Supper time came and went as he paced the length of his compartment, but he never noticed despite the days since he had eaten a real meal. His worry prevented even the increasing hunger pangs from reaching his awareness, and he breathed a heavy sigh of relief when the train finally pulled into a familiar station. He left the locomotive almost before the car lurched to a halt.

"It's true!"

The words carried the moment he reached the lamplit platform, and a small form darted through the shadowed crowds. Holmes had barely enough time to recognize Jackson before the leader of the Irregulars slammed into him.

"You're alive! You came back! You're actually alive! You're alive!"

Small arms locked around his waist, and the shocked cries eventually devolved into simply squeezing him as tightly as the boy's young frame would allow. Jackson's shoulders began trembling, weeks of heartache releasing in pure relief.

"Hello, Jackson." One hand came to rest on Jackson's back, rubbing small circles as he waited for the boy to calm.

"Mr. Holmes!"

The name had been muffled in his jacket, but Holmes still shushed him. "I hardly need the press following me before I can reach Watson."

Jackson immediately pushed away, nodding as he wiped red eyes. "You need to get to him," he agreed. "He's not even listening to Mrs. Watson, and Mrs. Hudson hasn't stopped cooking in weeks. Oh, but I'm glad you're back! The others will be too!"

Jackson wrapped him in another hug before just as quickly disappearing into the crowds, no doubt off to announce Holmes' return to the courtyard, and he never noticed the fear that shot through Holmes.

What was wrong with Watson?

The station was not far from that small house and practice, and his worry only grew when he saw the large sign on the door sending prospective patients to another doctor. Watson usually put an expected reopening date on such a sign, and the empty space seemed to mock him, announcing Watson's poor condition without enough details to determine the cause. He firmly refused to stare at the tauntingly empty spot as he knocked.

Heavy silence answered him. He quickly grew lightheaded standing, and he allowed himself to lean on the doorframe as he finally knocked again. Could Mary have taken Watson somewhere else? Even the back bedroom could hear the door.

Movement sounded from within just before he would have knocked a third time, and he took a pointed step back as the lock clicked. He had no idea if Mycroft had warned her. He would prefer to avoid a black eye, if possible.

The door opened partially, and his surprise undoubtedly showed on his face when Mrs. Hudson peered onto the darkened stoop, her black dress making a swishing sound against the door. How bad was Watson for Mrs. Hudson to be here?

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, apparently only seeing his shadowed figure. "I'm afraid the doctor is not accepting patients."

"I am not a patient."

She froze with the door half-closed, hesitating at the familiar voice. "No."

"Yes." He stepped into the light spilling from the hall, one hand on the railing as pure shock appeared on her face. "It took me a bit longer to make it back than I wanted," he added. "Moriarty's lieutenant was rather persistent."

She opened the door completely, still staring at him, and he shifted his feet.

"I did not expect you to be at Watson's house," he eventually continued, if for no other reason than to give her time to collect herself. "Did something happen? Were they attacked?"

She shook her head, a clear negative to his questions though she still fought to move past her amazement, and another moment passed before a wide smile split her face. She reached forward, gripping his arm as if to ensure he was truly there.

"Mr. Holmes!"

"Again?" Mary's tired voice came from the other room. "He just checked on us a few hours ago."

Mycroft had been checking on them?!

"Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, the name requesting both details and entrance. She quickly stepped aside to let him in, and he stood near the wall as she gathered herself enough to call to the other room.

"Mary! Mary, it's Mr. Holmes!"

"You know the way to the sitting room by now, Mycroft," she replied, fatigue and worry in every word. "Stop lingering in the entry."

How many times had Mycroft been here for Mary to drop his title? He left his valise in a corner, using the action to hide the way he steadied himself on a table. The lack of meals was beginning to catch up with him, but Watson was more important.

"My name is not Mycroft."

Silence answered him for a long moment.

"That's a cruel trick." Movement sounded, then footsteps crossed the room. "Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes." He waited for her steps to reach the doorway before adding, "You are not allowed to hit me. I returned as soon as I could."

The steps briefly paused, then Mary came around the corner, wide-eyed.

"Sherlock?"

Mrs. Hudson stepped into the other room, apparently to sit with Watson until Mary returned. The idea did nothing for his worry.

"Hello, Mary."

She moved slowly closer, staring at him all the while, and the bags under her eyes combined with the lines on her face to reveal many worried, sleepless nights. Whatever had happened to Watson had not been recent.

"Mary?" he asked when she remained quiet for too long.

"Sherlock." The word came out as a relieved whisper, and her smaller hand found and squeezed his as she smiled widely. She glanced back at the sitting room, hope in her gaze. "Come on. Maybe he will hear you."

Hear him? Just what was wrong with Watson?

Mary led him toward the fireplace, releasing his hand when he spotted his friend sitting in the chair near the flickering coals, and a frown crossed his face. Watson sat limply, staring at nothing. He remained silent when Mary replaced Mrs. Hudson in the seat next to him, and he did not even look over when Holmes falteringly knelt in front of him.

"Watson?" Nothing. Watson continued staring hollowly, and he tried again. "Watson, look at me."

He received no answer, and Holmes tore his gaze from his friend when Mary sighed.

"Don't take it personally," she told him. "He hasn't said a word since the day he got off the train."

He glanced between them, noting every sign of fatigue and worry in Mary as well as the deep grief Watson carried beneath the crepe suit.

"He has been like this for two weeks?"

"Or so," Mary replied. "He withdrew about the time he arrived home, a day, maybe two, after you separated at the falls. He spoke only once, an 'I love you' on the way from the station. Every day since has been the same. He does not even seem to know where he is."

He certainly did not know Holmes knelt in front of him. That was painfully obvious. "What can I do?"

"Eat something," Mrs. Hudson said from behind him, cutting off Mary's reply as she set a tray on the table. "Don't think I failed to notice how you used the table, wall, and railing to stay upright. How long has it been since you ate?"

He thought about that, then shrugged. "Movement was more important." He glanced at Watson again as he levered himself into a chair. "Is he eating?"

"Enough," Mary answered quietly, taking a bowl off the tray Mrs. Hudson had brought. "He keeps normal hours and will walk anywhere I lead him, but he has not looked at me, reacted, or spoken since he returned. My father did much the same thing when Mother died, but he did not slip quite so far."

Worry lumped in his throat, and he took a bite to have an excuse to swallow. "How did your father come out of it?"

"Time." She offered Watson a spoonful of broth, catching a stray drop with the spoon. "He said later that he was faintly aware of my presence, so I haven't left John's side for more than a moment, and between Martha and I, we never leave him alone." She paused, then admitted, "There's been very little progress, but maybe that will change with you here. He might listen to you in a way he cannot hear me." She stared at him again, her pleasure evident though she did not voice the thought.

If the way Mrs. Hudson still puttered behind him was any indication, she felt the same. He had not expected more relief from Mary and Mrs. Hudson than from Watson, and he tried to cover his continued worry with another bite.

"What can I do?" he asked again.

"Spend as much time as possible in this room," she answered. "His awareness fluctuates. He is not even peripherally here right now, but if you can catch him when he is somewhat aware, your voice might draw him back."

"I never dreamed…" The murmur weakened as he studied his friend. With hollow gaze and vacant expression, one might compare Watson to a statue if not for the steady breathing. He swallowed each time Mary spooned broth into his mouth, but that seemed to be more reflex than voluntary. He certainly never requested the next spoonful.

Mary spoke before he could decide how to continue. "What happened?"

"Did he relay what I told him the night before we left?" She nodded. "Moriarty had a lieutenant of whom the Yard knew nothing. Moran was late to the falls, and while he easily saw that his master was gone, he did not know where on the cliff I had hidden myself. One noise would have sent the first bullet through Watson and the second through me, and Moran has been following me, trying to finish what his master started. Returning to London would have put a target on everyone in this house, and I have been hiding, waiting until I or the officials could capture Moran."

He should have made provisions for Watson to collect Mary and Mrs. Hudson and meet somewhere. That might have prevented his friend from sinking so deeply.

"But it's safe now?" she asked, more to keep him talking that out of true concern. He would not have returned if it were not.

"It is," he confirmed. "Mycroft has been helping me track Moran, and the man died three days ago. I came as soon as the news reached me." He still could not tear his gaze from where Watson sat vacantly, and the quiet words continued of their own volition. "Mycroft's note warned me that something was wrong, but I never expected…" The sentence faded again, and he disguised his unease with another bite. "He will come out of it?"

"Eventually." The fear in her expression announced that this was more hope than certainty. "I have to hope it will be quicker with you here. He will be so relieved to see you, Sherlock, and considering it was your loss that set him adrift…" She lifted one shoulder, no blame in the honest words. "Your presence should pull him back, but he has to realize you are here, first. Why Mycroft?"

"He is the most protected. My infuriating brother has far too many guards, by his own admission, and their presence meant I could not put him in danger with contact. The blood relation also allowed him to access my bank accounts."

She did not answer for a moment, pretending distraction when more broth spilled down Watson's chin than reached his mouth. The eventual words barely drifted to Holmes' hearing.

"He never said a word."

The soft admission was directed more at Watson than Holmes, and he tried not to flinch at the regret it carried. The death report grew heavy in his pocket.

"He could not. The only thing worse than faking my death in Switzerland would be telling you I was alive then dying for real." Or telling them he was alive only to make them a target, but he saw no reason to voice that again.

"That is true," she admitted as she set the bowl aside. "It's just…" She trailed off, then changed what she had been about to say. "Did you truly will money to us?"

Not in the way she meant, but it took no deduction to realize Mycroft had been helping them with that as an excuse. "Of course, and you are not allowed to pay me back."

"Sherlock—"

"No. It is meager payment for everything my actions have caused in the last weeks."

She frowned at him, reading more into his reply than he had intended. "You do not even know how much it was."

"Whatever the number, it was not enough." He glanced at Watson again. He would rather return to an empty bank account than an empty house, but the sentiment refused to form into words. "I doubt you will let me give you more," he said instead, pushing his depleted plate away.

She shook her head. "I would like to give at least some of it back," she answered. "We have only used a portion of it, and you know John will see it as borrowing."

"Then he can take it up with me. Keep the money." He would love to have this argument with Watson. That would mean his friend had come back from wherever he was now.

A smile flickered into view as she caught his meaning. "I hope he does," she murmured. He did not comment, deciding she had not meant him to hear, and his gaze strayed again to Watson.

"How long did it take your father to come out of it completely?"

"About a month and a half, I think," was the blunt answer. He tried to smother another flinch. "It started with remembering how to eat, then progressed into taking my hand, then looking at me briefly. Words were among the last to return, but it might be different for John with you here. The surprise of your homecoming might renew his words before he is fully in the present."

"What do you mean 'in the present'?" How would he be anywhere but the present?

"Father hinted that he spent the time trapped in memories, reliving everything from precious days with her to fighting to deny the memory of her lying in that coffin. He could not fathom a world without her, so he went to a place where she was still alive." She looked at her husband. "That is probably where he is, somewhere you are not dead."

He would agree, but that did not account for something else.

"He should have responded when I entered, then."

She shook her head. "Father could not always recognize people around him until well after he started glancing at me, and John's awareness very obviously fluctuates. Wait until he is aware enough to move his eyes, then he might hear you."

Aware enough to move his eyes. She said that as if it was a milestone, an achievement, and Holmes supposed it was, when the rest of the day produced nary a blink. It was eerie, how infrequently Watson interrupted his blank stare. That combined with the loose suit made him look dead.

Holmes nearly recoiled, struggling to push the thought away. Watson was not dead. He was not. He still breathed. His heart still beat. He was alive, not dead, no matter how still he was.

The idea refused to leave, however. Watson looked dead, as if he had been propped in his chair for a post-mortem photo. This was not the homecoming he had been expecting.


Reviews are greatly appreciated :D And thanks to Guest, Corynutz, and MCH1987 for the reviews last chapter.

Guest, does this qualify as "ok"? I mean, he is still alive... (chuckle)