Author's notes:

This is set immediately after SH2, so, obvious spoilers alert and you pretty much need to have seen it to know all of what's going on.

This is my take on how Watson would deal with Holmes' return in the characterization of the movies and the 'bromance' they've got going on –with a bit more emotion than either of them really show but … Holmes has pretty much come back from the dead, so I feel that the break in their emotional walls is warranted.

I don't normally care for first person perspective, but as I've been reading the original Sherlock Holmes stories, I wanted to write this like one of them and made it from Watson's perspective and tried to imitate how he writes in those original stories as well. For an American girl, I think my first shot at writing from the perspective of a middle aged London man in 1891 turned out pretty well lol. I probably could have used a few more archaic words though.

I haven't read "The Empty House" yet but even if there's stuff in that story that contradicts this I probably won't change it anyway since I'm basing the actual story off the movies more anyway.

This is made to be like an entry of Watson's journal rather than one of the stories he would publish, so it doesn't skip on the details he'd rather other people didn't know.

The day Sherlock Holmes returned from the dead to live his secret afterlife at Baker Street will forever be one of the most trying days of my existence - compared only to the weariness brought about by hanging on the precipice of death myself.

I was just finishing up the last page of what I thought at the time was to be the last adventure of the great detective when Mary brought me the post and a curious package along with it. Thanking her, we exchanged a few words before she left my study.

Upon opening the unexpected parcel I found the very same oxygen device that my good friend was fiddling with not a few days before his tumble into Reichenbach Falls with the devious Professor Moriarty. It was all I could do to calmly leave my study and ask my wife who it was that had delivered it. Try as I might, I could not completely keep the hope and excitement out of my voice, to which she obviously took notice of, but answered my query first.

"Why, yes John. It was our usual courier. Whatever is the matter?"

I shook my head, not wanting to worry her with my hope. No doubt she would think me mad for believing Holmes had come back from beyond the grave. "We'll speak of it later. When was he here? I must find him and ask him something first."

She did not appear pleased by my refusal to divulge anything yet, but she dutifully answered me without complaint. "He came not ten minutes ago. I would have brought the parcel to you sooner but I was finishing up preparing tea."

I kissed her on the forehead and grabbing my walking stick, was out the front door as quick as if the Reaper himself were on my heels, promising to return as soon as possible as I left.

I had not even bothered with my hat and overcoat and I barely used my stick despite the pain in my old injured leg and the wounds that had yet to completely heal from the last great adventure with Sherlock Holmes some few weeks prior.

Despite the handicaps against me, I caught the courier two streets down from my residence and asked of him some inquiries. I was disheartened to learn that he received the package just as any other and there was nothing odd or suspicious about how the box came into his care before being delivered to me.

Walking back home with a slow step, I thought to myself a bit. I didn't bother looking at the return address. Perhaps, Mycroft Holmes had sent it to me for some reason. He was just as eccentric and difficult to understand in his actions as my friend.

With a heavy heart, I berated myself for entertaining hope that Holmes could still be alive. Such fantastical ideas were a pipe dream - there was surely no way a man as injured as he could have survived such a fall into frigid waters, with or without a means for air.

Upon my return home, I found that Mrs. Hudson had arrived for Gladstone. She and Mary were drinking tea in the sitting room and I overheard my former landlady confess that she feared she was going senile.

"I worry for my mind. Perhaps I might soon ask your husband the good doctor for medication to aid me. I keep finding all manner of things not where I last remembered them to be and I hear noises in the house, though I know I am the only resident at Baker Street now that I've removed those dreadful animals." She gave a small, grudgingly fond laugh, "Perhaps Mr. Holmes is haunting me from the afterlife. It shan't surprise me much if he were. Tormenting me so had always seemed one of his favorite hobbies. It would be quite a natural thing indeed for his specter to resume his pastime."

I stopped in the hall upon hearing this, trying not to let my hope run rampant yet again while I listened to my wife sooth Mrs. Hudson and assure her that she must just be under too much stress and grief.

Though she may have always complained about Holmes, it had been quite clear for some time to Mary and I that the elderly landlady did in fact have an attachment to the detective, just as a woman her age might feel for an unruly, miscreant son.

Deciding to delay announcing my return, I went back into my study to examine the package which had started the urge to be hopeful of my friend's return at every unusual bit of information to present itself. Surely I would find that Mycroft had sent the package, I would ask him of it, and then I would be again without a doubt that my dearest friend was dead and gone.

That thought alone hurt more than what I felt while sitting by myself in the corner of his memorial service.

Leaning against the door frame to my study and staring intently at the floor with an overwhelming pain in my chest, it suddenly occurred to me that I had yet to truly grieve for my friend's passing. I realized that until that moment, I had been living in a state of shock and denial that had lasted far longer than it naturally should, thanks to the incredible events in the days that lead up to the moment that Holmes looked straight into my eyes before hurling himself and Moriarty to their deaths into the falls in Switzerland.

I took a deep breath and reached a hand up to wipe a tear that was threatening to spill from my eye and let out a humorless, shaky laugh. Holmes would find it a fine thing indeed to know that I'd waited until hours before my second attempt at my honeymoon with my wife that I should finally give into grief for his loss. The selfish bastard.

Sighing, without having even moved into my study past the door frame, I returned to the sitting room to speak with Mary. She could tell that something was wrong and we excused ourselves to the kitchen to converse, leaving Mrs. Hudson in the sitting room to enjoy her tea.

At my request to postpone our honeymoon another few days, my wife gave a tired but understanding sigh. She told me how she had been expecting this from me as she had been with me every day since my return to London and noticed that I had yet to deal with my loss. She had hugged me comfortingly and told me to take as much time as I needed to feel better and when I was ready we would have a joyous trip with nothing to trouble either of us from our twice postponed honeymoon.

I thanked her gratefully and told her how lucky a man I was to marry such a wonderful woman as she, before embracing her and returning once more to my study as she had offered to make the arrangements for our change in plans to give me some time to myself.

Once again entering my study, this time I shut the door against the outside world and those who might disturb my solitude. I promptly sat down in my desk chair and without looking at anything past the gray tunnel vision that my eyes seemed to then be the only thing capable of seeing, I put my elbows on the writing surface and my palms over my eyes to try and will away the onslaught of emotion I had been keeping at bay through barely concealed apathy since the night of the peace summit.

As a soldier of war, I had lost many friends, seen many horrific deaths and had long since fancied myself strong enough not to succumb to the overwhelming sadness and grief I felt whilst sitting at my desk, in front of the last page still in my typewriter of the last adventure I would ever share with the man I shall always regard as my most cherished of friends. My brother in bond. Sherlock Holmes.

That thought made my sorrow even harsher but it also gave me a distraction. There were dozens, if not hundreds of adventures and cases I had aided Holmes with that I had yet to write. They had stayed safely in my notebooks, not being typed in favor of the most compelling tales and my obligations to my medical practice.

I wiped my face clean with my handkerchief and steeled myself to my renewed task of telling the world of the exploits of the greatest detective to ever live.

Just as I was getting up to fetch my boxes of notes, I finally chanced a glance at the page still in my typewriter and had to promptly sit back down again for fear of my legs giving out from under me.

Beyond 'The End' which I had written not an hour previous, a question mark had been added as well as the following lines beneath it.

'You know where I will be.

Tell not a soul of this.

We have much to discuss.

S.H.'

I read the new lines not less than four times before frantically looking around the room for any signs that my friend had truly been there and that I wasn't just experiencing a rather realistic delusion or a cruel practical joke played on me by someone who had snuck into my home.

My eye landed on Gladstone in the corner of the room. I had not noticed his presence before and as terrible as it might sound, I was actually relieved and excited to find him lying unconscious. Around his collar was tied a note in familiar handwriting that read,

'No worries. He'll be right as rain in time for supper. In his excitement to see me I feared he would give away my presence to your household.'

Untying the note and shoving it in my pocket, I checked to be sure that my dog would indeed be fine and let out a laugh that would sound as though I were on the verge of madness to any unwary passersby.

I made my way out of the house in as hurried a fashion as before, only sparing enough time to grab my money purse, walking stick and overcoat and quickly telling my wife and Mrs. Hudson that I would be back later and not bothering to give any sort of explanation to my leaving so abruptly.

Outside, I hailed the first available hansom cab that I could see and demanded of the driver to take me to Baker Street with all due haste.

On the ride there, my mind and heart were all a whirl. I imagine that if someone were traveling with me, they would worry or laugh at the expressions I could feel constantly changing on my face without my consent. I was overjoyed, furious, and thoroughly confused, all the while still doubting my sanity – that perhaps there really were no notes, Gladstone was merely sleeping and I was suffering from a rather serious hallucination.

Pulling the handwritten note from my pocket, I stared at it intently, as if it held the very answers to the universe itself, until the cab arrived at our destination. Shoving the slip of paper back into my pocket, I left the carriage and paid the driver.

Bounding up the steps to 221B Baker Street, I didn't even bother knocking before trying the door. It was unlocked, as I felt it might be. Not even stopping to remove my overcoat, I hurried up the steps to Holmes' chambers and thrust open the door without so much as announcing my arrival. A deaf man would have heard my ruckus from clambering up the stair anyway.

Though I had hoped and had convinced myself that I might witness such a sight, nothing could prepare me for seeing Sherlock Holmes sitting in his usual chair, apparently expecting my arrival and languidly smoking his pipe. He casually looked up at me with a smile, as if the reason for my presence were to tell him that Mrs. Hudson had prepared tea for us in the sitting room like I had done a thousand times before.

Holmes told me later that I had stood in the doorway with my mouth agape, looking for all the world a stricken fool for a good long while before I finally snapped out of my stupor. To his description I huffed in annoyance and countered his statement with 'How else does one look at his dearest friend who has risen from beyond the grave?'

Of course, that exchange wasn't until much later.

When I finally came out of my shock, Holmes stood in the middle of the room, having left his pipe on the table by his chair, and waited patiently for my reaction to his apparent resurrection, not speaking a word until he knew how I would take the information that he was still alive and well.

He was as astonished and shocked as I was when my feet carried me to him and my arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace without my conscious thought. Of course, I could not fully appreciate the incredibly rare look of surprise on his face before it faded into a look of guilt and shame as he returned my hug and awkwardly pat my back and tried to console me.

"I cannot tell you how very sorry I am for all of this my dear Watson. I have reasons for letting everyone believe I had not survived, but it was never my intent to cause you any discomfort – ah! I do apologize my dear fellow but could you lighten your grip just a tad?"

My hold on him had been steadily tightening, and consequently causing pain to his still injured shoulder, as I fought the war inside me to keep my rapidly spinning emotions in check. Unfortunately, his words made my last thread of control snap and I released him completely from my embrace to punch him in the face.

This seemed to be the reaction he was actually expecting of me and didn't even bother to block or dodge my fist. In a few hours, he would be sporting a fairly decent shiner on his right eye to match the one that was healing on his left.

I screamed at him, spouting off incoherent words of anger I only partly remember now. I yelled at him for being so foolhardy, for throwing himself over a balcony rather than waiting a few more seconds that I could help him fight Moriarty, I demanded to know why he didn't find me right away to tell me he had survived.

He kept silent through all of my rage, content to answer my questions when I was done yelling them at him. When his expression suddenly changed and looked full of even more guilt and self-loathing than it had before as he looked upon my face, I was horrified to realize that tears had begun streaming from my eyes.

I wiped at them furiously but despite my efforts, they would not stop coming. All the repressed grief from the past several weeks, the overwhelming anger at him for making me believe he had died and the complete relief at finding that he wasn't was just too much for me in that moment.

In an effort to save what was left of my dignity, I turned away from him and made my way through the indoor jungle of plants that was still in his rooms, going straight for where he kept his alcohol that was actually meant for human consumption. On my way, I removed my overcoat and roughly threw it in the corner of the floor angrily, not caring where it landed and then helped myself to a glass of his brandy without asking permission.

I downed one glass in a single gulp, trying to calm myself and poured another one and absently poured one for him as well, out of habit, if nothing else. I heard him clear his throat behind me, obviously trying to get passed the awkward moment we'd found ourselves in as much as I was.

"Would you care for a cigar old boy? Or perhaps some tea? I'd be happy to regale you of my adventurous return to England and answer your questions."

Having finally been able to stop the embarrassing flow of tears, I turned back around to see his still apologetic expression. In as many years as I have known Sherlock Holmes, I've never seen him wear such a face for more than a fleeting instant, and it was unnerving to me. Probably just as unnerving as it was for him to see my face that was no doubt adorned with red-rimmed eyes from my loss of control over my emotions.

That day of his return, neither of us had ever acted more out of character than what we had known each other to be from our countless years of friendship. With that thought in mind, it was disturbingly unsurprising that I felt a sickening twist in my stomach and an unrealistic panic that should he leave my sight to fetch tea that he might never return again – that the whole afternoon would turn out to be a fever dream and I would wake to find myself in bed next to my wife with a terrible sickness of some sort setting upon my mind.

Quietly pushing back those thoughts of terror, I shook my head and played it off, offering him the other glass of brandy instead as I walked up to him. "This should do just fine, but I will have a cigar if you don't mind."

He smirked in an obvious effort "Not at all." He took his glass from me and moved to retrieve his seldom used cigar case to offer. We both sat down in the chairs we usually occupied and he relit his pipe before offering to light my cigar.

Many minutes ticked by in a silence that was both awkward by the circumstances of it all and comfortable by the fact that we had sat together in those same chairs countless times before over the course of so many years. I believe that it was not lost on him that my fingers twitched to pick up the paper on the table to read out of customary habit.

Clearing his throat to start his story, Holmes chewed on his pipe absently and looked unseeingly out into the plant covered room.

"I suppose I should start by telling you why I let everyone believe I perished."

"That would be best."

"As you know, Moriarty had unknown legions of men working for him. I felt that it was very likely that some might have instructions to do away with me anyway if he were to die. And so I resolved to use my apparent death to my advantage. Why would any man who didn't have a personal grudge against me bother to even look for my body if they just assumed I was dead?"

"Why indeed?"

"Granted, if I had fallen over the falls by myself, I have no doubt that Moriarty would have searched for me until he had proof positive that I was no more amongst the living. Not to mention, even if I were dead he would have still –" Here he cut himself off and glanced at me quickly from the corner of his eye before looking away and clearing his throat. "Not that it matters. I am alive and with my return to London, I can plan accordingly for anything his remaining men or he himself might do and I can do so with the freedom of one whom the world believes to be dead."

I did not speak of the curious thought he left unfinished. Instead, cataloging it away to think on later and bring up the more pressing matter. "… You speak as though Moriarty might be alive as well."

"He very well might be. His body was never found. For all anyone knows, he could be as alive as I am and as much a secret threat as ever."

"Alright then. That being said, I understand your reasoning for letting everyone believe you'd perished, but why wait until now to tell me? Why make me believe you've been dead all this time Holmes?" My voice rose with each word, though I did well to keep myself under control for the moment.

He smoked his pipe for a moment before trying, and in a terrible attempt I might add, to change the subject, "My trip back to London was most interesting. I returned but a few days ago. Traveling without using my identity, and therefore my papers, is most taxing."

"Holmes."

"Yes, my dear Watson?"

To his question I merely stared at him intently, letting him know in no uncertain terms that I would not let the matter drop. Even if it came to a quarrel, I would get my answers.

Seeing just that in my gaze, he sighed tiredly and downed his brandy in one drink. Putting the glass down again on the table between us, he looked away and told me quietly, "I had not planned on letting you know that I yet lived at all my dear fellow."

At this, I instantly felt angered, hurt and betrayed, but I held my tongue as he glanced back at me, I could tell he was going to explain himself without my pushing for it.

"We have known each other for many years Watson. You know very well that I am a self concerned person. Even that which I do for others is based out of doing something for myself. Solving cases for clients is merely to give myself some brainwork to do, the fact that others benefit is just a perk for them. I conduct experiments and create inventions to aid mankind simply because they are challenging. The most obvious examples of my selfishness is my excessive use of mind altering substances that you yourself have berated me for several times over.

"So it should be no surprise that I should not be able to adhere to my plan the one time I try to be completely selfless. As always, the challenge for me was to place Moriarty behind bars, and should he escape from that, it would be a continued test for me. I cared not for the world affairs he would change. Such things are a trifle to me. However, when he promised to bring a creative end to you and your young wife… I could not let him live past that night, no matter what were to come of me, for I knew he would see to it as long as he lived."

This information made me feel sick. That attack on the train were to be the theme of the rest of my and Mary's lives had the deviously insane man lived. I wanted very much to say something to my dear friend, to tell him that he need not to have thrown himself from the balcony to insure Moriarty's demise - that there had to have been a better solution than putting himself in danger like that. However, as he seemed yet to conclude his thoughts I continued to wait for him to finish patiently.

"I had initially planned on returning here to London for the purpose of insuring that Moriarty's men left you and your wife alone. I do not know if perhaps they have orders to harm you in his absence like I suspect they do of me. Even now, I cannot guarantee you are not in potential danger. Though I resolved to keep you both from harm without knowing that I yet lived, my dedication to that plan dissolved almost the minute I returned to London.

"My decision to not let you know that I still lived was because I know that my mere presence disrupts the happy married life that you wish for Watson. – Don't you dare interrupt me." He scolded like a father to his son upon seeing my indignant expression and me opening my mouth to retort. "Let me finish my piece before you fly off the handle."

Seeing that I would remain silent, he nodded slightly to himself.

"As I was saying, I felt as though you would be much happier without me to drag you into trouble and danger. For you to be able to live a content life with Mary and raise a couple of ghastly overfed and spoiled children without worry of what my influence might do to them.

"However, when I returned to London, I found that a memorial service was to be held for me. How many people can say they attended their own funeral? So I returned here to Baker Street, have delighted in tormenting nanny these past few days with moving a few things about when she was absent, and the day of my service, I dressed in one of my best disguises to attend.

"By the way, I did not expect such a fond remembrance spoken from Lestrade. It was quite touching and surprisingly well spoken, perhaps I shouldn't have always given him such a difficult time." He grinned cheekily but upon seeing I was not amused he pressed on. "Right then."

He chewed on the end of his pipe for a bit and took some effort to continue. "I had planned on staying here at Baker Street only long enough to rest, and then follow you on your trip to Brighton to insure you were in no danger – again. However… seeing you at my service and hearing your eulogy for me… my decision began to waver."

I could not hold my tongue this time and I asked with a twist of spite to conceal the hurt I had been feeling during his explanations, "You heard me give your eulogy? No doubt it made you feel all the more self-absorbed. The things I said were not meant for you to hear Holmes."

He released a humorless laugh and gave me a small smile, "On the contrary Watson, and that is the most peculiar thing, I did not feel narcissistic hearing your opinion of me – perhaps reading your tales of our adventures has made me immune to your flattering words of me meant for others to hear." His brows furrowed in distress for a moment before he looked away from me again, "In fact, hearing the eulogy you had written only made me feel ill. Not in any of the things you said but in the way you spoke them. It felt to me as though I had enacted the greatest of sins that would cause you to behave so unlike yourself.

"Though I know you and your wife's lives would be safer, should you believe me to be dead, it is with a selfishness that even I am ashamed of, that after several days of contemplation I decided to tell you of my survival so as to relieve the utter guilt I feel at making you mourn a man who is not dead."

I believe he expected another blow to come from me because he removed his pipe from his mouth and placed it on the table, wholly out of the way of any attack I might bestow upon him.

Instead of doing as he expected, I let out an exasperated and tired sigh and rubbed my temples.

"You're right. You are selfish."

Barely noticeably, he bowed his head minutely in the shame he no doubt felt and waited for me to continue, still seeming to expect a tirade from me.

"To remove your presence from my life to begin with, for any reason, even if it is for my own good, is entirely selfish Holmes."

One of his eyebrows shot up in confusion and he turned to look at me.

"You yourself claimed that I am terrified of a life without the macabre. While that may or may not be true, I am by far, more terrified of a life without my most cherished friend." I gave him a reassuring smile to ease his mind for he was sporting a rare look of confusion.

"I know that human interaction is actually one of the few subjects you struggle to understand Holmes. Just know that… life without you, despite the dangers you bring and throw me into, is not worth living a hundred lifetimes of guaranteed safety and marital bliss."

I chuckled in good humor at the shocked look on his face and patted his knee since his shoulder was still so injured, "You seem surprised by my opinion of the matter."

"I – yes, quite." He seemed to shake himself out and retrieved his pipe to smoke once more since it seemed to him that I would not be striking him again. He looked lost in thought for a few moments before speaking once more.

"You know, I had always told you that I knew you would find a quiet life not to your liking, but it wasn't until our recent adventures abroad that I began to believe that perhaps it truly was what you wanted as you have always claimed." He smiled to himself, "Perhaps my temporary death in that railcar damaged my mind and caused me to believe that killing myself and Moriarty was the best thing possible for everyone."

I grinned and shook my head fondly, "If that's your way of making an excuse for your lapse in intelligence… I'll buy it just this one time. However, the next time you do something as epically dim-witted as everything that occurred after you left my side to confront Moriarty was, I reserve the right to criticize the genius Sherlock Holmes for his unbelievable stupidity."

With that statement, we easily slid back into our old ways and Holmes laughed heartily with that slight tint of eccentricity of his. "And you would have the right to do so my dear Watson. Though I have no further plans that might give you reason to."

"Good."

When our laughter subsided, I picked up the paper to read and he smoked his pipe just as normally as we had countless times before.

"Whatever the rest of your plans are, you will have to at least inform Mrs. Hudson of your continued existence if you are to keep living here."

"All in due time. Nanny can't possibly find a replacement lodger all too swiftly. I shall give myself the gift of playing haunted house with her for a few more days." His grin was barely short of being maniacal.

"Just don't give her a heart attack."

"And what fun is there left to be had around Baker Street if nanny were to pass on?"

"If that's your method of asking me to visit, you can already rest assured that I will call on you now that you've come back from the dead. However, you could have just asked like a normal person."

"My dear fellow, why should I ever have to resort to 'normal' when you understand me so well just as I am?"

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