My fingers tremble as I tear open the top of the envelope. Inside is a single sheet of paper, folded so perfectly it could only be done by he himself. I carefully open the sheet of paper, not wanting to get my fingerprints on it, as if it's a piece of evidence.

"Dearest John,

I write this letter in the lab at St. Bartholomew's. I am terribly sorry this has to be done. I am aware of the fact you are probably reading this before I even commit the act I will later mention. If not, I have greatly underestimated your intellect-

Bastard.

"but I do apologize for what I am about to do. However John, I need you to listen to me. You must not look for me. You must not mention this to anyone- Mrs. Hudson, nor Mycroft,. You must continue on as you were before because if anything, I am a man of my word and I intend on returning to Baker Street.

What is he talking about?

"I faked my own suicide. The logistics of the event will be explained later, however Molly assisted me so if you have any further questions after this you may ask her."

He's alive?

Sherlock Holmes is alive.

Of course he is. I knew a man such as he would never succumb to death willingly.

But- then where is he... and why would he leave himself behind in dishonor.

"I am safe at the moment, dear John you needn't worry about me. I do not know how long I must disappear for, but you must keep the promise I made for you- do not look for me.

-SH"

I put the letter down on the coffee table with shaking hands. That man is so... vague. I had at least hoped for an explanation but he was alive. That was good enough for me.

Molly. I think. I must speak with her.

What I am feeling right now- I can't place my finger on it. I had felt empty for so long, like the void within me was there because he had abandoned me. But I knew it was also purely because I missed him. I missed seeing his black trench coat whooshing about the house, I missed making him tea or coffee: black, two sugars. I missed the proximity of us, how we were a pair: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.

I guess it must be the soldier in me, but being part of something else with other people is who I am. Especially Sherlock, because life was never dull. He eliminated boredom by hanging himself or shooting a wall. I preferred the life where I was doing something all the time, which Sherlock provided. He made me feel alive again- or at least like I was back on the battlefield.

Enough of that.

I intend to see Molly tonight, because there is no possible way I can leave this situation alone at the moment.

I lift myself out of the chair and gather my outer-clothes to protect me from the cold London night.

I stand up and grab my coat from the hanger. As I pull it off the hook, a small grey deerstalker falls to the floor.

Soon you'll come back, I think to myself and rush out the door.