Anger and Forgiveness - Sherlock Holmes

[hannahazzard]

Disclaimer: nothing belongs to me
Spoilers: SH A game of Shadows
Summary: My take on the reunion after the end of the movie

Two o'clock.

Two o'clock in the morning and by all means, he should be asleep next to his beautiful wife.

It's not like he wasn't trying. He was lying in bed next to a sleeping Mary after all. And yet, sleep was one of the farthest things from his mind.

And who was responsible for his wakefulness? Again?

Of course, none other than consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, whom he had thought dead, up until the previous afternoon.

Well, he hadn't taken his return as good as he could have. Maybe he even overreacted a bit. A lot. But something in him had just snapped. He couldn't help it.

**
"No Mary." John called down to his wife, "It wasn't important. Just…" Just what? A tiny moment of foolish hope. Watson sighed. "Just something I wanted to know." Then he closed the door along with his eyes and slumped against it, banging his head on the wood twice, as if punishing himself for allowing to believe even for a second, that his best friend could still alive.

He had seen him fall to death. There was no mistake, Sherlock Holmes was…

"I believe you as a doctor are aware of the fact that even the slightest hit on the head can bring damage to the, in my fullest opinion, most important part of your body. We don't want to risk that, do we?"

Watson froze, but didn't dare to open his eyes. That voice… it was impossible.

He could hear someone clear his throat. "Watson?" it sounded a bit uncertain, very much unlike the way he was used to this voice sounding like. He was used to confidence and often arrogance.

Slowly the doctor opened one eye, peering over to his desk, where he believed the voice to be coming from. After a moment of disbelieving, one-eyed starring, he opened his second lid.

Either there was something wrong with his eyes, ears and/or mind, or there in front of his desk stood non other than his dead friend Sherlock Holmes.

And he looked ridiculous.

His hands were clasped behind his back in a familiar position, his hair looked a little dishevelled, not unusual either. But he was wearing a really hideous attire, in colours that seem awfully well-known to the doctor.

But all this John only noticed fleetingly, merely a habit he picked up from Holmes. To observe. He was too overwhelmed with the presence of the detective, he couldn't really think.

The two man just stood there for an unknown amount of time. One to shocked to do anything else, the other seemed a bit nervous, shifting a little from one foot to the other.

Finally Holmes seemed to lose the patience and made a step towards his friend.

"Watson? I just," he sniffed his nose a bit, like he often does, and straightened up. "I just came by to see…to say that, well I guess you have already deduced it, that I'm not as dead as some might thing I am."

Still, the doctor could nothing but stare. Was that really Holmes in front of him? Hadn't he seen him fall? Was he dreaming? He'd already, more than once, dreamed his dearest friend had been returned to him. But…he seems so real.

"Uhm, it would be beneficial for this conversation if…well, if you could come out of your…state of shock."

The detective was now standing right in the middle of the desk and the doctor, waiting for the other man to make a move. Which he finally did.

John slowly pushed away from the door, deciding that standing around wasn't helping matters at all.

With steady steps he walked over to the assumed dead detective and extended a tentative hand to the mans shoulder, needing to feel the solid body to confirm that he wasn't just seeing things. The hand slowly slid down to the mans chest, and only when Watson could feel the steady heartbeat beneath his hand he looked at Holmes face for the first time.

"How…" he couldn't even find words to state his question.

"Ah yes," Holmes now seemed to feel more confident again, "The how is a very interesting but also long story, you see…"

And Holmes was talking. Talking like he was just explaining one of his cases he had solved, but Watson wasn't able to listen. Emotions were catching up with him, and strangely, it weren't the relieved ones.

It was real. He was real. This was his friend, his brother, the one he had seen falling down the waterfall of Reichenbach, whose funeral he had attended. Two month he had gone trough hell, trying to adjust his life new. He'd felt lonely and abandoned, despite the fact that he was building a new life together with his new wife. He had mourned and missed him to the point it hurt. And now he was standing, right here in his study, like it was the most natural thing!

Something in him snapped, and before he knew it his fist stung and Holmes was on the floor, holding his jaw gingerly.

"Well," the detective said calmly, getting up, still rubbing his face, "I can't say that was totally unexpected. Are you know ready to lis…"

But Watson wasn't finished, Holmes had in the past often done something to annoy him or make him angry, but never had felt as mad at the other man as he did at that very moment.

"How dare you!" he hissed "Two month you have been gone! Made me…everybody believe you were dead! What where you thinking?" his voice grew steadily louder and Holmes was cautiously stepping away from him, but Watson followed, his finger in front of him punctuating his words.

"Now, my dear friend, if you'd let me ex…"

"No! I don't want to hear it! Of all the infuriating, stupid, annoying, self-minded things, this Holmes, this is definitely the most outrageous of your doings! How could you do that to us? To me?"

Watson had Holmes backed against the door he had previously been leaning against, the detective's hands where raised in front of him in a placating gesture, but Johns fury knew no end.

"I've mourned you Holmes! I've thought I had lost my best friend and now it turns out said 'friend' just didn't feel like telling me he survived, rather leaving me with the pain of loss!"

"No, it really wasn't like th…"

"Get out!"

Until now the detective had remained calm and even understanding, but at this words his eyes widened a bit.

"Watson can't we just…" again, John wouldn't let him finish.

"No! Get. Out. I don't want to talk to you! Get out you selfish bastard!"

Holmes cringed almost imperceptibly, then sniffed again. "Alright. Maybe I really should take my leave for know. Let you calm down. Then we can talk."

"Don't count on it! And now leave!"

Watson stepped back, fists clenched at his sides, to give Sherlock room to go trough the door, which the detective did with slightly slumped shoulders. But Watson wasn't about to take pity on him, feeling to much fury toward the man at the moment.

One more time the black haired man turned to the fuming doctor.

"I'm back at Backer Street. I'll come by tomorrow or so." He said almost indifferently, but everyone who knew Sherlock would hear the uncertainty accompanying this statement.

Watson turned away, "Just go."

Only after he heard the door closing and Holmes footsteps descending down the stairs, followed by the closing front door, did John relax his posture, the anger left him slowly and he slid to the ground to lean against his desk, emotionally exhausted. He closed his eyes and just tried to breath.

John didn't know how long he stayed in that position, until he heard a soft knocking and the door opening again.

"I've cancelled our reservation in Brighton." Mary said softly.

"Hm." Good. He didn't feel like honeymoon anymore.

"He looked tired." She commented quietly.

"Please, Mary," he said tiredly and pressed his hands to his face, "leave me alone for now." And she left.
**
After he had calmed down and was thinking rationally again, he had had felt sorry for sending Holmes away. He should have at least let him explain, but all he had been able to see was his own anger. He had felt hurt and, yes, even a bit betrayed.

He and Holmes were supposed to be friends. But what friend lets the other go trough the pain of loss, that wasn't even necessary, for there never had been a loss to begin with?

But then again. What friend throws the other out when he tries to explain himself?

What if Holmes now decides to leave for good?

Watson groaned in frustration and turned to his side. Even if he had been angry when he finally had his friend back, John was sure he wouldn't be able to take it if he lost Holmes again.

But Holmes had said he would come back tomorrow, hadn't he? So he would be coming back… wouldn't he?

Suddenly he felt the desperate need to see the man. To check up that he was still there. That he hadn't burned the bridge of friendship with his sudden display of fury, for which he thought he had half the right to and for the other half he felt guilty.

Hastily but as quiet as he could manage, the doctor got out of bed and searched in the dark for clothes until a light was turned on to his surprise.

His wife sat patiently in bed, she didn't look angry, but like she expected this to happen.

"I'm sorry Mary. I really have to go." He explained and went to the adjoining bathroom to put his clothes on.

"Yes, I know." she sighed when he emerged back in the bedroom, "Do look him over, John. He really looked unnatural tired."

He hadn't seen it. Was too absorbed in his own emotion to look out for the wellbeing of Holmes. He would change that now.

John leaned down and kissed his woman goodbye "I will."

Then he was on his way and Mary turned off the light after his exit.

Two o'clock or not. He was going to Backer Street. Now.

It took Watson longer than he wanted to finally reach Backer Street, but at this time in the night it was almost impossible to hail a hansom and he only managed to after he'd already walked half the way.

And to add to his misery, he had forgotten his cane at home in his haste, so his injured leg didn't feel as good as it could be.

But despite these little impediments thrown his way, he finally managed to reach his goal. And he wasn't really surprised to still see the light burning in the sitting room.

He went to his former home and used the key Mrs Hudson had refused to take back to let himself in.

Usually he didn't use it, thinking it to be rude because he doesn't live here anymore, but at this time of night it would probably be even more disobliging to make her have to get up if it wasn't really necessary.

He went up the familiar 17 steps but hesitated in front of the door. What was he going to say? Sorry I lost my temper? Sorry I threw you out of my house? How are you? I was just taking a stroll and thought I would stop by?

Watson sighed. Best if he just played it by ear, there was no predictive planning with Holmes anyway. So he took a breath and just opened the door, fully expecting to see the lean form of the detective sitting by the fireplace or going busily trough the room. But to his surprise the only occupant in this room was one he hadn't thought of seeing at all.

The older Holmes brother, Mycroft, was sitting in the armchair by a crackling fire, reading a newspaper.

"I thought you would maybe stop by, but didn't expect your presence this early. It is nice to see you again, Dr Watson, please come in."

John had hesitated in the doorway upon seeing Holmes' older brother, but now closed the door behind him and went over to sit on the settee opposite the arm chair.

"Mr Holmes, I haven't expected to find you here." He took of his overcoat and laid it beside him, not feeling the need to get up and hang it up properly.

"No, I presume you wouldn't. Have actually been send home earlier this evening rather rudely. My dear brother was in a rather…gloomy mood when he came back from your place." Mycroft was fixing John with a stare that would leave a lesser man squirming.

"It seems like you have been in a hurry, doctor? It is still rather cold outside yet you are not even wearing a scarf, and the lack of your cane was obvious by the limp you displayed a moment ago, more visible than usual. I assume you have been walking for quite some time."

It wasn't a question, just a stating of facts. But Watson was way to used to this by now.

"It is indeed not easy to find a hansom at this time."

"No it certainly isn't."

Watson didn't know Mycroft very well, never saw him on a regular basis, and he always seemed like a man above displaying his emotions of any kind, but still it felt to John like his attitude towards him was more colder, like he knows exactly what had occurred in his house earlier. Maybe Holmes had told him and Mycroft is obviously taking the side of his brother?

"I…uhm…I came to speak with Ho…Sherlock" Damn he sounded like a young lad, asking the parents of his first love if he could see their daughter.

"I was hoping he would still be awake." Actually he hadn't even thought about the more than likely possibility that Holmes would already be in bed.

"No, Sherlock has been resting in his room ever since he got back. He may not admin it, stubborn as he is, but it is painfully obvious to see how exhausted he still is. Naturally a tumble down a waterfall, even if survived, doesn't come without bearing consequences."

The older Holmes was talking with the matter of fact tone Watson was used to from both the Holmes brothers, but if he wasn't mistaken there was also the slightest hint of chastising. And it was working. Now he felt even more guilty for sending his friend away earlier.

Instead of blowing up on him, he should have at least checked him over, he wasn't only his friend but also a damn doctor after all. He rubbed his hand over his face and sighed.

"Yes, naturally. How is he really doing? Do you know what happened? Have you known that he wasn't…that he is alive?"

Suddenly he wanted to know everything.

"I understand you have many questions, doctor, but I am the wrong Holmes to address them to. I can tell you that, yes, I did know that my brother survived, not from the very beginning, but soon after. And I do apologize for not informing you, but at first I didn't want to bring up false hope in you, should I've been mistaken, and later on Sherlock asked me not to. You will have to discuss this topic with him when the time arrives."

Watson couldn't discern if Mycroft was honestly sorry for not telling him, it is hart to read a Holmes, but at least he apologized.

"As to how he is," maybe John imagined this, but Mycroft's voice seemed to sound a bit softer now, "his wounds have been, and still are, healing nicely, but you know him, he always pushes himself way too far and that does slow his recovery." The older man sighed and Watson assumed he had this discussion before with Holmes.

"You have to forgive me, doctor, but I was against him seeing you yesterday. He just arrived back in London at midday and at present, he tires very easily, even if he denies the fact. I advised him to take a rest first, stating a few hours or even a day, won't change anything anymore. But he was being stubborn again. That is why I've been waiting here. Wouldn't do if he had collapsed somewhere on the way and no one noticed his absence."

They were silent for a moment. Mycroft watched Watson intently, but the doctor didn't even take notice. He thought about what he had been told, let it sink in, and his mind was flooded with visions of Holmes.

How he must have fared after he fell down the Reichenbach falls, it must have been grievous even with the oxygen. A human body is simply not built to fall down such a distance right into freezing, raging water. And Watson hadn't been there. Of course, if he had known, he would have been. But fact is, he wasn't.

Then Holmes must have been recovering. And Watson doesn't even know from what exactly he had had to recover from. What if his friend had been in a coma these past two month? That would be a very good excuse for not contacting him.

No, it wouldn't do to jump into conclusions now. He would get to hear what had occurred, but Mycroft was right, he should talk about that with Holmes. The important thing was that Holmes was here to talk to him. He was back. Came back to him. They would work the rest out. Watson would make sure of that.

Finally he looked up to ask Mycroft a question that had been going trough his head since he John laid eyes on the older Holmes upon entering this room, but he wasn't sitting in the armchair anymore.

The doctor quickly found him standing at the liquor cabinet, pouring two glasses of brandy, which he then intended to bring over to Watson, but John stood up to meet him half way, taking the offered second glass, but neither of them drank.

They stood opposite each other in silence until Watson finally voiced his question.

"Mr Holmes. If H…Sherlock is recovering as well as expected and he send you home earlier. Then what exactly are you still doing here, for I can only think of two reasons."

Mycroft raised one eyebrow slightly, urging Watson to continue.

"One, he is getting better, but not well enough yet to be left alone, which is rather unlikely, because I don't believe he would have been by to see me in that case. You wouldn't have let him go, despite his obstinacy or you would have at least accompanied him."

He took a deep breath and raised his eyes to look the older man straight in the eyes.

"And the second reason, I guess the only right one as you said you expected to see me is, that you don't want me to see your brother. I assume you know, either by deducing or by him telling you, that my reaction to his return was not the best."

Watson forced himself to keep upholding the eye contact, steeling himself for whatever answer he was going to get and that he may have to go against a protective brother, and he would go against him if necessary. Because he wouldn't keep him away from Holmes.

Neither Holmes were known to show their emotions much, but John had, due to his long time together with Holmes, learned to read between the lines. Mycroft may seem rather stony but to his schooled eye the concern for his younger sibling was rather obvious.

Then something in Mycroft's demeanour changed, Watson could actually see a slight smile forming on the other man's lips.

"I see why my dear brother is so patently obvious fond of you, doctor. But you are not entirely correct in your upshot."

The smile soon vanished again and Mycroft looked more thoughtful.

"I know you are a good man doctor Watson." Here it goes. "but I have also come to learn that you tend to be ruled by your emotions.

It wasn't hard to tell that your last conversation went poorly, and believe me, I do understand that you would be rather upset about the way the whole…affair has worked out and I'm sure Sherley does understand that as well, but it is a fact, that my brother is in no condition at present to deal with another outcome like the one last evening. So yes, I am still here should you have come over with the intention of continuing this conversation as badly as the last one ended, in which case I am afraid I shall not let you pass and would have to ask you to leave."

Mycroft drew himself up to his full height, but Watson, of course wouldn't show any sign of intimidation.

"Usually I don't tend to my brothers business, you know how he is, and even now I'm sure he won't appreciate my intrusion, but I believe this is a case of special circumstances."

John nodded and in a way he was glad that Holmes had his brother to look out for him, even if his friend didn't know it…or knowing the detective, he was probably aware of that. Now he only had to convince Mycroft that he came as a concerned friend, not an…angry one.

"I can put you mind at ease, Mycroft," he said in his most sincere voice, "I am here because I want to make it right. I know I overreacted with my last impulsive reaction. And I am rather sorry about it. I…I did miss him."

Again he saw a fleeting smile on the other man's face.

"I never doubted that, doctor. I saw your reaction to his presumed demise, after all. And don't worry," he finally raised his drink and downed it, " it didn't take me much thought to see that you came over with the best intentions. And that is the reason I'll take my leave now, and leave my brother in your capable hands, if you don't mind."

It wasn't a question, because the older Holmes already put away his glass and on his coat and hat.

Watson was left stunned for a moment That went easier than expected, but he really shouldn't be surprised anymore.

"I'll be gone now, doctor. Have a good rest of the night, and don't fret, I am positive Sherley didn't take offence, neither for your anger, nor for your right hook."

Watson had the decency to blush and just nodded, sure Mycroft could see himself out, "Good night."

And then he was alone. He looked around the room and finally drained his own glass. At least his eyes rested on the door leading to Holmes bedroom. What now?



Watson wanted nothing more than to go into the room and finally see Holmes. Without the distracting curtain of shock and anger, just see his friend, his brother.

But it was barely half past three.

If Holmes needed to rest so badly that he went to bed freely after he came home, than he probably should let him sleep.

He really should…as a doctor.

But as a friend he couldn't wait one moment longer to see the long missed man.

Watson sighed and ran a hand over his mouth. His now empty glass went back to the cabinet, well away from the clean ones.

Blue eyes went to the clock on the wall. 3.36.

He really needs to listen to the doctor side in him. A few more hours won't make a difference. He could just settle down on the couch, wait for the other man to wake up and catch a few hours of sleep himself in the process.

Yes, that would be the most logical thing to do.

Having made up his mind he took the first few steps over to the settee, but somehow his feet had different ideas, carrying him involuntarily to the wooden barrier, separating him and Holmes.

Looks like the doctor part in him wasn't very convincing tonight.

Maybe he could just take a little peek?

Just a quick glance to assure himself that the detective was there. Sleeping. Breathing.

Sure, that shouldn't be a problem. It's not like John wants to disturb him, he knows from experience that Holmes is not a terrible light sleeper.

He should be able to look in on him without waking him.

His hand went slowly to the doorknob, shaking a little in anticipation.

Then he pulled back again and on second thought removed his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket. That would allow him to move more quiet.

John took a deep breath and finally, silently pushed open the door leading to Sherlock Holmes bedroom.

Light spilled from behind him into the night darkened room, but it wasn't much since his tall form was blocking the way. His eyes needed a moment to adjust and he looked around the room. He was used to it looking like a mess, clothes, papers, books, all lying around the place, but for once, this room looked as tidy as the day they moved in. Mrs Hudson must have cleaned up, and Holmes didn't have the time to…spread his charm yet.

Finally, his eyes came to rest on the bed.

Watson couldn't help the smile that lifted his mouth and reformed his moustache when he saw his friend sprawled on his back, snoring softly.

Sherlock was on top of the covers and not wearing those ridiculous clothes from yesterday anymore, but his loose, striped pants and the well-worn white shirt he often wears at home. Watson had always suspected it was one of his shirts, but whenever he had tried to confront the genius detective, the man had expertly changed the topic.

After only a second o hesitation, John silently slips into the room, closing the door softly behind him.

His socks softened noises his shoes wouldn't have been able to hide as he slowly steps up to the bed, watching.

It was truly nothing short of a miracle. He had been certain that Holmes was dead, sure that no one could survive such a fall. And the loss had hit him hard, after all he had spent many years with the detective and they had grown close, as close as brothers. And suddenly he had been alone.

But here they were. His lost brother had been returned to him.

Watson knows he shouldn't, but his traitorous hand moved on it's own, slowly descending to the sleeping mans chest. He wanted to feel the heartbeat again.

For a doctor, nothing proofs better that a person is alive than the rhythmic thump thump of a beating heart.

And this time, he will cherish the feeling, using it to fuel his gratefulness and happiness, not his anger.

Only inches away now.

But before his hand touched the solid body, Watson's wrist was caught in a bruising grip and he looked up to see brown eyes shooting open.

Frozen, the doctor observed as Sherlock's pupils focused on his face and the eyebrows drew together in a frown.

The hold on his arm loosened, but remained there.

Holmes blinked, frown still in place, "Watson?" he still sounded tired to the doctor, even though he'd just slept many hours. "Are you feeling me up in my sleep? You are a married man. What would Mary say?" he said while trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

John couldn't help but laugh. Seems like Holmes wasn't angry with him. "Hate to break it to you, old boy, but whatever happens, Mary will always think that you made me do it." He said, and now that Holmes was awake, he could turn on the light at the bedside.

"One entirely false conclusion," Holmes huffed and propped himself up on his left elbow. "I never made you do anything."

"No, you only play your cards until I am left with very few satisfying options." Now that Holmes is in a more upright position, Watson's palm was finally resting over his heart and the blissful beating distracted him from their banter, until his wrist, still in the light grasp of the detective, was jostled slightly, making him look up into the other mans face.

"Do you really still need a thumping organ to proof to you that I'm here?" he asked completely serious.

And for the first time, Watson was freed from the positive haze that formed with the knowledge that his dead friend was back, alive, and he saw Holmes like he really was.

He looked thinner and exhausted, bags under his eyes quite evident. The paleness of his skin could be compared to the colour of Mary's wedding dress and the hand holding on to him was shaking slightly.

Watson didn't see any obvious injury anymore, but that didn't mean that his friend was in good health.

And then there was the dark bruise that had formed on the other mans cheek. Something he really didn't want to dwell on yet.

"You look terrible." He gave as his only answer and Holmes bestowed him a quick smile.

"I see you still got the skilled eyes of a medical man." Which only made the doctor sigh.

"I'm afraid no action I took in the last twenty four hours, were deeds a medical man should have done." He said and took his hand from Sherlock's chest, to run his fingers gently over the dark patch on the lying man's face.

"Well," Holmes huffed and proceeded to bring himself into a sitting position, leaning against the headboard of his bed. "that is quite alright, dear man. You've always been first and foremost my friend. And as thus," he sniffed "I presume your reaction was…comprehensible."

Watson nodded, understood that he was forgiven, but he still felt guilty. "Still, I shouldn't have…"

A patting hand on his arm stopped him. "John, it is alright."

Again, he nodded. No use in discussing this further, they had other things to talk about. "Okay."

Holmes gave a nod of his own and then scooted over to the right side, giving John an unspoken invitation to join him on the bed. Which he did without hesitation, mimicking the detectives position against the head of the bed, their legs stretched out, shoulders touching.

They'd always been like that and Watson took no little pride in it.

To others the consulting detective was polite, well at least if the situation requires it, but he never seeks out physical contact.

He is not as bad as Mycroft, who doesn't even like to shake hands, but Sherlock came very near to that mindset.

Yet, with Watson he was, almost right from the beginning, very open. Patting on the back, shaking hands, leaning against him and occasional hugs. They'd even shared a bed a number of times. On some of their journeys for example, some hotels only had one bed left, or if a case got to dangerous and they brought themselves in the line of fire, it was just easier to watch each others back by sleeping in close proximity.

Their close friendship had often been frowned upon, but they couldn't care less. They took comfort from each other, it had always been that way for both of them, and it was damn good to feel Holmes at his side again. His familiar breathing, his scent of soap and tobacco and the warmth he was radiating.

Watson hoped the other one was as glad to see him as he was, but at the moment it was hard to tell.

The detective looked a bit nervous, also a trait only few got to see, and was picking at a lose strand on his trousers.

Holmes didn't start and Watson wasn't sure what to ask first, so they sat in silence for a moment.

"Watson, I'm…"

"Holmes, what…"

Both smiled, then John took the lead, he was sure Holmes wanted to apologize, but that wasn't what he wanted to hear right now. First he needed to know what had occurred.

"Holmes, tell me what happened, please. Everything. From the beginning"

The detective sighed and continued to pick on the thread, but straightened his posture. He didn't look at Watson, but stared straight ahead.

"Well, during my and the professor's fall down from the balcony I remembered the breathing device I had borrowed from Mycroft earlier for further inspection, and it became very beneficial for my current situation, so I dislodged Moriarty from myself and used it.

The impact with the water proofed to be quite painful, both for the severity and the low temperature, but because of the oxygen I managed to stay coherent enough to make it to the shore after a while."

Watson had already a question to the beginning of the story but Holmes seemed to be so concentrated on the past event, that he didn't dare to interrupt.

He winced as he thought about how it must feel to fall down such a great distance down into freezing, unforgiving water.

"Then there is an amount of time I can not recall, I became only aware of my surroundings about a week after the incident. Mycroft was there and told me that he had me searched after he noticed the missing oxygen device and they'd brought me to the nearest hospital. I had to stay there for the main time of these last two month due to numerous damage on my corpus."

He made a pause in his telling to breath, and John contemplated if he should state a question then, but decided he would let the other man finish first. But he couldn't help but put his hand over the left one of his friend, lending silent support. Holmes still didn't look at him, but acknowledged him by giving the hand a slight squeeze.

"I have to admin that the first few weeks are very hazy in my memory, but later I assure you I couldn't leave soon enough. And if it hadn't been for that blasted brother of mine one of my escape attempts would have succeeded. Most likely the first."

Now he even turned his head to the doctor, and it sure broke a lot of tension.

"I hate the hospital."

"I know Holmes" he said calmly.

"I don't know how you could stand to work there!"

"People are different"

"I mean how is one supposed to get healthy again if he is lying around sick, contagious people?"

It was as if Holmes didn't even hear Watson in his speech against hospitals so he just let him, smiling indulgently.

He was well aware of the fact that Sherlock loathed the houses for the sick and injured. He always came to Watson, even if the situation was dire and the doctor wasn't sure if he could help the detective, Holmes refused to go to someone else.

"Diseases of all kinds, flying trough the house, infecting everyone on their merry way…"

It felt good to hear Holmes just talk again, even if it was about an annoying topic they had been over numerous times.

They weren't done with the serious talk, Watson was well aware of that, but this was unwinding for both of them.

"…was away for a day, I had obtained one of the doctor's gown, which would have assured my safe escape, no one gave me a second glance, but who could anticipate that Mycroft came back much sooner than expected because, imagine this, he didn't trust me to be alone. Damn him."

"Bless that man." John countered, and, as expected, that earned him a glare from the ranting detective.

"On whose side are you, friend?"

"On the side of the man who cares more for you well-being than yourself, friend. I know you Holmes. You are worse than a child when you are sick or injured. You can't sit still for a minute, let alone your needed recovery time."

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, I know when I am able to move around again, sitting around is mind numbing, Watson. I need stimulation. And I had other, more pressing matters I had to attend to, than sitting around, waiting for bones to mend." He huffed.

And here was the opening back to the sober subject.

"What matters did you have to attend? Why did you tell your brother he mustn't inform me? I could have helped you."

"How did you…" he frowned, then sighed, "Mycroft had stayed even though I told him to leave, didn't he?"

"Yes, he departed shortly before I entered your room."

"Damn mother hen." He said, but his tone wasn't sharp, Watson was no fool, he could hear the hidden affection seeping through the words. Then Holmes spoke again.

"My dear friend, I knew you would have come in a hurry if I had called for you, but I thought it for the best to keep my survival in the dark for the time being.

You must understand that Moriarty, murdering master mind that he was, still had many minions, followers who could try to take revenge for his demise. Especial Colonel Moran, for he was as loyal to the Professor as you are to me, old boy. If he were to know that I had outlived Moriarty, he could have planned something. Not only on me, but to get to me he could have gone after you as well again, Watson. Even if you all say I am insufferable when incapable, I do know my limits. And I was in no condition to prevent whatever could have taken place."

Watson wasn't sure what to think about that revelation. He was of course touched that Holmes cared what happened to him, but he was no damsel in distress. He was a soldier, if Moran wanted to hurt Holmes trough him he would have found himself in quite a fight.

"Still, if I had known I could have helped, we would have been prepared…"

"Mary…"

"I would have send Mary away for some time to protect her, maybe Mycroft would have taken her in again. Holmes you should have told me."

Johns words did carry a little sting in it. After all this years, he has the right to know if his dearest friend was alive or not.

Holmes sniffed, looked away again and went on.

"Well, after I deemed myself ready to leave the ruddy hospital…"

Watson couldn't help but cut in, "Against doctors orders, right?"

"After I deemed myself ready to leave the ruddy hospital, and strong enough to withstand my nagging brother, I set out immediately to the trail the Colonel had left behind and I finally, two days ago, managed to confront him in Germany, where he is now a guest in prison. Then, I turned back to London. Mycroft had kept paying my rent." He finished and Watson noticed he tried to stifle a yawn. Still tired, he mused, or again, now that he had finished his tale. But John couldn't let him rest yet, they needed to finish this to finally move on.

Watson thought over what he had been told, a few questions raising in his mind that he needed to address.

He may not approve of Holmes decision to not inform him that he wasn't dead, but he did appreciate the fact that he wanted to keep him and his wife save. Considering this, Watson deemed his anger from there earlier meeting rightful, but the punch was really a bit much.

"Holmes, I may not validate your methods…but I understand you had the right intentions, so again, I am sorry for…"

"Watson," the detective interrupted him and then hesitated, Watson looked over, but the other still wouldn't look at him, now he seemed reluctant to say something, the doctor was curious what could come next. "I don't want you to forgive me under false pretences."

The moustached man frowned "What do you mean?"

"Watson…I did not plan on telling you I had survived. Period." Sherlock admitted, and rendered the doctor speechless for a moment.

Watson could feel some of the ire rising again, what the hell was wrong with this man, John clenched a fist and tried not to lose it like before, "Why the hell not?" he managed to ground out, giving him at least this time the chance to explain himself.

Holmes threw him a quick glance, and sniffed again before looking away again.

"Doctor, my life won't change here. I'd take new cases, a new Moriarty could come along and you could again land in the crossfire. You told me quite clearly that you don't want to be engaged in my cases anymore, but I fear as long as I am here, you could always be pulled into them again." He explained in a matter of fact. "If I wouldn't be around anymore that wouldn't have happened and you could have indulged in the peaceful, married life that you expressed more than once you wanted so much."

"Damn it Holmes!" he couldn't understand this man. Did their friendship mean nothing to him? Did he mean nothing to him?

"Now Watson, I beg you, don't get angry again. As you can see I am here." The detective protested, and for the first time he sounded as tired as he looked, which did calm the doctor more than his assurance that he had revealed himself to Watson despite his plan not to.

When Holmes saw Watson relax more he explained.

"My actual plan was to come back to Backer Street to collect some things and than leave London for good. But…well," the detective looked decidedly uncomfortable, John observed, "Somehow…I landed in front of your home. After some thought, I came to the conclusion that it wouldn't hurt to look in on you, inconspicuous of course, to explain my brilliant camouflage. And then I wanted to leave. Really. But…" Holmes rubbed his hands together, a nervous gesture for sure. He sniffed once more and looked anywhere but to Watson.

And just like that, Johns anger vanished completely. He could have laughed. Sherlock Holmes was able to look danger straight in the eye without missing a beat, has always an answer for everything, yet, when it comes to his feelings, his was as lost as a man in a maze.

"But then you couldn't leave anymore?" John helped him out. Holmes nodded.

"Because you…missed me, perhaps?" The doctor couldn't suppress a light grin when the detective finally gained some colour, a slight blush graced his cheeks and he stared wilfully ahead, not even a blink in Johns direction. Never, in all their years together, had Watson seen his friend blush, and the man had done a lot of things that would have rendered Watson as red as a tomato in seconds.

"Oh Holmes, for a genius, you can be really dense sometimes. That was a foolish plan to begin with, and you had no right to even consider this."

Now he did look at Watson, blush away again and a offended look on his face.

"It wasn't foolish. Everything was completely logical thought through! You have made me soft over the years, doctor." He said accusingly but without a sting, he just wanted to defend himself. Which wasn't necessary in Watson's eyes. "Before you came along I was perfectly capable of changing my milieu without batting an eye. Not even Mycroft could keep me, not that he tried, I'm just saying."

"So our friendship is a bad thing?" Watson asked with a raised eyebrow.

"What?" Holmes asked baffled, "No! Watson you are missing the point!" the master mind was talking himself into quite a fit, almost shouting at the other man.

"Then what is the point?" if Holmes could get louder, John wouldn't be left behind.

"The point, man, is that I need you!" this time he did shout, and it seemed like that was the last energy he could muster for that. Sherlock pulled up his legs and rested his head in his hands for am moment, sighing tiredly. "It was horrible these last two month, old boy, I am truly lost without my Boswell."

Watson relished these words from his friend, knowing that he would probably never hear him saying something like this again. It was a good feeling to hear that Sherlock needed him as much as he needed Sherlock.

"That is not a bad thing, you know." He nudged the tired man a little with his leg. If Holmes could admin his feelings, it's only fair that he reciprocated. "I was miserable, too. I missed you horribly. I wasn't joking when I said that you had no right to make the decision to leave for my own good, Holmes. I need you as much as you need me. Thinking you were dead, was terrible, but I had to life with it, because obviously you wouldn't have been able come back to me then." He took a deep breath and forced Holmes to look him in the eyes, to understand him.

"But don't you dare to stay away, to keep me in the dark, suffering because I lost my brother, while you are there the whole time. I can live with the danger, have lived with it for years now. I know you won't change, but you don't have to. We will work it out. Like we always did. Clear?"

"Clear." Holmes even managed a quick smile.

"Good," the medical man nodded. "then I have two more questions, and maybe we can finally finish this matter. No wait, come to think of it, now there are three questions. You still feel up to talking?" he asked a little concerned, the other man looked a bit like he could fall asleep any second.

"Of course I do, don't be ridiculous." The following yawn didn't really support the statement, but Watson really wanted to get trough with this, so he continued on, not commenting it when Holmes head came to rest on his shoulder.

"Right, so the question I just thought of. If you didn't plan on telling me, why send me the oxygen device? That doesn't make sense."

He felt the man huffing at his side and maybe there was soft a laugh in between.

"Believe me, dear man, I was as surprised as you were when you opened the package. I should have expected something like that though. I told my traitorous brother not to tell or write you of my survival, obviously he found a loophole to nudge you into the right direction without breaking his word to me." His left hand began to pick on the earlier discarded strand on his trousers again absentmindedly.

Watson snorted, "I would have tracked you down, then." And Holmes knew it to be true.

"I know, old friend. Now, get on, second question."

"Holmes," the doctor hesitated slightly and looked down at the other man resting against him, "how badly exactly were you hurt?" he watched as Holmes eyes turned up to meet his for a moment, then down again.

"Watson, I don't think you…"

"I need to know, Holmes. Even now, you still look like…well you look terrible exhausted."

John commented with a tone of worry, which was immediately waved away by the detective.

"You worry too much, mother hen. I am fine, recovered nicely, just my stamina is still suffering a bit."

"How bad, Holmes?" he repeated, and when Sherlock sighed and sagged a little more against him he knew he would get a full answer now.

"Nothing one can not handle. I broke two ribs and my left leg somewhere along the way, a, considering the circumstances, little head trauma, and hypothermia at the beginning, later a cold, then a slight case of pneumonia. And before you asked, I had two month to heal, despite the fact that I tire way to quick for my liking and a bit lingering soreness, I am alright. Well, the doctor did say my right shoulder could be causing me a little trouble for indefinite time, but I haven't tested my limit there. Yet." He conceded.

Watson was at a loss for words for a moment, images of his ailing friend run trough his mind and he closed his eyes for a moment. Only opening them when he felt a hand give his right one a slight squeeze.

"I am sorry I wasn't there." He whispered sincerely.

Holmes lifted his head to frown at the doctor. "You are being unreasonable, Watson. How could you have been there if you didn't even know I was there?"

"Still."

"I was the one who refused to inform you. I knew you would have come if I had called. So the fault is mine. Drop that. Go on with your last question, for I have to confess my eyes seem to close on their own accord, even though I have already slept many an hour. This is very frustrating." Another yawn confirmed his words.

"Ok, last one. Why did you do it?"

"Do what?" Holmes head flopped back on his shoulder.

"Jump in the first place, of course. I swear my heart stopped for a moment when you looked at me and then just threw the two of you over the railing. It was," his throat gave a little protest as he remembered that horrible moment, and he had to swallow before he could continue. "I can honestly say it was the worst moment of my live." John whispered. Again, he felt a light squeeze to his hand.

"There was no other option, my friend. I have considered every outcome my fight with Moriarty could have brought, but due to my already damaged shoulder, every one of them was unacceptable."

"But Holmes, I came, if you would have let him go then we could have fought together."

Watson insisted, but Holmes shook his head.

"No. I had taken you appearance in account, and in the end, the Professor would have used my weakness to end us both. An outcome I couldn't let happen."

What was he to say against this logic? Nothing. How could he? He knew he would lay down his life for Holmes as well. So he had no right to complain. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

So he didn't say anything. But he felt like for the time in two month, two month and nine days, but who has been counting, he could finally relax. He felt so much lighter now that he knew everything that had happened, now that Holmes was here with him, leaning against his side, and probably on the brink of falling asleep.

Suddenly everything seemed right again. Everything was as it should be. And now he felt tired. But tired in a good way, like he can sleep for the first time in two month and nine days and really expect to feel rested after that.

His blue eyes found the clock on the wall and he was surprised it was already a quarter to five. Time has sure flown by.

"Holmes?" hopefully the man hadn't fallen asleep yet.

"Hm?" Good.

"Come on old boy, lay down to sleep, it will be much more comfortable." When the detective didn't move, he shook his shoulder a bit to ruse him some more. "Come on."

Finally Sherlock groan in annoyance and skidded down back into a lying position prepared to just go to sleep, Watson rolled his eyes and wrestled the blanked out from under the other man and spread them over the already half asleep Holmes. Then got under them himself.

"Watson? Are you staying?" came a mumbled but confused question.

"Well it's almost 5, way too early to go back home. Don't think Mary is expecting me anytime soon anyway. And I'm tired. You got a problem with that?" Problem or not, Watson was already making himself more comfortable. Of course he could get up and sleep on the settee, or see if his old bed was still there, but neither sounded very appealing at the moment. He felt good exactly where he was. And as expected, there was no problem.

"No, course not." Holmes yawned and turned on his side, his forehead came to rest against Watson's upper arm. "Good Night." He mumbled.

Yeah, Watson thought, it was indeed a good night. "Sleep well, old boy."

The doctor closed his eyes and for the first time in a long time felt really at peace, now he could…

"Watson?"

He thought Holmes was already sleeping.

"Yeah?"

"Are you happy?"

John groaned and rolled his eyes. "Just go to sleep."

"Okay."

Again, Watson closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep, which shouldn't be hard.

"You happy?"

This time he couldn't help but chuckle, "Yes, Holmes, I am happy. Now sleep."

Holmes gave a content sigh and Watson was sure the detective was grinning.

So here he was again, with his annoying brother. But he wouldn't have it any other way.