A/N: For anyone who's unsure, a 'ghillie' is basically a Scottish name for a gamekeeper or guide ^^
The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson
When I came round, I found myself slumped in a cracked leather armchair where the man-who-was-not-Hamish, I realised, must have bodily dragged me. Eventually I roused myself sufficiently to look around me. I was in same the room as I had fainted in; there was the bar, the rattling little windows and there, standing silhouetted in the doorway was a man I had known to be dead.
Although it was very dark by this time, I could tell he was looking at me and though a shadow fell across his face, I could still read the tense emotion in him. Honestly, I hadn't a clue what to say, what to do - I mean its not really an everyday occurrence; your best friend coming back from the dead. I shifted awkwardly in my chair, gripping it's arms to stop my hands from shaking. I tried to talk but only a sort of strangled sound came out. At this noise, the figure in the doorway stood up to his full height and walked towards me with faltering steps.
It was him. It really was - under the ginger beard and coarse clothing Sherlock Holmes stood before me. I felt like punching him. I felt like screaming in his face. I felt like leaping out my seat and hugging him and never letting go again. Any of those things would have done, any of them would have been a better response than -
"Is that my bloody jumper?"
The silence hung between us for just another instance. Then simultaneously our face crinkled into laughter. I wrapped my arms around myself, doubling over in my chair and heard Sherlock collapse into the seat opposite me. Just then it felt like no time had passed at all. It felt like we were back in our old flat and nothing had ever changed, except of course it had. Slowly our laughter subsided and the room was quiet again.
I looked up at my old friend, trying to order all the questions that were rushing through my mind. And just like always, it was like he'd read my thoughts - his mouth open and shut a couple of times and then -
"Yes, John, it is your jumper it has been part of my disguise for the last few months; Hamish the ghillie and deerstalker, rather fitting do you not agree? Yes, John, I am alive but no, this is not my real beard - I can remove it if it's distracting you, it must be because you can't seem to stop staring at it."
My eyes flew back up to meet his in my embarrassment, it is true I couldn't quite reconcile myself with the dramatic change to his face. Reading my thoughts, Sherlock smirked and said,
"I will happily removed as soon as you get rid of that ridiculous moustache which I am horrified to note is not false."
I quickly covered the offending facial hair...and that was when I got angry.
"How can you lecture me? You were gone, you were DEAD Sherlock! How bloody dare you. How could you let me think that? A WHOLE YEAR I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD, I WAS SO ALONE...I..I..I had nothing..." My voice trailed off and i realised I there were tears in my eyes. There were tears in his too as he said in a small voice -
"I had no choice. I didn't realise how much it would hurt you...I didn't realise how much it would hurt me."
Although his voice was shaking with emotion, I set my mouth in a grim line.
"Of course you had a choice, any time, just one text that's all it would have taken, just one text!"
"I'm not dead, let's have dinner?" Sherlock questioned with a raised eyebrow. He was trying to make me laugh, I realised with a shock. The great Sherlock Holmes was doing his clumsy best to cheer me up. The attempt softened my heart slightly.
"Please, Sherlock just tell me what happened?"
