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Chapter Text

He was not in the mood for surprises, but he could tell his dear older brother had one.

Wonderful.

They had made it to a safe house in Hungary, driving nearly all night to get to Mongolia from Lake Baikal and then flying nearly immediately upon their arrival to Budapest, and all he wanted to do was sleep. Mycroft had stayed nearly silent the entire trip, and he had tried to sleep, but he knew his brother was simply waiting and that had made him wary of succumbing to his exhaustion. Mycroft was probably quite miffed about the fact he had to leave the comfort of his home in London to come rescue him. Not that he’d had to, to be quite honest; he’d had it all handled quite well.

So maybe Mycroft hadn’t come to rescue him. Perhaps he had another motive. And if it was something he hadn’t bothered to mention during their five thousand kilometer trip it was probably something he wanted to drop on him like a bombshell, just for the sheer pleasure of watching whatever emotions crossed his face at the news.

Well, he wasn’t going to give his brother the satisfaction.

Someone had prepared food for them, he realized as they stepped inside. He could smell goulash, for a start. Potato and egg casserole as well. Perhaps stuffed cabbage rolls? And fresh bread as well. He felt his stomach grumble at the assault of delicious smells. It had been a long time since he had eaten well; having been running around the wastelands of Serbia having to scrounge for what he could to supplement what few supplies he’d managed to bring with him when he’d left Khazakhstan at that time of year had meant lean meals. He would have to try very hard not to stuff his face.

He saw Mycroft’s PA standing near the stove, checking a pot. “Just in time,” she said. “The goulash is ready, and the rest can come out of the oven shortly. But I think a bowl each should be a good starter.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said with a nod. He had rid himself of the garish hat long before they left Serbia but kept the coat. With as much as it cost he had expected nothing less. At least he had gotten him out of the rags he had been in. Not in clothing remotely close to the quality he had been used to but it was a step up from what he had been wearing. She gestured to the table near the stove and the two of them sat down, and after a moment she brought them each a bowl of the stew and a spoon. Sherlock gripped the spoon tightly and then slowly spooned himself a spoonful of the goulash before taking a bite. It was quite excellent.

“Do you want bread?” Anthea asked him. He nodded, and she went to the counter and used a knife to cut him a thick slice, then another. She took the bread and put the slices on a plate, then took that and a small plate of butter with a knife on it to the table and set it in front of Sherlock. He picked up the knife and put some butter on the bread before dipping it into the goulash and taking a bite.

Mycroft waited until he was about to swallow before he spoke to him. “Your ex-wife is in London.”

Sherlock nearly choked on his food. Of all the things he had expected his brother to say, that had certainly not been among them. He had tried to find her for years, but she had hidden herself well. It was as though she was more ghost than person, to be quite honest. And just like a ghost she haunted his mind, usually never being far from his thoughts. To the world at large he had no prior relationships to speak of, and certainly no ex-wife. When asked about why he wore a wedding band, he said it was his grandfather’s, a lie that slipped out easily. Only one man, only John, knew the truth. But Elizabeth Christine Fisher had been…enthralling, for lack of a better term. She had been everything he ever could have wanted, everything he ever could have needed.

And he had let her slip away.

No.

He had let the man sitting in front of him rip her away from him. He needed to remember that.

He did his best to recover and keep a neutural expression. “The CIA let her off their tight leash?” he asked, tearing off more bread to dip into his goulash.

“Quite a few years ago, apparently,” he said.

“Did you know?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“No, I did not,” he said. “She’s been back on British soil since roughly 2009, when a certain consulting criminal put word out that he needed the best of the best for a project.” He had another bite of his goulash. “She was more than willing to throw her lot with him until a certain night at a certain pool, when she stared down the sight of a gun and who did she see but her ex-husband? That was when she realized that James Moriarty had plans to go after you and she wanted nothing to do with them, and so she began to play her own game.”

Sherlock scoffed silently. “And just what was that?”

“She kept her ears open and fed information to the right people when she could to keep you safe,” he said quietly. “Passed it on to my handlers anonymously. After your apparent death, she began to speak to me directly. She’s been quite…useful.”

Sherlock looked down at his bowl and said nothing. He didn’t believe that Elizabeth cared. Not after the way things ended. Not after what he had done when she had been driven off. Not after what she had done. She had to hate him, hate the very sight of him. “And I suppose you’re telling me she played personal bodyguard to the people I left behind in London?” he asked.

“She goes by Mary Morstan now, she works at John’s surgery as a nurse, and she’s insinuated herself in his life and the lives of the others in your circle of…goldfish,” he said.

Sherlock scowled slightly at Mycroft’s term for his friends. “Don’t tell me she’s made a pass at John. Or that he’s made a pass at her.”

“I’ve informed her it’s quite unnecessary,” he said. “She has, however, been the sole reason he’s chosen to stay at Baker Street. She convinced him to with her as his flat mate. He does not know the truth yet, but I imagine he will shortly after your return. I doubt this is a secret you can, or should, keep for long.”

“No, I don’t imagine we should,” he murmured. He waited for his brother to say more, but Mycroft began to concentrate on his food and he bit back a sigh. He knew he would get no more from his brother on any topic relating to why he was pulled out of his mission or what Elizabeth was up to until he was ready. But either way, he was now looking at his return to London with a slight sense of dread. He had the sinking suspicion that the reunions he was going to have with friends and his former wife were not going to go well at all.

If he was lucky, maybe he’d get through them without getting hit.

Chapter Text

He had to suspect Anthea had picked out the suit waiting for him at Mycroft’s home. Not black, but a steel grey, tinged with a slight blueish hue in the right light. Not quite “surprise, I’m back from the dead” but also not quite “please be mourning for my death still,” either.

Also, the fabric would mop away blood rather easily, he was sure of that. He was also fairly sure either his best friend or his ex-wife was going to hit with the intent to cause damage.

Maybe a black suit would have been better, but there was no help for it now.

He almost wanted to see Molly at Barts first, but that was the coward's way. Molly knew he was alive, having been part of the plan to fake his death. Whether Mycroft had kept her updated or not he didn’t do but he was fairly sure if he’d died Mycroft would have had the decency to inform her, so she had to know he was still alive somewhere in the world, which was more than John. Lestrade might be an option as well, because...well, because he probably wouldn’t receive a fist in the face for that homecoming, but no.

John and Elizabeth it was.

Scratch that. John and Mary.

He was going to stumble over that new name so much, he knew it. He was going to remember rambling conversations over cheap wine and crap low tar cigarettes where they had thoughts on whether they were alone in the universe, whether there really was a God, if there was such a thing as immaculate conception and he’d decided to show her what the Virgin Mary had been missing while she screamed his name at the top of her lungs when she came.

Come to think of it, maybe he’d just smirk every time he called her Mary, if she didn’t sock him in the face for it.

University had been a time where he’d hated everyone and everything but it had been his first real taste of freedom away from Mycroft and his parents and his Uncle Rudy, away from the miasma of something that hung over his family like a dense shroud they couldn’t shake. The air was clearer when he wasn’t filling it with cigarette smoke and the haze of drugs. And he wanted to just lose himself in his world of books and say fuck all to the teachers. But Elizabeth...she’d caught his eye from day one, and try as he might to stop her, she wormed his way under his skin. He managed to stop the heavy drugs, sticking with the occasional hit of LSD and joints here and there, but mostly just having cheap wine and candy flavored vodka shots that Elizabeth would make in the flat they shared after their first year.

The marriage was impulsive but it felt right. He told no one, and even his brother in the government had no clue for years because he stayed away from all of them. Said fuck off to his family and his life was school and Elizabeth and the occasional case when he could get someone to believe he knew what the bloody hell he was doing. The cases were better than school, but having Elizabeth by his side was what made it all work. Having a partner made it all worth it. They worked well together, thinking in sync. It was like they were two halves that fit.

And then Uncle Rudy died and the whole thing fell apart.

He came home to the flat and found is brother there with a sheaf of papers. Divorce papers. Said he wouldn’t get his share of the inheritance unless he signed them. Mycroft said not to worry, the amount of money he’d be getting would be more than enough to make him forget some university fling. It wouldn’t be hard to talk Elizabeth into it. There were people who had their eyes on her anyway.

He refused. It wasn’t like when they were children, when Mycroft was bigger in all the ways that mattered. Mycroft left the flat that evening with a broken jaw and Sherlock had bruised and bloodied knuckles and the divorce papers had blood on them. He was in the washroom cleaning up when Elizabeth came home and saw them. When he came out he could see something had changed in her eyes, and even when he explained it was all Mycroft’s fault, somehow she didn’t seem to believe him.

A week later he came back from class and there was her loopy signature on the papers and her things were gone.

That was the first time he’d overdosed since he was a teenager. He should have known his brother had taken the time to bug the flat when he woke up in the hospital.

He didn’t care, though. He refused rehab, went back to the flat and got the few things he cared about, moved out, finished the term and left for London as soon as he’d graduated, reinventing himself into Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. The man who didn’t need anyone, because that was safer.

Of course, eventually, he gained friends. They started as colleagues...Lestrade and Molly, obviously. Mrs. Hudson started as a client. John was the first to be a friend. But in the end, they were all friends. He would die for any of them, kill for them if need be. The man he had been when he had been with Elizabeth had slowly come back, in some varied form. But now Elizabeth herself was here, and he wondered what type of man she was expecting: the young man she had loved? The high-functioning sociopath she had heard so much about? Something in between?

As Anthea slipped the new Belstaff on his shoulders and he adjusted it, finally feeling as close to his old self as he was able to, he knew the only way he would be able to tell would be to go back to Baker Street and take care of that reunion first...no matter how much he dreaded it.

Chapter Text

He had the entire car ride to Baker Street to figure out what to say to whoever happened to be in the residence. That, of course, he wasn’t sure of; he knew his brother had the placed bugged to the hilt but he’d smugly denied him the names of who might be there when he arrived. If Mrs. Hudson went into cardiac arrest and couldn’t be revived because Mycroft had to be a smug git his older brother might soon find himself following her to the great beyond, of that Sherlock was quite sure.

Though, if Elizabeth had somehow managed to have the truth of it all gleaned from her, and he had the feeling she had to know the truth to have picked his friends to keep safe, what with her background in the CIA, he imagined him showing up on the doorstep wouldn’t be quite the shock he’d initially thought it would be.

His mind drifted back to the long ago conversation during his university days. Mycroft had said people had had their eye on her, and she had ended up in the CIA. He had only known that much and only gleaned it recently through sheer coincidence. He’d rather hoped when he brought it up to his brother it might have given Mycroft just a moment of shock but no, apparently his brother had known he’d found out. But he wondered what all there was to the story. One did not simply leave the CIA to galavant to England and set up a whole new life to babysit their ex-husband’s friends and colleagues, for lack of a better term, even if the threat was a world-renowned criminal mastermind who’d been manipulating him since they were children.

There had to be more to the story, and he was going to find the whole bloody thing out. They were going to be honest with each other.

As he had been with her.

As she should have been with him.

As that thought filled his head the car pulled to a stop and even in the dusky evening he could see the outline of the familiar blue door to his home and hear the sounds coming from Speedy’s. Even though much had changed over the years, some things never did, apparently. He opened the door to the car and as he looked up at the door to 221 Baker Street it opened and standing in the doorway was one person who looked so very familiar with small changes and one who looked so very different but achingly the same.

“The mustache is not very becoming, John,” he said, shutting the car door behind him without turning away from his best mate or his ex-wife. “The wardrobe changes are a vast improvement, though.”

“Your ex-wife has good taste,” John said with a small grin.

“She did agree to marry me,” he said in response.

John’s grin widened and he came out of the doorway, enveloping Sherlock in a warm hug. “I should beat the shite out of you,” he said.

Sherlock, taken aback for a moment, hugged him back. “You should, but you won’t.”

“Nah, I won’t,” he replied. He pulled back and gave Sherlock a more critical look, frowning. “Looks like someone else beat me to it.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, glad there were only a few signs of the beating and torture he took before his brother intervened above his neckline. He was not sure he wanted anyone to see the condition of his chest and back anytime soon, though he knew those wounds would need tending he would need help with. “Unfortunately.” He let go of John completely and moved towards the woman he had not seen in so long. Her hair was much shorter than it had been since he had last seen her, bleached blonde and clipped away from her face with barrettes. He knew his fingers were going to ache from not being able to run them through her brunette curls. “I suppose I should call you Mary now.”

“It would be best,” she said, giving him a smile. “It’s been a long while, William.”

“Sherlock,” he corrected.

“I see,” she said, her smile dimming. “Well, I suppose it’s fair. If I’m to be Mary I can’t call you William.” She pulled her shoulder away from the doorjamb. “We weren’t sure when your git of a brother would let you go but there’s takeaway. You’re still a fan of kung pow chicken and shrimp wontons, right?”

Sherlock nodded. It was strange that even after all this time, she still knew parts of him so well. “Yes.”

“Good. I’m glad there are still some things I know about you.” She tilted her head towards the inside. “Come on then. I imagine there’s a lot to talk about.” She headed inside then, leaving Sherlock and John alone for a moment.

“Are you alright with her being here?” John asked.

“I’ll manage,” Sherlock said. He nodded inside. “Best not to keep her waiting.” The two men headed inside and Sherlock shut the door behind him, wondering if he was ready for this after all.

Chapter Text

The first meal together was no more awkward than he had expected it to be; when they weren’t eating they were catching each other up on what had happened in their lives in the two years of his absence. Mrs. Hudson wasn't at Baker Street at the moment, but Mary and John had more than enough to keep him updated with what happened to the two of them in the last two years. No more than that, though, he noticed; though Elizabeth seemed to know a great deal of what he and John had gone through from their first meeting, John said nothing about what she had gone through during that time that she had told him and she offered up no information herself. It seemed as if it was a topic that was being ignored for the moment.

The awkwardness came when they ran out of things to talk about and the silent periods became longer. After the third time, Sherlock bid the two of them a good night, heading to his bedroom. He was pleased to see nothing had changed, that it had been kept well tidied and dusted. When he was done re-familiarizing himself with his things, he went to his desk and the violin case that sat on top of it, fingering the case lightly. He had the urge to play, but it was not a strong urge and could be ignored for the time being for some time in his mind palace. He needed to think.

He sat on his floor, his back against the foot of the bed, and attempted to go into his mind palace. It had been harder to do as time had worn on during his time away; he hadn’t been sure why that was but he hoped being home would make it easier to return there. Instead, he found his mind drifting as his breathing slowed, and memories coming to him, memories he didn’t often think about.

He was fiddling with his wedding ring again. He wondered why he didn’t just take the blasted thing off; it always got him questions from women who didn’t matter to him, who pestered him about his marital status. Like he would ever cheat--

He wasn’t married. It wouldn’t be cheating.

Still, to him, it would be. Not that it would matter to her, because she had left him, but he would be with no other woman. Just her. He only wanted one wife, Elizabeth. No one else.

“Your father’s ring?”

John’s voice jolted him out of his thoughts. “No,” he said. “Mine.” He glanced over at John and saw the look of shock on his face. It was to be expected. Who expected Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective-slash-human robot, to have ever been in love? To have ever found a woman who would deign to marry him? “She left. Years ago.”

“You didn’t want her to,” John said.

John may be blind to some things, but to others, he was quite astute. He shook his head. “She was made to.”

“And you want to find her?” he asked.

He thought about the file he kept hidden, the very slim file where he kept any potential mention of Elizabeth. It was a pipe dream, really, to find her again. To see if...well, if there was anything left of what they'd had, if there was any way to fix what Mycroft had ruined. If they were even the same people.

If they had ever been those people to begin with.

“Yes,” he said very quietly, suddenly wanting to end this conversation. He slammed his hands down on the arms of the chair and then pushed himself up out f it. “Let’s go to the Yard and see if Lestrade has something for us. I need a case. I need something to help me not dwell on the past.”

And it was never brought up again.

His eyes snapped open and he tilted his head back onto the bed. He had forgotten he had been vulnerable like that to John before, had shared that about his past. He was sure Elizabeth had used that to her advantage, and Mycroft probably had as well if he had wanted information from her handlers and they had wanted information from him. It was all a secrets game, and perhaps it always had been. He deserved answers, but he had the feeling tonight was not when he would get them.

But soon, eventually, if they were not willingly given to him, he would begin demanding them.

Chapter Text

It seemed for the first time in ages Sherlock slept soundly. There was no half-awake awareness to his sleep. It was deep and restful in a way it had not been for years, even after Mycroft had rescued him in Serbia and taken him to safety. There was something about being in his own home, being in his own bed, that made him feel truly safe.

When he finally awoke, there was light streaming into the windows, and the clock on his nightstand said it was nearly noon. He had gone to sleep relatively early for him, at half past seven, so he had ended up sleeping for over sixteen hours. But he felt refreshed and rested, both things he had not felt in a long time.

He found his favourite dressing gown was on the back of the door and he slipped it on over the nightclothes he had worn. He had thought he would be in the flat by himself but he was surprised to hear the telly on and a burst of feminine laughter coming from the sitting room. He made his way out there and saw Elizabeth in his favourite chair, her feet tucked under her with a mug of something cradled in her hands. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said with a smile.

He grunted slightly and went to see if there as coffee. There was, and it was, surprisingly, still hot. “Where’s John?” he asked.

“At the surgery. It’s my day off so I volunteered to stay here and wait for Sleeping Beauty to wake up,” she said teasingly.

He looked at her from the kitchen, raising an eyebrow. “You actually do work there? It’s not just a cover?”

“I’m actually a nurse,” she said with a nod, rearranging her position to face him. “I’d studied to be one when I was in the CIA for a long term op and I rather liked it, so when I got out I got the proper schooling and made it my career.”

He nodded and then started to set up his coffee. Perhaps he would get his answers sooner than he had anticipated. “What did you do in the CIA?” he asked.

“I was an assassin,” she said simply.

His hand jerked as he poured the coffee. He knew she had agreed to help Moriarty at the pool and changed her mind, but to hear her say she was an assassin so nonchalantly was jarring. “What?” he said, turning to face her.

“I killed people, Sherlock,” she said. “Bad people. The type of people who can destroy countries and endanger the lives of millions or billions of people. And occasionally a few corrupt politicians or people who consider themselves outside the law.” She had a sip of her drink. “I was also a spy if that helps you swallow this down a bit better. I mean, that’s where the Intelligence part of Central Intelligence Agency comes in.”

“I thought the CIA didn’t kill people,” he said, regaining his composure.

“Officially,” she replied, stretching her feet onto the floor and then standing up. “Have you ever heard of a movie called ‘RED,’ Sherlock? RED stands for ‘Retired, Extremely Dangerous.’ There are not many CIA agents who do what I did who are alive long enough in reality to get RED status.” She took another sip of her coffee as she walked towards him. “I have it.”

He nodded. It appeared Elizabeth had changed quite a bit over the years. He wondered how much of the woman he had loved was left. “Why are you here?”

“A variety of reasons,” she said. “A, the CIA didn’t think you were dead, they knew my past history with you and they wanted intelligence. My ‘one last job’ that I was blackmailed into was supposed to be wooing John to find out what he knew. Then B, I realized John and your brother were on decent terms and I reached out to your brother and told him I’d been feeding him information on Moriarty for years, and he said he could provide me with everything my handlers would ever need to know if I left John out of the mess because he didn’t want your friends hurting anymore, which led to C, joint manuevs between the CIA and the British government for me to take up residence at Baker Street and integrate myself into their lives to keep your friends safe. That’s been my mission the last few years.”

“And I suppose now that I’m back you’ll just float away again,” he said, bitterness creeping into his tone.

“That was my ‘one last job,’ William,” Elizabeth said defensively. “Last job. I don’t answer to the CIA anymore. My life is my life now.”

“Sherlock,” he said.

She shook her head. “You were never this much of an arse when we were married,” she replied, putting her coffee mug on the counter with some force.

“Well, you didn’t give our marriage a chance!” he said, raising his voice.

“You had divorce papers waiting for me when I got home!” she yelled.

“That was my brother’s doing!” he yelled back. “I’d already told him to shove the inheritance up his arse but you didn’t believe me!”

“How did I know it wasn’t a mistake? That you wouldn’t change your mind later?” she said.

Sherlock closed the gap between them, pulling Elizabeth against him and bending down, pressing his lips against hers. He was never one to do anything like this in any other circumstance, really. He nearly always kept his cool and never let his passions get the best of him except around her. When he was around her she just brought this side of him out. But after a moment she was wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him back like the years hadn’t gone by and it was the two of them in their dingy flat in university and there wasn’t all this baggage between them.

And then they had to pull apart, to catch their breaths, and he pressed his forehead against hers, his eyes shut but his grip tight. “It’s been years, Elizabeth, and I still want to snog you like that every chance I get,” he said.

She undid her arms from around his neck and then framed his face. “Everything is different now, though,” she said. “We aren’t who we were in uni.”

“We’ll sort it out later,” he replied. “Just promise you’ll stay this time.” She didn’t speak, simply nodding her head against his before kissing him this time, and he knew that there would need to be more conversations later, but for now, this was more than enough.

Chapter Text

It was a few hours later when Sherlock woke up in his bed once again, though this time he knew he wasn’t alone. She was next to him, a sheet wrapped around her with an enticing amount of skin on her back shown off to anyone who might come in. She was where she belonged, as far as he was concerned. Where he’d wanted her again for years now.

If she would stay...that was another matter.

Her head was on his chest and he let his fingers tease the bare skin on her back. There were definitely conversations that would need to be had because the point she had made before the transition from the kitchen to his bedroom still stood: they were not the people they had been in university. Life had changed them in ways, at least for him, that had been harsh. He didn’t know how it had been for her. Time and talking would tell that, and he was not always a talkative or patient man these days. But he would make an effort for her if she would make an effort for him.

She began to stir and then her eyes blinked open and she lifted her head up, setting her chin on his chest to look at him. “You always were quite persuasive, William.”

“You always knew I was a good shag, Elizabeth,” he said with a smirk.

She grinned at that. “Definitely ranked high up there,” she said.

He gave her a mock insulted look. “I have competition?”

“Not much,” she said, lifting herself up more to let her lips hover over his. “And I’m sure you’ll do your best to make me forget all about them.”

“I will do more than my best,” he said before grasping the back of her head and pulling her in for another kiss. Things were beginning to get quite interesting when there was a knock at the door and she pulled away, looking at the door in annoyance that matched the tone of his voice when he spoke. “What?”

“Mr. Holmes wishes to speak to you,” a deep-voiced male said on the other side.

“He’s reuniting with his ex-wife,” Elizabeth said. “Tell him to come back in...” She turned to look at Sherlock. “Two hours.”

“You’re ambitious,” Sherlock said.

“Shag and shower,” Elizabeth replied.

“It’s urgent,” the man said with some irritation.

“So is this,” Elizabeth said in response. “And Mycroft Holmes owes me. Personally.”

There was a long pause. “He’ll return in an hour,” the man on the other side of the door said, and then there was silence.

“You know, I think there can be definite perks to having you in the same residence again,” Sherlock said, letting his fingers drift up to the base of her neck and teasing the short hair at her neck, where it felt as though an electric razor had been taken to it.

“I’m still miffed at Mycroft,” she said. “I...”

Sherlock shook his head. “We can talk about it all later. We’ll figure it out.”

“I am sorry, though,” she said. “I should have trusted you knew your heart better than he did.”

“We were young and impressionable. And now we’re...older.”

She laughed, sounding more like an indignant snort than anything else. “Good thing you didn’t say we were old. It hasn’t been that long.”

“It’s been long enough.” He looked at her, studying the newer harsh angles of her face. The softness that had been there so long ago was replaced by a leanness. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time, you know.”

“I know,” she said softly, ducking her head to press a kiss to his chest. “I never stopped keeping track of you, from the shadows.”

He nodded and when she lifted her head up again he cradled the back of her head, sinking his fingers into her hair. She took the hint and moved closer to him, eventually kissing him with a tenderness only she had shown. He knew that they were going to have to have conversations, and many of them over long periods of time, but for now he could sink into the kiss and spend the next hour pretending that everything was as perfect as it had been so long ago, and when the real world intruded again…

Well, he’d deal with it then, but this time, with Elizabeth by his side.

Chapter Text

They skipped the shower and were dressed by the time Mycroft arrived, looking rather annoyed. Sherlock didn’t really care, though; he was floating on a high that surpassed even his best high while on drugs. And Elizabeth looked quite pleased as well, considering she hadn’t done much more than put on one of his old shirts. He’d tried on his favourite purple one but found it was too small now, and Elizabeth had laid claim to all the too small shirts in his possession. Not that he minded in the least, obviously.

Mycroft rolled his eyes at her clothing choices. “Reuniting. I should have assumed you would pick up where you left off.”

“And why wouldn’t we, Mycroft?” she said. “It wasn’t exactly our own choice to have the marriage terminated.”

“I had my reasons,” he said, looking away.

“And just what were those reasons?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock. “An intervention?”

“Was that the reason, or do you want one now?” he asked, finally getting his second cup of coffee sorted and taking a sip. “Because I was honestly on close to my best behaviour when I was married, as opposed to before and after.”

Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh. “Now, please.”

“Fine.” He went up to his ex-wife and pressed a kiss in her hair. “Behave.”

“Do I get a reward if I hold my tongue?” she asked, turning to look up at Sherlock with a cheeky smile.

“That can be arranged.” Her smile got wider but she didn’t reply, stealing Sherlock’s coffee and moving to the table that Mycroft was standing in front of and sitting down before taking a sip of his coffee. Apparently, it was not in the cards to have caffeine, but as he was still riding a rather natural high he could handle the lack of it. “Alright, brother dear. Why did you interrupt our reunion?”

“There are still loose ends to be tied up with the Moriarty situation,” he said. “Sebastian Moran is on the loose, and I have information he’s planning a strike of some sort against Her Majesty.”

Sherlock nodded. “Is this the reason I was rescued?”

“Partially. Elizabeth...Mary...has been doing the footwork on the problem, but it seems that there are other people at play who want to reassemble the empire you dismantled, or take matters into their own hands and build their own. The void left by Moriarty is still open and yet to be filled, so now is the best time to settle it once and for all.”

“Elizabeth can catch me up,” Sherlock said.

“In or out of bed?” Mycroft asked snidely.

“I don’t know,” Mary said, tilting her head. “Our mouths are rather occupied with other things when we’re in bed together.”

“Speaking of which, my bedroom is larger,” Sherlock said. “As is my bed.”

“Are you asking me to live with you again?” she asked, turning to look at Sherlock with a smile.

“Baby steps,” he said with a nod. “First cohabitation, then dates, then I can marry you again.”

“I think that sounds fair,” she said with a nod.

“We have more serious matters at hand,” Mycroft said, sounding irritated.

“To you,” Sherlock said, his tone taking on an acidic tinge. “You facilitated our reunion and then interrupted it. Deal with the consequences.”

Mycroft’s expression got even more steely and before he spewed out a retort Elizabeth held up her hand. “Mycroft, I will fill him in on the Moran situation. The rest can be dealt with later. Have you seen the wounds on your brother? He needs to rest at least another day and have them properly looked at. An infection is going to cause him to be out of commission even longer, you know.”

Mycroft looked slightly mollified. “Yes, I’ve seen them.”

“He watched some of them be inflicted,” Sherlock pointed out.

“It was my cover,” Mycroft said.

“Then give me time to tend to him,” Elizabeth said. “Two days at most. Then we’ll be at your service again. But remember, Mycroft...we are not your slaves. We consult for you. You do not own our time and you have no say on how we spend our time outside of these assignments we take.” She took another sip of her coffee. “I’m not going to let there be a repeat of our past. If things don’t work out a second time, it will be our own fault. And if you don’t like it, find other people to solve your problems.”

“Moran is--”

“Moriarty was made worse by his time in captivity under you,” she said, her voice steely. “I have my own contacts, Mycroft. I know what happened. I know what was said.” She had some more coffee. “I know Sherlock had knowledge of some of it, but if you meddle again, I’ll tell him everything.”

Mycroft seemed to pale at that and Sherlock watched them both. “Two days. Then resume work on tracking it down.” He turned and left in a huff, his footfall heavy as he went down the steps and the door was nearly slammed behind him.

“Elizabeth...” he said.

“I’ll tell you anyway,” she said. “He made the monster worse. He ruined...us. You deserve to know it all.” She had some more of her coffee and then set the mug down. “But not yet.”

Sherlock nodded, grasping her hand in his and bringing her knuckles to his lips. “But no more secrets?”

“Not important ones. Never again.” She pulled her hand away from him and cupped his cheek for a moment. “Let me take care of your back. Andrea does good work in a pinch, but I am a nurse.” He nodded and her hand fell away before they both stood. He had the feeling there may be a time when there were no secrets between them...he just didn’t know when.

Chapter Text

His back was properly tended to and he decided to wear a loose T-shirt which had always been a bit larger on him to make sure the bandages stayed covered. The disinfectant in the wounds hurt but not as bad as getting the wounds had, and he had the feeling he would have a new set of scars to add to the many he’d had before.

Not that many of them were so old Elizabeth knew about them. Mary. He would have to get used to calling her Mary, and as many times as she slipped, she was going to have to get used to calling him Sherlock. Though it was no real secret William was his first name, just an awkward explanation would be needed. If her real name slipped at the wrong time it could be disastrous.

“Do you really want me to stay in your room with you?” she asked, curling up on the sofa with him. He had finally gotten a cup of coffee to keep, and she had her own now. Her head was resting on his shoulder and he had an arm around hers, keeping her close.

“I would, but I understand if you’re hesitant. Just please don’t leave Baker Street.”

“I wasn’t planning on doing that,” she said. “I actually quite like it here. I just thought...well, there are still secrets between us. You don’t know everything I’ve done, the reason I was at the pool...”

“Then tell me,” he said.

She had a sip of her coffee and then settled in next to him. “I suppose I should start earlier than the pool. One of my last ops was to infiltrate Moriarty’s network. The British government wasn’t the only one with concerns. But I was told not to take Moriarty out, that her Majesty had plans for him. My target was, initially, Lord Moran.”

“You were going to assassinate a sitting member of Parliament?” he asked.

She nodded. “He’s Moriarty’s right-hand man. If anyone were to know the secrets it would be him. But then it got complicated. My cover was an ex-assassin, and when I trained my scope on him, there was a red light on me. Then I got a phone call from Moran. He said I had managed to sneak up on him and that was good work. Then he offered me a job and the op changed. I was to infiltrate the organization and learn what I could. The pool was when I started sending information to your brother. When I saw Moriarty was serious about killing you...”

He felt her shudder slightly. “Did you aim at me?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I took aim at John. I knew if it all went south and you did die, I was not about to have a hand in killing you. But to save the operation, it would be best if John died as well.”

“Does he know that?”

“He does,” she said as she nodded. “It makes sense to him, so he’s been forgiving. But I began to give top-level information to my handlers and to your brother. And then Moriarty...disappeared. And I know he wheedled your brother for information.”

“Well, I knew that as well,” he said with a frown. “Why would he not want you to tell me?”

“That wasn’t the bit he wanted me to keep secret. Allowing Moriarty to have fifteen minutes alone with your sister...that was what he wanted me to keep to myself. But as I said, no more lies. I know about Eurus, and now you do too.”

He was shocked at the information. How could he not know he had a sister? “How…?” he asked.

“From what I pieced together, there were a few attempts on your life when you were a child, a missing friend of yours, a fire...it was all your sister’s doing. Your Uncle Rudy sent her away, used his government position to imprison her. Mycroft stepped into his role when he died, and he was worried that if we stayed married, you might not be so...malleable.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Sherlock said, shutting his eyes to calm himself down.

“Don’t,” she said. “Not that I’m Mycroft’s biggest fan, but in his own way, he was trying to keep you safe. It backfired spectacularly, but still.” She leaned forward, setting her coffee on the table, and then cradled his face in her hands. He could still feel the warmth from the mug on her palms, and when he looked into her eyes he began to feel calmer. “I suppose he felt it was better to protect you than to protect us.”

He nodded just slightly. “But why don’t I remember her?”

“Conditioning, I suppose,” she said, letting her thumbs run along his cheekbones slightly. “It’s not impossible to nudge along the repression of memories if it’s already started, and I don’t imagine a young mind can truly comprehend horrific acts like what your sister put you through.” She leaned in and let her hands slide away until she was able to nestle against him again, the top of her head almost under his chin. She had a hand on his chest, over his heart, and as he wrapped her in his arms the comfort was palpable.

“I want to remember,” he said.

“I can help with that, but later,” she said. “For now, let’s take care of your physical wounds and take care of the problem with Moran. Then we can conquer the issue of your sister before she gets any ideas of picking up where Moriarty left off.”

He nodded before exhaling and opening his eyes. This had all gotten vastly more complicated, but she wasn’t going to leave Baker Street, at least. If he was going to go through repressed memories and a homicidal sister and betrayal by his brother, at least he wouldn’t need to go through it alone.

Chapter Text

That evening, John came back and he had a wide grin on his face when he walked in on the two of them together. “I owe Molly fifty quid.”

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Molly knew the truth that you weren’t dead, she talked to us,” Mary said. “We’re actually good friends. And Lestrade, too, though his security clearance wasn’t high enough to know the truth.”

“So I still need to see him,” Sherlock murmured. “But why do you owe Molly fifty quid?”

“Because she said the two of you would get back together within forty-eight hours of your return,” John said. He chuckled and sat down in his chair. “We should invite Molly over for supper tonight. She’s got a few surprises for you.”

“Oh?”

“She’s dating Lestrade,” Mary said with a grin. “She was dating this boring bloke who was a copy of you, according to John, but the guy wasn’t all he was cracked up to be. He had a bit of a problem with alcohol, and he got into an accident when Molly was the passenger. They both walked away from it, no one died, but Lestrade basically took care of Molly as she recovered from her broken bones and one thing led to another.”

“She’s also got the potential to be a step-mum to his daughter. It’s a role that suits her. I’ve never seen her happier,” John said. “Honestly, she’s glowing these days.”

“I saw her a few times while I was dead,” Sherlock said. “I could see that something had changed. I’m happy for her.”

“I think if Mycroft told Molly you were back, Lestrade knows by now too. I don’t know how open and honest she was about you being not dead and all, but I don’t think he’ll hold it against her,” John replied. “I think he’ll just be happy you aren’t really dead.”

“I suppose by now you know him better than I do,” Sherlock said.

“So, should I call her to come over?”

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock said. “I’m still sore and a bit tired. Just a quiet night with us would be best.”

“Or a quiet night without me, you mean,” John said with a chuckle.

“No, stay,” Mary said. “We were just going to get takeaway and watch a film. All the important stuff was gone over earlier today.”

John sobered slightly. “Anything I should know?”

Sherlock looked over at Mary. “Apparently I have a psychotic sister,” he said. “And she had Moriarty as a Christmas present at some point, courtesy of my brother.”

“Blimey,” John said, shaking his head. “You knew, Mary?”

“Bits and pieces. I have no real information on her, just what she’d done that certain members of the Holmes family not named Mycroft were involved in covering up. She’s stashed somewhere here in England. Other than that, I’m at a loss.”

“So what do we do?” John asked.

“After we finish this assignment for him, I’m confronting Mycroft and getting information on her. Try and see her if he’ll allow it, perhaps,” Sherlock said.

“What assignment do you have?”

“Some plot cooked up by the man the CIA originally wanted me to take out, Lord Moran,” Mary said. “Though I’m to leave him alive this time so Her Majesty can wring information out of him. I doubt I’ll be a part of that, so I have no idea what the CIA will get in the end. This whole endeavour was a joint manuevs op, but Mycroft being Mycroft…”

“He’ll be selfish and banish him to a deep, dark hole in the middle of nowhere?” John said, tilting his head.

“Basically,” Sherlock said. “But he did that with Moriarty and look how that turned out.” He turned slightly and winced. “I think I may need my bandages checked again before we head to bed.”

“New sleeping arrangements, eh?” John asked.

“Bigger bed, bigger bedroom,” Sherlock said as Mary snuggled closer, though she did so carefully. “We got given a second chance. We’re going to see if we can make it work despite my brother’s insistence we never would have worked the first time.”

John was quiet for a moment. “I think you’ll make it. The one time Sherlock brought you up, even though he was evading the subject a bit, it was obvious he loved you, Mary.”

“Good,” she said. “I always regretted leaving. I felt if maybe I had trusted him more I would have had a better life.”

“But maybe we needed it,” Sherlock said. “Not ending on the terms we did, but we needed time to evolve. The roads we went down were dark at times, but still. We kept some of our humanity throughout. Some hope that there was something better.”

“I like to think I had something to do with that for you,” John said to Sherlock, who nodded in response. “Good.”

“I don’t think I had a true friend since Eli-- Mary until I met you, John,” Sherlock said sincerely. “You may have enabled more than you know when it came to changes in my life. Without you, I don’t know if I’d be...open. I was trying harder before my fall, and I’ll just keep trying now.”

“That’s a good attitude to have, love,” Mary said, shifting to kiss Sherlock’s cheek. “We’ll work hard to bring back as much humanity as we can if you’ll both also help me.”

“Of course,” John said.

“Absolutely.” Sherlock shifted again, holding back a wince this time, and got his mobile. “I think I’m in the mood for something other than Asian cuisine. Persian, maybe?”

“Oooh, been a long time since I’ve had that,” Mary said with a smile. “Get the menu, John?”

John nodded and stood up, going to the small stack of takeaway menus in the kitchen. Mary leaned her head on Sherlock’s shoulder and he moved his body to put an arm around her. “Tonight, I just want to keep you close,” he murmured.

“I’ll stay close as long as you want me to, this time,” she said.

“You promise?”

“I do.”

Chapter Text

Mary tended to his wounds that evening, saying they were looking better and not oozing, so he was thankful for that much. It honestly hurt less than he had thought it would, though he doubted Mary would ever forgive Mycroft for waiting before he pulled him out of the room. He wasn’t sure he’d forgive his brother for that, either, but it depended on how well they healed.

They got dressed for bed and then got in, with him spooning her, and it seemed that even though they wanted to sleep there was more to talk about, as Mary spoke up in the silence of the evening. “I missed you,” she said softly. “I worried after you fell off the roof. I mean, we knew you were alive, but…”

He tightened his hold on her, pressing a kiss into her short blonde hair. He was getting used to the color and the style, and had to admit it suited her, but not as much as long brown curls had. He found he missed them but he would get over it, he knew. “I missed you too, but I tried to push it aside. I couldn’t be me if I showed I missed you, I think.”

“John said you wore your wedding ring for a while when he first met you.”

He nodded. “I did. I took it off when Moriarty became a threat. With all the secrets my brother told him, the marriage was one thing he kept secret. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of looking for you to hurt me, though you were closer than I ever could have imagined.”

“He never suspected a thing, and neither did Moran,” she said. “I mean, not just that I was your ex-wife, but also that I was infiltrating the organization. I don’t think I was in any real danger on the wife front.”

“You still haven’t told me how you got into the CIA,” he said.

“There’s not much to tell. They were scouting me as a potential agent long before I entered uni, apparently. They knew if MI-6 didn’t take me they would try. When we divorced I just wanted to put as much distance between you and I as possible, and an entire continent felt like more than enough. I went to Langley and then...well, I worked in the field pretty much from the get-go. Wetworks suited me.”

“You killed bad people,” he said.

“Yes, those that were a threat to the United States. I didn’t kill many people, to be honest. I was good at infiltration so I captured more people from inside their own organizations.” She shifted against him, snuggling closer. “I learned basic first aid and had an interest, so the CIA gave me some extra training and I was the nurse for a drug lord for a bit. I learned in the field most of the skills I have, but that was the first time I thought if I could retire, it might be a nice fall back career.”

“Saving lives instead of taking them,” he said.

“Exactly.” She was quiet. “You took lives when you were gone?”

He nodded again. “Not many. Some of the injuries I inflicted on people were survivable, but not without great pain. They were crippling injuries.”

“Did you work with other people?”

He was quiet for a moment. “Irene Adler,” he said finally. “And...there was some involvement of a sensitive nature.”

“Sherlock, I never expected you to stay celibate the rest of your life after our divorce. I certainly didn’t.” She turned to face him, cupping his face gently. “As long as there’s no further shagging with anyone other than me, I’m fine with your past.”

“And I am fine with yours,” he said. “All of it. I’d be a hypocrite not to be.”

She leaned in and kissed him, and he let her guide just how the kiss should go. Soon, however, it became heated enough that he carefully rolled her onto her back and she smiled against his lips. No women had compared to her, not even Irene, and he was glad she was here with him now, after so long apart. Now his life felt more complete than it had in ages.

Chapter Text

Instead of sleeping in again, Sherlock awoke early, only to find Mary was also awake and out of bed. The crack of dawn hadn’t even filtered through his window and yet they were both awake, and he could smell coffee brewing in the kitchen. He knew John didn’t need to be up nearly this early so he assumed since his bed was empty it had been Mary making the coffee. He got dressed in his pyjamas, which had been discarded for the night in lieu of sleeping in the buff, and then put on his dressing gown and went out, going up behind Mary and embracing her, resting his chin on top of her head. “Early riser now?”

“Habit,” she said. “But there’s coffee.”

“I know, I could smell it.” He grinned. This was strongly reminiscent of their old life, just intimate domestic moments like this. They stood there until the toast she had put in the toaster popped up, and she pulled away. He reluctantly let her go and she put the toast on a plate and went for the butter. “Do I get one of those?”

“No, this is mine, but just because you’re injured, I’ll make toast for you too.” She moved away from the butter and kissed his cheek. “Maybe I’ll share my eggs, too.”

“I knew I loved you for a reason,” he said with a wider smile, eliciting a grin from Mary.

“We haven’t said that to each other, but I do still love you, you know.” She patted his cheek where she’d kissed it and then moved away.

He was going to say something but the sound of the door downstairs opening made him pause. He’d taken out all of the organization, and while he wasn’t sure who knew he was actually alive, he couldn’t be sure. He saw a cricket bat propped up by the door and made to reach it, but before he could, he saw Mycroft in the doorway, his usual sour expression on his face. “You may have been beaned with a cricket bat if you weren’t you,” he said.

Mycroft scoffed. “From where you are? I could have shot you if I wanted to well before you got close enough to use it. Why isn’t the door locked?”

“I have no idea,” Mary said. “Unless John left it unlocked.”

“Keep it locked until you start taking in new clients,” Mycroft said. He went to the table and tossed down the newspaper Sherlock belatedly realized he was holding in his hand. “We leaked word you’re alive to the press, with a discretely shot photo when you returned here to Baker Street.”

“And just why would you do that?” Sherlock asked in a huff, ignoring the picture of him and John. If that didn’t fuel a million stories of his sexual proclivities he didn’t know what would.

“The threat of the terrorist group has risen to Critical. It is now imperative you start working on this and stop gallivanting with your ex-wife.” Mycroft gestured to the paper. “This ties into the anti-terrorism bill, I know it.”

“Of course it does,” Mary replied. “Moran would work outside the law by manipulating it at the source, at least when he wasn’t killing people. Outside of England, very few people would know he’s a Lord. But he’s probably planning a demonstration to scare Parliament into passing the bill. But isn’t that what you want for the bill? It’s passage?”

“Yes, but without the abject demonstration, please,” Mycroft said. “Utilize the contacts you need to, but get on this.”

“Breakfast first,” Sherlock said.

“If you insist,” Mycroft said with a slight huff. “I expect results.”

“And you’ll get them,” Mary said. Mycroft nodded and then started to leave.

“Oh, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, causing his brother to pause.

“Yes?”

“When this is over, we’re going to have a long talk about our sister. Understand?” Mycroft had the decency to pale a bit at the mention of their sister, but he nodded curtly and then left.

“Well-played,” Mary said.

“I want him to know I know. I don’t want any deep, dark family secrets hanging over my head, especially since that secret has to do with Moriarty,” he said before moving from the table to get coffee. It was going to be a long day, and he could use all the caffeine he could get.

Chapter Text

He started off by contacting his homeless network, going out, and meeting with various members to have them tail different people and send him pictures taken surreptitiously and to let him know if they did things differently. Mary didn’t accompany him, instead contacting old CIA contacts about what Moran’s plans might be. John had another day at the surgery so he went there, and Sherlock had a member of his network keep an eye on him just in case. With the picture splashed on the front page of all the papers, John could be in danger if Moran wanted to hit a pulse point.

It was good Mary had gone inside already, he thought to himself as he hailed a cab to go to Bart’s. While he knew Molly knew he was alive, he wanted to see her, spend some time refamiliarizing himself with her. She had come to him a few times while he was gone, tending to wounds he couldn’t take care of himself. She’d gone as quickly as she came most times, so there had been no real conversation, but he was glad to hear she was happy now.

He just hoped his return didn’t throw a wrench in her relationship with Lestrade. She deserved to be happy, after all he had put her through.

He was lucky that Lestrade was at the morgue when he arrived and the two looked as though they were off to have lunch together. Lestrade’s face broke into a wide grin. “You bastard!” he said in a joyful tone.

“You knew,” Molly chided, only rolling her eyes a bit, but she had a smile on her face. She went and embraced Sherlock, but he groaned slightly, and instantly the smile was gone when she pulled back. “Are you alright?”

“Torture aftermath,” he said, and her eyes went wide. “Mary is tending to me, but my back is still sore.”

“Good,” Molly said with a nod. “Have you seen Mrs. Hudson yet?”

“Not yet,” Sherlock said. “She’s supposedly visiting her son so I have no idea when she’s returning, but I’m sure I’ll get a call once she sees the news.”

“Well, join us for lunch, and we can fill you in on what’s been going on since you died,” Lestrade said. “I know Anderson is going to have a field day. He knew you were alive. You should hear some of the outrageous theories he and his group have come up with.”

“Group?” Sherlock asked, frowning.

“You had actual fans who thought it was all a conspiracy,” Molly said. “Anderson is the de facto head of the group. He...lost it, for a bit. He isn’t with Scotland Yard anymore.”

“Is Donovan still there?”

Lestrade nodded. “Yeah. You might find her willing to take an olive branch if you hold one out, you know. She was the one who went through all the evidence again and cleared your name, with your brother’s help.”

“I’ll have to thank her,” he said, honestly surprised. Maybe it was the guilt she felt at convincing the others he was a fraud and a kidnapper, among other things, but he was grateful. It was one less thing he had to deal with himself. “As for lunch, I’ll have to take a rain check, but would you both like to come to Baker Street tonight? I know there was a thought to have company over tonight if you’re willing.”

“We’d like that,” Molly said. “We’ll be there. Sevenish?”

“That works,” Sherlock said with a nod. “I’ll see you both upstairs and leave you to your lunch then.” Molly and Lestrade both moved to either side of Sherlock and both began to talk as they made their way to the lift. It was nice that all his reunions had gone well, so far. No hitting, no screaming, no fainting. It helped that apparently everyone so far knew he was still alive, but that didn’t matter two much. The secret had apparently been kept well, and for now, that was all that mattered.

Chapter Text

“Did anything interesting happen?” Mary asked when Sherlock returned later that afternoon.

“I have an upcoming meeting with Howard, one of my contacts, about something not that important later this evening. He’s obsessed with trains, and he thinks there’s something of interest to me.” He wrapped his arms around her from behind. “Molly and Lestrade will be coming by around seven tonight, so hopefully if John is on a date we’ll know sooner rather than later.”

“Should we be worried if he doesn’t come home on time?” she asked.

Sherlock thought to the picture on the front page of the newspaper and frowned. “Perhaps,” he said. “The alert that I was alive had a picture with both of us.”

She stiffened in his arms. “And me?”

“No. You weren’t in the picture.” She relaxed at that. “Oh! Greg called. He said there was a case you should look at. They think they found the body of Jack the Ripper. Molly was interested in it, he said, but…”

“I’ll ask her to accompany me then,” he said. “I’ll go see Howard afterward so that we can plan something for dinner.” He paused. “You aren’t jealous that Molly is…?”

“A friend?” Mary asked, putting her arms around his neck. “No. I know you are closer now since she went to tend to you when you were away. If I was jealous of every female who’s been a part of your life, I’d be a horrible partner.”

“Partner...I like that word for us. Partner,” he said with a smile before kissing her. They stayed together for a moment before they pulled apart, smiles on both of their faces. “I’ll call Molly now, and we’ll go see if it really is Jack the Ripper who deigned us with his presence again after all these years.”

“And I’ll look into some more of my contacts to help with your brother’s case while I figure out what can feed a crowd,” Mary said. “Be home by seven. I’m not in the mood to host a dinner party by myself.”

“I will, I promise.” He gave her another kiss, this time one on the cheek, and he turned and got on his mobile to contact Lestrade. Lestrade answered after two rings but before he spoke Sherlock spoke instead. “Arrange for both Molly and I to view the body.”

“Not John?”

“He’s busy at the moment at the surgery, and Molly was interested, according to Mary. It’s good to have a partner, especially one as skilled as Molly.”

“Alright. A half-hour from now work for you? Molly’s with me right now.”

“Lunch ran late?”

“Well, I proposed at lunch after you left us. Her boss gave her the rest of the day off to celebrate.”

“Congratulations to you both,” Sherlock said, meaning every word. “I’m not interrupting any celebrations, am I?”

“No, not at all. We were just finishing up at Barts, with her getting congratulations from her colleagues. Those types of celebrations are going to come later tonight, I think.”

“Could I borrow Molly for a bit, then? I have a meeting with an associate that I would like her to accompany me with, to see if there’s anything I may miss.”

“You? Miss anything?”

“Well, it’s been some time since I’ve worked a case. As Poirot said, I need to get my little grey cells to percolate,” Sherlock said, his face edging up in a grin.

“I’m surprised you know who Poirot is.”

“I have an appreciation of the classics.” Sherlock glanced at his watch. “Where should I meet you?”

Lestrade gave him an address, and Sherlock went to hail a cab once he got outside Baker Street, giving them the address. Lestrade had hung up by then and Sherlock settled into his seat, watching the city go by as the cab took him to his destination. It was strange knowing so much had changed and yet some things stayed exactly the same.

When he arrived at the scene of the Jack the Ripper burial site, Molly and Lestrade were waiting outside. Molly was wearing gloves, but she took them off when they stepped inside and he caught sight of her new ring. It was a modest diamond set in a white gold setting and flanked with rubies, which Sherlock seemed to remember were supposed to be Molly’s birthstone. “You made a good choice, in more ways than one,” he said to Lestrade, getting a warm smile from both him and Molly.

“Well, when you were gone, things got dark, and Molly was the light that pulled me out,” he said. “I hadn’t planned on your return and the engagement coinciding, but I’m glad it did. It’s like the dark is all gone now.”

“Not quite, but hopefully my afternoon meeting will do something to remedy it,” Sherlock said.

“What’s it about?” Molly asked.

“The Underground, and a missing passenger,” he said. “Supposedly it relates to the case that Mycroft has myself and Mary on.”

“Oh, so you have even more partners than John?” Lestrade asked with a chuckle.

“Well, it’s dealing with domestic terrorism, and Mary is well-suited for this task.” He paused. “How much do you know about her past?”

“A lot of it,” Lestrade said. “When she first moved into Baker Street I checked her out and some things didn’t make sense. Mycroft filled me in on the truth, though not the whole truth. It wasn’t until Molly went to take care of you in Denmark that I found out all of it, that you were still alive.”

“I couldn’t lie to him anymore,” Molly said. “And Mycroft gave his permission since John already knew the truth. But it was just the four of us and your brother. No one else knew.”

“I know. I would most likely be dead if anyone else knew.” He nodded to the building. “Shall we take a look?”

“Let’s,” Molly said, giving him a warm smile. The three of them walked in and Sherlock allowed himself to settle into the task at hand, letting it slip over him like a second skin. Still, something nagged at him, that as good as things were going so far, something was bound to go wrong. What it was, though, he didn’t have a clue. He supposed he’d just have to wait and see.

Chapter Text

After he and Molly realized the corpse was a fake, and thus Jack the Ripper would continue to live on in infamy, they went to his appointment with Howard. He’d hoped that it would be something concrete, but at least it was a start; the video Howard showed them indicated that there was a secret between the Westminster and St. James Park stops. It was something, but he wasn’t sure what it meant. He’d have to take Mary or John and look into it later. Once Molly was deposited with Lestrade again and they went off to celebrate their good fortune, he headed back to Baker Street. His phone chirped with a text message and he looked at it.

Save souls now!
John or James Watson?

He glanced at the watch on his wrist and realized John should be back from the surgery by now. He let himself in and called out. “Mary? Has John returned yet?”

“Not yet,” she called back as his phone chirped again. He looked at the message as Mary came to join him.

Saint or Sinner?
James or John?
The more is Less?

“I’m getting these strange messages,” he murmured, showing his mobile to her. "Spam, I think."

“It’s not spam, it’s a skip code,” she said, looking up at Sherlock with wide eyes. “He’s in danger, I think. Look. First words in the first message: Save John. Then the second message.”

“Saint James the Less,” they chorused, Sherlock murmuring the words as he realized what today was. “We need to go. Now.”

“Go where?”

“Saint James the Less is a church, and they have a bonfire for Guy Fawkes Day. Today. Tonight. He’s in the bonfire!”

Mary didn’t bother to get her coat, she hurried outside and Sherlock followed. He looked for a cab but there wasn’t one, though he saw a motorcycle coming. “Do you trust me?” he asked Mary.

“Yes, of course,” she said as Sherlock stepped in front of the motorcyclist. Mary’s eyes widened and she looked like she was going to call out but the motorcyclist stopped and Sherlock had a quick exchange with him. Soon two helmets were produced and the motorcyclist turned the motorcycle over to Sherlock. Sherlock got on and Mary sat behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. They sped off as Sherlock saw the route to Saint James the Less in his head, allowing the motorcycle to go that route.

His phone went off again and Mary pulled it out of his Belstaff pocket. She showed it to him over his shoulder.

Getting warmer Mr Holmes
You have about ten minutes

An image of the bonfire being lit and John burning somewhere inside it flashed in his mind, and as his phone went off again a few minutes later he found the access to the road he wanted to take blocked by police.

8 minutes
and counting...

“What do we do now?” Mary asked.

“Improvise,” Sherlock said. He made his way between two buildings, a policeman following to no avail. The passageway took them down a flight of stairs and ended with them at The Mall. They continued on until they hit a slow-moving lorry on a bridge, much to Sherlock’s frustration. A new message flashed on his phone and he began to panic.

Better hurry
things are
hotting up here...

“What does that mean?” Mary asked.

“It means they’re trying to light the bonfire,” Sherlock said as he finally made his way around the lorry. He was almost to Saint James the Less and he saw wisps of smoke coming from the bonfire and a man with a petrol can as the message changed again.

What a shame
Mr Holmes.
John is quite a Guy!

“Jump off!” he said as he darted through the gap in the fencing to the bonfire as John’s cries for help could clearly be heard. The two of them abandoned the motorcycle with no injuries and made it to the bonfire, Sherlock digging into the wood even though the fire licked at him. Mary helped and soon enough, they pulled John out from the bottom of the bonfire and settled him away from the fire and the crowds. “What happened?” Sherlock asked as John caught his breath after a few coughs.

“Some bloke bumped into me outside Baker Street and someone else jabbed me with a needle of...something,” John said, letting Mary begin to tend to the wound on the side of his head. “I blacked out and then I found myself in the dark, bound, and unable to cry for help.”

“That’s not a nice head wound,” Mary said.

“How did you know where I was?” John asked, ignoring Mary for the moment.

“Someone wanted me to find you,” Sherlock said darkly. “And when I find out who it was, they’ll pay.”

“Let’s get him home, Sherlock,” Mary said. “He’s injured, he’s inhaled smoke…”

“Yes, let’s,” he said with a nod as the two of them helped John up. Sherlock glanced back at the bonfire and then looked at his ex-wife over John’s head. This had been close. Too close, if Sherlock wanted to be honest. But he wasn’t sure how much worse things would get before this case was solved. He could only hope nothing else like this happened again.

Chapter Text

It was quite late when they all finally retired to bed, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to bury himself in bed with Mary by his side and not wake up until noon, but that was not meant to be. He woke up to an empty bed and chattering in the sitting room, and it wasn’t until he heard a female voice call Mary Elizabeth that he remembered who was visiting Mycroft that week: their parents. They must have decided to stop by now that he was alive again.

He got dressed in a suit and forsook his dressing gown even though he was sure Mary, and John if he had risen yet, were in their pyjamas and dressing gowns. He needed the suit of armor that his suit gave him when dealing with his mother and father. He did care for them in some capacity, but it was the fact their ex-daughter-in-law was there that he didn’t want to deal with. His parents hadn’t shown feelings one way or the other concerning his divorce.

“Mary? I suppose it will take some time getting used to that,” he heard his mother say before they came into view. “Oh, Sherlock! There you are. Eliza-- Mary was telling us about the commotion last night That’s absolutely frightful. Is John alright?”

“John is fine,” Sherlock said. “If he’s still asleep, he’s probably just getting the last of whatever he was drugged with out of his system.” He leaned over and kissed his mother’s cheek. “I’m fine too, by the way.”

“Well, we assumed as much, by the way that Mary was smiling,” his father said. “You’re back together?”

“Yes, and I’ll be damned if anyone tries to tear us apart again,” he said.

“On the contrary, we’re happy that she’s here,” his mother said. “You need someone in your life to take care of you, and she was always good at that.”

“Why thank you,” Mary said. “I tried very hard when we were married, and I’ll try hard again now. But Sherlock is his own man, and he’s in a dangerous line of work.”

“I know,” his mother said. “It’s worried us for some time.”

“Well, I think this case and last night are all Mycroft’s fault,” Sherlock muttered, turning away from his parents to go get some coffee.

“Your brother wouldn’t put your friends in danger,” his mother said.

“You don’t know Mycroft as well as I do,” Sherlock said. “It’s exactly what he’d do.” He thought for a moment about asking them about his sister but changed his mind. If that was some deep dark family secret it made more sense to get information from Mycroft, the family secret keeper. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he didn’t want to distress his parents when they seemed so joyful that Mary was there and he was alive.

The conversation shifted then to his parents' plans while they were in London, thanks to Mary, and Sherlock sat near Mary, sipping his coffee and letting her manage the conversation. Soon, though, John came downstairs and joined them and Mary suggested they go out to breakfast while Sherlock and John worked on the case together. Sherlock wanted to kiss her for braving his parents by herself, and once the three of them had left and John had settled in with some coffee and toast, he spoke.

“My parents' visit was a surprise,” he said.

“Your parents are a surprise,” John said with a small grin. “I mean, they seem so...normal. So not like you and Mycroft.”

“It makes me wonder how they managed to raise us,” he said.

“You’re more human than you admit,” John said. “Even without my help, you’re almost lovingly domestic with Mary.” He had some of his coffee. “Face it, Sherlock. You’re not the robot you think you are.”

“I suppose not,” he said thoughtfully.

“And that’s not a bad thing, by the way.” John had some more of his coffee and then picked up a piece of toast. “Thank you for getting there in time. I don’t know who did it to me or why, but dying at the bottom of an effigy was not how I wanted to go.”

“Thank Mary for figuring out the first sets of messages were a skip code,” he said.

“Yeah, but you got the motorcycle,” John said. “If you’d waited for a cab, I’d be dead and we both know it.”

Sherlock nodded. “The world needs you, John.”

“And the world needs you too, so let’s get to work on this case and see what we can figure out before Mary gets back.”

“That’s a good idea,” Sherlock said, finishing the last of his coffee and then going to his desk. He pulled out a map of the Underground lines and pinned it to his wall. “It all has to do with how a man can go missing between here and here.” He pointed to the two stops Howard had mentioned to their meeting. “We just need to figure out how he disappeared, and why, and what it means.” He turned to John and saw his friend was ready to help, and he grinned. The game, it seemed, was on.

Chapter Text

The case was going to revolve around one man, it seemed: Lord Moran. He was the man who had been in the video Howard had shown him and Molly, and even though he was an esteemed member of Parliament, he’d been in collusion with the North Koreans since 1996. He was also a skilled assassin, but that was known to even fewer people than his collusion with the North Koreans. It helped that Mary had worked under him and, when she came back from breakfast with her ex-in-laws, had more information to add. But even with the additional information, he knew he was missing something.

He stared at a set of photos showing Lord Moran going up to Parliament as if he had just left the Westminster station. And these photos were taken not long after the train disappearance…

The train.

He went back to the video, cutting off John and Mary’s conversation with an exclamation of “I’m an idiot.” He backed the video up and then played it again, this time counting the number of cars. Seven cars were shown at the beginning of the video.

Six cars arrived at St. James Park.

“The entire train car disappeared,” he murmured.

“What?” John asked.

“Look at the video and count the cars,” he said as John and Mary came over to look at the video. He could see when it dawned on them, the same thing he had realized. “At some point, the train diverted and the last car was uncoupled.”

“But why?” John asked.

“It’s just like ‘V For Vendetta,’ where there’s a train car set to blow up Parliament,” Mary said. John seemed to understand the reference but it went over Sherlock’s head. Nonetheless, he knew that was what was going to happen: whatever the terrorist organization working under Moran had planned, it had to do with making a show involving that last car. And what better show than blowing up Parliament in the middle of terrorism talks?

“We need to find that car. I would stake my life that there’s a bomb on it.”

“Can your friend show us where the train may have diverted to uncouple the last car?” Mary asked.

“I can ask Howard, but charts of the tube that he gave me might help faster.” Sherlock went and got two rolled-up maps. One was the actual Underground route and the other was one that the drivers were privy to, in case they needed to get off the tracks for any reason. He unrolled both of them, laying them out next to the laptop on the table that they had been viewing the video on.

The three of them scanned the area of the second map between the Westminster and St. James Park routes, and John fingered a spot on the map. “Could the train have uncoupled the car here? It’s not far off the main track, and easy to get back on.”

“And it’s right around Parliament,” Mary pointed out.

“I think if we go there, we’ll find our missing car and whatever dastardly surprise Lord Moran has cooked up," he said, rolling up the second map. “John, are you well enough to come with us?”

John nodded. “Let me go change and we can go find it,” he said before leaving the kitchen table to head to his room.

Sherlock turned to Mary. “How often have you diffused bombs?”

“Oh, a time or two,” she said. “You?”

“Once.”

“Probably more times than John has,” Mary said.

“No doubt. But he has the steady hands of a surgeon if we need them.” Sherlock looked at her. “We can talk about how breakfast went later, but this first.”

“Of course,” she said before leaning in to kiss his cheek. “But if we survive this, you need to see Les Mis with them tomorrow night.”

“Maybe the bomb will blow us up,” he murmured.

“I’ll go with you? I like musicals.”

“That’ll make it just bearable,” he said, giving her a small grin. It seemed strange to joke about the bomb interfering with domestic stuff, but that seemed to be the way his life was headed now. Hopefully, though, they would get through it all okay and save London in the process.

Chapter Text

A quick call to Howard on the way to the Houses of Parliament confirmed there was a completely built station at Sumatra Road that had been closed before it had ever been opened, due to being tied up in a number of legal disputes. It was the perfect place to hide a train car, especially one intending to do damage to the Palace of Westminster, which, hypothetically, was what would be damaged if a bomb exploded that was at the Sumatra Road station.

The news station that their cabbie was listening to was droning on about how the terrorism bill was too close to call and how the MPs were making their way into the Chamber to vote. Sherlock knew time was running out and he began to fidget slightly, only being calmed by Mary’s hand on his arm. He reached over and picked up her hand, kissing her knuckles for a moment before deciding what to do next.

It was too messy to get the police involved just yet; once the bomb had been defused, then he would call Lestrade and hand him the case of his career if Mycroft didn’t have the government sweep it under the rug and have Lord Moran simply disappear into some deep, dark hole that only Mycroft was aware of. He had the distinct feeling Lord Moran was not at this vote and was somewhere safe so he could live through the explosion, the bastard. Not that Sherlock was a fan of the government, but the loss of lives in a meaningless attack...it meant more now after Moriarty’s bombs.

They got out at the Houses of Parliament and made their way to the Westminster station, across the concourse, through the ticket barriers, and along the corridors, until they got to the maintenance area that Howard had said would lead them to the Sumatra Road station. Sherlock pulled a small crowbar out of his coat pocket and broke into it, and he went inside with Mary and John following. Each of them had their own torch and they turned them on, the only real light in the area. There were narrow tunnels, long walkways, and ladders to go down but finally, they arrived at the abandoned station, only to find it empty.

“Damn,” John said. “We were so sure it was here.”

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said, frowning. “There’s nowhere else it could be.”

Mary had unrolled the map and looked at it. “There’s a bend around that way,” she said, pointing down the line. After a moment she jumped off the platform onto the tracks.

“Aren’t they live?” John asked.

“Only if you touch the rails,” Mary asked, moving forward as Sherlock joined her. John hesitated, but soon he was on the tracks with them. As they rounded a bend, the missing carriage train was seen. Sherlock had been imagining the worst in his mind palace and he breathed a sigh of relief to see the abandoned car there.

It was only a moment later he saw the vent above was open and lined with demolition charges. Ignoring it for a moment, he followed Marry into the car and saw that there were wires in place leading to the seats. Mary lifted up a cushion and saw a bomb underneath. John lifted up another and there was a second bomb.

“The whole car is the bomb,” Mary said, a slight tinge of panic in her voice. As Sherlock moved around the car he realized there was a floor panel that was loose. He lifted it up and saw a larger bomb in the open space underneath.

John looked at the larger bomb and let out a small whistle. “Bloody hell.”

“I would say look for the off switch,” Mary said.

“Bombs have an off switch?” John asked, glancing at Sherlock examining the bomb. Suddenly the timer started counting down from 2:30. “Sherlock?”

“I’m looking…” he said, trying to ignore the numbers on the dial. Touch the wrong thing and it could all blow earlier than the timer planned. It was complicated and…

“Move,” Mary said. She moved next to Sherlock and by the time the countdown was down a full minute she’d found and flipped the switch. The lights didn’t go off, but the timer stopped. “Sorry, I just recognized Moran’s work. He’s quite clever when it comes to designing bombs but he always has an off switch on the side under the wires.”

“Thank God you knew that,” John said, sitting on the floor. “So now he can be locked away?”

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and saw there was no signal. “Well, he can be as soon as we call Lestrade. But I think everyone is safe for now. There wouldn't be a back-up device, would there, Mary?”

“Oh no. He never has a back-up device because he thinks he’s so clever,” Mary said. She waited for Sherlock to stand up and took his hand. “No more bombs for a date, eh?”

Sherlock gave her a grin. “No promises.”

Chapter Text

After a matinee performance of Les Miserables and extracting a favor from Mycroft for taking their parents there, it was time to finally have the dinner that had been missed because of the bonfire incident. Mrs. Hudson had returned by then and was quite chuffed to see Sherlock alive and well, even if she was a bit peeved the others had known he was still alive and not told her. The news about his role in the stopping of the bomb had been leaked and now that Moran was in jail and facing life behind bars, the press wanted the whole story from the dapper detective.

He, on the other hand, wanted everyone outside the flat to go away so he could celebrate a few things with his friends.

It felt strange to have them all there, all knowing each other and as much of the truth as Mary had let be known, and no one seemed to mind. It was all kept between them, though, and hopefully, Mary could start really putting most of her past behind her and move forward.

With him, of course. That was one part of her past that she had insisted she not lose again.

They were sitting on the sofa as Mrs. Hudson looked at Molly’s engagement ring and John and Lestrade were off to the side, making plans of some sort. He was just happy to be there with those he considered a second family and the woman he considered the love of his life.

“We could always have a big to-do, after theirs,” Mary said.

“We could,” Sherlock said with a nod. “Lestrade asked me to be the best man.”

“He did? Molly asked me to be a bridesmaid. I think Meena is the maid of honour, and Sally is the other bridesmaid.” She had a sip of her champagne. “You’ll have to deal with Anderson at some point. He’s the other groomsman, with John.”

“He wants to know how I faked my death,” Sherlock said, a sour look coming across his face. “But I suppose if that’s what Gregory wants, it’s what I’ll do.”

“Oy! Greg, he knows your name,” Mary said with a grin, turning to face Lestrade.

“You were supposed to keep that to yourself,” Sherlock said, ducking his head to kiss her neck. She giggled and then turned to face him.

“But why? Especially when telling him is so much more fun.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“I am,” she said with a nod. “And you should go out and face the press soon, mister.”

He groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“I’d join you, but until we figure out what happened to John, keeping me in the background might be for the best.”

He sobered at that statement. “I know,” he said. “John and I will go out and pretend it was a two-man job. If it will help keep you safe…”

“It will.” She kissed him softly then. “Now go, and then we can all celebrate the way we should have days ago.”

“Yes, dear,” he said, and she smacked at his shoulder. He stood and nodded to John, and then he went for his coat. The truth of what happened to John was known to most in the room, but the why wasn’t known to any of them, and that was aggravating him. He didn’t want to slink back into the shadows, but he didn’t want to lose any friends to some nameless, faceless being who wanted revenge. It just seemed he would need to wait, at least a little bit longer, and that might be torture. But with that favor from his brother, perhaps it would be a short torture. It would remain to be seen.