He's Alive

I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK HOLMES! He belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

This is sort of my interpetation of what their confrontation would be like before Watson goes back to his place with Mary...

I hurried out towards the balcony to tell Holmes that Sim's brother was dead, possibly starting a war in Europe since his disguise was that of a Prime Minister. I was guessing he knew that already, evident from the scars behind his ears and how he was was clearly figiting with anxiety, but I was going to tell him anyway.

I threw open the heavy iron doors. Holmes was facing me, exactly ten feet away, holding on tightly to Moriarty who's back faced me. He was sitting on the edge of the banister. He locked eyes with me for a brief moment before closing his eyes and pushing off from the edge of the balcony with his feet sending both himself and Moriarty plummeting to their deaths in the canyon below.

72 hours later

I had arrived back to Baker Street and stepped into the main lobby. I stared up the steps, my heart feeling heavy.

Ever so slowly, I limped up the steps, my leg curiously aching more today than most days. I opened the door and shoved it open, the door making an eerie creak on its hinges.

The room was dark, since the blinds were drawn, and had a strange musty smell to it as if the inhabitants have died.

Then, I remembered the inhabitants have died. One physically, the other mentally.

I sighed, pushing down the feelings that waved over me, and entered. I limped towards the curtains and threw them open. The room was now bathed in light. Seeing mine and Holmes' rooms in its unorganized dishevelment, I smiled.

First, I went to Holmes' wing backed armchair where last Tuesdays paper and his pipe laid untouched. His tattered housecoat was carelessly thrown across the arm rests. I picked it up, savoring the roughness under my fingertips. My vision suddenly blurred in front of me with unshed tears.

'My dear Watson, you look a trifle upset.'

I looked up sharply then slowly turned around.

Sherlock Holmes himself stood in front of me.

A gasp escaped my lips.

'You look like you have seen a ghost, old man.' he said smugly, reaching to take his housecoat out of my grip and patting my shoulder. He swiftly threw it on, and picked up his pipe. He sank into his chair and sighed deeply. I was surprised at the ammount of dust that lingered in the air when he sat down.

'B-but I saw you fall!' I said dumbly.

'Yes.' he answered.

I felt my anger flare. I faced him and socked him hard in the face.

He grunted in surprise, clutching his nose.

'You selfish bastard!' I yelled.

'I vaguly remember you calling me that before.' he said calmly, his voice muffled by his hand holding his nose. He scrunched it up then took a match to his pipe and lit it. The room was soon filled with a smog of tobacco smoke.

'Holmes, I thought you were dead.' I said finally into the silence.

'As you should. It was a fairly long drop that no one could survive.'

'But you did. We had your funeral.'

'Hmm.' he was silent, pondering this.

'Mycroft will be overjoyed! As well as Mary and Mrs. Hudson-'

'Don't tell them just yet, Watson.'

'Why not?' I mused.

'Moriarty was up to something other than the collasp of western civilization. Watson, we got ourselves another case.'