Whole again.
Watson had just finished recording the last adventure he and Holmes had had. He got up from his typewriter and went to stand near the window.
"Oh Holmes, how I've missed you and your silly habits" Watson whispered to himself.
"John dear. This package just came through. Don't forget to come down for dinner" with a quick kiss Mary left.
Watson looked at the package his wife had given him. He opened it as he walked to the comfortable armchair. As the wrappings came undone, he gasped. For there was Mycroft's oxygen supply, whose effect Holmes had described 'invigorating'.
He could feel his knees shaking. He collapsed into the armchair staring at the queer contraption. What could this mean? That Holmes was alive?
He leaned back into the comfortable and warm armchair. Wait ... warm? And the chair felt more like someone's lap than an armchair.
He jumped up and turned to the now suspiciously quivering chair.
"Holmes!?" Watson whispered in disbelief.
"Well met, my dear fellow. You have certainly lost a great deal of weight the past three days" Holmes smirked, whipping off the mask from his camouflage suit.
He stood up slowly so that he was standing inches from his friend.
Watson was aware that his jaw had dropped open, that his knees were shaking, that he probably needed to talk to Holmes right now or at least sit down on the now empty armchair. But he couldn't move.
"Watson, my friend, I know that you have been... unhappy the past three days and I am ... " Holmes began in a rush. He was, however interrupted by a bear hug from Watson.
Tentatively he wrapped his arms around his doctor, his friend. "It's good to see you too, mother hen" he whispered with a smile.
They parted and Holmes opened his mouth to speak. All he got out was "My dear Watson, I'm sure you wou..." when a fist came flying out of nowhere and struck him square on the nose.
"Ouch" Holmes clutched his nose, eyes watering. "What was that for?" He claimed indignantly.
Watson just looked at him with anger, disbelief, happiness and something else in his eyes.
"Maybe I was just stupid to believe that the great Sherlock Holmes would die" Watson said with a smile breaking out on his face.
"So tell me. How did you survive the fall,o of cock?" He asked as he took a seat in the armchair.
"Ah. Excellent question Watson..." the resurrected detective began sitting on the floor with his back against Watson's legs.
Thus started (or continued) the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, two of the greatest friends ever known to mankind.
Each was comfortable with the presence of the other, and happy and whole again