Early morning sunlight bathed fields and houses alike, creating a picturesque view I could not appreciate while watching for danger. I smothered a large yawn as I checked shadows.

I found nothing, but after the falls, I knew better than to trust appearances.

"Here it is," Mary said softly, palming a glinting key from beneath the bush. She quickly unlocked the door, and with no sign of anyone nearby, I followed them into the apparently run-down shack. Mary locked the door behind us as Mrs. Hudson and I searched for the hidden entrance.

"Doctor."

A rug in the north corner revealed a trap door. I gripped my revolver as I crossed the room.

"Let me check it first. Stay away from the windows."

Mary frowned at me, her own weapon in her hand, but they did not protest as I quickly descended the ladder. If Moran had found this before us, I would much rather distract him while they escaped. Defeating Moran myself might partially make up for deserting Holmes, and if Moran emerged the victor, they would be long gone and free of me. Either way was a win.

The bunker was set up more like a motel room than a bolthole, with three bedrooms, a sitting room, a washroom, a small kitchen, and a storage room. Though empty of people, each bedroom had a full-sized bed and a few smaller items scattered throughout, and the sitting room had been set up to replicate Baker Street.

I paused in the sitting room doorway, my focus drifting toward the armchairs as sorrow pierced my chest. Holmes should be sitting there, not—

I roughly shoved the thought away. Not yet. I would have all day to deal with that, but not yet. I limped back to the trapdoor.

"All clear."

A hand steadied Mrs. Hudson down the ladder, and she started exploring while I helped Mary. A surprised laugh came from one of the bedrooms as I fought with the rug covering the door.

"I wondered where that went!"

"What is it?" Mary stopped her wandering to follow Mrs. Hudson's voice, and her own laugh rang out a moment later.

"John! When did Sherlock raid our house?"

The lock clicked as confusion faintly pushed past the grief beginning to return. I slowly followed Mary's voice to the room furthest from the entrance.

She held up a familiar book as I reached the doorway. "Your journals are here," she informed me without looking up, "as is your pipe, a pouch of tobacco, and the knitting I lost last week."

Four of my favorite novels also sat on the shelf next to my spare medical supplies and two recent magazines, and I spotted my small bag of toiletries in another corner. Mrs. Hudson came up behind me, a small journal in her hand.

"He stole my knitting," she said with a grin, "two books, a picture, and my husband's journal, plus the spatula I reserved for chasing him out of my kitchen. When could he have done that?"

I merely shook my head. I had no idea, and now we would never know. They resumed exploring as I slowly made my way toward the sitting room.

"Watson! When will you stop reorganizing my case files?"

"If you do not stop putting spiders in my dresser, Watson, I will put a snake on your pillow."

"Absolute silence. The results of this experiment will determine a man's life."

Two armchairs sat near the hearth, the settee off to one side, and Holmes came alive around me. Down to the angles of the chairs in relation to the fire, he had perfectly recreated our old sitting room. I could almost see him lounging in that chair as he had on so many quiet evenings.

"Hand me that notebook, would you?"

The vision faded, leaving me staring at an empty room. Mary and Mrs. Hudson were safe, but he was gone. I had abandoned him when he needed me, and now he was dead.

Murderer!

I flinched but leaned against the doorframe, staring. Grieving. He was gone, and the pain I had been denying for the last day and a half of travel crashed over me. I did not fight it.

"Hurry up, Watson! The game is afoot!"

"I need to think, Watson! Not eat! I have told you that digestion gets in the way of blood supply!"

"You are late, my dear chap. I fully expected you here hours ago."

His voice seemed to fill the room around me, echoing the rebuke from every corner. I had failed him so many times, whether by missing a key point or by inadequately retrieving information, but I had never failed him as badly as this. For the first time in ten years, I had left him when I knew he was in danger. His death was my fault.

"Watson?"

Holmes. How I wished he were here. Everything from the bunker's layout to the personal touches screamed my friend's name. Even when running for his life, he had still managed to retrieve the items each of us would want in a safe house.

"Do you like what I did, Watson? They did well, considering they had such a short time to finish, but I do hope we will not be here long. Mycroft promised to help me track Moran."

Of course he would. Their relationship was different than Harry's and mine had been, but the Holmes' were just as close. Though he would never show it, Mycroft would miss his brother.

I would as well, though I should not. I had caused his death. I did not have the right to miss his life.

"Watson, can you hear me?"

I could, yes, though I had not yet decided whether that was good or bad. The heavy grief should not make me hallucinate his voice so clearly, but if I would never hear him again, I saw no reason to end the illusion now.

"Watson, you need to come back."

Come back from where? I was right here, staring at the sitting room where Holmes and I had spent so much time. It was empty now, all because of me. I had killed him.

"Please, Watson. Listen to me! I was trying to avoid this."

Avoid what?

"I am not dead, Watson, and you are not at fault for anything that happened at the falls. Come back. Please come back."

Not…dead? But the footprints had ended at the cliff, and he had not replied.

"I was on a ledge, and Moran had his air gun aimed at you the moment you came around the bend. I could not announce myself without putting you in danger."

On a ledge. The words repeated in my mind. If Holmes had been on a ledge, then I was a blind fool. I had been too busy trying to spot my friend clinging to a rock to see him lying on one.

"Not your fault, Watson. I swear. Even Moran did not find me, and he had the better vantage point. I sent you away to keep you safe, then Moran prevented me from declaring myself when you returned. I could not follow you to London without making you a target, so I sent you after Mary and Mrs. Hudson and met you here. I am alive. My disappearance was not your fault, and you would not have been at fault if Moriarty had won. Come back. Please come back."

I slowly grew aware of movement. A hand gripped my shoulder, shaking in a large motion that moved my entire body, and I gradually refocused to find my friend standing directly in front of me. Stark relief appeared when I met his gaze, but confusion mixed with grief to shoot through me. I simply stared.

"Watson? Can you hear me?"

I nodded silently. How could he be here? He was dead. I had killed him.

"I am real," he said quickly, somehow knowing my thoughts before they fully formed. "You are not hallucinating or dreaming, and you are not to blame for anything that happened at the falls."

I continued staring, afraid to believe my eyes, and the hand on my shoulder gently squeezed. When I still said nothing, he put my hand on his shoulder.

Jacket, skin, bone, and muscle resisted my hesitant pressure. He was here. He was solid, and I felt a wide smile slowly stretch my mouth.

"Holmes!"

"What?!"

He twitched a grin as simultaneous cries came from the bedrooms, and footsteps pounded closer.

"Mr. Holmes!"

"Sherlock!"

Mrs. Hudson skidded around the corner, Mary barely a step behind her, and shocked surprise appeared when they saw Holmes standing in front of me.

"You're alive!"

"You're an idiot!"

I laughed, still more focused on Holmes though well aware of the irritation combining with relief on Mary's face.

"You're an idiot," she said again, a closed fist to his other shoulder more relieved than angry. "We thought you were dead!"

She cut a glance at me, announcing she had seen more of my thoughts than I wished in that hansom, but she did not say as much. Apology appeared in Holmes' expression.

"Temporarily necessary," he admitted, the words as close as he would ever get. "I could not announce myself at the falls, and I could not meet you in London without drawing Moran's attention. A few of Mycroft's men helped me set this up over the last fortnight, and I put the last touches while waiting for you to arrive."

"Wait a minute," I interjected, my hand falling off his shoulder as I noted the time frame. "'The last fortnight'? You have been traveling with me for the last fortnight, and you mentioned the third day that the raid was not finalized until two days before we left London. When did you plan this?"

"The night before we left," he answered. "New information rendered my previous plan unusable, and I proposed this only a few hours before we boarded the train from London."

"What was your first plan?"

"Unusable," he deflected, ignoring my scowl. "It would have fallen apart almost immediately." This one nearly did as well.

He did not need to voice the second half for me to hear it, and I wondered what he meant. He could not know my intentions any more than he could know what I had realized at that cliffside waterfall. I had deserted him, and desertion equated murder in combat. I would not have stayed here for long.

I may not still. The hand remaining on my shoulder acquitted me of murder, but I had betrayed him by leaving. He should not want me around.

That keen gaze pinned me in place the instant the thought crossed my mind. "I mean it, Watson. None of that was your fault. I wrote that note, and when I could not announce myself when you returned, I met you here."

How he did that, I would never understand, but I knew better than to ask what had revealed my thoughts. He would not answer.

"I should not have gone."

"I wanted you to," he insisted. "I know you too well, Watson. You would not have let me face Moriarty alone, and he would have shot you immediately. You were not drawn away. I sent you, on purpose, knowing exactly who was coming. Stop blaming yourself for what I did."

I could not stop an irritated huff, but neither could I stop the small smile that escaped. Whether I agreed with him or not was immaterial. He saw no betrayal, and if I had not betrayed him, I would not dishonor them by staying. I did not need to leave.

Relief flickered again as he read my thoughts, but he made no comment, showing us around the bunker instead. He made no attempt to hide that he enjoyed our reactions to everything he or one of Mycroft's men had stolen in the last weeks. Everything from entire outfits to the medical bag I had left in London joined journals, current projects, and the occasional picture, but the new book on my end table garnered the loudest reaction.

"Holmes! How the blazes did you steal a novel from the luggage we left on the train?!"

He merely laughed, and I could do nothing but stare at the book in my hand.

It was times like this that made me wonder if Holmes was something slightly more than human.

Hope you enjoyed this final chapter! Don't forget to review :)

Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter, but a huge thanks to Corynutz. OMGoodness, that is one heck of a compliment, one I never thought I would see. THANK YOU