He had been warned. Or, rather, as much of a warning as Mycroft could give him for a man allergic to getting to the point. In light of the imminent attack on London and his rather rushed return, he may find 221b Baker Street to not quite be in the state he left it.

Two years. Seven hundred seventy days. Seventeen thousand five hundred and twenty hours. It seemed, despite his brother’s nature, Mycroft had gotten himself a goldfish of sorts, that much he had been able to deduce from the shifty eyes and clearing of his throat.

Dried blood caked his nostrils and upper lip as he pushed open the door to Baker Street. The scent of brewing tea and biscuits like a welcome reminder of home. He greeted Ms Hudson as if he had never left.

“Oh, you know - the one covering for you is just like you. Maybe a little more sociable.” A pat to his shoulder, a motherly smile before sending him upstairs.

He climbed the steps, doing little to avoid the creaking one before opening the door. Dusted - that was his first observation - but relatively unchanged. It seemed whomever Mycroft had gotten to fill his shoes in those two years understood this was not their home.

“You must be my replacement.”

His monotone voice hardly startled you, you’d been expecting him any moment. Mycroft had messaged you; your bag already packed and ready to head off to whatever assignment he was sending you on next - an all too happy goodbye already slipping from your lips when your phone dings.

’Change of plans. I need you to stay there; keep an eye on my brother. MH.’