AN - Well, I'm trying to catch up. Here's the next one!

Day 4 – Childhood Memories

Sherlock had been residing (hiding out) at 221B Baker Street for three days before Mycroft finally saw fit to reintroduce his brother to the public. For three days Sherlock stayed hidden away in his flat, without any word from John, while Mycroft went about putting the final touches on the information that would be given to the press. Sherlock wasn't surprised; Mycroft had always needed to do things in his own time, in his own way, and with little to no input from his younger brother. It was just as infuriating now as it had been when they were children, but to be honest, Sherlock was a little tired from his travels. He had slept rarely and meals had been few and far between. His body was drained and his mind exhausted. As annoying at Sherlock found Mycroft's need to have every little detail of Sherlock's return hashed out, organized, and notarized there was a small (miniscule really) part of the consulting detective that was thankful that he could just spend some time lounging on his sofa while Mrs. Hudson brought him biscuits and tea every hour.

The only real fly in Sherlock's ointment was that it was supposed to be John plying him with tea and biscuits, and possibly eggs made only the way John could, not Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock had tried texting John once or twice (truthfully it was one text every thirty minutes except between the hours of midnight and five am -Sherlock remembered how John said that he needed at least five hours of sleep a night-) and he had even called the man. Sherlock hated to call; he far preferred to text. But did John have the decency to answer his call or respond to any of the texts? Not hardly. It was a really frustrating situation.

Sherlock had spent his first full day back in his flat sleeping. It took him a little while to get comfortable though. He had started out on the sofa but the once pliant cushions seemed to have hardened up a bit in his absence. He had then slouched into his old bedroom. Mrs. Hudson had insisted on putting a clean set of linens on the bed for him (hers since his were in a box somewhere probably not marked with a skull) and Sherlock had found the soft, pink sheets printed with tiny roses to be beyond abhorrent and he had slammed the door on them. Sherlock tried each of the armchairs but they were both a touch too dusty. The kitchen table was laden with boxes. The floor had not been hoovered in quite some time, not that Sherlock had ever hoovered the floor before his tumble off of St. Barts.

He finally found comfort upstairs in John's old bed. There were no sheets or pillows so he curled simply on his side with his arms tucked up under his cheek on the bare mattress. It was foolish but he thought that he could still smell a hint of John on it.

John's lingering scent of tea and pine was the only thing that the good doctor seemed to have left of himself in the flat.

On the second day Sherlock started to unpack his belongings. He had never been exactly prone to putting things away so every surface that had previously been bare was now heaped with books, papers, and lab equipment. The empty boxes he threw down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson complained about the mess when she brought him groceries from Tesco but grudgingly broke down the cardboard and put it out in the bins. Sherlock poked through the bags that she had brought with her. There were eggs, tea, jam, and bread. It was exactly what John had bought the first time he brought home groceries.

It had been the morning after the cabbie affair. They had eaten Chinese food and then slunk back to 221B, John was too exhausted to go home to his bedsit and he had collapsed on the sofa. In the morning Sherlock had woken to John's complaining about the sheer lack of food. He had left the flat without a word to the detective and Sherlock had thought, really and truly thought that he wasn't going to come back. Dr. Watson would run across the rooftops of London with him, examine corpses, and shoot a stranger dead for him, but Sherlock's lack of tea, toast, and jam was simply a bridge too far for the poor man. Sherlock had felt oddly melancholy but had figured that it was better to get it over and done with rather than get settled and then have John leave.

But John had come back, of course, and bearing a Tesco's bag containing not only the reverential tea, toast, and jam combination but also eggs. Then John had found a semi clean pan and proceeded to make Sherlock breakfast and then actually made Sherlock eat it.

Sherlock frowned at Mrs. Hudson's offering; he didn't want eggs, tea, jam, and toast if John wasn't there to make him eat it. He shoved the entire bag into the barren fridge.

On the third day Sherlock had finished emptying the boxes and discovered that his skull and violin were missing. He shouted for Mrs. Hudson but she had no idea where they might have gotten to. He texted Mycroft but received no immediate response. Sherlock was almost panicking when he texted John, far sooner than his next scheduled texting time.

Do you have my skull? – SH

Do you have my violin? – SH

John, for god sakes answer me. – SH

I will be abandoning the safety of 221B, despite the British Government's direct orders to stay here, and will descend upon your very busy place of employment if you do not respond to me. – SH

Calm down, Sherlock, I'll have to check when I get home. They probably got mixed in with my things. I'll find them and courier them over. – JW

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, John had obviously taken his skull and violin; people did sentimental things like that. He had brought so few belongings into the flat and had taken so little out that there was no possible way he had mistakenly taken along Sherlock's skull and violin. If he had left them, and someone else had taken them, he would have said so. John knew how important the violin and skull were to Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled and flipped his phone in the air, everything was starting to come together, he was in his flat, soon he wouldn't be dead and he could start working on cases again, John had finally responded to him and would be bringing him his belongings. John would be coming back home like he was supposed to be.

Sherlock's fingers twitched and he almost dropped his phone. John had not said that he was coming over. John had clearly said that he would use a courier. Sherlock read the message again, again, and again until the words blurred and his eyes began to hurt. John was not coming to the flat.

This was proving to be more difficult than he had expected.

On the fourth morning Mycroft arrived early with a lovely, tailored suit in dark charcoal grey. He also carried an exact replica of Sherlock's much beloved coat. He refrained from commenting on the state of the flat but his disapproval was apparent. Sherlock scowled at him from his spot on the sofa and did not speak.

Mycroft sighed and held out the suit, "Come along little brother, we're on the eve of your resurrection and you'll want to be dressed."