I left Molly's house so quickly that I didn't actually even remember leaving the building. I vaguely remembered throwing a hasty goodbye comment in her direction, taking in very little of her puzzled expression, but when I next came to my senses, I found myself getting out of a cab on Baker Street. 221B showed no sign of forced entry, even though Sherlock's house key was probably still in an evidence box within the police station, but I knew that this was not necessarily indicative of anything. Breaking and entering laws had not stopped Sherlock in the past, so I doubted that they would cause him to think twice about breaking into his own home. I doubt that I'd notice if Sherlock broke in away. T.S. Eliot and Andrew-Lloyd Webber may as well have been writing about Sherlock when they wrote the lyrics for the Mr Mistoffelees song "He can creep through the tiniest crack, he can walk on the narrowest rail."

I fumbled with my own key as adrenaline pumped through my body. "Sherlock!" Racing up the stairs, I was only just aware that my feet were barely touching the ground, and when they did they were only brushing every other step. "Sherlock, are you there?"

There was no reply. I scrutinized the main room of the flat, the one containing the bullet-ridden yellow smiley face on the wall, looking for any sign that he had been here. I couldn't see anything. My stomach began to churn, and I leaned on the writing desk for support. Where was he? I had been so sure that this was the place he would come. Secluded, secure and safe. Mrs. Hudson had even gone out for the day, providing Sherlock with a perfect window of opportunity to return if he only wanted to see me, not her. After all, she still believed that he was dead. I was in the process of resigning myself to telling her of Sherlock's survival, when I belatedly realised that there was no way that I could be certain that it was Sherlock who had text me. It might all be a trap. The scenario that I'd previously imagined could in fact be true; if Sherlock was not dead, then Moriarty may not be either. Feeling sick, with my anticipation having drained away almost instantly at the realisation, I found that my hand was automatically searching on the desk for something that could be used as a weapon. Every sound - be it a groan, creak or rustle - seemed to be amplified, sinisterly growing closer. An assailant? Sherlock? Either way, I was not going to take any chances. As my scrambling hand searched, I attempted to reassure myself that Moriarty's modus operandi was much more direct and to-the-point than trying to scare his prey before he inevitably snared it, but this proved of little comfort to me at present. Even if it wasn't Moriarty, it could easily be one of his henchmen, or perhaps another enemy of Sherlocks'. Just because Moriarty was Sherlocks' arch-enemy, and the only enemy to make himself known to us, did not mean that there weren't others out there. What if Molly's home had somehow been bugged, and somebody had heard that Sherlock was alive, and now they were trying to tie up lose ends by silencing Molly and I? Maybe even Sherlock himself for good this time? Was this what Molly had inferred about our lives being in danger?

Suddenly, the flat became quiet. Almost too quiet. As my hand had failed to find a weapon on the desk, I let it fall by my side and began to move hastily, but with light steps, towards the kitchen. Stopping as I crossed the threshold of the entrance to the adjoining room, I heard a loud bang originating from the staircase. Was it caused by an intruder leaving? Or entering? I grabbed the first thing I could find - a heavy pan - and made my way to the landing.

"It's only me, John!" Mrs. Hudson's call startled me so much that I only just managed to avoid hitting her with the pan I had swung in the nick of time.

"Mrs. Hudson! You made me jump!" It was an understatement, but I didn't want to make her feel worse than she already did.

"Oh, I am sorry, dear," she fussed. Her eyes widened as she saw the full picture; the pan that had been moments away from hitting her, the fear in my eyes as she saw that I believed her to be an intruder. "Were you, er, expecting somebody?"

"I certainly wasn't expecting you, Mrs. Hudson! I thought you'd gone out for the day." I gestured for her to follow me into my flat, which she did, and set the pan down on the desk.

"I had, dear. But then I came back." She dropped her numerous shopping bags on the floor and glanced around the flat. "Oh John, what a mess you've made!"

I refrained from mentioning that most of the mess had been caused by my frantic belief that she was an intruder. "Sorry Mrs. Hudson, I'll clean up the mess." She obviously didn't believe me, and started tidying up loose papers and items that had been knocked over in my haste. "Actually, Mrs. Hudson, I'm quite tired, so I think I'm going to go to bed." There, that was a subtle-but-clear hint that I wasn't in the mood for company now.

She understood. "Alright dear, I'll leave you to it." After scrambling to pick up her bags, she gave me a sad smile and went back downstairs to her own flat. Her absence, alongside my calming nerves and heartbeat, made the silence seem deafening. In the silence, I could have sworn that I heard violin music coming from somewhere. Of course, my first thought was Sherlock, but even he wasn't theatrical enough to announce his presence via entrance music. Confused, I wandered over to the window and, to my horror, I saw the awful violin-playing busker standing back on the street corner of Baker Street. That was it. My patience gone, the painful memories too strong, my restraint snapped and I opened the window.

"Look, mate, could you stop that racket please? I'm going through a really hard time right now and I just can't cope with your incessant noise! Time was, I had a friend who played the violin, and now I...I...oh just please yourself! Everybody else usually does!" With that, I slammed the window shut, but the buskers' eyes were still focussed on me, seemingly staring into my soul. He probably thought I was mad.

I turned my back to the window and absentmindedly phoned Lestrade. A logical explanation for this is that I must've been wondering if there was some legal remedy to remove this busker, thinking the other residents of Baker Street would surely thank me for getting rid of such a din.

"Lestrade speaking," he answered. I'd remembered Molly's hypothesis about Lestrade making a promise to Sherlock, but now probably wasn't the best time to mention it. Or was it?

"Hi Greg, it's John Watson. I'm calling about a couple of things, really. The first is that there's this terrible busker on Baker Street. He's so bad that I would be very surprised if he had manage to obtain a license via a legal source." I was only half-joking. There was a pause, with Lestrade obviously realising that this was not all I had to say. "The only other thing was that I've spoken to somebody recently, and they think that you might be able to help me with a Sherlock-related problem."

"John," he began. I couldn't wait to hear the excuses he would give me, my anger and impatience probably caused by the knowledge that I'd been kept in the dark about Sherlock's 'death.'

"Save it, Lestrade. Tell me what you know about him."

"Ask him yourself," said a disembodied voice. It was not Lestrades', as it did not originate from the direction of the phone. The voice was male, ruling out Mrs. Hudson, Molly or even Sergeant Donovan. I began to feel sick at the next alternative. Moriarty. I dared to glance back at the entrance to the flat, and found myself face-to-face with a ghost. A bluey-green eyed ghost.