"Well, I certainly am glad that is over with, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, shaking my hand in the hall of my flat.

"You and I both, Lestrade," I replied tiredly.

"I shall have to have a statement from the Doctor, of course," the man said, "but it most definitely can be made at his convenience, when he is feeling better."

"Thank you, Lestrade. I think we rather need a bit of time."

"It really has been a pleasure to work with you again, sir, and I am deucedly glad to see you alive and back in London," the official added as he opened the door to leave with the awaiting police wagon.

"Thank you, Inspector. And somewhat to my surprise, I have to say that the pleasure has been mutual," I replied with a smile, "good night."

"Good night, Mr. Holmes. And Mr. Holmes," Lestrade added with a grin, nodding to my brother and exiting the flat with a wave.

When he had left I slumped against the wall exhaustedly.

"You had best be getting upstairs, brother – it is not going to take the Doctor very long to change and shave and he shall be needing you in a few minutes, I rather think," Mycroft said quietly.

I nodded, looking wearily up at my brother.

"Thank you for watching out for him, Mycroft," I said at last with some discomfort; I still was completely not used to baring my soul in any such manner as I had tonight, "I would not have made it back in time otherwise. As it was, I very nearly did not."

"You made a grievous error in not trusting him as well as I to know you were alive, Sherlock," my brother said gently. I hung my head at the kind but firm rebuke.

"I know it."

"I believe you do. Now get up those stairs, Sherlock. You have talked long enough to me – you need to have a serious talk with him."

I nodded again and turned toward the stairs.

"And Sherlock."

"Yes, Mycroft?" I looked back at him, pausing with my hand on the railing.

My brother's worried face had creased into a wide smile.

"Welcome back, brother," he said simply, motioning me imperiously on up the stairs.

I shot him a small smile and mounted the rest of the steps to the sitting room, peeking in apprehensively. But my friend had not yet entered.

I lit up my oldest and most comforting pipe before realizing the tobacco was of course three years old – and hastily choking and discarding the article, shaking my head with an exclamation of disgust.

"Perhaps a cigarette would be better than ancient tobacco?" I heard a familiar amused voice behind me.

"Rather," I agreed with a rueful smile, still trying to cough the stale taste out of my throat.

Watson stepped into the room, extending a silver cigarette case to me, and for the first time in the light I could see what Moran's men had done to him.

The sight of the discoloured bruises on his face and his pale, gaunt features that bespoke of two horrible nights of agony with no food or water all turned my stomach into knots, and I reached for the proffered cigarette with a rather unsteady hand.

Then I halted, staring at the case, and glanced back up at Watson.

"Yes, I thought you might recognize it."

"You kept it?"

"On my person at all times. Well go on," he said, handing the case to me. I swallowed and took out a cigarette, briefly tracing the familiar design on it before handing it back to him.

He stuffed it into his pocket and started to seat himself in his old chair – and suddenly bit back a moan of pain.

"What did he do to you?" I demanded furiously.

He slumped down in the chair with a weary sigh.

"Nothing serious, Holmes. Although I don't ever want to hear you say again that I cannot lie convincingly!"

His words held a jest, but his eyes were deadly serious.

I sat opposite him, that cloud of guilt still hovering over my mind. Both Moran and Mycroft had pointed out to me the error in my thinking. I had to address this issue now, before we started any long explanations, and while I still had the nerve.

Watson had closed his eyes and leant back in the chair, obviously still rather weakened by his condition even after three cups of tea that Mrs. Hudson had had waiting on us. She had promised that dinner would be up shortly and I had to get this off my mind while I still had the nerve to admit to my own mistakes.

"Watson?"

His eyes opened wearily. "Yes?"

"I – I need to tell you something," I said nervously, fidgeting with the cigarette in my fingers and finally tossing it into the grate in frustration.

"Well?"

"I am – I am so dreadfully sorry," I whispered, averting my gaze.

"You have already said that more than once, Holmes."

"Not just about not getting here sooner, Watson, about deceiving you for three years!"

There. I finally had blurted it out, afraid I was going to lose my nerve, and now I could not seem to stop.

"I hope you had a good reason," I heard him say quietly.

"I thought I did, Watson! I kept you in the dark so that Moran would leave you alone! If this Adair thing had never come up, he never would have touched you – but that is the reason I didn't tell you. I – I could not stand allowing anything to happen to you because of your association with me. I only lied to you to protect you, because I knew this is what would have happened had Moran suspected you knew the truth!"

I had finished that outburst – where had it all come from? – in rather more of an emotional tone than I had wished for. This day had been an emotional upheaval for me and the feelings were not only unusual but rather disconcerting.

"Holmes."

I glanced up at him, and I was rather surprised to see an utter lack of anger in his eyes – not even irritation.

"I said it was all forgiven – although I may not entirely agree with your reasoning, I still appreciate that you were trying to keep me safe," he said gently.

"Lot of good it did, though," I said with a deep sense of guilt.

"Neither of us had a way of knowing, Holmes."

"But I should have! Mycroft telegraphed me the day after Adair's death, and I thought the matter could wait a few days – I did not even get hold of details until after the inquest!" I cried.

Now that I had opened the doors to my guilt, the words would not stop. I flung myself out of my chair and began to pace up and down.

"I was slow, and stupid – and I missed the Channel boat on Saturday evening! I could have spared you all that – that torture at the hands of that madman if I had only been here! And to think that I was downstairs in that house the entire time you were upstairs alone with that scoundrel! He could have killed you, Watson, and I never would have even heard it!" I stopped as my voice cracked – how I hated showing weakness in such a manner.

"Holmes."

I heard the calm voice behind me as Watson slowly got up and moved over to stand beside me at the window.

"You cannot blame yourself, old chap. Moran grabbed me because I knew too much about Adair, not because of you. He was going to kill me, I have no doubts about that. He just decided to take advantage of the opportunity to find out where you were – there was nothing you could have done about it, even had you been in London at the time."

Watson's voice was calm and soothing as ever, but I was not to be deterred.

"I still –"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Holmes!"

I turned, startled, at the unaccustomed vehemence in his tone as he almost snapped the words out. He was standing beside me with his hands in his trouser pockets, looking up at me with that odd expression on his face that so often puzzled me, for I could not quite place that elusive emotion which was foreign to my nature.

"Do you not understand, Holmes?"

"Understand what?" I asked hesitantly, very much confused.

"Do you not understand, Holmes, that it was very much worth three days of discomfort to have this moment, to have you back again? Do you know how much more I would have gladly paid to have you standing here right now?" he asked simply.

I felt my forehead wrinkle with more confusion. I never would understand these matters of the heart fully.

"I would do it again – I am glad it happened. And therefore, there is no need to speak of the past."

"But –"

"You know, three years have not changed your innate obstinacy?"

"Or your pawky humor, my dear Watson."

We both laughed at that, and I knew that all had been indeed forgiven by my remarkable friend. I was not going to just let the matter drop, but for now I was more than glad to put away the horrors of the last few days and concentrate on something less painful.

"That thing is really atrocious, you know that?" Watson changed the subject, indicating my wax likeness.

"It is not!"

"It most certainly is! I certainly hope you do not plan to leave it sitting about to frighten off clients in the future," he returned mischievously, glancing at me.

I chuckled. "I thought it was rather good," I said, pretending to be miffed.

"Ugh."

"You have the most expressive non-verbal utterances, Watson."

"Yes. Write yourself a monograph upon the subject, why don't you."

"Perhaps I will," I said thoughtfully, "you know it could be a rather fascinating study…"

"Oh, dear heaven. You really have not changed in three years," Watson snorted.

I snickered.

"Would you have it any other way, my dear fellow?"

He smiled, the teasing manner gone.

"No. No, not at all."

"That's what I thought."

"Although you could do with a change from that arrogant sarcasm."

"What?"

"Go on, try it – say something that is not abrasive."

"Oh, really, Watson!"

"There, you see?"

"See what?"

"You can't say three words that are pleasant."

"I can so!"

"Prove it then."

My brow furrowed.

"Well…"

"Mmhm. That's what I thought."

Our good landlady interrupted this rather juvenile discussion with the arrival of the promised mackerel, and within ten minutes I was very much overjoyed to see Watson eating with a good appetite.

"Do not make yourself ill, Watson," I warned him, knowing the effect a hearty meal could have on someone who had been starved for two days.

He snorted.

"Yes, Doctor," he replied dryly.

I grinned at his annoyance and went back to my fish.

We finished the meal in a comfortable silence for the most part. We would have to discuss the events preceding the night's occurrence as well as the case itself; there were many unresolved issues, but neither of us felt like doing so at the present moment.

And so after dinner, Watson stretched himself out on the couch, wincing as injuries I evidently could not see protested the movement, and I leaned against the mantelpiece. I stared for several minutes into the photograph of the Reichenbach Falls that hung there and realized with a slight shiver the foreshadowing irony of it.

Then my gaze went back to Watson – was he asleep? His eyes were closed and his head turned away from the bruised side on the narrow couch. I swallowed hard at the knowledge that I had very nearly lost him because of my own deception and my slowness in returning to London.

"Watson? Are you asleep?"

"Not yet, but nearly – do you mind?"

"No, no, of course not, old fellow."

He opened one eye and looked at me, no doubt noticing my nervousness – I was methodically rearranging everything within reach of my grasping fingers on the mantel.

"Well?"

"Well what, Watson?"

"Well what were you going to say before you lost your nerve?"

I glared at him – he knew me too well, even after three years.

"I was – just going to show you I could say something non-sarcastic, that is all," I informed him.

"Well go ahead, dazzle me," he smirked, closing his eyes again.

I shoved a letter opener behind my gold spyglass and toyed with the item for a moment before placing it back on the mantel and picking up a three-year old letter I had stuffed behind the mirror.

"I missed you."

The eye opened again halfway.

"More than I missed Mycroft."

Both eyes flew open, wide open, at that remark.

I glanced at him in the mantel mirror and saw a slow, warm smile spread over his face, finally erasing the better portion of the night's horrific events from his haggard features. Then he settled back comfortably on the couch and put his hands behind his head, his face relaxing.

"I knew you could do it if you tried," he said mischievously before closing his eyes once more, "it wasn't that hard, now was it?"

"Hmph."

"Be sure you put that 'non-verbal utterance' in your monograph," he murmured, already half-asleep.

And I laughed softly, grinning fondly at him when he could not see me; knowing that, despite the rough days that lay ahead, I had finally come home at last. The final link had just fallen – literally, considering his sprawled position on the couch – neatly into place in my heart and mind. I was home, for good now.

And neither Moran nor anyone else could ever change that inescapable conclusion.

After all, it was rather elementary.