Disclaimer- Look, I've had enough! I don't own this and that's all there is to it! I also have nothing to do with The London Times and am not even sure if it was out at this time, but it was the first paper I thought of ^___^

A/N- Thanks to March Hare for this idea!
Sorry to all for not bringing Mycroft in to this as would be expected, but for the sake of the fic it was vital that Watson receive the note and I couldn't see even Mycroft blowing off his own brother. Oh yeah, I still have no idea how advanced medicine was so if I'm a little ahead of the time again, sorry!

The Adventure of the Return


It had been a hard few months. The uncertainty that had been plaguing me had taken it's toll, and this time I didn't even have my wife to help me through it. Every day I subjected the newspapers to intense scrutiny in the hopes that the articles would impart to me some information about my friend's whereabouts or well-being.

I am sure that you will need no reminders of how furiously the various members of the gang that Holmes had exposed were hunted by the police, or of how easily the evidence he had gathered against them saw to their conviction.

You would be forgiven for imagining that, with The Case of the Missing Link, the world had seen it's last spectacular display of those extraordinary powers of logic and deduction possessed by Holmes. It certainly appeared that way to me. When I awoke on the seventh of this month it was to a cry of, Mystery death remains unsolved!, and a feeling of great depression at the thought of how greatly the case would have appealed to Holmes' sense of morbidity and deduction.

It is impossible for me to describe the shock I felt when Lestrade came to see me late that morning, bringing with him a note he told me had been found on the desk of the police station. It was addressed,

To Whom It May Concern,
Re: Mr. Sherlock Holmes

I didn't recognise the handwriting and was immediately on my guard. But when I opened the note I felt a surge of emotion so strong it buckled my knees under me, and made my cup slip through my fingers. The note ran thus:

For the past three months, Gareth Hawkins and myself, Peter Weastie, have been on the run. We have had with us one Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who I believe I am correct in saying was solely responsible for the arrest and imprisonment of all other members of my gang.

Over the course of these three months past, we have been attempting to discern how damning the evidence Holmes has gathered against us it. He has assured us the evidence is concrete.

However he has also informed us that it is easy to find and, as it is all papers, documents and the like, easy to move. Therefore we are offering to you a trade of commodities. We will return Mr. Sherlock Holmes to the bosom of London, if you will present to us the evidence he has gathered on our gang's activities.

To inform us of your decision, place an advertisement in the personal column of The London Times addressed to Hawkins West with one word, either yes or no.

I read the note four times before turning to Lestrade.
Obviously we have no choice but to present him him with the evidence as he requests, said I, thrilled to think of the return of my friend.

You have no choice, replied Lestrade. I can't officially have anything to do with this. He sounded somewhat mischievous however, and quickly added,
Naturally I'll give you any assistance I can.

We placed the advertisement barely an hour later, and it ran in the evening addition. The next morning a note was brought up by Mrs. Hudson. It had been slipped under the door and was addressed to me.

Dear Dr. Watson, it ran,

I was rather hoping my note would be taken to you, but, as I could not ensure you were still living in Baker Street, I had to rely upon the actions of the police. As you have agreed to the trade' that was described in our last note, I have written the finer details of the arrangement here. I hope you will excuse the lack of face-to-face communication. I am sure you will appreciate how risky it would be for me and my companion.

You will find the evidence in a plain blue envelope in the file marked W'. It is the only envelope in there. This envelope will be taken to London Train Station and left in locker number 17. No-one is to be left to watch the locker. If anyone is seen, the deal will be considered void.

However if all goes as stated, Mr. Sherlock Holmes will be brought to 221b Baker Street within a week of our receiving the evidence.

Beneath this, in slightly shaky, but still unmistakably Holmes' hand, was written,

My dear Watson,

I strongly suggest you yield to the demands made. Any inconvenience incurred can be compensated for at a later date.

For a few wild seconds I wondered why Holmes would view travelling to London Train station as an inconvenience, before I realised he was telling me that he had a plan. Since our first adventure together I have never had a reason to doubt a plan drawn up by Holmes, and so I had no qualms about following the instructions I had been presented with.

The only part I did not like was that fact that I was to wait up to a week before Holmes was returned, a worry shared by Lestrade.
You do realise of course doctor, that there is a distinct possibility that Holmes will not be brought back? he asked, after he had read the note.

I know, I replied, but if there is the slightest chance I have to try. A curt nod was the only response I received, but I knew that he agreed with me, and I went the next morning to London Train station, having found the specified envelope the previous night.

As I entered the station I felt an urge to conceal myself and wait for the envelope to be taken, but I had little doubt that the threat implied in the noter was serious, and so I forced my self to walk out again after having placed the bulging envelope in the specified locker.

I passed a restless day, and an even more disturbed night, for during it's duration I convinced myself that I had made a mistake, that Homes would not be returned. I rose late the next morning and M rs. Hudson was already laying out my breakfast when I entered the living room.

I freely admit that my nerves were on edge that morning, and that my stomach seemed to have coiled in on itself. As a doctor I know the impossibility of such an occurrence, nevertheless I found I was unable to eat,and spent the morning engaged in attempting to unravel the mystery of the as yet unnamed dead body that had been discovered floating in the Thames.

That afternoon however, I was shaken out of the dark reverie I had fallen in to by a shout from downstairs. Fearing some mishap I hurried down, only to freeze in surprise at the foot of the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson was kneeling on the floor of the hall besides the fallen figure of Sherlock Holmes, cradling his head in her arms, and calling for me.

No more than half an hour had passed before Holmes had been installed at Charing Cross Hospital. Owing to my experience as a doctor I was permitted to remain in the room while Holmes was examined and I was immensely relieved by the results, which I shared with Mrs. Hudson, who was sitting in the waiting room, as soon as the doctors had finished their work.

How is he doctor? she asked, rising from her chair as I entered the room.

It could be a great deal worse, I answered, taking her arm and leading her back to her chair. Dehydration and malnutrition are both evident, and there is evidence that he has been badly beaten.

At this Mrs. Hudson turned deathly pale, and I hastened to reassure her.

As far as can be ascertained, medically speaking, none of his injuries are anything to be concerned over. They have the appearance of severity, and will most likely be extremely painful, but they should heal soon enough. Quicker, if past experience is anything to go by.

Mrs. Hudson gave a small smile, and a look of determination came in to her eye.
He'll need plenty of rest to help him recover, she mused. Oh yes! He'll want his pipe close to hand too. And his papers. I'll warrant he'll only try to get them himself if I don't put them close to him.

After a few more minutes she rose and left, with the intention of converting the living room of her upstairs flat in to a temporary sick room. I stayed where I was, for I had been assured that Holmes was likely to regain consciousness soon and, brief as I knew the encounter would probably be, I had every desire to speak to my friend again.

I believe a little over 2 hours had passed when I was informed of the fact that Holmes was awake and requesting to see me. He beckoned me to his bedside as soon as I entered the room, somehow knowing it was me who came through the door.

I take it you delivered the envelope, he said, his tone making it a statement rather than a question and I waited in silence, knowing from his tone a question would follow.
Did you give them the envelope I specified?

I did.

You did not read or alter any of the contents?

I did not. His tone had been sharp, and some hint of resentment must have shown in my voice, for he fixed his eyes upon me and seized my hand in his.

Forgive me Watson. I should have known better by now.

It is as well to check, said I, pride flooding my at those earnestly uttered words. After all, nothing was said that instructed me not to read the contents.

A smile was playing about Holmes' lips as he replied.
No, there was not, and something in his voice was, to me, irrefutable proof of what I had read in his brief line to me; Holmes had a plan, and, though I was not privy to the details, I was unquestionably convinced that it boded ill for those who had had the impudence to believe they could match their wits against his, and the misfortune to attempt it.