Warning, herein lies a bad word...

-~oooooOooooo~-

In the centre of the lounge of 221b Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes's fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. The unsightly yet splendidly effective urban camouflage had been hastily stripped away and lay in a crumpled heap upon the floor. Crisp white cotton now covered the angry scar that would forever mark his shoulder. Braces rested neatly on top to ensure his now baggy trousers remained aloft.

The room was exactly as he had left it. Mrs Hudson had respected Mycroft's wishes (and financial reimbursement) likely believing the request stemmed from grief-induced sentimentality. The old familiar furniture which surrounded him, the books and files upon the shelves, piles of papers, experimental equipment, pipes and slipper, even his beloved Stradivarius propped in the corner upon its stand, all whispered softly in the afternoon light to welcome him home.

There was of course an essential element missing.

Swaying slightly he gripped the back of his chair. Three days without sleep or a decent meal were beginning to catch up on him. As events had drawn to a close the usual mania had taken hold and he had been unable to rest. More than once he had fought the urge to go to his friend so he could stand beside him for the final act, but for safety sake he knew he must wait. And so, he had not ceased in his efforts until that moment arrived.

The morning paper lay folded upon the settee, its headline emblazoned with news of the capture and arrest of Colonel Sebastian Moran. Afghan war veteran, world-class sharp shooter and former right hand man to the late departed Criminal Mastermind Professor James Moriarty. The trap Holmes had laid for him had proven a resounding success. Somewhere in the offices at Scotland Yard, Lestrade now basked yet again in undeserved praise as he pondered how the devil such a lucky event had landed in his lap.

And so concluded the last act of the great detectives undercover operation. With the final threat neutralised it was time to rejoin the living.

Holmes had observed a gentle smile on Watson's lips when he took the oxygen device from its box and held it in his fingers. As he watched the cogs turn behind those familiar blue eyes he had begun to believe there was a chance after all. When his friend left the room to interrogate his wife Holmes quickly pulled the mask from his face, rose from the chair and crossed to the desk. His eyes scanned the page…

… I shall ever regard as the best and wisest man I have ever known…

…..and he found the heaviness he carried in his chest became just a little lighter. Impulsively he reached forward and depressed a final key. ? . There could now be no doubt.

With his invitation delivered he opened the window and made his exit, the papers fluttering in the breeze. It must be on Watson's terms now. If he wanted him then he knew where he would be.

It was as Holmes reached for his waistcoat that he heard a hansom clatter to the kerb, its wheels scraping sharply against the cobblestones. Seconds later a key turned in the lock and his friend's familiar footsteps crossed the hall and thundered up the stair.

His eyes flicked to the clock upon the mantle. It had been less than twenty minutes. He had not expected his wait to be so brief.

The door burst open and his friend stepped forward. His cheeks flushed, breath hitched, wide blue eyes fixed upon the ghost who stood before him.

Watson had always been easy to read. Holmes had spent many a contented evening studying those handsome features, deducing every thought which lurked behind. Now, for the very first time, he wished that he could not. Looking into those eyes he realised, beyond any doubt, that it was not the bullet or the bayonet that could cause the deepest wounds, but something else entirely.

As tear broke loose and tumbled down Watson's face he realised his friend had been right all along. He truly was a selfish bastard.

The air drained from the room. He found he could not breathe. He had thought himself prepared for this but he was wrong. At a time when he needed words more than ever, when there was so much he needed to say, so much he needed to explain, he found himself unable to speak.

All of a sudden he felt incredibly small. He felt ashamed. Watson deserved much better than this. He deserved a thousand apologies. He deserved the truth. He deserved to know that to Sherlock Holmes he represented all that was good in the world and all that had been at stake. He wanted him to know that in the moment when he had faced death and all else had fallen away, only the wish to see his friend had remained. The wish had been granted. Watson had not arrived too late, he had arrived just in time.

His lungs would not cooperate. Try as he might he could not form the words. He had failed. He must atone for his sins. Hanging his head he awaited the blow he quite rightly deserved.

It never came.

Instead, the man upon whom he had placed the word friend stepped forward and caught him in a tight embrace. It seemed the depths of Watson's heart were limitless. For the moment at least, no words were required.

-~oooooOooooo~-

I know this scene has been written many times before but I felt I needed to include it to finish off my little story. Early on I challenged myself to keep in the style of the first chapter and have no spoken words. I must say it proved quite difficult! Also, I was rather tempted to give Holmes a bop on the nose but decided against it as it didn't seem to fit. I hope you enjoyed. Reviews always welcomed :)