Title: An Imperfect Guardian

Fandom: Canon/Granada Sherlock Holmes

Characters: Holmes, Watson, Mrs. Hudson

Warnings: Spoilers for The Final Problem and The Empty House

Pairings: None. Though you're more than welcome to read it as pre-slash if that's what you prefer :)

Summary: What if, after The Final Problem, Sherlock never left London? What if he spent those three years 'bumping into' Watson?

A/N: Hello all. So… when I jumped into the wonderful world of SH fanfiction I promised myself that I'd only be writing BBC Sherlock stories. Why? Because the thought of attempting to emulate Doyle's fabulous prose is absolutely terrifying. And yet, low and behold, this blot bunny wouldn't leave me alone. So here I am, attempting my first canon/Granada/traditional Holmes story. Please have mercy on my unworthy soul ^_^

From the private journal of Sherlock Holmes:

I write these words not with an intention of publication, but merely to unburden my own thoughts. If, years after my death, this journal should find its way into a stranger's hands then I ask that it be presented to John H. Watson M.D. of 221b Baker Street, London. If that is not feasible, either because of his own death or other unforeseen complications, then I ask the reader do me the good courtesy of burning this. These musings are, first and foremost, private and as I have stated previously they are not intended for an audience. I, unlike my good friend and colleague, do not possess any mastery of the written word.

With these preliminaries out of the way, I come to my point: In consideration of my Boswell's scribblings, it must be a testament to the persuasiveness of his writing that any educated man, be he living within or without the boundaries of this great city, could believe for one moment that I would willingly abandon my privileged position beside one of London's greatest men for three years of solitude and the opportunity to wander Tibet "amusing myself." No, no, no. Surely anyone with an ounce of matter between their ears must have perceived the illogic of the situation. The only explanation available, despite his tendency to replace facts with such ridiculous sentimentality, is that my biographer has indeed fooled the public at large and succeeded in painting me as a cold and calculating machine.

Indeed, I speak of the events that make up what he has so romantically termed The Final Problem and The Adventure of the Empty House. Of course, I of all people understand that even the most absurd of perceptions find their origins in the harder, logical truths. I am as convinced today as I was back then that Watson, attuned as he is to his own emotional well being, would have had more difficulty writing of my death had he not believed it to be real. Likewise, only someone who had truly felt abandoned could have written himself as a man who is tossed aside with such disturbing carelessness.

Despite my protests, I hold no small amount of pride for Watson's frivolous fictions, but even he, talented as he is, could not have written about such harsh treatment unless he had indeed experienced it.

These moments in my life, and the decisions surrounding them, are not ones that I look back on with fondness.

Truly though, I must break my friend of his ridiculous, unwavering trust in me. It has turned what is normally an exceptional man into a fool. Tibet? What interest had I ever shown in Tibet? My home – for home it is and home it shall be named – has always been this city. The idea that I would willingly travel for such an extended period of time is preposterous. That alone should have tipped him off. However, my Watson is not a man for acknowledging the more trivial of details, so I threw him a bone I believed him incapable of ignoring – I dropped a name and a location: Sigerson of Norway. Had Watson taken the time to look into this man he would have found his existence a fraud. I have never fought the criminal class under a pseudonym, I have certainly never visited Tibet, and had Watson given my own words the same wary consideration his gives to those of our clients', he may have realized all this. Had he a more logical mind and I a more expressive one, perhaps instead of celebrating my re-appearance and welcoming me with such undeserved affection he would have instead asked me the proper questions and demanded truthful answers: Where were you Holmes? What were you doing? Why did you leave? Why did you leave me?

I would care to answer these questions now. Not because I plan to give him this account – I am too much of a coward for that – but simply because I hope to obtain some peace of mind. Watson has always assured me that writing is a therapeutic and cathartic exercise, and it is only within the last few years that I have been able to look past my own arrogance and heed his advice. Late I know, though they do say 'better late than never.'

However, if this should ever find its way into Watson's hands I wish to make one thing perfectly clear: It was, of course, a matter of safety. Your safety. Yours above all others. I have always put my faith in logic and that afternoon, lying atop the Reichenbach Falls, logic informed me that any friend of Sherlock Holmes' was a friend in great danger. More danger than even I myself was in. They merely wished to kill me, but someone as useful as Watson would be kept alive in the hopes of obtaining any and all information about me. I knew without a doubt that my Boswell wouldn't talk, and that in and of itself was the problem. Moran, in his twisted allegiance to Moriarty would never stop in his hunt for me. Continuing on indefinitely until his tortured canary sang.

And yet… reading over what I have written I find myself in error. I have not always placed my faith in logic, at least not since the day Stamford dragged a certain ex-army doctor into the lab. No, I think now, with quite a few more years of experience and maturity behind me, I can freely admit that it was not logic that made me what I am today. Rather, it is faith in one man or, perhaps even more significant, his faith in me. For a long time now I have shied away from contemplating the relationship between Moriarty and Moran, terming it, as I have just done, a "twisted allegiance." And yet it's that same sort of unwavering loyalty that has kept me buoyed all these years. Can't you just see it in your mind's eye: my Watson, hunting down my killer in the same focused, near obsessive fashion? I certainly can. Could not he and Moran, in many ways, be one and the same? And how different am I from the Professor? He from me? Perhaps not as different as I once thought.

Yet I digress. For those reasons, and perhaps others, Sherlock Holmes did leave John Watson for a period of three years in the spring of 1891. However, I assure you, that does not mean there was no one to watch over him.

Early Spring, 1891

Three weeks after the events Watson refers to as The Final Problem I had succeeded in re-entering London without alerting Moran or my own immediate acquaintances. Having left a false trail for my adversaries to follow I was confident that I would be safe here, so long as I maintained a disguise and was careful to vary it on upon occasion. Indeed, the only worry I truly had was in dealing with my Boswell and perhaps a few of the more seasoned members of Scotland Yard. I am not a sentimental man, but in these musings I will readily admit that it was with great difficulty that I did not seek out Watson and Lestrade. My only comfort – as well as my constant, crucial reminder – was that my distance from them was what kept them safe.

And yet, it must have been loneliness on my part that led me to Baker Street that day. I certainly had no practical reason for heading there. I had already procured lodgings elsewhere under another name. (If, against my wishes, someone does read this years from now you will forgive my not mentioning the address. These were troubled times and I would not care to endanger any of my past landladies – however slim that danger may be today). Mycroft had also done as I'd asked, paying Mrs. Hudson no small amount to keep my rooms and possessions untouched. To this day I have not questioned her about her response to his request, though she no doubt thought of my brother as a fragile figure who'd lost a bit of his lucidity with my passing. Surely it must have seemed strange for this high profile yet reclusive man to insist that a temple of sorts be erected within her building. However, regardless of her feelings on the matter she did as she was bid and has since, in no subtle terms, stated that she would never have accepted another lodger anyway.

Thus I had no reason for heading there, and yet I did so, regardless of the romantic implications and the potentially deadly consequences. Though perhaps that was the best bluff I could have pulled. Any of Moran's men would have known me as intelligent enough to never set foot near my old lodgings, so going there was, in reality, the safest of actions.

Although I had, of course, taken precautions. That day found me dressed as a common laborer, very similar in appearance to the one I employed during A Scandal In Bohemia. (I must confess that Watson's ridiculous titles are growing on me. Damn that man.) Red hair, seedy clothes, and a subtle limp completed my disguise. I don't know what I had planned to accomplish. Maybe I simply wished to look at the building, walk the street a bit. If I were truly bold perhaps I would have rung Mrs. Hudson and offered such a respectable old woman a hand with any heavy lifting for a bit of change. I honestly do not know. Any and all plans that may have been forming in my mind vanished the moment I saw him.

There was my Boswell, standing upon the landing and speaking casually with Mrs. Hudson.

Considering that the entire purpose of this exercise is for me to speak (or write, as it were) truthfully and without restraint, I will admit that my first reaction was one of hurt and perhaps a bit of anger. Here it was, less than a month after my 'death,' and my two most intimate companions were greeting one another as if nothing were amiss. Mrs. Hudson seemed her normal, overbearing self and Watson looked for all the world like he was about to pop down to the tobacconist before coming back to our rooms for a bit of tea. This picture they painted told a story of repetition and comfortable, predictable days. Not that a dear friend had recently passed in so gruesome a fashion.

It was easily one of the few times in my life where logic failed me completely. Intellectually I knew that they could not grieve forever or, at the very least, that they could not continually display that grief. At some point they would need to continue their lives and I did want that, I was simply unable to convince myself of this at the time.

It must have been this irrational anger that had me propelling down Baker Street towards them, the limp I had adopted for my character forgotten (another testament to my frayed emotional state). Once again, I admit that I do not recall what I planned to do – perhaps pickpocket the man for being so bloody infuriating – but just as I reached the pair Watson turned from Mrs. Hudson, spotted my unhappy character a bit too close for comfort and, startled, dropped what he had been holding at my feet.

It was a small, blue cloth – no doubt one of Mrs. Hudson's – and wrapped inside, spilling out upon impact, was my pipe.

Shocked, I bent to pick it up.

"Don't touch that!"

To this day I will swear that I have never heard Watson snap in such a manner, not even when I was in my most frustrating and insulting moods. He fairly snatched the pipe off the ground, keeping it from what he must have perceived as grubby and unworthy hands. Though once he had regained his prize his touch became gentle. He re-wrapped my pipe as if it were an infant and not a dispensable tool used to create such "poisonous atmospheres."

"Sorry gov'." I said, keeping my head low but watching his every move. "Didn' mean no harm to ye."

"That's quite alright sir." Now that my pipe was in safe hands again he seemed to regret having lost his temper. The blush creeping up his neck was much more reminiscent of the courteous gentleman that I had come to know. And yet…

"Good day to you sir."

It was clearly a dismissal and I bowed appropriately, shuffling my way around them. Watson, no matter how trusting, was not having such a suspicious commoner anywhere near his dead friend's cherished, and frankly expensive, pipe.

The proof that he would guard a possession of mine with such care and jealousy easily dissipated my earlier, unjustified anger.

As I headed farther down Baker Street I re-adopted my limp so as to hear the rest of their conversation.

"… quite understandable." Mrs. Hudson was saying. "Just don't go telling the elder Mr. Holmes that I let you take anything. I'd wager he has a bit of a soft spot for you but even so, he was quite insistent that nothing be removed."

"Not to worry Mrs. Hudson, I won't breathe a word. And… well. I… I shall take good care of it."

Once I heard the familiar click of our door I turned to see Watson heading in the opposite direction, the hand not holding his walking stick gently covering a bulge in his pocket.

After my 'resurrection' I showed Watson my new pipe, saying I had been unable to go without tobacco during my 'travels.'

He has yet to mention my old one and I will not be the one to ask.

Late Spring, 1891

After that first unintentional meeting I admit that I… indulged myself a bit.

Anyone who has read Watson's tales knows that I am not a demonstrative man, and thus people often find it just as hard to express things to me as I do in expressing them generally. Perfectly understandable really, as it is difficult to show consideration to one who gives so little in return. Watson has always been the exception to this rule, though I found that even he has learned to somewhat reign in his more emotional nature while around me. I cannot blame him, I too would have ceased most compliments and inane courtesies if all they ever produced were disdain.

However, there is one area in which Watson has never become lax, and that is in my defense. Be you beggar, gentleman, aristocrat, or the Queen herself, you will be shown no mercy if you were to insult me in his presence. I have seen that man ignore the most scathing affronts to his own character with no more than a blush, yet attack a man like the devil himself were he to raise one metaphorical hand against me.

Thus it was only natural that I would be… curious, as to how he might react to slander against his now 'dead' comrade.

I am a disgraceful person, I know. Though I am also a mischievous one.

Although, in my defense, I did have some practical considerations. With time having passed and no sign of Moran, I knew without a doubt that I would remain in London. Watson then proved to be the perfect test for my disguises. Although he does not possess my keen eyes he knows me better than even my own brother, and if I could fool him then I could certainly fool that pack of Moriarty's.

Looking back, it does occur to me that I never considered what might happen were Watson to succeed in recognizing me. It is not in my nature to ignore such lethal possibilities, no matter how slim, so there must have been a part of me that wanted to forget, a part that surely wanted nothing more than for Watson to see past the wigs and makeup to the friend lying underneath.

Which, of course, would have placed him in the most dreadful danger. If I have not yet said it, I will state it clearly now: I am the epitome of a fool.

Any yet, what's past is past. I did seek out Watson, despite the stupidity of such an action, and looking back I am not entirely sure I regret it.

No, no. I will not lie, not here. I do not regret it.

Seeing him in such a state was simply too much fun.

You see, I know Watson's habits better than most, so that Saturday night I headed to his club armed with the knowledge that he would be enjoying a game of pool and a spot of brandy. Once again I had spent a great deal of time in perfecting my appearance. I must say that this character was a superb accomplishment of mine because in this instance I had a great deal less to work with. I needed to be a respectable gentleman, just not one that Watson would recognize. I had no raggedy cap to hide under, no physical deformities to draw the eye, just a few subtle touches and my own talent to draw on. A lighter hair color, an even more prominent nose, cotton swabs to fill the cheeks, a bit of padding in the lining of my suit… before long Sherlock Holmes was gone and portly, bespectacled Robert Norton had taken his place. I must say that with my steadfast bone structure and my sudden increase in girth, I greatly resembled Mycroft that night.

It is not a performance I wish to repeat.

However, my disguise did its job for when I entered the club no one gave me a second look. With drink in hand I settled myself into one of the quieter corners to observe Watson and wait for the crowed to disperse.

This was one of those moments in which I indulged, for I much missed my Boswell's constant presence. One who does not possess my sharp mind cannot possibly understand this, but he is quite necessary to my continued mental health. People have a tendency to view my talent as something that is turned on and off at my leisure, a trick that I can produce for entertainment and then pack away at will, but the reality is that I observe and deduce all the time. It is not something I am consciously in control of. Just as you may see a man's trousers and immediately note their color, so I see the mud stains on those trouser cuffs and begin an endless catalogue of where they've been, how long they were there, and who their owner might have been there to see.

Watson though… he is a fixed point. "Boring" and "predictable" some may call him, but I label him "constant" and "reassuring." Of course, his appearance also contains details about his daily life but on the whole they are ones that I already know. He has his routine, the specifics of which I can now ignore, and Watson is not a man known for making large or unexpected changes. I need not worry that my flatmate will one day walk down the stairs in completely new clothes or come in tracking mud from some obscure part of town. He is unfailing, reliable, the center upon which the rest of my world orbits. I could not manage myself well without some base to come back to, and for many years, indeed, I did not.

So it had become one of my more peculiar habits to simply watch him, wherever he may be. Across the compartment on the train, next to the fire in Baker Street, beside me in the cab… it did not matter. He is a solid rock amongst turbulent waves where I must frequently take a rest. A balm to my mind. Thus, having been given the opportunity to simply sit and watch him, I did so without reservation.

He seemed amiable that night, thoroughly engaged in the game he played. My Watson has a dreadful affinity for gambling and I hoped, for his sake, that Mrs. Watson knew exactly how much he planed to bet that night.

After a while the crowd began to thin, as I knew it would, and soon after Watson's partner shook his hand, took up his hat with an air of suppressed satisfaction, and quickly left the room.

I could not have asked for a better opportunity. Watson also generally left at this time but it would have been clear to even the most dense of Scotland Yarders that he'd lost that round. All it took was for me to give him a thinly veiled offer of a high stakes game and he was prepared to stay a while longer.

Once our play began I was faced with the new challenge of bringing up my desired subject without arousing suspicion. Yet then, lo and behold Watson, like so many other times in our acquaintance, did it for me.

"Now my friend," he said, chalking his cue. "I must warn you that I am not one to be underestimated. I have been taught by the best!"

The best, in this case, was me. Two years before we had been summoned to the Gray family estate in order to deal with their "ghosts." It was, of course, quickly revealed to be the stepmother up to no good, but a sudden snowstorm had left us trapped inside for a good five days. I had taken the opportunity to teach Watson some of the finer points of pool in Mr. Gray's billiards room.

"Indeed?" I replied, eyeing the felt for a suitable first move. "And who might the best be, hmm?"

I caught the sudden stiffening of his spine as memories caught up with him but said nothing. Mr. Norton, after all, wasn't a man gifted in observation.

"Never mind." My friend replied. "It is nothing of importance."

"Oh come now! You cannot make such grand statements and then not follow them up! Who is this great pool player that has taught you to shoot such fine cuts?"

Watson flushed, for he had indeed just made an admirable move. "I assure you sir, it is not a story worthy of your time and furthermore," he held up a hand to stop my protest "It is not something I wish to discuss."

I heaved a sigh, perhaps a bit overdone now that I think back on it. "Very well Mr. Watson. I shall forever be in the dark."

"Doctor."

"Sorry?"

"I am a medical man sir. It is Doctor, not Mr. Watson."

All at once I had the opening I'd been waiting for and reemploying all my considerable talent as an actor, I straightened with the air of a man who has suddenly realized something both shocking and quite wonderful.

"Why… not the Doctor Watson? Certainly not! Do you mean to say that you are the famous author? The one acquainted with Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

I could see him torn between being uplifted by my compliments and disheartened by the mention of his 'deceased' friend. He eventually settled on a blank stare that was somehow more frightening than if he had started weeping before me. For a moment I hesitated, debating whether I should give my mischief up, but I eventually decided that anger would be a better emotion for my Boswell than this hollow look. And after all, is it so terrible to make light of a death that never actually occurred?

Thus, with mind resolute, I found my next words to be great fun.

"It truly is an honor to meet you sir." I took his hand, wringing it heartily between my own. "And I must say, good to see you around here and not spending all your time in that freak's company."

The hand between mine froze, withered, and then just as quickly seemed to expand along with its owner's anger.

"I beg you pardon?" Shifting my gaze I found one very pissed off ex-soldier glaring down at me. How he managed such a feat when I have a good three inches on him I can't say, though never doubt that my Watson managed it.

"Well," I continued, waving a hand lazily. "No one can doubt that the man is brilliant, certainly not! But quite right in the head? Ha! He belongs in Bedlam if anyone ever did. All those things you've written about him, it's not natural! Honestly, if the man weren't such a benefit to the police force he should have been done away with years ago. Don't know why his parents didn't do the deed once they realized how freakish he was. You've had the right of it though. Brilliant scheme my good Doctor! Put up with him for a few years, get some best selling stories out of it, and then drop him while you've still got the chance. Tell me though, just between the two of us, how much longer do you plan to pity the poor sod? Or rather," I chuckled appreciatively "how much longer can you?"

Throughout my speech Watson had backed away from me until he'd bumped up against the pool table. There he leaned, his hands gripping the felt so tightly that when he finally moved, eight nail marks were distinctly visible.

"Mr. Holmes is dead." A raspy, sandpaper voice, still filled with too much pain. Time to make him angrier.

"Ah! How convenient for you. Put down like the dog he was, I hope?"

I spotted the swing before Watson had even finished raising his arm, though I did nothing to stop him. Just as Mr. Norton was not an observant man, so one of his girth wouldn't be an athletic one either. He was certainly not a man capable of standing up to Watson in any form of brawl, be it civilized or otherwise. So I just let his punch across my jaw carry me to the floor, having expected it.

I did not, however, expect the blow to my diaphragm, the box to my ears, or his hands to wrap around my throat.

The blow to my ears was, perhaps, the most formidable. By the time the ringing had dissipated enough for me to hear the abuse he was hurling my way the owner of the club had hauled us both out the door and was threatening to call a constable. Watson had finally designed to release me but was pointing a finger at my chest that was near as threatening as his punch.

"You sir! You- you dare to slander his name? The name of a man with whom you could never compare? He is not a freak. He is not insane! My friend was worthy to sit a throne and it makes me sick that the likes of you, the repulsive, deplorable masses, freely walk the streets while he is sentenced to a watery grave. " He leaned in close, trembling so violently with rage that he resembled a man who'd caught cold. "Sherlock Holmes was the best and wisest man I ever knew. You are lucky Mr. Norton. Lucky that I am a medical man. You are lucky I do not take lives."

With that he was striding away as if my very presence was sickening. He left me slouched against the nearest lamppost and waved his hand dismissively at the owner who was still threatening to involve law enforcement. I watched him until he was just a speck in the distance and then, to the owner's horror, began laughing.

I laughed for a very long time.

I am a despicable person, but I maintain that my mischief was quite worth it. My disguise was proven worthy of continued use, Watson was able to vent some of the grief that I could see was consuming him, and I was granted the gift of hearing my best – my only – friend defend me in such a spectacular manner.

And it was a gift. Watson, who holds such faith in my own self-confidence may never understand this, but all those insults were born of true fears. At times, especially early in our relationship, I did entertain thoughts that this man, a man revered for being everything society could ask for – gentleman, doctor, soldier – would eventually tire of such a trying companion. To my discredit I did sometimes wonder if he only stayed with me for the thrill of the chase and the monetary gain. No more of course, but I had my moments of weakness. Even now, despite my confidence in him, it was a boon to hear such reassurances from his own lips.

To this day he still tells the story of the scoundrel he found at the club. I believe he is as proud of his defense of me as I am comforted by it. During those moments, especially when the description of our fight takes on details not completely accurate, I am forced to relight my pipe, stir the fire, do anything that involves turning my back to him so that he will not see the grin upon my face.

It is best that he not know the truth. Besides, I do fear what that old man might do to me, were he to ever find out.

Winter, 1893

I regret to say that my next encounter with Watson was not nearly so amusing, neither for him nor myself. Well, I say "next" in the sense of the next important event for these recollections. I had, quite frankly, 'bumped into' Watson hundreds of times over this two-year period. I was the shy fellow who sold him his newspaper down on the corner street. The old lady who, on a whim, gave him a free rose for being 'just the cutest little thing' (oh how he blushed!). I was the beggar so seemingly desolate that in a fit of charity he gave me, not money, but the coat off his back.

I do not think I missed Watson more than in that moment.

A thousand times we crossed paths in a thousand different ways, each one carefully planned by me while I huddled in my temporary lodgings. I believe it was the main thing that kept me going. Oh, I of course had Moran to deal with. I spent a great deal of time working alongside my foreign contacts in an attempt to keep him similarly occupied and away from London, but during the rest of my days I had very little to do. I certainly could not solve crimes – what a way to draw attention to myself! – so my little excursions proved an entertaining exercise. I had to re-learn and memorize Watson's comings and goings, incorporate myself into society in order to gain access to him (I learned a great deal about forging documents during this period), and I had to continually come up with new disguises.

Of course, other than being intellectually stimulating, the payoff was that I got to see Watson.

However, as I have said our next prolonged encounter was a more somber affair. Weeks before I had noted an abrupt change in Watson's routine. He no longer headed to his club, or took strolls when the weather permitted; in fact, he barely left the house at all. It wasn't difficult for me to pay one of my former Irregulars (under an alias of course) to spy on him when I was unable to and soon enough he brought me word that Mrs. Watson was ill.

I am no medical man, but I needed no degree to see it was serious. Watson, despite being emotional, has always been a levelheaded man and he would not have neglected his other duties had she not required his immediate and complete attention.

A little over two weeks later, just as I was prepared to choose a costume and find out for myself what was going on, I opened the paper and discovered her name in the obituaries.

It is… funny, how tricky fate can be. The only thing that kept me from going to Watson in that moment was a letter I had received from Mycroft that very morning. He had said, in quite blunt terms, that despite my best efforts some of Moriarty's men were still combing London for me and that I must do everything within my power to keep a low profile and protect myself. Had I for one moment believed it safe to reveal myself to Watson I would have done so unhesitatingly and the hounds of hell themselves would not have kept me from offering him comfort – such as I could.

That was not, however, an option open to me so I decided to do the next best thing: I would go to him in the guise of someone else. Perhaps, my yet un-named character could offer him more comfort than the awkward Sherlock Holmes.

This particular encounter was months in the making however, not due in any part to my own difficulties, but because Watson was simply unavailable. For weeks he did not leave his rooms, spending even less time out of doors than when his wife had been ill. I only saw him walk the streets three times: once to send a letter to a close friend of Mrs. Watson's, informing her of her death, once on an errand to choose her coffin, and the last time to attend the funeral itself. Each time I spotted him he looked less like the man I had come to know and more like the one I had found nearly broken from Afghanistan. Since none of these times had seemed appropriate for a greeting I helped him in the only way I knew how: through practical as opposed to emotional methods. Watson may have mentioned in one of his accounts that I have made no small sum of money through my occupation and, with him at least, I have always been free with my checkbook. Two days before the funeral took place Watson received an anonymous note informing him that all expenses in connection with the ceremony had been taken care of. His maid was sent on an errand to inquire about the benefactor but I took careful pains to make sure it could not be traced back to me.

Finally, nearly two months after her death Watson began resuming his normal routine. I must say, in many respects his period of mourning seemed a short one. Not that I would ever suggest he did not honor her – never that! – but merely that I myself am amazed at the bravery of my good friend. Here is a man who within the span of three years has lost both his best friend and his wife… and yet after so short a time is smiling at colleagues again, gently bandaging the wounded, and, god bless him, comforting those who have been through similar experiences. My Boswell soaks in tragedy like a sponge, absorbing it and making it a part of his character instead of allowing himself to bow under its weight.

Many times, on the nights I was especially aware of my uselessness, I reversed the situation. How would I have reacted, had I thought I'd lost Watson?

Certainly not as he had. In those moments the only answer my conscious provided me was the one I gave Watson so long ago: for me there always remains the cocaine.

But enough of this. The purpose of these scribbles is to organize my thoughts, not wallow in them. Months after her death I did manage to meet with Watson. In this instance I was an 'everyman,' caught somewhere between the seedy fellow who he'd first seen outside Baker Street and the (seemingly) respectable gentleman who'd played pool with him at the club. I drew much of my inspiration from our former client Mr. Henry Baker, an intelligent fellow but one who has fallen on hard times.

Although as I have said Watson's routine was mainly reestablished, one aspect did indeed change. As opposed to taking his walk in the afternoon shortly after he left his practice, he had begun strolling late at night. I was a bit surprised by this, as the colder night air generally did nothing to improve his old war wound. However, I suspect he merely wished to find some time for himself. My Watson has always been a contemplative fellow and certainly the deaths of two family members – be them real or faked – gave him much to contemplate.

Thus, one night I was able to follow him to a nearby park where, as I knew he would, he eventually sat upon a bench to take a rest. After that my approach was a great deal easier than the ones prior, as I only had to walk forward and sit down beside him.

"Good day to you sir – or rather, I should say good night." I tipped my hat to him.

Watson chuckled appreciatively at the joke and nodded in return. "Good night to you too sir. What brings you out at such a time?"

"Oh, nothing of great importance my dear fellow. Merely wallowing away the time. And you?"

I expected Watson to immediately second my own reasons but instead he stayed quiet for some moments. Eventually, he sighed and favored me with a sad smile. "I suppose I am here because I am not sure where else to be."

Ah. The crux of the matter. To approach the issue in a straight forward fashion or dance around it with social niceties?

I have never abided by society's delicate guidelines.

"Perhaps at home." I said. "In your bed… with your wife."

He flinched. No one else would have seen it, but I did.

"I am afraid my wife passed on. Just a few months ago."

"I am so very sorry my dear fellow."

I must have sounded genuine, a bit too genuine, for he suddenly looked at me with surprise and a great deal of gratitude. But it was true. I was sorry. So very sorry, and I had waited weeks to tell him so.

And yet… I will tell all. I will be completely and utterly truthful. I was sorry. yes – sorry that Watson had been hurt. Sorry that a truly wonderful woman's life had been snuffed out too soon. But sorry that their union was over? … Perhaps not. The moment I read that obituary I thought first of Watson's grief but I thought second of my own gain. With Mary gone then maybe, when all this insanity was over, he'd move back into Baker Street with me.

I am a cowardly man. I am a mischievous man. I am also a selfish one.

But that night I firmly put those thoughts aside. I only wanted to help him, as much as I could.

Which, I regret, wasn't much.

"Thank you my friend." Watson replied. "That is… well. That is most kind of you." Turning to me he held out his hand and I gladly took it. I wished that I could take off my gloves and give him a proper handshake, but my own hands were far too distinctive. I would not put it past my Watson to recognize me by them alone, were he given the opportunity to study them closely.

Releasing me, somewhat reluctantly I like to think, he gave another sad smile, this one somewhat more awkward than the first. It was clear that he no longer knew how to continue our rather pathetic conversation. Abandoning words entirely he regally bowed his head in farewell, gave my arm one last squeeze, and started off.

"Wait!"

I needed more. 'I'm so very sorry'? What sort of comfort was that? I was meant to be this man's best friend and yet even after so many years I still had such a limited idea of what that role entailed. However, I was determined to do more then simply say 'I am sorry.'

"Do you have no one else?" I asked. "No one you can go to?"

I saw that tell-tale stiffening in his shoulders, the one that appeared any time his mind drifted towards me, but just as quickly he relaxed. He looked now as if he were welcoming the memories instead of fighting them. As if, perhaps, a sharp pain had turned into a sweeter one.

"I did have someone, once. Though I'm afraid he too is gone."

I wished to tell him. Oh how I wished to tell him more than anything…

But instead I merely repeated myself, my same useless words:

"I am sorry."

Watson shook his head and smiled again, though this one looked a bit more bright. He even shifted his weight to his good leg and began swinging his cane jovially.

"Yes." He said. "I am too. Though you know…" He tipped his head to one side, as if he'd caught the trace of a scent. Honestly, and the man said I resembled a bloodhound.

"You…" He continued. "You remind me of him a great deal."

Time to leave.

I could not maintain my restraint if Watson continued to stand before me, comparing me with the friend he longed to have by his side. It was time to leave before I did something fundamentally and irrevocably stupid.

"Then," I said, returning his gentle squeeze from earlier but quickly walking on. "Perhaps he is not as gone as you may think."

I left him standing there, watching me leave. I could feel the weight of his eyes and it was nearly as heavy and warm as his handshake. I am undoubtedly the world's most selfish man, for surely I gained more comfort from that interview than he did.

And yet… Watson has never brought this encounter up in our conversations.

Perhaps he treasures the memory as much as I do.

Spring, 1894

Everything came to a head in the early spring of 1894. I had recently been reassured that, while not healed, my Watson was at least on his way to becoming whole. He had started showing interest in crime again, something I would always encourage for the weariest of men. Having finally put most of the black cloud that was Mary's death behind him, he presented himself to Scotland Yard and had offered his services in whatever way they might be useful. This act on his part was quite consoling. Not only because I thought this hobby would do him good – I have always believed that work is the best antidote to sorrow – but because his willingness to become re-involved in fighting London's criminal masses told me that he was more at peace with my own 'death.'

Yet there she was again, our tricky mistress Fate. It is most fascinating that the time when Watson was just beginning to accept my death was also the time when I was to return from it.

Though in the moment I could not have known this. I had heard of Watson's re-established camaraderie with Lestrade, had mentally congratulated him for it (though I did fear what influence the old ferret might have on my poor Boswell's IQ…), and then just as quickly put it out of my mind. I'm afraid that at the time I had more important – and deadly – issues to worry about.

Let it never be said that Moran was a man to be underestimated. I had hoped, naively perhaps, that three years would be ample time for him to give up the chase. What did he, after all, truly have to gain from it? My actual death would surely be a boon to the criminal class but Moran would gain no acclaim for it as most still believed I had gone over the waterfall that hateful day. Similarly he would lose no face for failing in his quest for no one knew he had undertaken it. The most that was at stake for him was the knowledge of his own pride and that to me – though I myself am a prideful man – seemed an unworthy prize for three years of one's life.

Of course, as I have mentioned above, perhaps he was faithful to Moriarty for more charitable reasons than I originally gave him credit for.

It is a thought that is difficult to contemplate.

Though regardless of why, Moran did not back down and by 1894 he had succeeded in discovering that I was hiding in London and that I had been here the whole time. I can only imagine what sort of blow that must have been and if pride hadn't driven him before then it certainly did now. Moran was not someone to be made a fool of.

There must have been a great deal of anger too, for anger is the only emotion I can attribute to him that would make him so very sloppy. Here was a man trained in the art of stealth, a man who had shadowed the world's greatest criminal and successfully hunted the world's greatest detective. He was cunning, patient, and deviously smart. He was, in many ways, the perfect adversary.

And yet, despite all this, within a few weeks of returning to London he nearly blew his chances by impulsively murdering Ronald Adair. Honestly, his actions were in many ways quite disappointing. I expected better. Killing a man with such a unique gun over a mere trifle? It was a mistake unworthy of Moran's expertise. I will be the first to admit that the Scotland Yarders are all but useless and would very likely have never traced the murder back to him, but even so, it was not a risk that I would have been willing to take.

However, thisproved to be my signal. For months I had feverishly been looking for some way to take Moran out and here was my opportunity laid before me on a silver platter. If Moran was antsy enough to be shooting insignificant card players than he was obviously at his wits end. He was as eager to end this game as I was and I knew that if I gave him a proper opening he'd be too tempted to resist.

A plan began forming in my mind. However, it was not one I could accomplish alone.

The memory of revealing myself to Watson is in many ways one of my most treasured. The only one that could possibly stand beside it would be when I revealed myself to Mrs. Hudson.

Of course, my fun wasn't without its consequences. Damn my flair for the dramatic. I am lucky that old hag didn't kill me, or have a heart attack, or both. Let us just say that after talking it over with brother Mycroft and ordering a certain bust, an elderly bookseller went to visit 221B. It was a simple matter to knock on the old door, offer such a sweet landlady my finest wares, perhaps a bit rudely force my way in, and then, when she turned her back (no doubt to get a broom with which she could force me from the premises) remove my disguise.

I give her the most heartfelt of congratulations. I know younger and tougher men who can't recover from shocks in half the time she did. That crazy old bat went from dead silence, to shrieking, to beating me quite violently with her fists. She eventually settled on weeping all over me though I must say, it was a welcome change to the pummeling I received moments before.

"I knew it Mr. Holmes!" She sobbed. "I knew the Devil himself couldn't kill you if he tried!"

It took a great deal of time and copious amounts of tea but I was finally able to explain my absence and the need for my sudden return. She agreed that this did seem an opportune time to finally end all this and – bless her – calmly agreed to follow my instructions regarding the placement and movement of the bust. I was just about to leave, confident in my plan and lighter at heart than I'd been in years, when Mrs. Hudson stopped me.

"Oh but Mr. Holmes. What about the Doctor?"

I admit that up until this point I still had no intention of revealing myself to Watson. It would place him in too much danger. I said as much to our landlady, expecting a nod of understanding and perhaps a bit of sympathy, but instead I given crossed arms and a most severe glare.

"Mr. Holmes" she said waspishly. "Do you mean to say that you will not associate with him because it is dangerous yet you are more than willing to associate with me? Do you honestly believe your needs to be more important than my life?"

I was struck dumb and it took much longer than is complimentary for me to find my voice again.

"My dear Mrs. Hudson no! I would never… well, I believe that I have… but I would never willing put you in danger. It is just that I so needed your assistance and Watson… "

"Is what Mr. Holmes? Useless?"

"No!" Now I was the one glaring. How dare this woman question my faith in Watson? "His help to me would be invaluable but I just cannot endanger him because…"

"Because he is more important than me."

"NO!" I was at my wits end. I had hardly expected to be interrogated in such a manner. This was not how my re-introduction was meant to play out. And yet, as soon as she saw me becoming harried Mrs. Hudson's demeanor began to soften.

"Oh, but he is more important Mr. Holmes." She said patting me on the arm. "You would do best to realize that."

"You are also important." The admission made my stomach restless and my face too hot but I would not shy away from it.

Her smile brightened and she raised herself on tiptoes to peck me on the cheek. "I am well aware of your regard for me but I am also not so foolish as to think I could take the good Doctor's place. You need him Mr. Holmes, just as much as he needs you. I realize that you would not willingly place him in danger but if you truly value him as a friend you cannot manipulate his life in such a manner. That man has spent three years in misery because he had no control over your death. The least you can do is give him the choice to follow you in life."

I took the time to simply stop and stare, wondering what I had done to gain this remarkable and wise woman in my life.

"You are truly a marvel. Are you aware of this?"

As swiftly as she came the philosophical Mrs. Hudson was gone and my beloved landlady had returned. She picked up the nearest duster and promptly swatted me with it.

"Flattery will get you nowhere Mr. Holmes and I will not be deterred! Will you tell the Doctor?"

"I… will seriously consider it."

Her whole body relaxed in one long motion. "I suppose that is the best I can expect from you. Well, what are you standing around here for? There are murderers to capture, air guns to locate, and doctors to speak with! You heard me Mr. Holmes, shoo! The game is afoot!"

Within ten minutes I had once again become the deformed bookseller and was making my way towards Oxford Street. On the way I made sure to drop rumors here and there among the street urchins that Sherlock Holmes was back in London and had retired to his old quarters. With any luck the rumors would reach Moran and by tonight I could put my plan into action.

With that accomplished I had wanted to get a look at Adair's house and spend some time thinking over whether or not to reveal myself to Watson before I confronted Moran. As I had said to Mrs. Hudson, there was no doubt that his help would be invaluable, but more significantly I wished to tell him. The thought of having an adventure without Watson was no adventure at all. But how did one go about coming back from the dead? Did I ring him at home? Send him a telegram? Bloody well show up under his bedroom window? Blast it all, there were simply no guidelines for this type of thing!

And it was in that moment, right when I was fuming at my own inability to make a decision, that I suddenly collide with someone's back.

I looked up and found that this time I had literally bumped into Watson.

Ah Fate. What a wonderfully strange thing you are.

The reader of this, if reader there be, should know the rest of the story well. Upon suddenly finding myself before the very person I most wanted to see I… well, 'floundered' is the only appropriate word. I dropped my books, he courteously helped me to pick them up, but I was still so flustered that I did the only thing I could think of: I slipped on my character's personality like a glove and growled at Watson for touching my things.

Though a moment of reflection was all my brain needed. Thirty seconds after he left I was running after him, under no circumstances willing to give up this opportunity now that it had been presented to me.

I entered his office, recited the same speech I gave to Mrs. Hudson, and when he turned towards his bookshelf I threw off my disguise and waited for his reaction.

Of all the things I expected him to do, fainting was not one of them.

So. Let us review the facts then, shall we?

I am a cowardly man.

I am a mischievous man.

I am a selfish man.

I am a stupid man.

That, I believe, is everything of importance.

And yet, I do believe that things turned out for the best. Watson easily (far, far too easily) forgave my ridiculous blunder, we went off to capture Moran in a spectacular display of skill and cunning, and just a few weeks later I was granted my wish of Watson moving back into Baker Street. Things returned to normal in an almost disturbingly quick manner.

Though I am also not a man who looks a gift horse in the mouth.

With that said I find that I have come to the end of my narrative and my hand is developing an agonizing cramp. I suppose that this exercise has been… fruitful. Although having finished I would like to make one change to my original statement. Watson, I do hope you read this someday, if only so you may know that someone was watching over you during those horrid years. So that you may know that this 'cold, reasoning machine' feels many things, he is just unable to say many of them aloud. You are right old boy, writing is a freedom onto itself.

And for anyone else who may find this, who has not had the pleasure of knowing the man for which this was written, allow me to borrow the master's own words:

He is the best and wisest man whom I have ever known.