Lighting Fires

Well, this is the final chapter. I can't believe it's finally finished!

It would never have got beyond the first chapter if it hadn't been for all you lovely reviewers, so I want to give a shout out to (in no particular order):

Fayet; johnsarmylady; ThisDayWillPass; Kira Ferris; chaoticmum; marye; Ghostwriter71; Ragnhild; SeaStarr; Library Geek; Dee; mylia11; Mzzmarie; hjohn302; Merryk; Peaceful Defender; deaka; Benfan; filmkid21; Heart of a Slytherin; and macgyvershe (who amazingly reviewed 9 chapters in 1 night and also spotted a seriously stupid typo!)

Also, thanks to any guest reviewers whose names I didn't catch, and to all those who followed or favourited my story.

Some reviewers have commented that they're looking forward to Sherlock's return to Baker Street. It was always my intention to focus solely on John in this fic, and to take him from the end of The Reichenbach Fall right up to the moment where Sherlock is standing on the threshold of 221B, ready to come home. I wanted to leave the 'post-return' stuff to your imagination! And also, I'm aware that there are many great writers on here that have covered the reunion topic really well – and my intention was to write something slightly different.

Having said all that, I'm thinking of doing a follow-up to this story, which would focus on Sherlock's explanations of what he got up to during the three years away, his attempts to adjust to his old life after being away (which won't be that easy) and John's reactions to havng Sherlock back in his life...so if you think you might be interested, make sure you follow me as an author. It may be a while, though, because I have a Harry Potter fic that needs some attention!

Well, here we go…

Inspired by the song Fires by Ronan Keating

The quote on moral perfection is by Marcus Aurelius

Disclaimer : not mine, no money

"I dunno, it just doesn't make sense."

John stops in his contemplation of the medical file and looks up at Greg Lestrade, enquiringly.

The DI is currently propped up on a pile of pillows on his hospital bed in, of all places, Barts. Much to John's surprise, he's been relocated to a fairly plush private room. He supposes that New Scotland Yard's private health insurance has to be good for something, although he didn't realise that Greg's employers would run to this.

It's just as well, frankly, because Greg is likely to be here for a while, judging by the nature of his injuries. In fact, he's extremely lucky to be here. John almost wishes his friend hadn't given him permission to take a look at his medical records, because he's not sure he really wanted to know all the details.

Moran's ordered hit-and-run was very clearly intended to kill, and it's a miracle that it didn't. Greg will be out of action for weeks, recovering from a badly broken leg and an operation for severe internal injuries, which involved the removal of his spleen. John wonders if the DI really understands the seriousness of that procedure – and its consequences. He will have to be very careful to avoid infections for the rest of his life, and it may be that he will never return to active policing. John can't bear to think of the consequences if Lestrade is forced to retire from his job. Even if the Yard does keep him on, John can't imagine how the DI will cope in a desk-only position.

He's more than a little concerned about Greg's state of mind, because although the DI is pale and slightly fragile-looking, he's also frighteningly chipper – more so than can be explained by his drugs. Of course, it may be because he's finally made a decision about his barely-alive marriage. John doesn't have to be the world's only consulting detective to deduce that Greg's wife hasn't bothered to visit him – apart from a card from the Yarders and a small bouquet of flowers from Sally, there's no sign that he has received a single visitor. John is just glad that he thought to visit him prior to his own discharge, and he makes a mental note to come back as soon as possible with something – some grapes and a few books, perhaps.

He winces as he shifts a little in his chair. He's being packed off home after a 48 hour stay, which was only extended to that degree because of concerns over a potential head injury and the fact that he lives alone. In reality, he's got off fairly lightly despite two separate assaults and a fall from a two-story building. He has extensive bruising to his neck and head, a couple of cracked ribs and a fractured wrist. It could have been very much worse.

Lestrade is frowning over his copy of the report of Sebastian Moran's death, which was brought in by Sally – John assumes it's a vague attempt on her part to distract the DI from his injuries. In that sense, she's been very clever, as only a fool wouldn't realise that there are serious holes in the investigation. In fact, that might be the reason why Sally has chosen to involve Greg.

"What's the problem?" he asks, tentatively.

Greg gives him a look of disbelief. "'What isn't the problem' would be a better question. Or perhaps you should ask: what does make sense in this pile of –." He breaks off, gesturing at the report contemptuously.

John squirms uncomfortably, then wishes he hadn't as his cracked and heavily strapped ribs make a feeble protest.

He's had to be very careful so far, as he's not entirely clear what the police actually discovered when they arrived at the scene.

He hadn't regained consciousness until he was being stretchered into the ambulance. There hadn't been any sign of Sherlock or Mycroft's men, and he didn't know whether Mycroft had ordered a clean-up before the emergency services were called. He had gathered that he'd been found lying on the ground near the body of Sebastian Moran. He'd had to feign amnesia until he'd sorted out his scrambled thoughts and worked out exactly what to say.

Once patched and plastered up, he'd had to face an irate Sally, who had made it clear that she was less than happy about the way he'd slipped away from the crime scene without letting anyone know where he was going. He'd had to endure a lecture on the fact that she'd expected him of all people to show a little common sense. He'd stood it with good grace, recognising the concern that lay behind the rant.

He'd had some difficulty giving his statement. In the end, he'd admitted that he had recognised Sebastian Moran and had followed him. He'd had to pretend that he had suspected Moran but didn't want to involve the police until he was sure; he could hardly admit that he'd hoped Moran was working with Sherlock. He'd reported that Moran had overpowered him in the house, that he had managed to slip his bindings and that Moran had chased him to that roof top, where they had fought and fallen. He denied any knowledge of the knife that had fatally stabbed the colonel.

He hadn't mentioned Sherlock's involvement. It had been obvious from their conversation on the roof that the consulting detective would have to remain officially dead for a little longer. It was lucky that when he had come round and realised that his friend wasn't there in the ambulance, he'd had the sense to keep quiet.

The strange thing is that he no longer has any doubts about his importance to Sherlock. Before the detective walked into that house just forty-eight hours ago, he'd wondered whether his loyalty and friendship meant anything at all to the consulting detective. Until that moment, if Sherlock had abandoned him on the ground with potentially serious injuries, he'd have taken it as further proof of the detective's indifference. But now, he just knows the reason why Sherlock had had to leave him – and not just on this occasion.

Finally, he understands why. And his mind is calmer than it has been for more than three years.

The other person he hadn't mentioned to Sally was Bill Murray, and he's not entirely sure why.

He shouldn't feel any loyalty to a man who had essentially left him to die. When he'd had a bit of time to himself, to reflect on the entire day, he'd felt deeply hurt – betrayed by the one man that he'd always thought he could count on. And yet…he owes Bill. He owes the man who risked his own life to save him back in Afghanistan, so maybe this is payback. And Bill had been terrified of Sebastian. Would John have done what his friend did if Sebastian had threatened someone he loved – Harry perhaps? Possibly not, but then John doesn't have children, and he can't imagine how awful it must be for a parent to fear for the safety of his or her child.

He hopes that he never sees or hears from Bill Murray again. It'll take a long time to forget how he felt when Bill had walked out of that room, leaving him to his fate. But a part of him genuinely hopes that his old friend will take the opportunity of Sebastian Moran's death to leave his past behind him and move on with his family. Nothing could possibly be served by implicating him in John's near-murder.

His biggest worry is that Bill might have been involved in the murders, but he doesn't think it likely. Moran was probably careful to keep 'his' men ignorant of activities that didn't immediately concern them. He cannot possibly imagine what Moran could have said to Bill to compel him to hit his old friend over the head and tie him up…but at least Bill tried to give him a way out with the grief knot. That's of some minor comfort.

He blinks and refocuses his attention on Greg. The DI has sighed and picked up the report again.

"For Chrissake! The guy is found with a knife slipped in under his ribs and they think it's an accident. Says here they think he had the knife hidden in his inside pocket, but if that's true then there's no way in hell it would've got him at that angle. I may not be the brightest copper in the world, but even I can see that." He looks up at John, frowning. "You sure you didn't see any knife during your fight?"

"No," John replies, his gut churning uncomfortably. "Just the gun, like I told Sally."

"Yeah…" Lestrade frowns at the report. "And there was no one else there? Not even one of his men? See – it looks to me like there was a third party there. Someone who stuck the knife in and tried to make it look like an accident."

"How do you know it wasn't me?" asks John, with some curiosity.

Greg waves his hand over the report. "Nah, it says here that you landed several yards away from him. I guess you don't remember anything after falling, since you were knocked out? Well, they think the two of you fell separately, and there's no way you would've been able to crawl over and stab him after you fell – not with that arm."

"Where…where was I found? I can't remember a thing before waking up in the ambulance," John lies, smoothly. It's scary just how easy it's become – and he prays that Greg will forgive him if he ever finds out the truth.

"You not seen it yet?" Greg tosses the paper towards him. "You were on the grass – they think that's why you got off so lightly. You were lying on your front with your arm twisted beneath you. He was on the patio with that knife wound…although it wasn't the only factor. He also had severe head injuries and a broken neck, so it's not totally clear which one actually finished him off."

John peruses the report. Apparently, the alarm had been raised by an old tramp with a long beard, who had gone up to a couple of patrolling PCs and told them that two men had fallen from the roof of his squat. By the time John and Moran had been found and they had called for back-up, the homeless man had disappeared and couldn't be traced.

He hands it back, thoughtfully. He has two options now. Either he continues to keep quiet about Sherlock…or he tells Greg the truth.

Yes, it would be a betrayal of Sherlock's confidence but, after all, this is Greg. The DI is like a dog with a bone when there's something a bit odd in an investigation – it's that stubborn streak more than anything else that has got him to the top of his profession. He's a plodder – he lacks obvious brilliance, but he will worry away at a conundrum until the answer is revealed. That's why he and Sherlock worked so well together - few Met officers would have had the tenacity and patience to allow the consulting detective to get away with so much in pursuit of an answer.

The point is Greg won't let this go. He'll worry about it when he needs to focus on getting better, and he'll hassle Sally to keep looking into Moran's death, which is the last thing they need.

If Greg knows the full story, he'll keep quiet for Sherlock's sake. On the down side, he's likely to be pretty shocked and hurt, and John doesn't want to compromise his recovery. He can see that the DI is putting on a brave face, but the latest observations on his chart indicate that he's still quite weak.

But, on the other hand, once he's got used to the idea, surely it'll be a weight of the DI's mind? And he so clearly needs some good news for once…

John is just opening his mouth to speak when there's an all-to-familiar voice at the door.

"Ah, there you are, John."

Both men turn to see Mycroft entering the door in his usual unruffled manner. He's clutching a box of doughnuts bought from a bakery near New Scotland Yard that Greg is an enthusiastic patron of. John's nose twitches with interest at the fresh baked smell.

"Please forgive the intrusion, Inspector. I was looking for John, and I thought he might be paying you a visit." Mycroft gives Greg a kindly smile and then glances at the box with a feigned air of surprise. "Oh, I had forgotten. Someone very kindly gave me these, but sadly I have already had a very good tea. I'm sure you won't mind taking them off my hands."

He waves the box in Greg's general direction and the DI brightens up, putting his hand out, but John neatly intercepts the doughnuts.

"Not at the moment, mate. Your constitution's not really up to it."

Greg subsides in disappointment and Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "No? Well, that is a shame." He looks around the room with an air of satisfaction. "I do hope your new environment is to your liking, Inspector. It was, of course, the least I could do in the circumstances…as it appears your accident was arranged by one of my brother's adversaries."

John looks around in sudden shocked realisation and then narrows his eyes at Mycroft, as Greg mutters his embarrassed thanks. Just what is the sneaky sod up to now?

Mycroft gives him a bland look. "I suppose you are discussing what happened to Sebastian Moran the other night. It must have been a terrible shock for you, John, to discover that your old comrade was behind so many murders – and all to gain your attention."

John tenses as something occurs to him. "Did you know?"

He's treated to the unusual sight of a Holmes brother looking genuinely taken aback. "Good heavens, no. If I had known, I would hardly have allowed you to walk into that situation." He hesitates a little. "I may have…had some suspicion that you were remembering someone from your past, and that it was likely to be a military figure, but I certainly did not know the individual by name."

"So what do you make of this, then?" Greg taps the report on his lap. "Since you seem to know pretty much everything that goes on around here."

Mycroft regards him steadily for a moment, and then smiles. "It occurs to me, Inspector – may I call you Greg? – that you may require somewhere to stay following your release from hospital. I believe I am right in assuming that you will not be welcome at your current abode?"

John grits his teeth. He can see where Mycroft is heading with this, but he can't help thinking that the man is overplaying his hand. Surely the DI won't fall for it…

Greg glares at Mycroft. "I can't see how you would know that, Mr Holmes. We've only just decided to separate."

Mycroft gives the DI what John assumes is meant to be a sympathetic look, though it seems a little forced. "I am sorry to hear that, Greg."

"Yeah, well," Greg mutters, apparently not noticing the civil servant's use of his first name. "I'll probably rent a flat somewhere."

"While continuing to pay for your wife? And on sick pay?" asks Mycroft.

Greg shoots him a deeply suspicious look. "What do my living arrangements have to do with you, anyway?"

The bureaucrat inclines his head graciously. "I have…a property in Sussex that would be at your disposal. It is our family home in fact, but I hardly use it these days. As you know, my job requires me to spend most of my time in London, and so the house lies empty most of the time. If you cared to relocate there while you recover, you would be entirely uninterrupted, apart from my staff who would be happy to cook for you and so on. If your doctors required it, I would be happy to engage a nurse."

Greg mumbles a little. "I can hardly accept your hospitality, Mr Holmes –."

Mycroft breaks in, with his most charming smile. "Please, do call me Mycroft. I can assure you, Greg, that I have no ulterior motive. It would merely be a chance for you to…regroup, shall we say? Only until you are fully recovered and have made alternative living arrangements."

"Well, I don't know..." Greg gives John a questioning look.

John can see he's tempted. He needs to get away from the stressful situation with his wife, and a country house with plenty of rest and good food would be perfect for him. And then, of course, a temporary relocation out of London would take his mind off certain other matters…

He keeps his face perfectly straight as he responds to the DI's unspoken question. "I think it's a good idea, Greg. You are going to need a bit of time to get over this surgery. Besides, I doubt you'll get an opportunity to say 'no'. I suspect Mycroft will just keep pressing his invitation until you give in."

He glares at Mycroft as he adds the last comment, but the man just gives him an irritatingly smug smile.

"Well, I suppose… It's very good of you, Mr Holmes."

Mycroft gives him a polite nod. "Not at all, Greg – and do please call me Mycroft. I'm only too happy to help out. As I say, I do feel some responsibility for the situation you are in."

He throws the report a dismissive look, almost as if it had quite slipped his mind. "Oh, as for the case, I'm sure Sergeant Donovan is perfectly qualified to deal with it, so I should leave it to her, if I were you. I will of course extend to her any assistance she requests...but, as John has not regained his full memory of the event, I suspect we may never know the exact circumstances within which Colonel Moran met his death…and perhaps we should leave it at that."

Greg opens his mouth to protest, but the 'British government' beats him to it.

After all," Mycroft smiles at John, "I think we are all simply very glad that John has emerged relatively lightly from his encounter with a man who appears to have held a somewhat excessive grudge for many years. It seems to me, Greg, that Colonel Moran's death has had the advantage of sparing our good friend here the trauma of having to appear as a witness at a lengthy trial. I am sure you will agree that John has had quite enough to deal with over the last few days – and indeed the last three years."

"Well…" Greg gives John an uncomfortable look and moves the report to one side.

And, just like that, Mycroft has won.

John notes his tired eyes and the slightly tense set of his jaw, and privately wonders how many more battles he will be able to win. When he finally retires from medicine and moves to a quieter life in the country (if he lives that long), will Mycroft Holmes still be at the heart of government, making his private deals behind the scenes and having to clean up the chaos left behind by his wayward younger brother? Again, assuming that Sherlock lives that long…

And talking of Sherlock…

Mycroft seems to read his mind as always. He bestows another friendly smile on Greg. "Would you please excuse us? There is a rather urgent matter that I need to discuss with John."

He turns away from Greg and throws John a meaningful look as he leaves the room.

Greg is looking a little bewildered. "Did I just accept an invitation for a prolonged stay at the Holmes' family estate?"

John can't stop his grin; the DI looks as flummoxed as he always feels after an encounter with Mycroft. It's good to know he's not the only one. "Um, yeah, I think you did."

The DI shifts slightly and winces. "D'you think I can refuse now? What am I getting myself into, John? You don't think he's gonna make me work for him or something, do you?"

"Greg -."

"I mean, it's a bit like the Godfather, innit. He's gonna tell me that he's 'disappointed' in me, and next thing you know, it'll be sleeping with the fishes. You don't know how mad that family is – believe me, Sherlock is just the tip of the iceberg."

"Um, Greg -."

"Or…oh, shit." Greg's eyes widen in horror. "This isn't some seriously dodgy attempt at a chat-up line, is it? I mean, I know I'm not much to look at, but that bloke's a serious weirdo - do you think he's got a handcuff fetish? He does know I'm straight, doesn't he? Don't even know if he's gay or into sheep shagging or whatever, but -."

"GREG!"

The DI subsides at John's desperate shout.

John has to suppress a giggle at the thought of Mycroft trying to chat someone up. "Look, Greg, I think you'll be OK. I'll be honest with you, it's going to take you a while to get over this operation, and you'll get out of hospital quicker if they're happy that you've got someone to look after you. I'm sure Mycroft will provide a nurse. You really can't stay in some cheap flat by yourself."

As Greg starts to object, he continues quickly, "No, really, I'm sure it'll be fine. Just try to take him at face value. He's not so bad really - I'm sure he means well," he adds, crossing his fingers behind his back. And I suspect I know who put him up to it too.

"Yeah, well, you'd better come and visit me there," Greg mutters. "Just in case I need rescuing."

John grins. "I certainly will." The truth is, he's dying to visit the place where Sherlock and Mycroft grew up, so he can better visualise a curly-haired skinny oddball of a boy and his podgy pompous teenage brother. There might even be family photographs, if he's lucky - useful ammunition for teasing and possible blackmail.

"Anyway," he stands up. "I'd better go. I'll come back tomorrow."

"Yeah, thanks John." Greg shakes his uninjured left hand.

As he leaves the room, John notes with some satisfaction that the report is lying undisturbed on Greg's bedside table. The DI has shifted to lie back, with his hands behind his head, looking thoughtful.

Mycroft is standing outside, frowning at a message on his smartphone. "Ah, John, there you are."

"He put you up to this, didn't he?"

The older Holmes brother gives him a sharp look. "You can hardly expect me to answer that here. However, I can assure you that I do not wish any harm to come to Inspector Lestrade."

"And I hope it doesn't." John glares back. "I mean it, Mycroft. Don't try to involve Greg in any of your Machiavellian schemes. He's a good man."

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. "I am quite sure that he is. No doubt he will make suitable alternative living arrangements once he has made a full recovery. And, in the meantime, I'm sure that we would not wish him to involve himself in certain…matters."

John lowers his voice. "You realise that he may be forced into early retirement? With injuries like his –."

Mycroft cuts across him. "You do not know that, John."

John bristles. "I am a doctor."

The smooth bureaucrat looks back at him, evenly. "I repeat – you do not know that. It is my belief that Scotland Yard will be able to make arrangements."

There's an air of finality in his voice, and John suspects that Greg won't have to worry about his job after all.

He steps closer, lowering his voice further. "When will he be coming home?" They both know he is not talking about Lestrade.

Mycroft's gaze softens. "I cannot tell you for certain, John. Certain, fairly dramatic, events are taking place in specific locations at this very moment. Until a certain international operation has been completed, it would be unsafe for our friend's survival to be revealed. I can only tell you that he is in a safe location."

"And…he's alright, is he?"

"He is well," Mycroft assures him.

John smiles, his eyes going to the window. Out there- just out there, three years ago, he stood on the ground and watched a man fall. He has a strange temptation to climb the steps up onto the roof; to see what Sherlock must have seen on that day. "I wonder…will I ever learn what happened?"

Mycroft is silent for a moment. "I cannot tell you that. I do not have the full details myself. I think…it is my suspicion that he will tell you…one day. Perhaps not at first, perhaps not for many years. But he will tell you."

John eyes him, wryly. "What makes you so sure? You Holmes' brothers – I don't think I'll ever get you, not really. For a while, I thought I understood Sherlock, but I didn't – did I? If I had understood him, I'd have known what he was doing – why he sent me away that day. Mind you, I probably came closer to understanding him than anyone else… But you…will I ever understand you?"

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Would you wish to? Tell me, John, if you had a chance to find out what my role involves on a daily basis – the orders I have to give, the decisions I have to make – would you take that opportunity? And, if you did and you learnt something that you really did not wish to know, would you be able to 'delete' it, much as my brother can?"

John laughs. "I'm not sure that I do want to know any of that… but what I really meant was understanding you rather than what you do. Maybe I'm curious about who Mycroft Holmes is. I mean things like what you like, what you don't like, what your real feelings towards Sherlock are. How you unwind from work. How you operate – and what motivates you to do the work you do."

Mycroft looks genuinely perplexed. "And why would that be of the remotest interest to you, John?"

John tries to trace any sign that Mycroft is putting on a front, but nothing is obvious. It's rather sad that a man who spends his life anticipating the reactions of other people genuinely cannot conceive that anyone might wish to know him as a person – as a friend, even. He sighs, rubbing his forehead. "You know what? That response tells me quite a lot about the way you operate, Mycroft." And that Greg has absolutely nothing to worry about, he adds to himself.

The bureaucrat gives him a sharp look. "When the time is right, there will be a public announcement." His voice is a little colder now; more professional. "I trust I can depend on you to maintain your silence until such time."

John forbears to point out that he's already maintained it for three years. "Will he…will there be…repercussions?" he asks, wincing at the weak words but too afraid to clarify his meaning. It has been on his mind that if Sherlock were to return now, he might face serious charges - perverting the course of justice and extensive hacking into international police and government computers. Even, potentially, murder.

"You may rest assured that his name will be cleared," Mycroft says, calmly. He frowns at his phone again. "And now I must go. I can give you a lift to Baker Street if you wish?"

John shakes himself out of his reverie. "Actually, no thanks, Mycroft. There's someone else I need to see before I leave."

Mycroft gives him another sharp look and then a quick nod. "Ah yes. I rather thought there might be. Well, goodbye John."

"Yeah, bye Mycroft." He gives the other man a firm nod and turns away.

"John?" Mycroft's voice is surprisingly tentative as he turns back. "I hope…you will understand that I had no choice but to keep you in the dark. It was not my desire to –."

"Please, Mycroft." He raises a hand to stop the fumbling apology that Sherlock's brother is attempting to make. "I don't want to discuss it. It's OK – well," he sighs, "actually, it's not OK as such, but it is what it is… Oh, hell, alright then - it's fine. It's all fine."

And as he turns away from Mycroft, he realises with some surprise that he actually means it.

The forensic laboratory is quiet when he arrives, but she's still there, bent over some paperwork at her desk with her back to him. He enters the room quietly, not wishing to disturb her.

He stops just inside the door, looking around. He hasn't been here since before The Fall. It seems astonishing to him that it was only four and a half years ago that he came through this door and saw that tall, sharply-dressed man for the first time, hunched over an experiment…right over there.

He didn't know then that it would be one of the defining moments of his life…that a chance encounter with an old medical school friend and a shared desire to find a flatmate would lead to a life full of adventures and excitement and danger and fun and happiness and fear and pain and all-consuming grief.

And I would do it all again, he reflects, as he stands there. I wouldn't change a thing. For that would mean changing Sherlock.

"John!" Molly jumps to her feet, knocking her chair over. She looks flushed and a little confused. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know you were there."

He raises his good hand, smiling. "It's OK. I didn't like to interrupt you."

She gives him an uncertain laugh. "I keep meaning to get in touch. I haven't forgotten you, honestly, it's just that it's been so busy here, we're always short-staffed these days, and you know, it's amazing how time flies -."

"Molly," he interrupts her. "It's OK, Molly. I know. I've seen him."

She stops her nervous gabbling and stares at him for a moment. "Oh, God, John, I am so sorry. I wanted to tell you, I really did, but I'd promised him…" She walks towards him. "You have no idea how hard it's been, knowing all this time, never being able to tell anyone…"

"I know, Molly. Believe me, I do know."

"You…knew…all the time?" Her eyes search his, seeking out the confirmation in his eyes.

As he nods and holds out his uninjured arm, her composure finally deserts her…

And plain, mouse-like little Molly Hooper - forensic pathologist, Sherlock's loyal friend, the one who didn't 'count' - clutches at his jacket, buries her face in his shoulder and sobs as if her heart will break.

The weeks go by. And still, he waits.

Mrs Hudson fusses over him when he gets home. "Now then, John dear, I don't know what you've been up to, but no more adventures for a while, please. You just sit there and let me get you some tea. Only just this once, of course – I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

She's still assuring him of that fact a week later while serving up delicious casseroles and soups and plates of biscuits and cakes, and while John has enjoyed all the fuss, he's really looking forward to getting back to work…preferably before his clothes get too tight.

Sarah smiles when he comes into the surgery. "I'm not sure I even want to know what you've been up to. I'm just damn glad you're back with us."

He smiles back. "Thanks, Sarah, you've been great. I really don't deserve you."

She flashes him a quick, knowing look. "I know it's not been easy over the last few years, but I hope things will calm down for you now?"

He hesitates. "I don't know that I can guarantee that, but I'll do my best."

She sighs, but her eyes sparkle with her usual good humour. "To be honest, I didn't think you would. It was just a hope, really… Actually, John, I wanted to talk about your hours. I know you wanted to reduce them for a while, but is there any chance I could convince you to go full time again?" She gives him a hopeful look. "Only Brett's decided to go back to Australia, which means we're a doctor down again, and you know how much the old dears love you; they're always going on about Dr Watson…"

And so he agrees to go back to his old job.

And still, he waits.

He stands in front of another freshly dug grave, with a bunch of yellow roses in his hand. Mycroft stands a short distance away, silent and watchful.

The gravestone is rather beautiful. Understated, no ostentation about it and the location is lovely, right on the edge of the cemetery. John looks up through the branches waving gently in the summer breeze to the blue sky beyond, and savours the peace.

The stone contains just her name: Rebecca Ann Reynolds, and her dates of birth and death. And finally the words:

This is moral perfection: to live each day as though it were the last; to be tranquil, sincere, yet not indifferent to one's fate.

He's never heard the words before and he doesn't think that they're from the bible. They're not words he would necessarily have thought of in connection with the young homeless woman, and yet… in some strange way, they seem right. He wonders who chose them – Mycroft? Sherlock, perhaps, since he knew her better?

He carefully places the roses on the earth in front of her gravestone and steps back again. Mycroft puts his hand on John's shoulder for a moment before turning to walk away quietly.

June gives way to July…and July to August… And still, he waits.

"Yeah, it's not so bad here, actually," Lestrade admits, taking his ease in an armchair in the Holmes' manor's well-appointed library. He's looking years younger; the lines of strain around his eyes have eased and he's tanned and relaxed from hours spent out of doors that haven't involved gory crime scenes.

John smiles and gulps his tea. He's enjoyed his visit. Yes, there is a brook to paddle in, just as he suspected, and woods to get lost in, and a library full of fascinating old books, and a dusty old attic with boxes full to the brim with curious objects. There's even a laboratory, which quite obviously hasn't been used for years.

And, yes, there have been photographs of a skinny little oddball of a boy with wild, black curls. One shows him at about age five, up to his knees in that brook, grinning at the camera. In another, he's a sulky eight-year-old dressed in a deeply embarrassing sailor's suit at a wedding – an image that John just has to get a copy of, for blackmail purposes if nothing else. And there's also a photograph of the two brothers. Sherlock looks to be about ten and is standing in front of a gangly teenage Mycroft, who has his hands on his brother's shoulders. Both boys look rather solemn, but the big surprise to John is that Sherlock is leaning into his brother in a touchingly trusting manner.

John returns this photograph to the shelf, thoughtfully. One of these days, when Sherlock returns, he'll ask him about his relationship with Mycroft – and why it changed so dramatically.

He leaves the manor, pleased to see Lestrade looking much happier than he has in all the time John has known the DI. His divorce proceedings are underway and he's found a flat to move into when he's well enough to return to work.

John takes a deep breath of fresh Sussex air and takes a last wistful look at the beauty and tranquillity around him, before returning to the pollution and grime of London...and promises himself that one day – one day – he'll come back.

Summer turns into autumn. And still, he waits.

It's a rainy Tuesday night in late October, and John has just got in from work when the announcement comes. He's just turned on the kettle and has switched on the TV to flick through the channels while he waits for it to boil. He turns to BBC News24… and there it is.

Along the bottom of the screen, the words: Sherlock Holmes Alive - Detective's Name is Cleared – Rich Brook Never Existed – Statement Expected Shortly.

He sinks into his chair and stares at the TV, his tea forgotten.

There's a statement given by some self-important civil servant that he's never heard of before. Mr Holmes has been working undercover for three years…vital government work…faked suicide necessary…master criminal James Moriarty dead…his empire dismantled…the Queen and the Prime Minister grateful to Mr Holmes for his role in ensuring the safety and security of the nation…MBE to be awarded…

And a photograph of Sherlock – his hair properly cut and restored to its usual colour, wearing a dark designer suit with no tie, the collar of his silk shirt undone, looking every inch the heroic, broodingly attractive international spy. Daniel Craig had better take note.

And still, he waits.

"Can you bloody well believe it?"

Greg Lestrade is now back at work, currently gulping down his herbal tea with a wince at the taste. John grimaces in empathy. It's Sally Donovan's latest attempt to improve her former boss's health – no more doughnuts or late-night takeaways from dodgy vans, and definitely no more strong coffee. Greg might be looking leaner, but he's also looking meaner, particularly when John smirks and sips the expresso that he made sure he brought with him.

Actually, despite the glare being directed at him and the occasional muttered comment about 'rabbit food', John suspects that the DI doesn't actually mind Sally fussing around him… after all, he's stuck to the diet despite temptations. At first, it looked as if Sally had been trying to charm her way back into Greg's team, but John is starting to suspect that she has other motives in mind. He's spotted them leaving work together and Sally looked much happier on that occasion than she used to. John wonders with some amusement what Anderson makes of this latest development – it might just be worth showing up at a crime scene to find out.

"Typical of bloody Sherlock, even dead, he doesn't stay buried," Greg mutters. "What I want to know is how the hell he did it."

You and me both, John thinks, but he says nothing, and Greg gives him a suspicious look.

"You sure you don't know?"

John is grateful to be able to look the DI in the eye and answer, perfectly honestly, that he has absolutely no idea.

Greg sighs heavily. "Yeah, well, when you catch up with him, you just send him in my direction. He owes me an explanation." He sounds grumpy, but John can detect the hurt beneath the bluster. "I mean, he could've told us, couldn't he – you and me? He could've found a way. Makes you wonder if he even gives a shit about our feelings, doesn't it?"

John sobers at these words. Sherlock's going to face a fair few challenges when he gets back. It won't be that easy for him – the detective has never found it easy to discuss emotional matters, but he's going to have to try, if he wants Greg Lestrade to ever speak to him again.

Will he even want to try? In John's experience, Sherlock will ignore any personal conflict until it goes away - or, more usually, until John gives up being angry with him. He has a similar relationship with Lestrade. Will the detective just sweep back into 221B as if he's never been away? Will he just turn up at a crime scene and dare Greg to order him to leave? Or will he have actually learnt anything about human relationships during his time away?

John has a sudden vision of Sherlock striding into the flat, lying back on the sofa and ordering John to hand over his mobile or laptop, in his usual peremptory manner… and he feels an uneasy chill going down his spine.

And still, he waits.

"Oh, John, isn't it wonderful!" Mrs Hudson cries, as she hurries up the stairs as fast as her hip will let her. She's returned early from a stay with her sister after hearing the news.

John smiles and returns her enthusiastic hug.

"I always knew he couldn't be dead; that's why I couldn't bring myself to clear all his things away. And of course you never believed it either – of course you didn't! To think – my Sherlock, working undercover as a government spy – how exciting! Just like James Bond – but much more handsome, of course. And his brother knew all along. And that's why he kept paying Sherlock's rent. Well, I must go and see Mrs Turner – she'll be so glad to hear that he's coming back -."

John sighs as she bustles out. Dear, ever loyal, Mrs H., the closest Sherlock has ever had to a real mother. Will everyone be able to welcome Sherlock back with such generous, open arms?

It can't be denied that, for some people, Sherlock's absence has been an advantage.

And still, he waits.

"So how do you feel about it?" Sarah asks him over their lunchtime sandwich in the staff room. "After all, he fooled you too – it must be difficult to accept that?"

John smiles at her over his mug of tea.

Sarah narrows her eyes at him. "You knew… didn't you? All this time… God, John, how did you manage to keep quiet for so long?"

He can't answer that, since he hardly understands it himself.

It feels odd to be able to talk of Sherlock as alive after such a long period of schooling himself to use the past tense in relation to the detective - 'was' instead of 'is' and 'did' instead of 'does'. Even now, when he wakes up in the morning, he has to remind himself that there's no longer any need for subterfuge.

He feels a little redundant. For a start, there's no need to defend his friend against the slurs any more. In fact, everyone – his colleagues, friends, the Yarders, even Sally Donovan – seems hell-bent on assuring him that they never really believed the Kitty Riley story; that Sherlock was clearly real; that it will be wonderful to have him back.

There's no longer the compulsion to go out late at night to decorate the streets. Ironically, it's become something of a cult. There's some group on Tumblr – a bunch of fans who have declared that they 'always' believed he was real – who have apparently been going out painting the message wherever there's a free wall. In fact, it's become something of a public nuisance. John can't help thinking, rather cynically, that there was no visible sign of their devotion to Sherlock Holmes prior to the publication of that rather attractive photograph…and it's interesting to note that the membership appears to be exclusively female. Judging by the photos on their site, they have a propensity for wearing deerstalkers, short skirts and ridiculously tight t-shirts with the legend 'Holmes Babes' printed across them.

The press is becoming a serious nuisance. He hates having to ask favours of Mycroft, but it's becoming impossible to leave Baker Street even just to walk to the shops or the Tube. Every time he steps out of his front door, he's surrounded by journalists shoving microphones in his face and blinding him with camera flashes. The questions are endless: When did you find out? Did you always know? How did you keep quiet all this time? Do you feel guilty about that? Have you seen him recently? When will you see him again? Will he be coming back to Baker Street? Even, much to his surprise, Are you shagging him?

And so on. In the end, he gives up trying to be independent and sinks with gratitude into the back seat of the black limo that is invariably waiting for him at the kerb.

And still, he waits.

"Well, I'm just glad it's over," exclaims Molly over a Friday night pint that has become a regular event for them. "Not that there's any attention focused on me, of course. It must be hard for you, John – all those papers contacting you, trying to get an interview. Trying to find out how much you knew. Even your blog – my God, some of the comments. You won't talk to any of the papers, will you?"

There's a note of anxiety in her voice. As the pathologist who carried out the post-mortem and declared Sherlock Holmes to be dead, she's in an awkward position. Mycroft has, of course, smoothed things over with her employers, explaining that she has been 'assisting the government' with Sherlock's undercover operation. Despite that, she could do without any media attention.

John gives her a reassuring smile and sips his pint, frowning a little. Despite Molly's words, he can't help wondering whether it really is over - if it'll ever be over. After all, there'll always be another James Moriarty, another Sebastian Moran. Sherlock will be off again, getting himself into danger, disappearing with warning. And for how much longer will John want to carry on running after him?

And still, he waits.

It's a freezing cold November evening and, somehow, the central heating doesn't appear to be enough to counter the chill in the air. John crouches in front of the fireplace, trying to coax the small blaze into greater life with some screwed up pieces of newspaper. Mrs Hudson is at the bingo, and the flat is silent but for the sound of crackling flames.

It's been two weeks since Sherlock's 'return', but John has had no contact with him. He hasn't texted, phoned or even written. There was one brief television interview a week ago, which had obviously been organised by Mycroft, in which a smartly-dressed Sherlock succeeded in looking simultaneously heroic and bored to death, and answered every carefully-managed question in a manner that was just short of insulting.

Since then, the media has gone quiet. Not only are there no further reports on Sherlock, but John's phone and blog page have gone blessedly quiet. The gaggle of photographers outside 221B, lurking there day and night in the hope of catching the touching reunion between the detective and his blogger, have finally given up. After the initial flurry of interest, it's as if Sherlock's return has never happened.

The flames are higher now. John holds his hands up to the warmth and looks around the room. 221B Baker Street is dimly-lit and cosy in the firelight. The skull has been polished up to a high gleam, and the teetering piles of paper – Sherlock's research notes – have been carefully stacked on the dining room table. The armchairs – his and Sherlock's – have been pulled up close to the fire.

His eyes go to the coffee table. There's a freshly-made pot of tea there and two mugs, two plates and some cutlery, along with a sealed bag of takeaway Chinese food – John's nose twitches at the hot, enticing aroma.

The door to the flat is propped open and John is listening intently, even as he looks around at his home with some satisfaction.

His home. Funny that when he was younger, he'd always assumed that he'd be married with a couple of kids by the age of forty, living somewhere in the suburbs, with his own practice, or maybe working as a surgeon. Somehow, whenever he visualised home, he didn't expect it to be an old-fashioned dark flat in central London, with dodgy heating, shabby armchairs, assorted cushions, scattered books and papers and science equipment covering every possible surface, shabby wallpaper with a smiley face picked out in bullet holes, a dagger in the wall and a skull on the mantelpiece. He hadn't anticipated this…but then he hadn't anticipated Sherlock. And this is his home – their home. It might not always be home; maybe he'll marry one day, maybe he'll finally retire to that little house he can picture in the fresh air of the Sussex countryside… but for now, it's fine.

It's all fine.

At last he hears the sound he had been waiting for. Footsteps outside Baker Street and the sound of a key turning in the lock.

John smiles as he takes the steps, two at a time, bad leg forgotten. He's downstairs quick enough to open the door.

Sherlock looks up, his eyes glittering in the pale street lights, like a cat's.

John grins. "Well, you took bloody long enough to get home."

The End