coming from the press," Mrs. Holmes admitted. Mr. Holmes nodded grimly, eyes cast towards the floor.

"Nasty stuff," he said.

"The terrible things they said about our Sherlock…" Mrs. Holmes shook her head and squared her shoulders, like she was trying to shrug the comments off.

Ana snorted quietly. "Never believed anything they said. They were… vultures."

"I can only imagine how they must have swarmed you here; they found us out in the country! Had to beat them off the porch with a broom!" Mrs. Holmes scoffed at the memory, shaking her head.

"He didn't tell us much, but whatever mess he'd gotten himself into was quite big, very nasty. He didn't want you involved. Didn't want John involved. So he left. Made us swear to be mum on the whole thing, dreadful thing to ask," Mr. Holmes commented.

"Regardless of reason, I know our boy has put you through hell. I would like to apologize on his behalf; and also say that you have my permission to give him any hell you wish in return. It might help to sort him out," Mrs. Holmes told her.

For a moment, Ana was just quiet. Sherlock had said he hadn't told herself or John because it would have been a detriment to them. It would have been too dangerous for them to know he was alive. What he certainly hadn't mentioned was that the reason he'd faked his death was to protect her. Them. The already confused, conflicted emotions in her head gathered together in confused clumps, weighing heavily on her mind. But she appreciated receiving another puzzle piece, something that would, in the long run, help her come to a conclusion on how to handle it all.

Ana cleared her throat, smiled, and gestured towards the kitchen. "Please, let me make you some tea," she offered again.

Mrs. Holmes tutted and lifted a hand. "Only if it's not too much trouble."

"Oh, no, it's not, I promise!" she assured, rising to her feet.

It was then, just as Ana was about to move towards the kitchen, that Sherlock appeared in the doorway. There was a pile of folded clothes tucked under one arm, Ana's clothes from the day before. He was one step into the room when he froze. His eyes had found Ana; those eyes then widened a hair as they darted back to his parents. Not even Sherlock Holmes was impervious to the universal terror of having left his parents alone with someone he was close to.

"Ana, please follow me," he said, his voice surprisingly panicked. He started to move towards the kitchen, but his mother's voice caused his gait to falter.

"Sherlock, why didn't you tell us that Anabel would be here? I would have brought some cakes up for her," Mrs. Holmes admonished.

Sherlock twisted around and fixed his mother with a wide-eyed look. "I didn't know she would be here." He reached out for Ana with a hand, but Mrs. Holmes spoke again.

"How could you not have known she would be here?"

"She doesn't live here anymore, mother," Sherlock replied tersely.

"Well, of course she doesn't, with everything you've put her through!" she fired back, parental reprimand heavy in her tone. Sherlock shot her a scathing look that one typically wouldn't level at their mother; she just arched her eyebrows in silent reproach. All the while, Mr. Holmes sat calmly on his end of the couch, allowing the two to bicker back-and-forth.

Sherlock immediately placed a hand on Ana's back and ushered her forward and out of the room. She didn't resist the push against her back, and instead focused on trying not to laugh outright. When they came to a stop in front of his bedroom door, she arched an eyebrow at him. He thrust the pile of folded clothes at her.

"Mrs. Hudson put them through the wash, they shouldn't smell like gasoline anymore," he told her. He was a little breathless, like they had just outrun an adversary on the rain soaked streets of London.

Ana stared up at him for a moment before she smiled lopsidedly. A furrow creased between his eyebrows, a startled look of surprise flooding his eyes. It was the first time she'd smiled at him since his return, and it was clear he'd taken note of it. "Those are your parents," she said. She smiled a little wider. "They're lovely."

The surprise drained from his face and Sherlock made a sound in the back of his throat. "They're ordinary."

"Ordinary's not such a bad thing to be," she said softly. Ana took the clothes from him and held them close to her chest. She nodded out towards the kitchen. "I hope you've got more tea, I promised them a cuppa." He groaned at that; she smiled.

With that, Ana stepped into Sherlock's bedroom and went to shut the door; Sherlock jammed his hand against the door, suddenly, stopping the door from closing. Ana stared at the hand braced against the door, let her eyes slide up his arm, and offered him an incredulous look. He leaned in towards her, expression pinching.

"What did they say?" he asked lowly.

Ana paused and searched his expression. It was borderline desperate, but quietly so. The way a teenager might act upon realizing their parents might have said something terribly embarrassing in their absence. It wasn't often Sherlock was in such a state. So she quirked an eyebrow and shrugged. "Nothing."

"Ana."

A smile started to crawl across her face on its own accord. "Nothing, really!"

"It's never nothing with them, they always blather on about something."

"Well, they love you very much," she revealed, teased. Sherlock's eyes fell closed and he muttered something under his breath. Her expression fell a bit, smile disappearing. "They also apologized for you. What you did." Sherlock's eyes snapped open, his gaze swiftly intense and locked with hers. Ana stared back, expression carefully composed. He had yet to apologize for leaving her and John in the dark about his fake death; about telling people and not telling them. But Mr. Holmes' words echoed in the back of her head. After a quiet moment, she cleared her throat and looked down at her feet. "I understand why you would've told them." She looked back up and offered a gentle––careful––smile. "I wouldn't want my parents to think I was dead, either." With that, she took a step back and carefully nudged the door a bit. Sherlock let his hand drop away, but maintained holding her gaze as the door closed.

Ana leaned back against that door once it was closed, listened as Sherlock, once again, lingered on the other side of the door before leaving. With a shake of her head, she tossed the folded clothes atop Sherlock's bed.

"You're back in it now, aren't you?" she muttered to herself.

Back in the thick of it, back in the chaos––and it wasn't because of Sherlock. Not directly, at least. It had been whoever locked her into that car. Things like that hadn't happened since Sherlock's disappearance. Being confronted, attacked, or drugged was usually a side-effect of knowing him, being involved with him. Ana stepped over to the bed, shook out her jumper, and clucked her tongue at herself. Being back in it meant that she could do one thing, and one thing only––buckle up, and go along with the ride. Because she wanted to know who had done this; and what they wanted.

Afterword: It's been too long, really has, and it's all I can really do to thank you all for your patience. I really do love this story, it just… has this nasty knack for kicking me into writer's block sometimes. But being stuck in quarantine has really boosted me to get back into all of my writing, figure out a way to push past all the creative block's I've been experiencing. And it feels good to finally get this up and out there.

Review Replies!

heroherondaletotherescue: I figured that Ana wasn't going to shrink away from outwardly telling Sherlock how she felt. 'Cause, boy howdy, he really did some damage when he 'died' and she was gonna let him have it. I'm also having fun playing with the fact that, no matter how pissed she is, there's still part of her that just wants to be so soft with him and… hug him into oblivion. I'm really looking forward to the end of this episode, I love the train car scene. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you for being so patient!

zikashigaku: For as much as Sherlock's grown emotionally, he still has… so much to learn. This is his time to do that learning, realize that just popping back up and being like 'let's solve a case' isn't going to solve everything for him. I love the Empty Hearse, because I adore how they wrote John's reaction to Sherlock's return––it was perfect. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you for being so patient!

Guest: I feel that out of all the episodes of this show, The Empty Hearse is where Sherlock seems to show the most of his guilt about anything he's really done. So I've been having fun playing Sherlock's sudden tentativeness––which does make one feel bad for him––but also playing with Ana's struggle between being outwardly pissed and being excited that he's back. I'm really glad you've been enjoying the story so far; thank you, again and thank you for being so patient!

HoneyLemonCake17: We can already see Ana tentatively allowing herself to be a little softer towards Sherlock. It's definitely gonna take a lot for Sherlock to really gain her whole trust back, but it's a road that he's gonna have to take. And it's gonna take a hot second for them to get back to where they were prior to the Fall, relationship-wise. But both of them will learn a lot as they start to traverse that path together again; and there's no way in hell that Ana's gonna let it be easy for him… even if that means it's not gonna be easy for her too. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you for being so patient!

Shan: I'm really happy that Ana's been woven in so well! This world feels so real to me with her in it, so when I finally hit a stride in writing these chapters, it always ends up being a blast. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you for being so patient!

TriumphFallen19: Oh, we can definitely have a jealous!Sherlock moment! We can have a lot of jealous!Sherlock moments. People definitely pass a flirt at Ana; and now Sherlock's gonna get to see that and it's gonna be a baaaaaad time for all, but so fun to watch. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you for being so patient!

It'sJustMe-94: I know that you reviewed back in July, but I'm still gonna say it––I'm impressed you read this long-ass fanfic in a week. Every now-and-again I add up how many pages there are and there are… a lot. So hat's off to you for powering through it all! I'm sorry that you had to wait so long for another chapter, but I hope that you'll have enjoyed it regardless. One of the reasons it takes so long to get these chapters out, sometimes, is because I'll write a scene and realize I don't like how I've written it or described something, so I end up editing and sitting on it for months. But I'd really hate to turn out an exceptionally bad chapter for this story, it would break my heart. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you for being so patient!

LittlePixie-nerd: I'm… blown away you read this 48 chapter fic in a couple of days. I re-read this story in chunks to jog my memory on things, but I couldn't imagine powering through this story in a few days! I'm glad that Ana's consistently seemed part of the world and hasn't seemed forced. I try to make sure I double-check that she'd be in a scene, and if she doesn't, then I put her somewhere else. Such as, originally she was gonna be in the crime-scene moment with Lestrade, Molly, and Sherlock this chapter––it just didn't work out, because, in reality, she would not have attended a case with Sherlock on it so early after he'd come back. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you for being so patient!

Guest 2: Thank you so much! I really try to make sure I keep everyone in character as best I can, 'cause I don't want to do a disservice to the source material because I love this show so much. Sherlock is tricky, especially when playing with the emotion of love, I just try to keep reminding myself that he would approach it from a unique angle, and that it's okay if it seems weird. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you for being so patient!

SociopathicPsychopath: I lend a lot of my emotional-insight based writing to the fact that I've been trained in acting. I love to delve into the emotional side of characters that I act, so I put that all into what I write to add extra depth to characters and situations. I've been writing this story for so long, and it's gotten to a point where Ana feels like a fully fledged person in the world of the show. I have always wanted to make sure that Ana was her own person outside of 221b; which is why Liz and Rick are in the story, and why I'm not having her dive in head-first again. Especially after two years of building a life for herself, she's not gonna jump in with abandon. And I think that we'll see, in upcoming chapters, just how much Ana influences Sherlock, how much she impacts what he does. I'm so incredibly touched that you've now found her more than just an OC––'cause she's felt like more than that for me, too. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you for being so patient!

LauraHouse95: I try to weave some fun original content with the show content to boost character relationships and characterization and world building and stuff. It's always fun and good to know that people enjoy the original stuff, too! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you for being so patient!

Guest 3: Thank you so much! I have actually tried really hard to make Ana not perfect––she's got a temper, things she doesn't like or won't do, she's got opinions… and all with the intent of, as you say, to make her seem more natural and real. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you for being so patient!

animemangaobsessed: I really wanted to capture the fact that Ana is so horridly confused about the situation––she's confused, she's angry, she's elated, she's happy, she wants to punch him square in the face… and it's fun playing with all those emotions going forward. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you for being so patient!

thegirlwhowaited1992: I'm sorry that it took so long to get another chapter up! But I couldn't bring myself to half-ass a chapter and post it just to get something up. I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you for being so patient!

Guest 4: Here's an update! Sorry it took so long! I hope you enjoyed the chapter; thank you for being so patient!

And thank you to those that have added this to their follows/favorites; it means a lot!

That's that for now; I've already got about 7 pages of the next chapter written, 'cause the action of the episode is really picking up now. I hope to get it up sometime soon! Quarentine's given me a lot of free time to play around with. Thanks again for being so patient!

~Mary