Dead. That's what Sherlock thought, that's what Mycroft thought, and that's what you thought. That is, until you come home one day and find him waiting for you.

Your flat in London is small and cozy, perfect for one. It feels anything but that with the terrifyingly casual man sitting on your couch. He's lounging, a leg kicked up on his knee as he helps himself to snack he found in your pantry. He's a snake, still and in wait. When you walk in, jaw on the floor, he looks up.

"Hi again." He greets, shoving a biscuit in his mouth. Moriarty looks so unintimidating, lying there like an old friend. "Miss me?"

You did not.