I had prepared myself for two possible reactions from my friend when I revealed my continued existence to him. The first was the more preferable, that of a warm and eager welcome and quick return to the way things were before. The second possible response was far from preferable but was also completely justified. I allowed myself to hope for the first situation but the second situation, of Watson screaming at me and then throwing me out of both his practice and his life, haunted me. The response I actually received that April day was completely unsuspected, though it should not have been.

Watson is an incredibly passionate individual. His concern for others is as overwhelming as it is admirable. He is a man of deep feelings. I knew that I was causing him years of senseless emotional agony in my chosen course of action; I knew this because it was no easy time for me either. I say Watson is a man of deep feelings; I have always known this but the description did not truly resonate within me until the day I returned to him. It was only then that I realised exactly how much pain I had caused him.

The man I found in Kensington was not the man I had left in Switzerland. He was a man haunted. A man as ghostly as the spirits that kept him company. He wrote, he doctored, he assisted Lestrade when asked and that was all that was for him. Not even Mary had reached him from what I understood. Her sickness had been mercifully quick in killing her but Watson blamed himself for not noticing sooner. Two deaths, two important and devastating deaths that were far too close for such a devoted husband and friend to deal with alone. Lestrade had tried his best, but Watson had long ago shut himself away somewhere no one living could reach. Lestrade had been convinced, he'd told me later, that Watson was not long for this world himself. With the publication of "The Final Problem" Lestrade had been fully expecting a telegram inviting him to the good doctor's funeral. There was nothing and no one keeping him alive at this point. My arrival could not have been more timely, he assured me, and I shudder to think at what would have happened had events unfolded in another fashion.

I knew none of this. Nay, did not even consider any of this. All that mattered to me was securing my friend. He would be delighted to see me. I would make it dramatic and amusing and all would be well. I should have known I was shocking a man who could not afford another shock. I am forever surprised and grateful that he simply did not suffer a fatal heart attack right then and there.

Instead of reacting one of the two ways I had predicted, my brave Boswell proceeded to suffer some sort of psychotic episode. His eyes were fixed upon me but were not seeing me, or perhaps were seeing me all too well. His face was slack and vacant and his fingers twitched as his sides, as though he wanted to reach out to me but could not command his arms to complete the gesture. I raised a hand to take one of those stunned ones but he backed away from me with such vigour and with a truly terrifying hiss of "stay back" that I backed into the furthest corner of the room.

Watson, on the other hand, had backed into the bookcase and was still staring at me, just as emotionless as he had been before. "This is not real," he said with conviction. "This cannot be happening. This is not real. This cannot be happening." I stood there paralysed in horror as he continued to stare and continued to repeat those two sentences with increasing power and volume. I feared his maid would come down so it was more out of necessity than the horror of the thing that I traversed the room and slammed my hand across his mouth, muffling the ravings quite effectively. Quite effectively, that is, until my companion threw me off of him and then promptly left the room. I rushed out after him, grabbing my false beard and various accoutrements and hastily applying them along the way.

Watson headed out the door and hailed a cab. Thankfully he said the name of the local cemetery rather loud so I was able to follow. Unfortunately it took quite longer than usual to hail my own cab thanks to my gruff appearance. One irritated break of character and a pile of sovereigns later I found myself at that cemetery witnessing my dear Watson attempting to pry a concrete grave marker from the ground with his bare hands. A quick inspection revealed it to be my own.

I had deduced Watson would have done something of the sort. I'm surprised that Mycroft went along with it but there are sides to my brother that even I have been unable to discern. There were my name and dates and nothing else on the simple concrete slab. It was in a far corner of the cemetery, which was blessedly vacant of living persons other than ourselves, so as not to attract attention. London was an animated city but the sight of a half crazed man attempting to rip up a gravestone was something quite extraordinary. "You're here," he was whispering to the dirt. "I know you are…" the rest I could not hear, whether because my heart could not take it or because Watson's voice had lowered. I do not know, nor have ever asked, what he believed at that point. I would argue that he had somehow convinced himself, either through this current delusion or purposefully, that I was buried here. It was perfectly elementary. I knew Watson had tried in vain to bring my body back to England. Of course, there had been no body to find and my Watson had left Switzerland a twice broken man.

He needed to prove to himself that I was dead. That his friend could not have done this cruel thing to him. I had, though. I had knowing full well the effects but not taking the time to understand them. I saw but I did not observe.

I lowered myself to my knees and placed my own shaking hands overtop of Watson's. His fingertips were bloody and dirty with the futile effort, though he had managed to liberate a corner, but they finally stopped their grasping to lie still on top of the marker. "I am here," I told him. "Right here, with you, and alive. There is no body under that stone, just like there was no body at Reichenbach. I am here. Do you understand me?"

Watson said nothing and did nothing. There was a park nearby, I remembered. Perhaps getting him into a more open and lively atmosphere would be of use. I got him to his feet and guided him out of the cemetery and down the street to the park. No one paid us much attention. He appeared to be a gentleman supporting his limping, elderly, companion and nothing more. I found myself thankful for the anonymity of the city and for the general practice of its citizens to not look twice at seemingly normal events. As soon as we arrived at the park I settled him into the first empty bench I found and stood before him. Experimentally, I waved my hand in front of his face. Nothing.

I sat down next to him with a heavy sigh. "I owe you a thousand apologies," I murmured. "I had no idea you would be so affected."

No response to that. He continued to stare ahead of him. I might as well have not have been there at all. I moved closer to him and whispered directly into his ear. No one could overhear and I hoped that the proximity would help my words reach him. "I am sorry," I told him sincerely, perhaps overly sincerely for I was not sure if he could understand what I was saying. "I should have told you, but I did not. It was for my safety as well as for yours, but I should have told you nonetheless. I am really, dreadfully, sorry." I paused. "It is an...unspeakable thing to allow a friend to believe another friend is dead. It was truly vile of me, Watson, and I cannot expect you to forgive me but I ask for it nonetheless. I am so sorry, my dear chap."

I found myself unable to endure the silence. I took out my handkerchief and wiped the blood and dirt off Watson's right hand in an effort to distract myself. There was still no response. I called his name softly and shook him gently. Still nothing. The part of me that was still a consulting detective informed me that I had to get into position at Camden House soon. I could not afford delay or else Moran would get away and my three years of exile would be all for nought.

I would have to leave Watson behind. Again. If I did not leave, though, I would have to vanish again. Or else I would indeed leave him forever, and I highly doubted he would survive that. It was not ego speaking, the evidence spoke for itself.

I placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered into his ear. "I must go now, Watson. The game is afoot once again. If you come to yourself soon, old fellow, come find me at Camden House. I will be waiting for you there." I smiled. "I have done too long without your friendship and your assistance; I would call myself the luckiest man in the Empire if I could have both once more."

"Leave me."

I pretended I hadn't heard the harsh words but they seared through me nonetheless. I slipped some sovereigns into his pocket. I hoped he would come to me, he had always done so, and he had no money to pay for a second cab with him. It was perhaps a foolish gesture, for he showed no signs of coming to himself any time soon, but my Watson was a strong man. He was a several times broken man but yet he still drew breath. Many other men would not still be alive after all the hardships that had come upon him over the past three years. There was some fire still inside Watson yet, I knew. It was that fire that I relied upon.

That was, of course, assuming this unexpected reaction was not turning into the second possible reaction I had prepared myself for.

With a final squeeze on his shoulder I hobbled off to catch my own cab. There were few times that I set aside cases for personal reasons, but I wished furiously that it was possible for me to forget Moran and sit with Watson. I reminded myself that this needed to be done, for our sakes as much as for society's. Besides, Watson needed to be alone, he had said so himself.

That did not make leaving him there any easier.

- - -

I had stopped back at Watson's practice to fetch his service revolver. If Watson came at all he would come straight here, to this abandoned house where Moran will meet his match. The old bookseller was gone forever and it was Sherlock Holmes who waited in eager anticipation for the colonel and in a nervous one for the doctor.

Everything came back to the two eventualities. If Watson appeared at all it did not mean that all was well between us. It meant that he was doing his duty to society, to assist in the apprehension of a dangerous man. It did not mean he wished to be my partner again let alone my friend. I found myself wishing for his appearance in any case. Watson had obviously managed some sort of delusion to sustain him through his trials. I could do the same for the time we were here. Pretend he was here as he was in the old days and that nothing had changed.

A creak on the staircase thundered through the empty house and I poised myself in readiness. When the footsteps reached level ground, I recognized the step but I could not let myself hope. It was not until I saw Watson enter the room, wincing as the door creaked partially shut behind him, that I allowed a quiet sigh of relief to shudder through me. He started for a moment as his gaze reached the window and I realised my own stupidity. The bust! I should have told him about the bust! I called for him just as he was about to turn to leave.

He regarded me curiously for a moment; probably attempting to sort out which Holmes he had seen was real. Part of me burned for him to get out of the way and into the shadows with me. I did not want Moran seeing him, I did not want the plan ruined and I did not want Watson hurt. I could not rush him though. I had lost any rights to order him about three years ago so I extended a hand instead. It was his choice. He could refuse it or he could take it. He could forgive me or he could not.

He continued to stare at me; I was quite sick to death of seeing him stare at me like I was an apparition that would vanish if he spoke or moved. I saw the confusion in his eyes, the grasping reach of a man who was trying to remember something. It dawned on me: he needed to hear my apologies. A gesture would not be enough, never would be enough, and he clearly had not heard or did not remember my previous ones.

I do not know to this day what exactly I said to him. I know I most certainly repeated what I had told him in the park. I must have said other things, confessed something, for I refuse to believe that "I'm sorry" managed to bring him back to my side again. When I was finished it seemed an age before he took my arm and I felt warmth and life course through me anew. I had not touched my friend, not touched him as himself, in three years. I felt transported back in time. I felt as though those three dreadful years had never taken place and, I believe, so did he.

When he was by my side I passed him his service revolver. "Here. Just in case," I told him. It felt exhilarating to once again trust my safety to him. I had been working alone far too long, it was wondrous to have Watson at my side once more.

No. It was wondrous to be at Watson's side once more. I owed him far more than whatever apologies I had given him. I would be candid with him later and offer him the opportunity to be rid of me. He has more than earned that.

Until then, here we will wait for our tiger to reveal himself. May it be sooner rather than later.