"You have been busy, haven't you?" Mycroft drawled. His eyes flicked to the man reclining on a barber chair, newspaper obscuring his face. The wrinkled faced barber was oblivious to the conversation as he dragged the razor deftly across Sherlock's pale skin. Sherlock Holmes, the dead detective, was relaxing in his brother's office. He had a fresh clean suit and smelt like expensive cologne. He wasn't eight feet underneath a black gravestone; he was very much alive.

"Quite the busy little bee," Mycroft added with a chuckle.

Sherlock tossed the paper aside. "Moriarty's network – took me two years to dismantle it."

"Are you positive?"

Sherlock sniffed, slightly vexed that Mycroft even had to ask. "The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle."

Mycroft sifted through the file on his desk lazily. "Yes, you got yourself deep there...with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme."

"Colossal," Sherlock quipped.

"Anyway," Mycroft replied, letting the file fall shut. "You're safe now." When Sherlock only hummed in response Mycroft carefully said, "A thank you wouldn't go amiss."

"What for?" he exclaimed. 'Thank you' wasn't exactly in the detective's vocabulary.

"For wading in..." Sherlock raised a hand, silently ordering the barber to pause. Mycroft looked at him gravely. "In case you'd forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu."

Sherlock nearly scoffed. Everyone under the sun knew he couldn't walk up two flights of stairs without needing a glass of water. He sat up, wincing as his bruised ribs tweaked. "Wading in?" Mycroft had done nothing of the sort. Sherlock could still feel his kneecaps on the hard cement and the bite of chains pulling his arms on opposite directions. He could still remember the heavy fists on his torso. "You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp."

Mycroft frowned indignantly. He didn't agree. "I got you out."

"No - I got me out. Why didn't you intervene sooner?"

"Well, I couldn't risk giving myself away, could I? It would have ruined everything."

Sherlock glowered at his brother. "You were enjoying it."

"Nonsense."

"Definitely enjoying it."

Mycroft lent forward, gritting his teeth. "Listen: do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going 'under cover,' smuggling my way into their ranks like that?" His nose scrunched up and his lips curled in distaste. "The noise; the people."

Sherlock sighed, and slowly relaxed back into the chair, grunting in pain. He let the barber resume his work with quiet impatience. "I didn't know you spoke Serbian."

Of course this got Mycroft talking again - always the show off. "I didn't, but the language has a Slavic root, frequent Turkish and German loan words." He shrugged nonchalantly, "Took me a couple of hours."

"You're slipping."

He smiled tightly. "Middle age, brother mine. Comes to us all."

Sherlock's hair was now dry and curly - much different to the shoulder length tangles he had been sporting during his trials in Serbia. He was on his feet, clad in black suit pants and tucking in the white dress shirt into the waist. He liked the black shiny shoes and the way the clothes felt - he really was going home.

"I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?" Mycroft asked, annoyance seeping into his tone.

Sherlock eyes himself in the mirror, turning on his heel. "What did you think of this shirt?" Would Clara like it?

"Sherlock!"

He just rolled his eyes, and buttoned his cuffs. "I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft. Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in – feel every quiver of its beating heart."

"One of our men died getting this information," a woman uttered, crossing her arms. She wasn't Anthea - Mycroft usual assistant. Sherlock looked her up and down, eyeing her jewellery and clothes. Possibly from the Home Office. "All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs there's going to be a terror strike on London – a big one."

Sherlock shrugged on his suit jacket. "And what about John Watson?"

"John?"

"Yes - have you seen him?"

"Oh, yes – we meet up every Friday for fish and chips." Sherlock ignored Mycroft jab and dusted the lint from his shoulder. "I've been keeping a weather eye on him," Mycroft relented, handing him a file. Sherlock opened it, revealing glossy photographs. "You haven't been in touch at all, to prepare him?"

"No," he replied, distractedly. He stared at the picture of John, except he had a giant grey caterpillar sitting on his lip. A moustache...Jesus. "Well, we'll have to get rid of that. He looks ancient. I can't be seen wandering around with an old man." He slapped the file down, looking at his jacket in the mirror. "I think I'll surprise them, I'll pop around to Baker Street."

"Baker Street?" Mycroft frowned. "Neither of them live at Baker Street anymore." This made Sherlock reel back slightly. Surely... "It's been two years - they've moved on - well, sort of..."

"What do you mean, sort of?" Sherlock glared at his brother. His mind started humming again - Mycroft had shown him John's file but not Clara's. Sherlock had been able to memorise everything he'd seen, addresses, phone number, that awful moustache. Why didn't he want Sherlock to find her? Of course Clara hadn't moved on - she'd had no life since he'd been gone. All the excitement, all the murders - that had disappeared with Sherlock.

Sherlock lunged for the file behind Mycroft. Of course he'd be hiding it near himself. But for once, Mycroft was quicker and snatched the file away in one fluid motion. "You won't like it."

"Clara is my friend," Sherlock countered.

Mycroft sneered at the word. "Trust me." Now they both had a solid grip on the paper folder. With a grunt Sherlock pulled it free. Mycroft sighed in defeat. "Your funeral," he muttered.

"Been there, done that," Sherlock spat back with venom. He flicked open the file - no photographs this time. But the address was clear as day. He sniffed reproachfully; it was so far from Baker Street. "How is she?" Sherlock tentatively asked, his voice softer. Mycroft didn't answer him. Fine. I'll just have to see for myself. "And John? What is he doing tonight?"

"How would I know?"

"You always know."

"He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion...though I prefer the 2001."

"I might just pop by..."

"You know, it is just possible that you might not be welcome."

"No it isn't," Sherlock stated, "Now where is it?"

"Where's what?"

"You know what," he said, giving Mycroft a particular eye.

Anthea, the annoying texter who occasionally irritated John and Clara - who used to both flirt with her to no avail - appeared in the doorway, a garment hanging from her hand. Sherlock's beautiful Belstaff coat made him grin with glee. He really was going home.

"Welcome back, Mr Holmes," Anthea smiled.

.

Sherlock was sitting in the armchair, legs crossed and his coat collar flicked up. "Hello, Clara," he said.

Clara set her keys down on the bench near the door and hung up her coat. She waltzed straight past him. "Go away," she muttered, cursing her brain. "I'm not in the mood."

She opened the fridge and pulled out the leftovers from the night before. She put the bowl in the microwave and started to heat it up. Clara got out a glass and sloshed rosy wine into it. She didn't drink much, normally, but right now she needed it. At least to dull her senses. She'd gone to see John today, at his new flat. How brilliant it was to have the love of his life living with him. Mary was nice enough, but Clara couldn't really give a shit about their happiness. He'd even showed her the ring he was going to give Mary. It was simple, with a silver band and the tiniest sparkle of a diamond set in the centre. He put it back in the special mauve velvet box and turned it over and over in his hands. Clara had touched his arm, laughing, telling him it was alright. She'd be bonkers to say no.

She swallowed the wine heavily, and took the glass with her to the couch. "You don't usually wear your coat inside," Clara commented, folding her legs underneath her.

"How much have you missed me?" Sherlock asked, his voice serious.

God. Maybe it was the wine. "Well you haven't left my head, you insufferable prick."

He stood up, coat swishing and he looked out the window, onto the street below.

Clara rose, following him. She really was crazy. Greeting a dead detective whenever she came home, talking about his supposed suicide. Arguing with a ghost. She was right behind him and waited until he turned around. She forgot how broad his shoulders were, and how tall he was compared to her. He felt so real tonight, so alive. Sherlock spun around. Something was different, not quite right. Her mouth was inches from his.

Clara stumbled back. She felt his breath on her face. No. No, no, no, no. Sherlock didn't breathe. In her memory his shoulders didn't rise up and down and his chest never expanded. Sure, he sighed, but Sherlock was the king of expressing distaste through exhales. It ran in the family. Clara swallowed. He was dead. She watched him fall. This was just her mind, playing tricks. Insanity was holding her tight. Only one way to tell. She knew only one way to surprise Sherlock Holmes. Because she was the only one to ever catch him off guard.

Clara marched forward and clasped his face, planting a hard kiss on his lips. It wasn't really a kiss. Sherlock went as still as stone. Clara couldn't tell. Was this just her? Her stupid, hopeless imagination. Clara snagged his bottom lip with her teeth and bit down. Hard.

Sherlock groaned indignantly, his body shifting. Clara stepped back, the room swirling. She tasted blood in her mouth, bitter and coppery. She touched her lips. It wasn't hers. "Sherlock?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"You didn't have to bite me," he grumbled, wiping the blood from his mouth. "People don't usually bite other people!"

"You can't be..." Clara trailed off. Her eyes were large frightened orbs and her lips parted in surprise.

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly. "Not dead, okay?" A line appeared between his brow. "Really, Clara? Is this what you do now? Biting people - Christ, it's rather barbaric don't you think?"

"You're real. Actually properly real?" It was if the whole apartment fell away and it was just her and Sherlock - the real Sherlock.

"Yes, didn't I just say that? Oh and, two years and you're still imagining me. I'm quite um," he tilted his head, "Touched, I guess."

Two years. Yes, two years. Neurons were zipping around in her brain like firecrackers. It felt like the black and white world had just popped back into colour. Clara frowned, anger rising in her stomach like a tidal wave. "You pretended to be dead for two bloody years?!" Her hands clenched into fists. "And not a word or a sign from you?"

"Well, when I was on the rooftop, Moria-"

"SHUT UP!" She shrieked. Tears dripped over her lashes but they weren't sad ones, no, hot angry droplets splashed on the carpet. She didn't care about Moriarty or what went through Sherlock's brain that day. She didn't care about what smart excuse he had. She picked up her wine glass and threw it at his head. He dodged and it smashed on the wall. The liquid splattered like diluted blood."TWO WHOLE YEARS!" She grabbed a magazine and lobbed it at him. "I GRIEVED FOR YOU," a hardback novel caught him in the shoulder, "I was over you, Sherlock bloody Holmes," she seethed, grinding her teeth.

"Well since my memory was still keeping you company for twenty four months, I beg to differ," he replied snarkily. She didn't so much as quirk her lips in amusement. He softened, eyes becoming desperate. "I'm sorry."

"Not good enough," she hissed, her voice as hollow as death itself.

"I apologised - isn't that what people are supposed to do?"

Clara raised an eyebrow, shards of rage scattered in her eyes. That's it, Cheekbones.

.

"How do you think she's taking it?" Mary wondered aloud, looking up the building where Clara's flat was.

John shrugged. "I doubt she'd...blimey!" A flower pot exploded through the window and smashed on the empty road. Thank goodness there were no pedestrians. John swallowed, hearing Clara's raging voice from the ground.

"Do you think we should go and referee?" Mary asked, clearly concerned.

John shook his head, "No, no, I think Sherlock can um, handle this."

Sherlock obviously couldn't because they heard his loud deep voice yell: "Clara for God's sake, not the cutlery."

Mary smiled, dimples forming in her cheeks. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"I just hope she got him with the plant," he answered, chuckling. God, John wished he got to throw a flower pot at Sherlock's head.

A few minutes later, Sherlock came stumbling down, dirt on his coat and a scratch on his face. His lip was caked in dried blood. "Well, that didn't go well," he muttered, wincing as he dabbed the slice in his cheek.

"Did you ever think it would?" John snapped, crossing his arms.

"John, John, why don't you go and talk to Clara and I'll try and..." she gestured at Sherlock.

"Yeah, yeah okay." He took the stairs, taking two at a time. Anything to avoid facing Sherlock. "Clara?" he pushed the door open slowly.

She was sitting on her couch, glass littering the windowsill and magazines sprawled on the floor like dead birds. "It's true, isn't it?" she asked, as if she already doubted it. Like it was some dream.

"Yeah," John coughed, sitting down beside her. "Bastard."

"I got him with the plant," she murmured.

John smiled, hugging her with one arm. "Good."

.

Sherlock was grouchy after his groundbreaking alive-ness. And it wasn't because Mrs Hudson kept on loitering at the door (she could hardly believe it!) or Lestrade was dumping all these insultingly easy cases on him. No, no, no, it wasn't even John, who deferred his visits to spend more time with Mary.

Clara wasn't speaking to him.

And it was a major problem.

The jealousy Irene spiked between them had left their whole relationship in tatters. This was worse. Much worse. She blatantly refused to acknowledge his existence. She avoided him like the plague. Even Mycroft couldn't get through to her. Every case Sherlock attempted had not a dash of Clara's involvement - clients were left in tears, police officers were infuriated by the surly detective and Mrs Hudson was at the tipping point with Sherlock's rages and early morning firing practice. "Just go and see her!" Lestrade exclaimed, hitting his own forehead with a case file. "You're turning everybody mad!"

"Clara will come," Sherlock muttered, his jaw clamped down.

"No she bloody won't," Lestrade laughed, breathlessly, angrily. "She was devastated when you upped and jumped off the rooftop - there's no way she'll reach out to you. So get off your high horse and go and see her!" A vein was pulsing in Lestrade's temple as he yelled at Sherlock. "I was there, she didn't leave her house for weeks. She stopped talking to everybody - even John. No more drinks with Molly, no more chats with Mrs Hudson. Clara turned into a bloody ghost. So be a bit less of a dick and a bit more of a man."

Sherlock sniffed, looking away. "I thought you had a case for me."

"Yeah, I do," he stalked towards the door. "Clara Oswald is your case."

Sherlock slapped the arm rest as Lestrade's footsteps thundered down the stairs. Christ. Sherlock sighed, shrugging on his coat. Taking advice from a divorced man. Definitely reliable.

Clara's flat was on the opposite side of London. Sherlock wished she would come back to Baker Street. It was so much more convenient. "Clara!" His knuckles rapped on the door impatiently. "Clara, it's me - I want to talk." Nothing answered him even though he could hear the faint creaking of footsteps inside. Too light for a man, too heavy for a child. The science didn't matter: he knew the sound of Clara's footsteps better than his own. "If you don't open this door I'm breaking it down." Sherlock waited ten seconds before he stepped back and slammed his shoulder into the wood. Mycroft would pay for a replacement. It cracked under his weight and he fell through into the foyer. He brushed the splinters off his coat.

She was standing in the middle of the room. Sherlock couldn't see her face. She was holding something but he couldn't see. "Clara, look, Lestrade wants me to apologise, again," He spoke the words distastefully. They felt all wrong and human in his mouth. "I want to talk to you again," he said and it was true. He missed her being around him. Clara was never the same in his mind - she was too predictable and boring. The real Clara was impossible in everything. He missed the smell of burnt soufflés and her horrible cat. He missed her selflessness, her determination, her laugh. Every time a soufflé came out of the oven, burnt black and collapsing like a broken circus tent, she would sigh angrily and curse herself. The next week it would happen all over again. Yet she never, ever gave in. Despite this, Sherlock missed how she surprised him. At the Baskerville Laboratory she strutted about in agonizingly high heels baffling the corporals and other scientists. She stabbed a cluedo board to the wall at Baker Street, she faced Moriarty with an empty hand of cards and fooled them all. Her gumption would outlast humankind.

"Clara, I'm sorry. I-" Sherlock swallowed thickly. A ball of words was stuck in his throat.

Clara turned around. Sherlock frowned, his eyes flickering with surprise.

Her lips were bright red and her hair pulled back sharply into a tiny ponytail. His eyes travelled down her body; clothes she wore to the school, she looked professional, in charge. She was holding a gun. Clara turned a smooth black Glock around in her palm, considering Sherlock with polite thoughtfulness. "Hello Sherlock," she said, the words chilling him to the bone. She spoke his name like it was the first time she had said it. Clara didn't talk like that, she wasn't cold nor cruel. A line appeared between his brows. Usually every word was full of emotion and her blunt determination. "Clara's dead."

Sherlock shook his head, frowning. She couldn't be dead - she was standing right in front of him. He froze when she raised the gun, clicking off the safety. "My name is Bonnie. Goodbye." A shiver glossed down his spine. Sherlock took in her eyes, the same chocolate brown but without the sweet tenderness, her feet set apart - ready for anything, the same lips she had pressed on his countless times. Now they were downturned, flat with her expression. Sherlock didn't have time to breathe, to figure out this new Clara, this Bonnie. One more second, just one more, one more moment - please! She pulled the trigger.