Warning: this drabble disturbed even me, but I was too happy to have my muse back not to chance it. Inspired by a line in KCS's drabble "Dinner" under "Snapshots." More appropriate for Halloween, I suppose, but meh.
With his back pressed against the wall, eyes dilated to near-total black and a cold sweat on his brow, Watson decided fainting was quite the appropriate response to the vision before him.
He had, in his wildest dreams, imagined that Holmes was alive, that his closest friend would somehow return. He had not, however, imagined this.
Resurrected from the grave . . .
But not as Lazarus, untouched and uncorrupted, or even as Mary Shelley's Frankenstein monster, piece-meal but still whole.
What made it the worst, Watson decided, was when those rotted, decaying lips parted and slurred out his name.