Please Note: This is an indirect sequel to "A Walk Beyond the Mountains," but please feel free to enjoy that story alone. I originally had scrapped this piece altogether since "A Walk Beyond the Mountains is canon compliant and this certainly is not. I hope you're able to enjoy it all the same.

Return from Beyond the Mountains

Mycroft Holmes smoothed his hand over John Watson's forehead, pushing his hair away and feeling he was still too hot regardless of the fact that Doctor Burke had assured him his temperature had gone down. He sighed, wetting a cloth and placing it on Watson's brow. The doctor's eyes moved beneath his eyelids, but he didn't wake until a few minutes later, a coughing fit overtaking him. It lasted only a couple minutes, but left him trembling and weak and struggling to breath.

Mycroft held him gently, wiping bile away from his mouth, readjusting him to be more comfortable, and holding a glass of water to his lips. Watson was clearly in pain, but he made a herculean effort and focused on Mycroft, smiling slightly.

"Thank you," he said weakly.

"Of course," Mycroft replied nonchalantly, smiling back.

"I saw you… at the funeral," Watson said slowly. "Didn't get a chance to say thank you."

"Oh, please, doctor. There's no need for thanks."

"Of course there is, for here you are now as well. It is nice to have a visitor."

"I'm afraid I've come with a purpose."

"Of course you have. You never alter… your routine without a purpose. Nevertheless, thank you. It is good to know life goes on beyond these same four walls." Watson coughed again, though the fit was not so violent as before.

Mycroft gave him more Water and once again adjusted him on the pillows to be comfortable and to help him breath easier. "As to my purpose in coming," Mycroft said gently afterwards, "I must ask you something important."

"Please, if this is about your brother's will, do as you like," Watson sighed. "I trust you, and haven't the energy to look over any documents at the moment."

"I appreciate the trust, doctor, but no, that is not why I am here. You know, of course, my brother Sherlock held you in the highest regard?"

"He must have," Watson replied, grinning slightly, "for he did not suffer fools to be in his company for very long. He was such an odd man, but I miss him immensely, and I know he cared."

"He would have done anything to protect you," Mycroft assured him. "You and your wife both."

"I know. He never admitted it, but he proved it by his actions, and that was enough for us."

"Yes. He always did what he thought would protect you, even when it meant lying to you or deceiving you."

"I… suppose so."

"He did lie, doctor. In order to protect you, He let you think he died. He did not, he is alive. He spent these long years in exile, hiding away and keeping his very identity a secret and waiting for a chance to be able to disband the remains of Moriarty's network. It was dangerous work; his life would have been forfeit if the wrong people were able to track him. He wanted you and your wife to be no part of it. He succeeded. Just last night he apprehended Moriarty's last agent. He is home now, and deeply regrets not being here sooner to be available when you had need of him. He very much wants to wants to see you. What do you say? Will you consent to see him?"

"Will I?" Watson replied, stunned. "Of course I will."

"Sherlock?" Mycroft called to the hallway.

Sheepishly, the detective entered. Watson stared at him unashamedly. He tried to rise and greet him, but his head swam and he doubled over in pain. The next thing he knew, his old friend Sherlock Holmes was holding him steady and looking at him with naked concern.

"Holmes," he breathed, clutching his friend.

"Hello, Watson," Holmes said, adjusting Watson to be comfortable and taking his hand.

"Are you really here?" Watson whispered, "or am I dreaming?"

"I am here, my dear Watson, and I am so sorry it took me so long to come home."

"It doesn't matter now. You're here now, you're alive. I don't care about anything else."

"Nevertheless, I wish I would have been here for you. I was so very sorry to hear of Mary's passing. And you, my dear man? How are you really? Will you recover? Please, Watson, say I'm not too late."

"I may," Watson said. "But it doesn't matter now. You're here, you're alive, and so if I leave this world I leave it with more hope than I thought I would be."

"Please, Watson, please try to live."

"Of course I will try," Watson said, smiling weakly. "I will try… stay with me?"

"Of course I will," Holmes replied. He could tell Watson was fading fast. "Rest now, old friend. I will be here and I will watch over you. When you wake I will tell you the particulars of what I've been doing these long three years." He bent and kissed Watson's temple tenderly as Watson closed his eyes, his energy spent.

"I would, I assure you, do anything you asked of me, least of all this," he whispered, but Watson was already asleep. Holmes brushed his hand over Watson's face, feeling how fragile he was. He was so thin his cheeks were sunken and his cheekbones protruding.

He lifted the hand he held and saw Watson's wrists, too, were thin. He knew that if he could see Watson's chest his ribs would be protruding. He felt Watson's forehead and gauged his fever.

"He's been ill since before the funeral," Mycroft said softly, reentering the room after having left to give them privacy. "He hasn't been doing well, but a bit over a fortnight ago he took a turn for the worse. Tumbled down the stairs, the nurse says."

"Will he live?" Sherlock asked, his voice cracking.

"I don't know," Mycroft replied. "Doctor Burke says his fever has improved, but he won't tell me much more. I am hopeful, however, that seeing you will raise his spirits. He hasn't had much reason to live of late, and few visitors. Now that he knows you are alive, he has a reason to fight. I think you should take him away from here, from this house filled with memories of his wife reminding him every moment that she is gone. Take him to Baker Street, and care for him there."

"Do you think he'll consent to that?"

"I think he'd consent to fly to the moon if you asked him to accompany you."

Holmes smiled slightly. "Maybe. At least he was happy to see me. I would never have placed him or his wife in danger, but I must admit that I did not, in the beginning, grasp how much of an unworthy deception it was." He sighed. "I didn't know this would happen. He was supposed to be safe and happy. I was going to surprise him, it was going to be like old times. I was supposed to come home and find there were three or four people in the Watson family by now. I was supposed to be the Uncle Holmes."

"Stop this, Sherlock," Mycroft commanded. "There is nothing to be done about the past. Mary Watson and the child are dead. It is John Watson we must work to save now."

"So there was a child," Sherlock whispered. "I knew there would be."

"There would have been. It died with Mary. Like I said, there is nothing to be done about it now."

"I know. And I'm going to do my best for him, of course I will."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said gently, "I am sure that with care and patience he will recover."

"No," Holmes snapped at him, "You're not sure. You can't be. But," he sighed, "nevertheless I thank you. Thank you for watching out for him."

"It wasn't a burden, Sherlock. There is no need for thanks. Keeping tabs on you these three years was much harder than ensuring the doctor's safety. Unfortunately, I could only keep him protected from those criminals who would hurt him in revenge against you, not from the tragedy which has now befallen him."

"I know," Sherlock replied. The man in question thrashed his head suddenly and Sherlock yelped in fright.

"Grab that bowl," Mycroft said. Sherlock did, and held it to Watson as his friend retched what little food he had eaten that day. He wasn't quite awake as he did so, nor was he afterwards, moaning in pain as Holmes wiped bile away from his mouth.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock declared to no one in particular. "Mrs. Hudson will get him to eat. She did when he first came home. You didn't see him, Mycroft, but he wasn't well back then. There was a time when I thought he would die before I even got to know him."

"He told me as much," Mycroft replied. "I met him some weeks after your funeral. He admitted that in the beginning he wasn't sure if he would live, but you struck him as the kind of man who would not lose his nerve if his ill roommate passed away. He was correct, of course, though I suspect that may not be the case now."

"I have seen many good men die," Sherlock answered him. "I would live through Watson's death as well, but I would rather die myself than need to. How drugged is he right now?"

"Very. I believe Doctor Burke has him dosed with morphine. He tried not to at first because Watson didn't want any, but as of late he doesn't rest well without something. I'll have Burke give you the chart of what painkillers he's been given and when."

"Very well. And do let me know when Moran is sentenced, won't you?"

"Of course. Goodbye, Sherlock. Be good to him."

"Goodbye, Mycroft."

Sherlock Holmes sat by his friend's side while he slept, watching him and trying not to despair. The nurse who had been hired to care for Watson came back in to check on him, and Holmes helped her bathe Watson, change his shirt, and put new sheets on the bed underneath him. After spying a nick on Watson's chin, he took a razor from her and insisted that he would shave Watson himself. He then dismissed her and informed her that Watson was being moved and her services would no longer be required. He paid her generously and then resumed his place beside Watson.

When Watson woke some time later, Holmes was still with him, holding his hand and caressing the back of it with his thumb. Before he could blink, Watson had leaned forward in a rush of adrenaline and wrapped his arms around him. Holmes held him back gently, able to feel all his bones on his back as he did.

"I thought you might have been some wonderful dream that would vanish away as suddenly as you'd appeared," Watson whispered.

"No, Watson, I am here. I've had dangerous travels, but it hasn't been all bad. I only wish I could have come home sooner, and that I would have done so to find you a happier, healthier man. Lie back now." Holmes tried to lay his friend down, for he could feel how badly he was shaking, and just the effort of sitting up to hug him had left wheezing for breath.

Watson, however, held onto him tightly. "Don't let go yet," he entreated his friend. "I know you don't like showing affection, but I also know you do hold me in some regard, and so just for the moment pretend you don't mind. Let me have this reassurance you're alive."

"I love you dearly, Watson. Of course I will not leave you. I admit I would not have said so aloud before my travels, but I don't mind it now. Not if you so wish it or it will give you any kind of reassurance."

"You must be real," Watson said weakly, "for not even in my dreams have you ever said as much. I hardly care if I do pass, for my spirit is lighter than ever now that I'm sure you're alive."

"Shh, don't say such things, my dear man. You're going to live. After all," he said with a small smirk, "do you really imagine Mrs Hudson would consent to let me live in Baker Street once more if you were not there as well?"

Watson grinned back. "I have never asked Mrs. Hudson if she has new tenants. You may be disappointed, old man."

"Let me see, Watson," Holmes answered with a real smile, "if the years have not completely taken away my ability to surprise you. Do you feel strong enough to be moved?"

"Moved? Perhaps. Not to walk, I fear. The last sojourn I made was nearly a fortnight ago. I fell and hurt my leg and have been confined to my bed since. I would be more upset about it if this were stronger, but at the moment I'm too tired to care."

Holmes grimaced in sympathy. "I am going to take you away from here, if you'll let me," he said. "Somewhere you'll be cheered and well taken care of and I can be nearby. What do you say?"

"Of course," Watson replied. "If you are certain I won't be a burden to you."

"That, my dear Watson, I promise you have never been. Let me gather a few of these things you'll need and then I will wrap my jacket around you and we will move." Holmes did so, ignoring Watson's insistence that he could get into the wheeled bath chair by himself and lifting him easily onto it to spare him the pain. He weighed far too little and he wasn't a burden to carry. Holmes wrapped him in blankets and moved him as gently as he could. Nevertheless, he was in some amount of pain anyway during the short trip, finally coming back to himself as the pain subsided and he found himself on a soft cushion in a warm room.

"Holmes," he breathed, blinking his eyes and staring at the room around him. "How is this possible?"

Holmes smiled widely. "It is just as before, isn't it? As if a day hadn't passed. It was my brother, Watson. He paid our good landlady to preserve my things as they were. I didn't want to risk losing any of my files or notes. Besides, our very good lady deserved a break after dealing with me for so long."

"These rooms are just as I remember them, and you are just as eccentric. Where is the good Mrs. Hudson? I haven't had a chance to speak with her…" Watson was cut off by a coughing fit that left him unable to do anything but gasp for breath. When he finally focused again, Holmes was holding him and Mrs. Hudson was cooing over him, wiping his mouth and holding his head up. It took some time for him to speak and thank them.

"Oh, don't you worry about it, dear," Mrs. Hudson said. "Goodness, didn't that nurse of yours give you any of the food I brought over? If I'd have known I'd have bullied my way into seeing you whether they said I wasn't allowed or not."

"I almost wish you would have, Mrs. Hudson," Watson replied with a weak smile. "Really, though, I was often in no state to have a visitor, much as I'd have liked to. The fever is down now, though, and I hope I'll be seeing much more of you. I am so glad to see you again."

"And you, dear," she said. "Both of you," she amended, addressing Holmes.

"And it is good to be home," Holmes said. "Watson, Mrs. Hudson and I have brought my old bed here into the living room, I'm going to lift you onto it if you're ready."

"Very well," Watson replied, and Holmes and Mrs. Hudson made him comfortable on the mattress.

"Rest, Watson," Holmes said when the task was done. "We shall both be here for you when you wake."

Watson did, dropping off nearly immediately. Holmes didn't care that Mrs. Hudson was still there, he put his head in his hands and wept, unable to repress his tears any longer after seeing Watson in Baker Street and remembering how things used to be and what he'd dared to hope they would be when he returned. Mrs. Hudson hesitates, as if to offer him some comfort, but thought better of it and left him to give him privacy.

Holmes held one of Watson's hands in his and watched him sleep once he had thoroughly reminded himself why he hated crying. There would be enough time for tears, he knew, if Watson died. For now there was nothing to be done but make sure he lived.

For the next few months Watson spent most of the time asleep, but that was fine with Holmes and Mrs. Hudson once he was a bit better. His fever continued low for some time, spiked, and finally broke. He was still very weak and his coughs were horrible to hear, but they no longer worried he would pass away while he slept.

Mrs. Hudson tempted and pleaded and bullied until Watson began to regain some weight. Eventually, he regained the strength to walk, and with Holmes' aid he was able to walk to the washroom and the couch. He liked to sit by the window, but it was still too cold and icy outside for him to attempt to go outside. He tired easily, but that was to be expected.

Holmes took very few cases in those first months. For one, only a select few people knew he was alive so his only cases were from Scotland Yard, and for another he was unwilling to travel out of London for longer than a day, not even when Mycroft asked him to. They didn't move the bed from the living room, not even when friends of Watson would come to give him their best wishes. He was comfortable in the living room and it made him happy to be there and so they wouldn't have moved him for the world.

Holmes was pleased with Watson's progress. His friend's color was much better than it had been and his bones no longer protruded so horribly. Soon he'd be walking unassisted and everything could return to normal. Well, as normal as could be. Things would be different than they had been, but perhaps that difference didn't have to necessarily need to be a bad one. The important thing was that Holmes had not lost his friend forever from his own negligence.

He tried to let Watson sleep as long as possible to aid his recovery, but one night as he took the dinner tray from Mrs. Hudson into the living room he woke Watson anyway, and apologized softly. Watson waved him off, and Holmes held his arm very gently as he slowly limped toward the dinner table, letting him shuffle along with just his cane. At the dinner table they talked as they ate as easily as ever.

"You've changed," Watson observed without malice when dinner was finished. "You're different now that you've been dead." He grinned softly at his friend.

"Yes," Holmes replied honestly. "I'm not the man I was before; I no longer want the same things. You've already seen that I am much better about admitting I care. I'm afraid you will still find me a trying man to live and work with, but I hope I am… better."

"You already are. I know it. It was Tibet, wasn't it?"

"Hmm?"

Watson smiled. "You've told me everything else about your travels, but you don't speak of Tibet. Something happened there, you found something. You don't have to tell me what it is, but it changed you."

"I… yes, Watson. I found something. It was... tempting to stay. But I wanted to be home more."

"And I am grateful for it."

"Yes, Watson… so am I. So am I."

To my dear 'Faithful Reader,' I fished this out the rubbish heap and edited it just for you, just because you liked A Walk Beyond the Mountains so much. That's roughly over 600 pages (I didn't count) of rejected content (spread out over 10 google docs), so feel free to feel special :) I figured if you really did like the first chapter, maybe the rejected second chapter deserved to see the light of day.

MCH1987, thank you for your recent reviews.

To everyone who takes time to review, I thank you.