"Good morning, Sherlock."

Holmes had woken with the sun, and he looked up from inventorying his bag at Mary's quiet greeting, intending to ask after Watson.

There was no need. Only their outfits had changed from the night before, when Mary had taken Watson's hand to lead him to bed. They both looked much better not draped in all black, but Watson's vacant expression remained as Mary led him to his chair.

"Morning," Holmes replied, somewhat belatedly. He had hoped the new day would bring some change. "Can I do anything?"

Mary indicated a negative. "Martha will bring breakfast soon, and Mycroft will probably come to check on us shortly after. Does he know you are back?"

"Only if the Irregulars told him," Holmes answered as he moved from the settee to the other armchair. "They only know because Jackson was watching the train station." He thought for a moment. "He probably told Jackson to watch the station," he added, recalling Jackson's surprised cry. "How often does he come here?"

"Once or twice a day." Mary draped a thin blanket over Watson's lap, but he never moved even when she laid his hand on the strings he used to card between his fingers.

"Did he reveal why he was coming?"

"The first time was when I asked to borrow money, before he told us you had left some. I think the others have been to see for himself how John is progressing, but he has never said. He is even harder to read than you are." Holmes felt a small grin twitch his mouth, and Mary faintly released her own amusement before adding, "I thought John said Mycroft never leaves his routine?"

Watson had probably repeated Holmes' jest about Jupiter leaving its orbit, but he saw no reason to voice the line now, when he would not receive the reward of his friend's slow smile.

"He does not." That alone showed his brother's concern over Watson—a concern which Holmes shared. He tried again to gain Watson's attention, through both touch and voice, but with no success. His friend merely stared into the distance, vacant expression completely hiding whatever he might be thinking.

"Keep trying, Sherlock," Mary said quietly. "God knows how many times I've tried to reach him in the last two weeks, and I still believe he will hear you before he hears me."

He would try every minute if the continued attempts would bring Watson back that much sooner, but footsteps halted him for now. Mrs. Hudson opened the door behind him, tray in hand, and Holmes made no comment as Mary led a silent Watson to the table. He would rather say nothing than voice his worry. He doubted he hid it completely, anyway.

"You mentioned Interlaken," Mary said after they had dished their plates. She offered Watson yet another spoonful of broth. "Did you spend the last two weeks walking there?"

"Essentially," he answered, buttering a piece of toast. He rarely ate breakfast, but several days without a meal meant the food he had eaten last night was long gone. "I took mountain passes to make it harder for Moran to track me and hid in a few different caves for a day or so at a time when he got too close. Moran was an excellent marksman and a decent tracker, but he had had very little experience in the boreal forests of Switzerland. I used the trees more than once to lose him."

It was possible that same lack of experience had allowed Mycroft's man to catch him, but Holmes would probably never know.

"You said you came as soon as you heard," she remembered, "so you were not responsible for his death. How did he die?"

"Unclear," he answered shortly. She did not need to know what Mycroft had done. "He probably fought the officer. I was not the only one trying to subdue him. I was just the one he was trying to eliminate." He paused, then twitched a grin. "I suppose that makes me the bait," he added, glancing to see if the comment would reach his friend. Watson hated Holmes' tendency to use himself to lure a suspect.

Watson never moved, still sitting impassively in his chair, and Holmes smothered a sigh. This scenario was very different from what he had prepared himself to find. A physical injury at least had a prescribed treatment. He was no doctor despite Watson's many medical lessons over the years, and none of those lessons had covered what to do for a cold brain fever.

Mary scowled at him instead. "You know our thoughts on that idea," she told him, glancing at Watson as well. Holmes merely shrugged. He had seen no other choice at the time.

Mrs. Hudson broke the resulting silence. "I will be going to Baker Street after breakfast to get a few things. Do you want me to pack a bag for you?"

Relief shot through him. He had spent the early morning trying to decide how long it would take to get a few things from the flat, and the help would be better than having to leave for even that hour or two. "Please."

She nodded, and silence fell, each caught in their own thoughts, though he did notice both Mary and Mrs. Hudson glancing at him rather more than necessary. They still could not believe he was here.

How long would it take Watson to realize it?

Mrs. Hudson took the dishes back to the kitchen when they finished. Her efficient nature had everything cleaned in a matter of minutes, and Holmes settled into the other armchair as the door clicked behind her. Mary studied him from her place next to Watson's chair.

"He will want to know everything that happened after you separated."

"I will tell him," he promised, never shifting his own attention from Watson. He had already told Mary most of it, and Watson's vacant gaze put his friend much further away than the highest mountains of Switzerland had ever felt. He would tell Watson anything he asked, would repeat himself many times, if only to have his friend where he belonged.

"Did anyone besides Mycroft know?"

"No." He readjusted in his seat, only half his concentration on the conversation as he searched for ways to reach Watson. Perhaps a specific song on his violin? He would try that later. "We could not risk it. Moran would have targeted anyone he thought might know my location. Watson's very evident mourning is the only thing that kept Moran from following him home."

She frowned, but a familiar knock on the door cut off her next question.

"I will get it," he said when she made to get up. "It is Mycroft."

She waved him off, not bothering to ask how he knew that, and relief flickered across his brother's face when Holmes opened the door.

"Sherlock," he said in greeting, stepping into the entry. "I was beginning to wonder when you would make it to Interlaken. How is the doctor?"

That "when" was more like an "if," but Holmes made no immediate answer, his reply to Mycroft's question catching in his throat. Disappointment replaced his brother's relief, hidden to all but the one who knew him so well.

"He has not even looked at me," Holmes finally voiced, worry permeating the seven words despite his efforts.

Sympathy appeared, but Mycroft made no reply, leading the way to the sitting room.

"Hello, Mycroft," Mary said with a smile. "I hear you have been keeping something rather important from me."

"Sherlock has already told you why that was necessary."

Mary rolled her eyes. "That does not mean you are off the hook," she fired back. "If I thought Sherlock was difficult, he must have learned it from you."

Amusement sparked, though Holmes doubted Mary could see it. Mycroft focused on Watson without comment.

"Has he responded at all?"

"No." Holmes claimed the other armchair, a wave inviting Mycroft to take a seat. "No matter what I do or say, he continues staring, oblivious to my presence." He did not know how Mary had done this for two weeks. He had been here for less than a day, and he was already growing frustrated. The solution to Watson's grief sat not three feet away from him, but he was too deep in his pain to see it.

Mycroft declined the chair, studying Watson. "What have you tried?"

"Everything," Holmes answered, uncaring that a portion of his frustration leaked into the reply. "Talking to him, talking about him, squeezing his hand, playing my violin, even scratching on my violin—which he hates—nothing so much as changes the direction of his gaze. He stares through me just as easily as he stares through that wall. Any ideas you have would be most welcome, brother. I have no idea how to reach him."

And I fear that if I do not reach him soon, there will be nothing to reach.

That sympathy grew as Mycroft heard what he did not say, and the older man finally voiced what had made him personally check on Watson each day.

"I believe the key to reaching him is to refute what he is telling himself," he said simply. "He will only listen to you."

"Refute what he is telling himself," Holmes repeated. Watson's expression was a blank slate. "I have no way of knowing what he is thinking!"

"You know what you would be thinking." Holmes raised an eyebrow, silently asking what Mycroft meant, and his brother rephrased after a moment. "What would you be thinking if he had died at Moriarty's hand?"

He stared at his brother, a mixture of understanding and horror washing over him. If Watson had died at the falls that day, it would only have been Holmes' fault—for not protecting his friend, for not alerting him to the danger, for not watching his back. He would have been blaming himself, but Watson could not think that. Holmes had very clearly sent him away!

That did explain why Watson had not yet responded, however. Watson had not retreated because of Holmes' death. He had retreated to deal with the blame of Holmes' death. Holmes had been trying to drag Watson out of his retreat instead of making the retreat unnecessary.

Mycroft clapped him on the shoulder and left, the small gesture speaking volumes for how relieved the other man was at his brother's safe return, but Holmes directed his attention on his friend.

"It is not your fault, Watson."

Watson's brow twitched, as if he had tried to furrow it in confusion, and Holmes took one limp hand in his and tried again.

"You did not cause my death."

Mary gasped faintly, suddenly realizing what Mycroft must have seen weeks ago, but Holmes paid her no mind. Watson's brow had twitched again.

"You are not a murderer."

That granted him a minute cringe, and he knew he was on the right track.

"You did not kill me. Moriarty and Moran both tried to, and they both nearly succeeded, but you did neither. You are not a murderer, Watson."

Pain sparked in Watson's eyes. The emotion was much better than that empty nothingness, but his breathing quickened as he desperately tried to resume his retreat, tried to escape the ache that Holmes had unearthed. Holmes squeezed Watson's hand harder and continued speaking, ignoring the heat gathering in his own ears. Pulling his friend back was far more important than his own discomfort, and this went deeper than just blame of death.

"You did not abandon me, Watson. I sent you away. You did not betray me. I wrote that note. You are not a deserter, back-stabber, or a traitor. You are not a murderer. You are not to blame."

"Listen to him, John. Please. He's right."

The acute agony in Watson's eyes hurt Holmes to see, and he took Watson's other hand as well.

"You did not kill me. You are not at fault for what Moriarty tried to do. Even if he had succeeded, you would not be at fault. Come back, Watson. Please come back."

Watson cringed again, enough for Mary to see, and she sat on the arm of the chair to lean against his good shoulder. She said nothing, however, letting Watson hear it from Holmes.

"You are not at fault, Watson, and you have been gone for too long. Come back from wherever you are. You are needed here." I need you here, he wanted to say, but the words refused to form. He watched for a reaction.

The pain did not fade, but some of the blankness receded. He searched for something else to address when it did not recede completely.

"You could not have stayed with me. You would have stepped between us, and Moriarty planned to shoot you as soon as you did. Later, Moran would have killed you if I had revealed myself. I sent you away on purpose, Watson. You did not cause my death, and you would not have been at fault if I had gone over the falls that day."

Shadowed green eyes slowly focused to look at him instead of through him, and he fought to smother a heavy sigh of relief when a hazy recognition appeared in Watson's face.

"Holmes."

The name carried no sound, was barely more than a mouthed attempt, but Holmes did not need sound to understand. He nodded, gripping Watson's hands in his.

"I am not dead, Watson."

"Holmes," he mouthed again, glancing around for only a moment before looking back at Holmes. "But—I thought—"

He stopped moving, staring again, and stark fear shot through Holmes when that gaze tried to lose direction once more.

"Look at me," he said quickly. "You are not hallucinating. I am here, and you need to stay here, too."

Watson blinked, making eye contact. "N-no," he stammered faintly. "Not possible."

"Possible," he corrected, relief and fear still warring for dominance, "and even probable. Moriarty's teaching job taught him nothing of fighting techniques."

"Not possible," Watson murmured again, as if that settled it. His gaze drifted away from Holmes', and Holmes quickly squeezed the hands he still held.

"Watson, look at me." His friend slowly obeyed. "I am not dead."

Watson said nothing for a long moment, simply staring with eyes more clouded than clear.

"But—I killed you," he finally answered, the reply barely audible. "Saw—you fall. So many times."

Holmes swallowed, wondering how much of Watson's detachment had been reliving various what ifs in Switzerland.

"Moriarty fell, not me, but you would not have been at fault even if I had fallen."

"Killed you," he said again, the words heartbreakingly sure. "You're dead." He broke eye contact to look around the room again. "Where—"

"You're home, John," Mary said as he apparently realized this for himself. "You're home, and Sherlock is real."

He craned his neck to look at her, then turned back to Holmes, hope beginning to show.

"You can…see him, too?" he murmured, the question obviously directed at Mary though he never looked away from Holmes.

"I can, John, and so have Martha, Mycroft, and several of the Irregulars. He's real."

Silence stretched again, hope fighting hesitance and fear as he searched for words. Hope finally won out, then mixed with a new kind of fear.

"Left…you."

"No." If he could say it once, he could repeat himself until Watson believed him, and the words flowed freely. "You did not leave me, Watson. I sent you away. I had to send you away. Both of us would be dead if I had not."

"Left you," Watson repeated, every certain word sending a jolt of pain through Holmes. "Fool. Blind. Abandonment. Murderer."

"No," he breathed, cupping Watson's hands in his. "A thousand times, no. I owe you so many apologies, my dear Watson. I had no idea you would be so affected."

"Traitor. Back-stabber. Deserter. Murderer." Watson flinched into the chair, trying to look through him again as he repeatedly mouthed that final word, and Holmes moved one hand to grip Watson's arm.

"No. Watson, listen to me. You did not leave me. I swear. I swear it is not your fault. Have I ever made a promise I could not keep?"

Watson still flinched away from him, but his mouth stopped moving. He wavered, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"I am serious, Watson. It is not your fault. Even if I had gone over the falls that day, it would not have been your fault. If you must assign fault, blame me. I am the one that did not realize how you would see it."

"Don't…trust—"

"Not true," he cut in. Watson should not even consider that. "That is not true. I sent you away to keep Moran from targeting you, not because I do not trust you."

Watson gradually relaxed at Holmes' assurance, resuming the clouded eye contact that had broken when he flinched.

"S-sure?" he asked hesitantly.

Holmes' grip tightened. "Yes, I am sure. What happened at the falls was not your fault. It was mine. I should have planned another way to defeat Moriarty."

Hurt replaced some of the hesitance. "You…planned that?"

"Parts of it," he replied honestly. "I had to lead him somewhere if he escaped the Yard, and the falls made an ideal spot to lay a trap. I wanted to tell you afterwards, but Moran had his air gun aimed at you the moment you came around the bend in the path. I could only watch as you reached the logical conclusion that I had died."

"Inaccurate. Foolish."

"Logical. You had no way of knowing I had climbed partway up the cliff face. I walked on hard rocks to the edge of the path and hid myself well on my ledge. Moran did not even find me, and he had a better vantage point."

"Moran?"

"Moriarty's lieutenant. He determined to kill me for killing his master, and he was quite willing to use you to reach me." Watson's attention flicked to his desk, where he had always kept his revolver, and Holmes hurriedly added, "He is dead, Watson. One of Mycroft's men found him four days ago, and he resisted capture." Watson did not need to know that Moran had probably never seen the man that killed him. Better to keep it simple.

Watson glanced at him, surprised at the deduction, then down as he finally realized that Holmes' hand gripped his. He squeezed back, and a faint smile flickered into view.

"You are really here," he murmured. His smile grew, morphing into utter joy and relief as he resumed eye contact, and he almost visibly settled into the present. "Holmes!"

The fog lifted from Watson's eyes, and Holmes allowed his own smile to escape, beyond pleased at the expression in Watson's face. His friend was back.


See, I'm not too mean, lol :) Hope you enjoyed, and as always, don't forget to review.

Thanks to those who did so last chapter.