A/N: Hello and welcome to the second chapter. Thank you for all those who reviewed. You are made of wonder and sunshine. And now on with the show.

After a long struggle I made a choice.

I would enlist first and then tell Holmes.

I realise, dear reader, you may consider this an act of cowardliness on my part and you may well be right. Then again you have not spent the majority of your life in the close company of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. If you had, you would be aware that the appropriate bounds of social behaviour do not necessarily apply where our friendship is concerned – even on those occasions when I wished they would. There was a very real danger that if I were to inform him of my intentions the night before heading down the recruitment office, I would wake to find myself hand-cuffed to my bed the next morning. However if I were to inform him of my re-enlistment after the fact there would be nothing he could do to stop me, save inventing some sort of Wellsian time-travelling device.

Holmes had been busy of late. My knowledge is limited on the subject, but apparently the apprehension of a German espionage agent requires filling in a fair amount of paperwork. He had gladly accepted my offer to stay with me in London while the matter was being sorted, so he needn't travel back and forth between Sussex and Pall Mall. However between my patients and his duties to his brother and the government (that may be a tautology) there was rarely a time when we crossed paths for more than half an hour. I admit the situation was disappointing, having not seen my closest friend in over two years. But as he left the house each morning Holmes would flash that grin of his in my direction and promise me as soon as Mycroft considered "everything done to his satisfaction" we would have plenty of time to catch up.

Those words were like being slashed with a razor. I knew there would be little time for reminiscing before I was sent out to the front.

However with his mind still focused on the last few details of Von Bork affair, he was thankfully blind to everything else around him. Normally Holmes would have picked up my unease in an instance, reading the tell-tale signs in my face and posture. But that brilliant brain was consumed by the latest case to the point of obsession. Being struck by lightning probably wouldn't have caught his attention. It was good to know his time across the Atlantic had not changed him too much.

Yet despite Holmes' apparent obliviousness I still hesitated. It seemed like whenever I had a spare moment where I could have gone down to the recruitment office I would instead turn to some other task; filling out paperwork, running errands and so forth. As I reflect upon it, I suppose it was all in a vain attempt to post-pone the inevitable unpleasantness that was bound to arise from my enlistment. In the past two years the only contact I had had with Holmes was in the form of four letters – each battered, water-stained and censored to the extreme – and in those years there wasn't a day when I didn't fear for his safety. To have my friend back in England, to see his face each day even for the briefest moment, gave me such immeasurable joy. It was almost like we were back at Baker Street. I hope I cannot be blamed for wanting to prolong this period for as long as possible.

Roughly a week after my encounter with Wiggins, I stumbled home after a late-night house call to find Holmes sitting cross-legged by the fire-place, surrounded by chaotic piles of paper. I smiled as I took off my hat and coat.

'Ah, hello Holmes, 'I said. 'I'm surprised to see you awake. Then again after years of sharing quarters with you, I have no idea why I should be.'

Holmes gave a grim, short laugh. 'Believe it or not Watson, in my twilight years I have finally begun to see the appeal of a good night's sleep. Being up at this hour isn't my choice so much as my brother's. Just when I thought there couldn't possibly be any more banal and pointless forms that need to be signed, one of Mycroft's cronies would mysteriously appear with another pile. It is the bureaucratic equivalent of peine forte et dure.' I expressed my condolences. He waved them off. 'Many thanks Watson but this too shall pass. By tomorrow night as it happens.' He lifted his head, his eyes alight. 'For by then I hope to have this whole business finally sorted.'

I tried to stop myself from taking a sharp breath, fearing that Holmes would notice. 'You mean...' I paused. 'You mean to say you will have officially finished your enquiry?'

'Done, dusted, signed in triplicate and locked away in some dank filing cabinet never again to see the light of day. I tell you Watson, for a matter they wish to keep as quiet as possible they require an unfeasible amount of written evidence. Ah, but ours is not to wonder why.'

I nodded, doing my utmost to look cheerful. 'Well, I best leave you to it then.' My hand landed on the banister and I began to ascend the stairs. 'Good night Holmes.'

'Night Watson.' he called after me, but his voice was already distant as he turned back to his papers.

I shut the door of my bedroom and lent my head against it. It seemed that fate had once again forced my hand. I knew as soon as he had completed the case Holmes would shed his mind of everything – Of Altermont, of Von Bork, of Mycroft, of espionage, of his time in America – and all of that unfocused energy he had been channelling towards his goal would be turned on me. By tomorrow evening there would be nowhere to hide.

There was nothing for it. I would enlist first thing in the morning. I had no alternative.

...

I would be lying if I said I slept well that night. I would be lying if I said I slept. A more adequate description would be that I lay in bed with my eyes closed until sunrise.

I chose not to stir from my bed until I heard Holmes shut the front door on his way out. I couldn't bear to face him.

I don't recall ever feeling as heavy hearted as I did that morning. Eventually, through sheer force of will I swung my legs over the bed and headed for my wardrobe.

Maybe it won't be as dreadful as you imagine, I thought to myself. After all this is Holmes we are talking about. The man shot V.R. into our living room wall with a pistol, for goodness sake. If there is one man who understands the need to do one's patriotic duty than surely it is Holmes. Why, when you tell him this evening he may not even be vexed by your little deception.

I shook my head. I couldn't even delude myself. If I had to guess what the future held it would have been this: Holmes would most likely be furious with me for "needlessly risking my life", I would say something I would regret, he would leave for Sussex in a huff, and then we would both end up not speaking to each other until I was about to leave for the front. Then we would both feel very foolish and regret wasting the last few weeks we could have shared in each other's company being angry with one another instead. I could see the scenario fall into place before my eyes like dominoes and there was nothing I could do to prevent it.

With a heavy sigh I opened my wardrobe.

...To find it completely bare.

No shirts, no socks, no trousers, no shoes, no collars, not even a tie. All my articles of clothing had vanished overnight.

I groaned. Holmes knew.

The first emotion felt was obviously shock, but that was swiftly replaced by rage. How dare he? How dare he attempt to control my life, my decisions, in such a childish manner! Nevertheless lurking somewhere beneath my anger was the niggle of curiosity. How did he find me out? How long had he known of my plans? And how in heaven's name had he managed to sneak into my room last night and abscond with my entire wardrobe without my knowledge?

I cast aside these questions for the moment and tried to asses my situation. As luck would have it I had been so preoccupied by my predicament the night before that I hadn't bothered to change into my pyjamas. However this didn't do me much good. All I was wearing were my un-pressed pants and the singlet I had worn beneath my shirt the day before. Hardly the sort of attire a man commonly wears when attempting to re-join an institution as fastidious about their clothing as the British Army. Holmes and taken my shoes as well so my journey was going to be barefoot.

Yet I was determined, probably more so than before. Sherlock Holmes may have been an authority when it came to battling wits with criminals and thieves but I had lived with the man for longer than anyone else. I had studied him in depth and chronicled his exploits. Unofficially I was the world's leading Sherlock Holmes expert. If there was one person who stood a chance of circumventing the will of London's finest consulting detective (retired) than it was me.

I hurried downstairs and headed straight for the book-case. Holmes would have certainly hidden my wallet somewhere but hopefully he hadn't discovered... Aha! Yes. The spare pound I kept hidden between the pages of my medical journal was still there. As I folded the note and stowed it away I caught I glimpse of something on my desk.

A letter.

I approached the desk slowly, as though it might be booby-trapped. I felt that would probably have been a little too excessive for Holmes' tastes but I could never be certain what would appeal to the man's bizarre sense of humour. Carefully I lifted the envelope from the table. It was indeed from Holmes. It read as follows:

My Dear Watson

I will be back at six o'clock tonight. I am certain we will have a great many things to discuss. I took the liberty of clearing your schedule at your practise, I hope you don't mind. The public likes their physicians to maintain a certain level of professionalism and I doubt that you would be able to uphold such an image if you insisted on treating them in nothing but pants and a singlet. If I were in your position I would spend the day at home with a nice cup of tea and a good book.

Regards,

Holmes.

I flung the note away from me like it was a spider I had just discovered on my sleeve. A cup of tea and a book, indeed! Was he deliberately trying to goad me, or had he forgotten my true nature in his time abroad. It didn't matter. If Holmes thought something as trivial as the conventions of dress was going to stop me from doing what I thought was right, he was sadly mistaken.

Ever hear that saying about an irresistible force upon an immovable object? This could get ugly. Please R&R.