"Watson!"

I blinked, steel-grey eyes slowly coming into focus, and a sigh escaped. Where was I this time? And when?

"Watson, are you with me?"

I made no answer, checking my surroundings as I always did after a memory took over my awareness. I sat in my old chair at Baker Street, a steaming cup of tea on the table to my right. The room looked just as it had that last day, so many years before, and I glanced at the desk across the room, trying to decide what day had trapped me.

"Watson?"

I turned my gaze to where Holmes knelt in front of me, a frown of worry on his face. He looked more careworn than I remembered, but not much different than he had in Switzerland. I must be remembering a visit during my marriage.

"What's the case?" I asked, deciding that was the safest question. There had been very few visits in the later years not tied to a case, and I had found out long ago that it was better to follow the script as closely as possible during these waking dreams.

His frown deepened, and the wrongness of my question washed over me. I should not have said that, but what should I have said? I returned my gaze to the room, searching for a reference.

"Do you know where you are?"

I nodded decisively. "Of course." A letter pinned to the mantle caught my attention, and I focused on it, trying to make out the date on the envelope.

"Do you know when you are?"

I hesitated, not quite able to decipher the numbers. What would happen if I answered truthfully? The last time I had deviated from a script, the almost pleasant memory had quickly changed to a horrific nightmare, but I had no idea which answer was the correct one.

"It is April 1894," he told me quietly, still studying me intently, "and this is real."

1894? I thought. But Holmes died in '91. How could this be real?

"Watson, remember the train ride back to London?"

An image came to mind of Holmes and Mycroft riding across from me. Mycroft had engaged the special to get us back to London quicker than the train schedule could travel, and Holmes had been describing the years after faking his death.

I jerked my gaze back to where Holmes still knelt in front of me. We had arrived at Baker Street perhaps an hour before, and an oblique reference Holmes had made to a previous holiday had briefly recalled that holiday from the past, inserting it into the continuing dream I dared to hope was no dream at all. Several other memories had already returned me to this dream, and, while its reoccurrence said there was a decent chance that this was real, it was also possible I had wandered into the creek during the first one and this was my mind's idea of my life flashing before my eyes just before I died.

I could not claim to care if I had. It certainly made no difference to the moment.

"Say something, Watson," he said when my eyes met his.

I forced a smile, reaching over to grab the tea steaming next to me. "What were we doing?"

He studied me, probably deducing my thoughts despite my attempts to hide them, but only answered, "You were about to tell me I should have known Mrs. Hudson would go into hysterics on sighting me."

Right. I remembered that.

"What else should the 'great detective' expect when he picks the lock to walk into his old flat three years after his funeral?" I changed the smile into a smirk. "You admitted as much on the walk to town. You are lucky she did not hit you with that frying pan."

He huffed in feigned irritation, standing to move to his own chair though his gaze never left off studying me. "What would you have me do, knock on the door? Please."

My smirk became a touch more genuine. "That is what most people would do."

"Since when am I 'most people?'" he shot back, snaking a hand up to grab his pipe.

I shrugged, more focused on the tobacco he lit in his pipe than on what I should respond to such a comment. If this was real, the three-year-old tobacco he had just grabbed would be quite stale.

A cloud of smoke rose a moment later, and he coughed, waving the miasma aside as I felt my smirk turn into a true grin. He should have expected the tobacco to be stale, but the result finally convinced me that this was not just another dream. Before Switzerland, he had never allowed his tobacco to go stale—nor would he have. He truly had returned, and I relaxed into my chair, grateful beyond words to have my dearest friend back.

"Here," I said, reaching for my case. I did not have fresh pipe tobacco for him even at my empty house, but I offered him a cigarette from the case in my pocket, trying to hide the fatigue that grew steadily stronger as I relaxed.

His gaze lit on the case, following it back to its place in my jacket. I had known he would recognize the case he had left at the falls. "You always keep it with you?"

I nodded, recalling the day I had given it to him, and silence fell as I tried not to sink into the past yet again.

.

Watson ran a finger over a sharp ridge on his teacup, using it as a focus, and Holmes leaned back in his chair as he tried to decide if he should help Watson stay awake or tell him to take the settee. The stale tobacco had worked as excellent proof that this was real, but Watson's exhaustion had only grown more evident as he relaxed. The bags under his eyes had somehow darkened, and he fought to stay alert as silence fell over the sitting room.

"Quit staring at me, Holmes," Watson said after a moment. "I am just tired." He affected a smile, adding, "A lot has happened in the last few hours. It will take me a while to adjust."

"He knows that, dearie," Mrs. Hudson said from the doorway, carrying a tray into the room. Watson started minutely, apparently not hearing her footsteps on the stairs, but turned to look at her, expression blank, as she continued, "but that doesn't mean he will let you out of his sight for a while, just as I doubt you will let him out of yours."

A faint smirk appeared at her words, but Watson made no immediate reply, watching as she laid out the light meal they had requested after calming her down.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he finally said when she finished, slowly pulling himself to his feet but aiming for the pot of tea.

Smiling in answer, she waited until he turned his back to pin Holmes with a pointed look, and he nodded. He would make sure Watson ate something.

As with Lestrade, she had needed no words for Holmes to see how much she worried about Watson. The distressed looks she had given him, not to mention her surprise at his appearance, said everything for her. Holmes doubted it had been more than a few weeks since she had last seen his friend, but her reaction on sighting him had announced how much he had changed in that time.

Holmes noticed her distractedly glance at Watson once more, but she said nothing as she went back downstairs, and Holmes set the cigarette aside, joining Watson at the table to make a pointed show of spearing a piece of meat with his fork. He raised an eyebrow at his friend, clearly asking if he planned to eat, and smothered a pleased grin when Watson rolled his eyes but speared his own piece of meat, finishing it in a few bites on the way back to the fireplace. Holmes would have preferred he eat more than a single piece, but he let it drop. He could not claim to be the best example when it came to meals, and at least Watson was eating.

Watson sank back into his chair, and Holmes began moving about the room, refamiliarizing himself with where everything was. He could feel Watson watching him from his seat, following every movement as if still worried Holmes would disappear as soon as he dropped his guard, and Holmes tried to hide his unease, searching for a way to help.

"Now who is the one staring?" he finally asked.

Watson smirked, but he refused to relax completely, his gaze locked on where Holmes dug through his desk. He still worried it was all a dream, and as Mrs. Hudson had said, just because he had allowed himself to believe that Holmes was truly there, that this was real, did not mean he was going to let Holmes out of his sight for a moment.

But that should not include sleeping with Holmes in the same room.

Holmes gestured toward the settee with a smirk of his own, watching to make sure Watson understood his promise. "Get some sleep. I will avoid the chemistry set."

Watson stared at him for only a moment before realizing what he was truly saying, and something resembling a laugh bubbled out in response. Relief bloomed in Holmes at the sound, but he tried not to show it as Watson moved to the settee, pulling a rug over himself though his eyes remained open. He watched Holmes for a few minutes longer, faintly smirking each time Holmes glanced towards him, but fatigue eventually overcame wariness. Holmes checked on him again to find him sound asleep.

Holmes rummaged through his desk for a moment longer before picking an index off his shelf and settling into his chair, watching his friend more than he read. Watson obviously had not been sleeping well, and nightmares were the most likely cause. Holmes could not undo what had already happened, but he could wake his friend at the first sign of trouble.

He also did not know if Watson had been sleepwalking. He would not risk his friend waking alone.

The minutes passed peacefully. It could have been any quiet afternoon in Baker Street, if not for the changes in his friend, and Holmes enjoyed the easy silence after so many years of constant alertness. It was good to be home.

He turned a few pages, still more focused on Watson though he slowly updated each entry. The doctor shifted in his sleep, readjusting as he always did. Mrs. Hudson left to run a few errands. Crowds passed outside.

Watson slept peacefully, and Holmes forced himself not to stare. He turned his focus to his work, still glancing up frequently, and thirty minutes passed. Then an hour.

Watson grew restless, and Holmes looked up from his book. His friend calmed again a moment later, however, and Holmes turned back to the entry on Harold Arthur, reminding himself of everything he had once known about the small arms smuggler and adding a small piece he remembered reading during his travels. He had crossed paths with Arthur once before, but a newspaper Mycroft had sent the previous winter had suggested Arthur had increased his activity. Lestrade was probably beginning to note the smuggler's movement, and, knowing the inspector, he would eventually ask Holmes to help.

A change drew his attention just as he finished updating the entry, and he glanced around the quiet room. Crowds still passed on the street. Mrs. Hudson had not yet returned. Watson still lay quietly on the settee. What had changed? Something important was missing.

The realization hit him with the force of a locomotive. The room was more than quiet. It was silent.

His attention shot over to focus on his friend. Watson's chest no longer rose and fell with shallow breaths, and pure terror shot through Holmes for the second time in as many days.

"Watson!"

There was no response, and the index hit the floor as Holmes lunged to grab his friend by the shoulders.

"WATSON!"

Hmm, does that cliffhanger make me evil? Hope you enjoyed, and don't forget to review! :D