"Sherlock!" John Watson ran forward. "No! Let me through. He's my friend!" Several hands pushed and pulled at him dragging him further and further from the limp figure of his friend. He felt one strong hand on his shoulder that was not pushing or pulling.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," a voice said in a low voice. After a few seconds John looked up. He just got a glimpse of brown hair and a trench coat disappearing into the crowd.
When John got home to 221 B Baker Street, he felt drained. As he took off his jacket, a small slip of paper fell to the floor. He picked it up. In a messy scrawl (in bright blue pen) was written: "I'm sorry for your loss. Everything is not as it seems. Have faith." John glared at it, puzzled, but then placed it in a drawer where he promptly forgot about it.
Three years later, John Watson woke to a screeching sound. With a start, he jumped out of bed and ran to the living room. There, sitting in an armchair as if he had never left, was Sherlock Holmes playing his violin. After his initial shock, John stepped forward and punched Sherlock in the jaw.
" How could you?! Three years! I thought you were dead! I saw you fall! How could you survive?!"Sherlock was massaging his face, but looked up in surprise (which in and of itself was surprising).
"Three years? But he said it was only... well I guess it is very unreliable." He looked John in the face. "A friend helped me," he said.
"A friend?" asked John incredulously.
A strange groaning noise pierced the air and Sherlock looked out the window. John followed his gaze just in time to see a blue box disappear.