A/N: And so the drama begins. As does the explanation. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.
The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.
"What. The. HELL, Sherlock?" I yell. "You're alive. You've been alive this whole time. This whole year, I thought you were dead. DEAD, Sherlock, do you know what that means?" I'm trying not to be too loud so I don't wake up my son, but I know I'm failing. "It means I thought you were gone. For good. That I'd never see you again. That I'd never find you lounging about on the couch in that old blue dressing gown of yours. That I'd never see you stare out at Baker Street like you would on some nights. That I'd never see you working on experiments in the kitchen. That I'd never see you watching awful telly programmes."
I know some of these things sound insignificant, but I'm trying to make my point clear.
"I thought I'd never hear you again. Never hear that baritone voice calculating another criminal's next move. Never hear you pester the other Yarders. Never hear you shout in glee that we're facing another serial killer! Never hear you play your violin at the oddest hours of the night! Never hear you shoot holes in your wall out of sheer boredom!"
Why am I saying these things? They're trivial instances. Do they really... mean something to me?
"I thought I'd lost you. And... in reality... I was the one who was lost."
He's looking at me, still on the floor, like some little toddler. A toddler who's broken his mother's heirloom teapot from the Victorian era, is being confronted about it, and he tries playing dumb.
It's infuriating. And heartbreaking.
"You pretended to be dead. You were just hiding. You fooled me, Sherlock. You played me for a fool."
Now, he looks hurt.
"Oh, don't try looking like a hurt kitten, Sherlock. You've hurt me ten times worse."
Why am I saying these things? It's like I'm not even there. Just a witness to some fit of rage.
"Why, Sherlock? Why did you do this? Why did you fake your own death?"
The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
He's angry at me. I've disappointed him again. Worse than the day we first met Moriarty. I'm not trying to look hurt like he says I am. I really do hurt. At least, I think so.
"I did it for you, John." I'm telling the truth to him, but he just laughs. It's not a kind laugh.
"For me? Really? Ha! Why, because you were trying to protect me? By making me think you'd lost your life?"
"Yes! Because I wanted to make sure you still had yours!" I blurt. He looks a bit stunned. I take this opportunity to stand back up. "You did get my note, right? The one in the app I downloaded for you. What all it said was true. In all honesty, I thought I really was going to die that day."
"So, let me guess: You knew that call about the hotel patron was false, didn't you?" John's voice is getting deeper.
"I had a feeling it was, yes."
"Yet, you sent me anyway?" Correction: It's getting darker.
"Yes. Because I knew you'd be safer if you followed it. I knew Moriarty was lying in wait. He gave me a chance to write the note, and I left my scarf to ensure it didn't fall from the rock and get damaged. Also... as strange as this sounds coming from me, something for you to remember me by. A memento."
John's scoffing at me. Though, he's motioning for me to continue.
"Once I was done, I met Moriarty closer to the edge of the cliff. He lunged at me. We started struggling for quite a while. His hands round my throat. We inched closer to the edge. But... I was prepared for it. I was prepared to give my life if I could rid the world of this madman. If I could save you."
John sputters a chuckle. I don't like it.
"So, what happened then? You pull out some made-up martial art and throw him off the cliff?"
"No. I managed to pry his hands from my neck and as I did so, he lost his footing. He slipped, but grabbed my leg as he fell. I was holding onto the side of it for dear life, while he tried to take mine with him. He had a death grip on my ankle.
"'The game is over, Moriarty! You're dead!' I yelled down to him. He laughed his most sinister.
"'No, my dear fellow. The game is still on. No matter if this is your final problem, or if you live to see another day, it doesn't matter. I will be the death of you, Sherlock Holmes! One way or another!'
"Those words will forever haunt me, as will his scream as he fell after I kicked him off."
John stares at me. This time, it looks like he really is interested in hearing what I have to say. He sits in an armchair.
"So... what then?" he asks. I sit down on the edge of his coffee table
"I was stuck. I couldn't climb back up from where I was. So, I sort of sidled my way to the side of the cliff. I finally found some handholds and footholds to climb with on that otherwise sheer wall. Once I'd gotten to a point where I could stand, I did and started running. I feared that Moriarty had back up hiding somewhere up there, so I tried to find a good place to hide. I finally parked myself under a large rock."
John is now fully absorbed in my retelling. I just hope he doesn't get too upset about this next part.
"I saw you there," I tell him. His eyes go wide. "I saw you find my scarf and phone. I heard you call my name. I nearly called to you myself."
"Why didn't you?" Here comes the disappointed tone again.
"Because, if anyone following Moriarty thought I was still alive they might kill you. I couldn't let that happen to you. So, I stayed silent and watched."
The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.
"What, like some kind of stalker?" I ask. He does kind of have those tendencies. I have a funny feeling he'd sometimes be watching me in my sleep.
"No, not really. Just an observer. I saw you call to me again. I am so sorry I put you through that. Truly, I am."
I want to believe him. I do believe him, somewhere in my heart. But my head... there's still too many questions. I stay silent and let him continue.
"Anyway, once you and the police were gone, I continued up the path. I then heard rumbling. I leapt forward and fell on the ground as a boulder just missed me. Then, I looked behind me, and there was a man standing with a sniper rifle. He must have used the butt of the rifle as a lever to move the boulder. He then started to right the rifle and aim at me.
"I don't know if I've ever run as fast in my life. Ducking behind trees and rocks. He was persistent. And clearly trying to finish the job."
A sniper rifle...
"Moran?" I ask. Sherlock's eyes widen at my mention of his name.
"Yes. It was Colonel Moran. How did you know?"
"I didn't know. I saw. Well, figured it was, anyhow. I'll tell you when you finish." I could tell he wasn't done, and I really didn't want him to get sidetracked. I want to hear the end of this.
"Right then. Well, it was indeed Colonel Moran who chased me. I tracked down other connections Moriarty still had left and shut them down with local authorities' help. More just leading them in the right direction."
"How'd you go about doing that? You'd need to preserve your identity somehow. You'd need funding..." It then dawned on me that he had trusted someone else with his secret. "Mycroft," I whispered.
Sherlock sighed.
"Yes. I told Mycroft. He was the only one who could get me what I needed. A new phone, false identification, and funding, as you said."
"So... you trust your brother, your self-proclaimed 'arch-enemy,' with everything and yet you trust me with nothing?" I know I have no right to say these things, but I want to know. I want to know what he really thinks of me. He looks appalled.
"John!" he exclaims, "I do trust you! More than you'll ever know." He places a hand on my knee trying to reach out to me. He quickly takes his hand back, apparently realising what he did.
"Okay, then. So, next question: Why'd you come back to London?"