John Watson

It would have been impossible for me to express my gratitude towards this odd couple who had helped me escape from Scotland Yard.

And when I say 'odd', I really do mean it; Sherlock would have been proud to see me use the deducting skills he taught me so well.

The old woman, who had no wrinkles but had to be at least fifty years old considering the bags under her eyes, her gait, and graying hair, made it a point to look anywhere but at me and the elderly man. Her cheeks were scarlet, and faintly resembled little Molly Hooper. In fact, it was almost uncanny how alike she and the pathologist were; Small eyes, nervous stance, stuttering chatter.

The man, who liked to walked unusually close to me, sadly reminded me of Sherlock. He even had Sherlock's high cheekbones. But, alas, he could not be the Great Detective; I had seen him die. I knew there was no way Sherlock could have faked it, no matter how many times I tried to convince myself otherwise.

We walked slowly to their flat, which was yet another reason why this man wasn't Sherlock; Sherlock would have had a fit if we were going slower than a marathon runner. When we finally got to the flat, I could have sworn we had gone into Molly's building, but I must have been mistaken. I didn't know the address quite well, and I was bound to be a little on the loony side after just escaping from a jail cell I had been in for nearly a day because I was accused of a crime I did not commit.

But when we walked into the room, I knew that my two companions were liars, and all feelings of gratitude were immediately replaced with anger and annoyance. The main room was full of plush, colourful, furniture, with junk spread all over the ground that it made it hard to walk. But it wasn't just any kind of junk. It wasn't old couple junk, like false teeth and tiny figurines either. It was Sherlock junk.

The thing about Sherlock junk is that it is orderly, messy, and intelligent all at the same time. It has patterns, like, for instance, the one time we had a case where an old cook had been murdered, Sherlock researched up everything that had to do with food. Thus, for nearly three weeks, our flat was covered with cookbooks from every language possible, crumbs from food he had decided to try as experiments, and the smell of burnt food lingered in the air, even after the case was solved.

There are also a few constants to Sherlock junk, like having at least twelve encyclopedias opened at a time, random body parts in the kitchen or bathroom, and mind puzzles crumpled up and thrown every which way because they were either too easy or too complicated.

This flat was full of Sherlock junk, with an underlying taste of Molly.

I turned to look at them both, Molly extremely nervous, fiddling with the hem of her dress, Sherlock cool and comfortable, acting, as always, like he was the most important person in the room. Did they really think I wouldn't find out sooner or later? And Sherlock was one hell of a bastard for living after his suicide and not telling me, if you'll please excuse my language, dear reader.

"Tell me, please," I said. "Where I might find the loo?"

Molly nodded towards a door near the kitchen.

"Thank you. And am I to be expecting eyeballs or toes in the tub?"

Sherlock smirked, unsurprised that I had figured it out, unlike Molly, who was so taken aback that I had a sudden urge to hold her arm so she wouldn't fall back in a faint. "Both," Sherlock said.

And then I punched him. Hard. So hard, that if I was not a doctor and knew the symptoms to a broken hand, I would have thought it mine was shattered.

My sudden burst of violence caused Molly to scream and jump back away from me, both hands covering her mouth in horror as Sherlock fell to the floor, hand rubbing his jaw.

"What was that for?" he grunted, his voice slurred.

"What do you think?" I asked angrily, even though I knew he didn't have a clue. "You died!"

"I didn't know it was a crime for one to become deceased," Sherlock complained, getting up.

"It isn't if you really are dead."

"John does have a-"

"This matter doesn't concern you, Molly, thank you very much," Sherlock growled whirling over to Molly, sending her flying head over heels to her room, and I thought I might have heard a sob. Sherlock looked like he immediately regretted his action, but resumed his cold stature when he turned back to me. I personally liked being alone to discuss with Sherlock, at least for now.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I demanded.

"I...I couldn't." He wouldn't look at me.

"And why the hell not?"

"I had to be sure that you were safe first. That there was no way any of Moriarty's followers could get to you if I revealed to you that I was alive."

"I'm sorry, but if you haven't noticed, I was being held as a suspect in Scotland Yard. That's not exactly safe in my mind. Is it in yours?"

"Actually, yes. Moriarty's followers would never had attempted to access you there."

"Quite true, quite true," said a voice from the doorway. A high, cold voice, that was like Moriarty's, and yet not at all like his.

We both turned to see a tall man with dark brown hair slicked back to reveal what would be a handsome face if it was not covered in scars.

"That is why we waited for you to go fetch him for us, Sherlock. Thank you."

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, brow furrowed. This was one of the only times John had seen confused and surprised at the same time.

"Sebastian Moran," the man said coolly. "Get 'em, boys." He snapped his fingers and to brutish men walked in, obviously intending to take us away. But I wouldn't let them do that without a fight. I raised both of my arms, and Sherlock did the same.

"Please, don't be like this," Sebastian said, reaching inside his coat and taking out a shimmering gun. "I would hate to have bloodshed."

We both lowered our hands as the two men stepped closer, cloths in their hands that were bathed in chloroform.

"G'dnight, have sweet dreams," Sebastian said as I fell into blackness. "Boys, don't forget the girl."

Sorry for another cliffhanger! Please review :)