(Third-Person POV: )

“What?! Are you out of your mind?!” Anderson exclaimed, after hearing a very ridiculous and slightly gross theory on how Sherlock survived. I don’t think any of us need a recap of that.

Anderson was standing and staring down at a dark-haired young woman sitting in his living room. She shrugged.

“I don’t see why not. It’s just as plausible as some of your theories,” she replied in a slight monotone.

Behind her, the walls of the room were absolutely covered with notes, photographs and Post It notes. Pieces of red string linked some of the paperwork together, some of the strings even crossing the room. That girl was not the only person in the room with Anderson – six or seven others were squeezed onto the furniture. At least three of them were wearing deerstalker hats, and one was wearing a Sherlock-like coat and scarf.

“Look, if you’re not going to take it seriously, Laura, you can...” Anderson scolded, making a ‘get out’ gesture.

“I do take it seriously,” Laura told him angrily. She looked disapprovingly around at the others. “I don’t think we should wear hats,” she added.

“I founded ‘The Empty Hearse’ so like-minded people could meet, discuss theories...” He choked on his words and stepped closer to Laura, looking down at her angrily.

“Sherlock’s still out there,” he told her sternly. Laura rolled her eyes.

“I’m convinced of it,” Anderson continued.

Behind him, the TV’s sound was muted but a reporter talking live from somewhere in London was bringing some breaking news. The rolling headline announced, “HAT DETECTIVE ALIVE”. Underneath, a separate headline stated, “Magnussen summoned before parliamentary...” and presumably the next word is “commission” but nobody was paying attention to that news.

“Oh, my, god,” Laura said in amazement.

Instantly everyone’s phones began to signal text alerts. Everybody scrabbled in their pockets. Laura held up her own phone to show Anderson, her face alight with excitement.

“Oh. My. God!” She repeated.

On the phones, Twitter was alive with hashtags like #SherlockHolmesAlive! and #SherlockIsNotDead, and #SherlockLives, and more messages were streaming in by the second.

Sitting up in bed, Mary was holding an iPad and reading aloud from one of John’s old blog entries.

“‘His movements were so silent. So furtive, he reminded me of a trained bloodhound picking out a scent.’,” said Mary, narrating dramatically.

“You what?” John asked from a short distance away.

“‘I couldn’t help thinking what an amazing criminal he’d make if he turned his talents against the law.’,” Mary continued, just as dramatic.

John came out of the small ensuite bathroom, his lower face and upper lip covered in shaving foam.

“Don’t read that,” he told her in an only slightly annoyed tone.

“The famous blog, finally!” she announced, still looking at the screen.

“Come on – that’s...” John began arguing.

“...ancient history, yes, I know. But it’s not, though, is it, because he’s...” she interrupted, raising her eyes but then stopped as she saw John.

“What are you doing?!” she asked in a happy tone.

“Having a wash,” he replied nonchalantly.

“You’re shaving it off,” she stated, grinning all the while.

“Well, you hate it,” John reasoned.

“Sherlock hates it,” his fiancée added.

“Apparently everyone hates it,” he said in a bit of exasperation. Mary giggled.

“Are you gonna see him again?” she asked curiously.

“No – I’m going to work,” John corrected.

“Oh. And after work, are you gonna see him again?” Mary sounded amused. Rolling his eyes, John walked back into the bathroom.

“Cos, I dunno – six months of bristly kisses for me, and then His Nibs turns up...” she continued.

“I don’t shave for Sherlock Holmes,” John stated, looking into the mirror as he applied more shaving foam.

“Oh! You should put that on a T-shirt!” Mary suggested.

“Shut up,” John told her, hiding amusement.

“Or what?” Mary taunted cheekily.

“Or I’ll marry you,” John teased, turning to look at her. She grinned. Rinsing off his hands, John picked up his razor, looked into the mirror, sighed, and lifted the razor towards his upper lip.

“London. It’s like a great cesspool into which all kinds of criminals, agents and drifters are irresistibly drained.”

In the living room of 221B, Sherlock – wearing a red dressing gown over his clothes – had been peering at the wall behind the sofa, and now he stepped onto the sofa and began to stick up maps, notes and paperwork.

“Sometimes it’s not a question of ‘Who?’; it’s a question of ‘Who knows?’. If this man cancels his papers... I need to know.”

It is now clear that the pictures he was putting up were photos of the man he had just vaguely spoken about.

“If this woman leaves London without putting her dog into kennels, I need to know,” the detective continued. He kept sticking up pictures of people and adding crosses and other marks to the pictures and the map underneath it.

“There are certain people – they are markers. If they start to move, I’ll know something’s up – like rats deserting a sinking ship.”

John, now moustache-free, approached and went into the surgery in which he worked.

221B. LIVING ROOM

“All very interesting, Sherlock, but the terror alert has been raised to Critical,” Mycroft said calmly.

The brothers were sitting opposite each other in front of the unlit fire, Sherlock still in his dressing gown. A chess set could be seen between them. Sherlock sat back from making a move, his eyes locked onto Mycroft’s.

“Boring. Your move,” the younger replied.

“We have solid information. An attack is coming,” Mycroft said sternly. He glanced down to make his move.

“’Solid information.’ A secret terrorist organisation’s planning an attack – that’s what secret terrorist organisations do, isn’t it? It’s their version of golf,” Alice chided from the kitchen, where she had been making herself coffee.

“An agent gave his life to tell us that,” the male ginger shot back, raising his voice slightly so it would carry to the kitchen.

“Oh, well, perhaps he shouldn’t have done. He was obviously just trying to show off,” Sherlock said smugly. Mycroft appeared to hold back a sigh as Alice came in and sat on the couch a bit away from them.

“None of these markers of yours is behaving in any way suspiciously?” Mycroft glanced down again and made a move. “Your move.”

“No, Mycroft, but you have to trust me. I’ll find the answer. It’ll be in an odd phrase in an online blog, or an unexpected trip to the countryside, or a misplaced Lonely Hearts ad.”

Sherlock had only glanced down briefly before speaking, but there was a slight click as he moved his piece.

“Your move.”

Mycroft glanced down briefly before raising his eyes to Sherlock’s again.

“I’ve given the Prime Minister my personal assurance you’re on the case,” he told Sherlock.

“I am on the case. We’re both on the case. Look at us right now,” Sherlock retorted, just as Alice deliberately slurped loudly on her coffee. On the table between the brothers, there was a loud buzzing and a red light flashed.

“Oh, bugger!” the elder complained, shooting Alice a look. She looked back innocently.

He angrily dropped the small tweezers he was using in their game of Operation.

“Oopsie!” Sherlock mocked. Mycroft returned the piece to the board.

“Can’t handle a broken heart – how very telling,” the younger continued, looking at the piece Mycroft had failed to remove successfully. Looking smug, he sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.

“Don’t be smart,” Mycroft warned.

“That takes me back,” Sherlock began sarcastically, and then he spoke in a little boy’s voice. “‘Don’t be smart, Sherlock. I’m the smart one.’.” he recalled. Alice sat forward eagerly, raising an eyebrow in the slightest even though she wasn’t part of the conversation in any way. This was the first she had heard of the Holmes’ childhood.

“I am the smart one,” Mycroft shot back slowly, glowering at his little brother. Sherlock looked off to the side reflectively.

“I used to think I was an idiot,” Sherlock muttered.

“Both of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock. We had nothing else to go on ’til we met other children,” Mycroft was verbally rolling his eyes.

“Oh, yes. That was a mistake,” Sherlock sighed, referring to the ‘met other children’ bit.

“Ghastly. What were they thinking of?” Mycroft scoffed.

“Probably something about trying to make friends,” Sherlock said sarcastically.

“Oh yes. Friends. Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now,” the elder mocked, actually looking to Alice in distaste. She gave him her ‘seriously?’ look.

“And you don’t? Ever?” Sherlock questioned, looking at Mycroft closely.

“If you seem slow to me, Sherlock, can you imagine what real people are like? I’m living in a world of goldfish,” Mycroft complained. Sherlock steeped his fingers in front of him and looked at his brother.

“Yes, but I’ve been away for two years,” he said slowly.

“So?” Mycroft almost-scoffed.

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a... goldfish,” Sherlock replied, shrugging.

“Change the subject – now!” Mycroft ordered, looking appalled. Alice chuckled quietly. Sherlock looked at her and smiled mischievously as Mycroft stood and walked over to the fireplace, to which she returned a flat face. He frowned slightly then looked back to his brother.

“Rest assured, Mycroft – whatever this underground network of yours is up to, the secret will reside in something seemingly insignificant or bizarre,” Sherlock told Mycroft almost sternly. Mrs. Hudson, carrying a tray of tea things, walked into the room with her traditional ‘Ooh-hoo!’

“Speaking of which...” Mycroft trailed off. Sherlock smiled.

“I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it! Him – sitting in his chair again!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed happily, putting the tray on the dining table. She looked at Mycroft.

“Oh, isn’t it wonderful, Mr. Holmes?” she asked gleefully.

“I can barely contain myself…!” Mycroft told her sarcastically.

“Oh, he really can, you know,” Alice scoffed, taking the words out of Sherlock’s slightly open mouth.

“He’s secretly pleased to see you underneath all that...” she pulled a sour face.

“Sorry – which of us?” Mycroft asked.

“Both of you,” she said in a motherly tone. She left the room without another word.

“Let’s play something different,” Sherlock said after the landlandy left.

“Why are we playing games?” Mycroft questioned with a sigh.

“Well, London’s terror alert has been raised to Critical,” Sherlock drawled. He flailed his legs over the table in front of him and stood up.

“I’m just passing the time. Let’s do deductions.” He walked over to the dining table and picked up a woollen bobble hat with earflaps and dangly pom poms hanging from each flap. Alice hid a smile as she mouthed, ‘It’s an ear hat, John!’ to herself.

“Client left this while I was out. What d’you reckon?” Sherlock tossed the hat to his brother.

“I’m busy,” Mycroft told Sherlock, catching it.

“Oh, go on. It’s been an age,” Sherlock encouraged. Mycroft lifted the hat to his nose and sniffed, then looked across to Sherlock.

“I always win,” the older told the younger.

“Which is why you can’t resist,” Sherlock retorted.

“I find nothing irresistible in the hat of a well-travelled anxious sentimental unfit creature of habit with appalling halitosis...” Mycroft began quick-fire, but he trailed off as he noticed Sherlock’s widening smile.

“D*mn,” he muttered, tossing the hat back to Sherlock.

“Isolated, too, don’t you think?” Sherlock questioned.

“Why would he be isolated?” Mycroft returned the question with a question.

“‘He’?” Sherlock tested.

“Obviously,” Mycroft shot back.

“Why? Size of the hat?” Sherlock asked.

“Don’t be silly. Some women have large heads too,” Mycroft answered. Sherlock flinched slightly, possibly at Mycroft’s insult to his intelligence. Alice was watching both men carefully, smiling in the slightest at their ‘game’. It was entertaining to see Sherlock with someone better than him.

“No – he’s recently had his hair cut. You can see the little hairs adhering to the perspiration stains on the inside,” Mycroft continued. Sherlock looked down at the hat, pouting slightly.

“Some women have short hair, too,” he reasoned, tilting his head back at Alice. “Though some wear it better than others…” he added. Alice glared at the back of his head, not thinking that Sherlock could’ve meant it as a compliment- which he did.

“Balance of probability,” Mycroft reasoned back, rolling his eyes at the little assumed insult.

“Not that you’ve ever spoken to a woman with short hair – or, you know, a woman,” Sherlock really did insult him this time, rather happy now that Mycroft hadn’t said a word to the female ginger.

“Stains show he’s out of condition, and he’s sentimental because the hat has been repaired three, four...” Mycroft continued, ignoring the snide comment.

“Five times,” Sherlock finished, throwing the hat back to his brother.

“Very neatly,” he continued, and then he continued again, quick-fire.

“The cost of the repairs exceeds the cost of the hat, so he's mawkishly attached to it, but it’s more than that. One, perhaps two, patches would indicate sentimentality, but five? Five’s excessive behaviour. Obsessive compulsive.”

“Hardly. Your client left it behind. What sort of an obsessive compulsive would do that?” Mycroft threw the hat back to Sherlock, who grabbed it with an exasperated grimace.

“The earlier patches are extensively sun-bleached, so he’s worn it abroad – in Peru,” Mycroft deducted further.

“Peru?” Sherlock asked.

“This is a chullo – the classic headgear of the Andes. It’s made of alpaca,” Mycroft clarified.

“No,” Sherlock denied, smirking.

“No?” Mycroft challenged.

“Icelandic sheep wool. Similar, but very distinctive if you know what you’re looking for. I’ve written a blog on the varying tensile strengths of different natural fibres,” Sherlock bragged.

“I’m sure there’s a crying need for that,” Mrs. Hudson commented sarcastically, bringing a teapot in and sending Alice an exasperated look. She just smiled and shook her head.

Sherlock paused for a moment, and then turned back to his brother.

“You said he was anxious,” Sherlock hinted.

“The bobble on the left side has been badly chewed, which shows he’s a man of a nervous disposition but...” Mycroft began.

“...but also a creature of habit because he hasn’t chewed the bobble on the right,” Sherlock finished, talking over his brother.

“Precisely,” Mycroft confirmed. Sherlock lifted the hat and sniffed it before lowering it again, grimacing.

“Brief sniff of the offending bobble tells us everything we need to know about the state of his breath,” Sherlock finished as he turned away.

“Brilliant!” Sherlock exclaimed sarcastically.

“Elementary,” Mycroft drawled.

“But you’ve missed his isolation,” Sherlock added.

“I don’t see it,” Mycroft sighed.

“Plain as day,” Sherlock bragged.

“Where?” the elder demanded.

“There for all to see,” the younger taunted.

“Tell me,” the British Government insisted.

“Plain as the nose on your...”

“Tell me,” Mycroft repeated, interrupting his brother.

“Well, anybody who wears a hat as stupid as this isn’t in the habit of hanging around other people, is he?” Sherlock began, turning back to Mycroft.

“Not at all. Maybe he just doesn’t mind being different. He doesn’t necessarily have to be isolated,” the elder argued.

“Exactly,” Sherlock said flatly.

Mycroft looked down at the hat again. He blinked several times, apparently confused.

“I’m sorry?” He asked.

“He’s different – so what? Why would he mind? You’re quite right,” Sherlock answered, turning back to face Mycroft. He lifted the hat and perched it on the top of his head, pinkies out, and then looked pointedly at his brother.

“Why would anyone mind?” He finished. Alice discreetly snapped a photo of him with the hat on. Mycroft opened his mouth but seemed to struggle to speak for a moment.

“...I’m not lonely, Sherlock,” he said firmly. Sherlock tilted his head down and looked closely at him, and then stepped nearer with an intense expression on his face.

“How would you know?” Sherlock snapped almost. Taking the hat off, he turned away. Mrs. Hudson, who had been pottering in the kitchen, came to the doorway and smiled.

“Yes. Back to work if you don’t mind. Good morning,” Mycroft dismissed. Looking a little wide-eyed as a result of the recent conversation, he headed for the door. Behind him, Sherlock winked at Mrs Hudson, who giggled happily.

“Right. Back to work,” Sherlock reiterated, turning to face the wall of information behind the sofa and Alice. He watched her for a moment as she stood and went back upstairs without a word.