You walked into your new flat in London, dragging the last box up the stairs and into your home. 221A Baker Street. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was very sweet, and the building was in good condition. You hadn't met or even seen your new neighbors yet, so you planned on doing so after supper.

  You set the box down with the others that need to be unpacked, and decided now would be a good time for a break and a bite to eat. You walk back down the stairs and out the door. Turning right, you walk into the building next door, 'Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Cafe'. You order a sandwich and sit down in a booth.

  "Y/N?" you hear a deep voice from behind you say.

  "Yes?" you answer, turning to see a tall man behind you. He has lovely bright eyes, dark curly hair and a big smile on his face. He seemed familiar to you...

  "Y/N, it is you!" he grinned. His dimples appeared and you suddenly recognized him.

  "Sherlock Holmes, is that you?!" you beamed up at him. You and Sherlock were best friends as children, both of you a bit socially awkward, you instantly bonded.

  His smile widened. "Mind if I sit with you?" he asks.

  "Oh, of course. Go ahead," you reply. "Gosh, how long has it been?" you ask.

  "Seventeen years," he answers, sitting in the booth across from you. "I believe it was January of nineteen-ninety-five. I was sixteen, you were fifteen. It was the day after that God awful birthday party my parents threw for me," he continues.

  "It wasn't that bad," you chuckle. "Although, Mycroft's present was a bit disturbing. The book 'One Thousand Ways to Die at Sea', I recall," you add.

  "Actually that ended up being one of my favorite books," he says. "It's actually helped a lot with solving cases."

  "Oh, right. You're a famous detective now, aren't you?"

  "Consulting detective for Scotland Yard. I do my own private jobs as well, taking cases from clients," he explains. "You're a writer now, correct?"

  "Yes, actually. I write--"

  "Childrens novels, I know," he interrupts.

  "Don't try to deduce me, Mr. Holmes."

  "Too late," he says, grinning. "So, you've recently moved to London, yes?"

  "Right next door, actually. 221A Baker Street."

  "So I guess we're going to be neighbors. I live in 221B," he explains.

  "Wonderful," you say, smiling back at him.

  After you've both finished eating, you walk back into your flat. Sherlock walked behind you, up the stairs and followed you through your door.

  "Would you like help unpacking?"

  "Yes, that'd be nice. Thank you, Sherlock."

  Over the next few weeks, you had quickly reconnected with Sherlock, and had become good friends with his flatmate, Doctor John Watson. Unexpectedly for you, your feelings for the dashing detective found their way back. You had always had a bit of a crush on Sherlock growing up, but you had never told him. At first you tried to ignore or deny these feelings, but you knew it was no use. You also knew that even if Sherlock knew, it wouldn't matter, because he could never reciprocate your love for him.

  You were eating out for diner, when you received a call from a sobbing Doctor Watson. He sounded like he couldn't breathe and he was definitely crying.

  "John? John what's happened? Are you alright?" you ask.

  "Y/N... Y/N, it-it's ab-bout Sh-sherl-lock," John stammers.

  "John, calm down. What about Sherlock?"

  "He's... he's gone," he says.

  "Gone? Where did he go?" you ask, oblivious.

  "N-no, Y/N... Sherlock... Sherlock is dead. He jumped off the top of Saint Bart's. He's dead, Y/N, he's dead."

  Your eyes widen and you feel your blood run cold. Your face pales as you stand from your seat in the dinner. "I'm on my way," you nearly wisper as you quickly walk out the door. You felt strange, like you were about to throw up. You hail a taxi, and tears stream down your face. 'No. This can't be happening,' you think frantically.

  The cab pulls up at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, and you see John pacing in front of the doors. His face softens slightly at the sight of your tear-stained cheeks.

  "Y/N..."

  You stop in your tracks when you see blood stained on the sidewalk in front of you.

  "Is that where he..." you ask, trailing off mid-sentence.

  "Y-yes," John replies.

  "Why?" was all you could manage.

  "I don't know, Y/N. I don't know."

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

*Two Years Later*

  You're lying in your bed, fast asleep, when your phone starts to ring. 'I'll check it in the moring,' you think. You shift under your covers, and finally start to get comfortable, and the phone starts ringing again. You ignore it, hoping whoever was calling you would give up. They didn't. The third time the phone rang, you roll over on your side and reach for your cell. It was John. were surprised. You and John hadn't talked in almost a year. You rub some of the sleep out of your eyes and press the 'Answer' button.

  "What in the world is so important, John? It's three in the morning," you complain, annoyed and tired.

  "Have you talked to him yet?" John asks.

  "Who?" you reply, very confused.

  "Have you not seen the news recently? I would've thought he'd come to you by now. It's nearly been a week."

  "A week since what? John, what in the world are you talking about?" you

  "Nevermind. He'll probably want to tell you himself," he mutters.

  "Who?" you repeat.

  "Sorry for bothering you this early, Y/N. I'll talk to you later. Bye," he says, hanging up the phone.

  "John?" You scoff and put your phone down on the nightstand. 'I'll figure it out in the morning,' you think, curling up into your covers again.

  You wake up and get ready for work. You'd given up on writing after the fall, finding you were not happy after Sherlock was gone. You were now working at a café and had you left early in the morning. You didn't talk with Mrs. Hudson as much and John had moved out.

  You were about to walk down the stairs when you noticed the door to 221B was open, and voices were coming from inside. 'Maybe Mrs. Hudson is finally renting it out,' you think. You curiously walk over to the door and peer inside. You nearly collapse from shock when you see the last person you ever expected.

  "Sherlock?" you ask, not believing your own eyes. Surely you were imagining things.

  "Ah, yes, Y/N, hello," he replies, as if he'd been there all along.

  "You- you're- you can't be... You're dead," you stammer. He made his way across the room to face you, and you took a small step back from him.

  "Nope. I assure you I am not. I checked. It was a necessary rouse to bring down Moriarty's organization, very top secret," he explains, like he had done nothing wrong. He takes another step forward and peers down at you.

  You were beyond furious at this point, and without even thinking, you swung at him. All the pent up anger and heartbreak you've felt in the past two years surged through your arm and your right fist connected with his nose.

  "'A necessary rouse'!?" you yell. "Is that what you're calling this, Sherlock!? I thought you were dead!"

  "Well, I'm not. Everything's fine. There's no reason to be angry, Y/N," he replies, pinching the bridge of his nose. A small bit of blood dripped onto his face where you had punched him. He grins a bit after thinking for a moment.

  "Is this funny to you?" you ask in disbelief and shock.

  "No, no. It's just... you punch harder than John," he chuckles. He looks down at you and releases his nose. Noting how upset you were, he composed a straight face before saying, "I'm sorry. I should've told you, I just didn't want you in the middle of this, Y/N. I... I've missed you."

  You stand there for a minute before finally giving in and hugging him around his middle.

  "I've missed you too, Sherlock."

  He was stiff at first and then wrapped his arms around you as well, relaxing at your touch.

  "I shouldn't have left you like that, Y/N. I regreted not telling you over a million things while I was gone... I should have been honest... I thought of you every day..." Sherlock sighs.

  "So tell me now," you murmur, pulling away from the hug. He watches you with a tender look and starts to smile. "Promise you won't punch me again?" he jokes.

  "I promise," you giggle.

  "I love you."

  You feel like your heart has stopped as you gaze at the tall man in front of you. The extremely gorgeous man with cute curly hair and adorable dimples. Arguably the greatest detective in the entire world. The only man you ever truly loved. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes has just told you he loves you.

  "What?" you whisper in disbelief. 'This must be a dream,' you think. Your voice was barely audible as you question what he has just said to you.

  "I love you, Y/N," Sherlock repeats. His words hold nothing but truth, as he gazes down at you with affection.

  "I... I love you too," you confess, your face breaking into a smile. "Always have," you add.

  Without warning, Sherlock slowly closes the distance between the two of you and cups your face in his large hands. He leans forward and presses his lips slowly against yours. You lean into him, deepening the kiss, and wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him closer to you. Every tear, every sob, every heartbroken moment of the past two years was forgotten as he kissed you passionately.

  Sherlock slowly pulls away from the kiss and smiles down at you tenderly. "Does that mean I'm forgiven?" he asks with a smirk.

  "Oh, I'm still angry..." you admit, "but I do forgive you."

  "Good. I love you," he says again.

  "I love you too, Mr. Holmes," you chuckle, before pulling him in for another kiss.