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The motorcycle buzzed down the streets of London, it's rider attracted as much attention as a a bug.

Her face was hidden from view, but strands of her red and streaked blonde hair hung from under her helmet.

Megan swiftly turned on to Baker Street, skidding to a stop outside of 221. She sighed, thinking back to when Sherlock was still there, upstairs, experimenting or shooting bullets at the wall.

It had been two years since his death, and Megan still didn't have a clue what they truly were to each other. Were they an item? We're they even friends? Most days, she felt like the third wheel of the famous Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

Dr. Watson was the reason she was back in England, after the past two years. She had traveled all around the world, mostly wasting time, and only stopping by to visit for only a few days. Only her best friend getting married could bring her back.

Megan took a deep breath, and stepped up the door, and knocked.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door a moment later, grinning madly. "Megan, dear! He did call you!"

Megan chuckled. "Of course he did. Why wouldn't he?"

The land lady ushered her in, fussing over everything, as usual. "You know how you-know-who is," she continued.

"He isn't Voldemort," Megan laughed, stepping away. Sure, John seemed flustered and irritated on the phone but not too terrible.

"Speak for yourself," Mrs. Hudson sighed, and pointed to the stairs. "He's right upstairs, Dear. Go on."

"He's in the flat?" Megan asked, surprised. "Shouldn't he-?"

"It's been hard," Mrs. Hudson sighed, looking upset. "Not everyone's as excited as we are, I'm afraid."

Stunned, Megan nodded, and began climbing the steps to 221 B. It wasn't until half way up that she heard it - a familiar tune, one she hadn't heard in a very long time. It was his tune, the one he composed the night before her first case.

What was John doing, searching through Sherlock's recordings?

Reaching the door, Megan didn't bother knocking. Technically, it wasn't John's flat anymore. If anything, it was hers. On weekends she visited, this is where she would stay. Mrs. Hudson refused to lease it, and insisted Megan stay there instead of a hotel.

"John Watson," she sighed, stepping inside, "what are you-"

Megan froze, staring at the man in front of her. His curly hair was a mess, and he wore a bathrobe. His violin rested under his chin, and Sherlock Holmes barely glanced up as the red head barged in. The microwave beeped in the kitchen, and Megan was strangely excited to think that there might be an experiment cooking.

"Oh, good," Sherlock nodded, beginning to play again. "I asked someone to hand me a pen an hour ago."

She stood there, slack jawed, her hand still on the door knob.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Surprise, not dead." He strummed the instrument. "Now, will you hand me a pen?"

"You... but... you jumped..." Megan fumbled for words, absently walking over to hand Sherlock the pen that was two steps away from the consulting detective. "You..."

"Yes, good to see you too." Sherlock took the pen, only to make a tiny mark on his page, and then threw it back. "Can you get the fingers out of the microwave for me?"

The woman snorted, and after she pulled the man into an embrace, she nodded. "Don't do that to me again," she whispered, still holding him tightly. "I nearly had a heart attack watching you fall."

Sherlcok was stiff under her touch, and awkwardly patted her back. "Right, well... the fingers."

Megan laughed, and let him go. As she made her way to the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson words came back to her.

Voldemort really wasn't too far off.