As he hurried to the next room to locate his wife, John Watson did his best to control his breathing and his hopes, both of which were threatening to spiral out of control.

"Mary," he said, his voice deceptively calm, "Try and remember, if you can. What did the postman look like?"

"John, dear, what ever is the matter?" Mary asked, looking at him with concern in her eyes.

"Please, Mary," he repeated, the fingers of his left hand beginning to tremble as they continued to clutch at the seemingly innocuous package.

"Well," she said slowly, making an effort to remember, "I suppose now that you come to mention it, he was a rather strange, little man. Quite tall, though you'd never know it by the terrible way that he stooped. And he had these vast, bushy whiskers completely covering his chin."

"And this was all he gave you?" Watson asked intensely.

"Yes, just the one package," Mary said, the confusion in her voice equaling the concern. "John, what..."

Giving his wife no answer to her inquiry, Watson whirled around and returned to his study, slamming the door behind him, and was soon pacing back and forth over the carpet.

He had performed the calculations over and over in his head every night since that fateful one in Switzerland: ninety meters to the base of the falls, water temperatures barely four degrees Celsius, a current of at least five kilometers per hour. The results had always remained the same - there was simply no way that a man in peak condition, let alone one with an injured shoulder, could have survived it.

Yet the added variable of the breathing device had his head spinning again. Was it really possible? Could it have given Holmes the oxygen he needed to make it out of that terrible cataract alive?

Watson had only just begun the business of working the problem out anew when his attention was caught by the typewriter on his desk, specifically the sheet of paper still sticking out of it. Though he was too far away to make out individual words, it was clear even from the other side of the room that an additional line of text had been added below "The End" that had not been there before.

Watson felt his breath catch in his throat as he made his way slowly toward the typewriter. He knew it was absurd - a grown man, an ex-soldier no less, being afraid of a line of text, yet afraid he was: afraid of what it meant, and all the more afraid of what it might not mean.

Tentatively approaching the typewriter, Watson could make out the first three words as The usual place. As he continued to read, Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway, Watson wasn't sure whether he felt more like laughing or crying.

"Mary!" he shouted, grabbing his coat off the back of the chair, "Mary!"

"What on earth is going on this morning, John?" she demanded, rushing into the room.

"Oh, Mary, he's alive!" John exclaimed, grasping her by the arms before sprinting off to fetch his hat. "He survived the fall!"

He darted back into the study, now a little out of breath, shouting, "I'm sorry, Mary, but I have to go, I - what on earth's the matter?" She was sitting on the couch, head perched delicately in her hand, her expression serious.

"It's never going to be me, is it?" Mary asked quietly, her tone matter-of-fact with a tinge of sadness.

"That's not true, Mary!" John objected, "I love you, it's just..." In that moment, however, he realized with a sinking feeling that she was right. It did not matter what passed between them - when Holmes called, he would always come running. He simply could not say the same of her.

"It's all right, John," she said with a sigh, rising from the divan. "I will release you of your promise."

"Oh, Mary," John said with utter sincerity, guilt threatening to overwhelm him, "I wanted so much to make you happy, to be the man you deserve."

"I know, John," she said kindly. "You tried, I know you did. It just wasn't meant to be."

"You are the best woman I have ever known, Mary," John swore, embracing her with no small amount of regret. "You shall make some man a wonderful wife one day."

"Well, you'll get no argument from me there," she said with a smile. "Now, it's time you were off. I'll have your things sent round later. I certainly know the address by now."

John gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and a squeeze of the hand before departing from the room and the house to confront a newly resurrected detective.

Meanwhile, in the chambers they once shared at 221b Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes was pacing restlessly, the jungle-like surroundings of the room only serving to make him feel more and more like a trapped animal.

Out of habit, he ran his fingers over the many familiar surfaces which had once provided him with such constant diversion, lingering over the dusty test tubes of his chemistry set, the ancient encyclopedias of poisons gracing the bookshelves, the no doubt woefully out-of-tune strings of his beloved Stradivarius.

Yet Holmes could not summon the enthusiasm to occupy himself with any of his former amusements. They were not the reason of his return, the same reason for which he now bided his time in waiting.

It was some minutes later that Gladstone announced the arrival of a visitor with a spirited bark only seconds before Holmes registered the telltale scraping of key in lock, immediately followed by a scuffling of shoes upon the stairs.

The door to the chambers flew open with a bang, revealing the figure of Doctor John Watson, who, upon seeing Holmes, immediately grew several shades paler. "You," he exclaimed after a few charged seconds, his voice filled with rage as he strode into the room, "you...bastard!"

"My dear Watson," Holmes began placatingly, "I -" was all he managed to get out before the doctor's right fist barrelled into his jaw.

He stumbled back a few paces and wiped the blood from his mouth before returning his attention to his visitor. "I can't say I didn't deserve that," Holmes murmured with as much of a smile as his aching jaw allowed him.

"Of all the horrible things you have done to me over the years, Sherlock Holmes," Watson shouted, cradling his right hand in his left, "Upending my medical practice, poisoning my dog, throwing my fiancee off a train...this is by far the worst."

Holmes quickly calculated the odds that speaking again would result in another assault to his person at seventy-five percent, and so said nothing.

"I gave your eulogy!" Watson continued to shout, now channelling some of his nervous energy into pacing back and forth. "I buried you! I mourned you!" Though his companion was still yelling, Holmes could tell from the tremor in his voice and the tears welling in his eyes that it was now from grief rather than anger.

"For God's sake, Holmes," Watson shouted, turning once more to look at him, "I watched you die! For the third time in as many days, I lost my best friend, and I can't...I can't..."

Words failed him as the tears began to fall, and his legs buckled treacherously beneath him.

"My dear fellow," Holmes said, his voice full of unaccustomed tenderness as he rushed forward to usher his partner into his usual chair, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I've given you an awful shock." Holmes reached over to hand him the glass of brandy, poured earlier in anticipation of such an eventuality.

"Drink up," he said quietly, kneeling before Watson and laying an encouraging hand on his arm. "I hear from my doctor friend it can be quite medicinal."

This earned him a small smile from Watson who, after emptying the glass of its contents, was able to ask more calmly, "How did you do it, Holmes? How did you escape from that horrible place?"

"It was not easy," Holmes replied, his expression darkening, "Moriarty clung and clawed at me all the way down. Once we hit the water, I used nearly all my remaining strength evading his grip long enough to extract the device and kick my way to the surface."

"But your shoulder," Watson objected, instinctively reaching for it, causing Holmes to flinch slightly before yielding to the doctor's gentle examination.

"Yes, well," Holmes said, grimacing as Watson's fingers found the spot where the hook had wrenched his shoulder from its socket, "it certainly added a further...challenge to the undertaking, albeit not as much as the freezing temperature of the water. Sometimes I swear I can still feel it."

As he spoke, Holmes felt a series of shivers cascade through his body, as though it too was remembering what it had been like to be trapped in that icy current.

Suddenly, Watson's hands, which had been busying themselves solely with his injury, were resting lightly on both his shoulders, and he had shifted so he was kneeling in front of his patient.

"Why, Holmes?" Watson asked, though the accusation was gone from his voice. "Why did you throw yourself into that terrible chasm?"

Holmes slowly raised his eyes to Watson's, and mere seconds later, a moment of perfect understanding passed between them.

Watson's face now bore the same stricken, horrified countenance which had been the last image which Holmes had taken with him into the falls, as the truth struck him.

It was for you, Holmes thought, knowing there was now little need to speak it aloud. It was all for you.

Under the pressure of Watson's scrutiny, Holmes averted his gaze once more to the floor. To his utter surprise, Holmes soon felt strong arms wrapping themselves around his still shaking form, pulling him close.

"Oh, how I have missed you," Watson murmured, his voice virtually overflowing with fondness, "Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes found himself quite overcome at this sudden demonstration of affection, prompting him to return the embrace in equal measure and allow his head to rest in the crook of Watson's neck.

"And I you," he murmured in return, "my dear Watson. It is curious to me, that I have been in England for two days, and these chambers for one, yet it was not until this very moment that I have felt that I was truly home."

Watson threaded his fingers in Holmes' hair and gently pulled his head back so they were face to face. "Well, then, allow me to welcome you home properly," he said with an affectionate smile, before pressing his lips warmly to Holmes'.

It was some minutes later that Gladstone's joyous barking prompted Watson to break their embrace. He shook his head in annoyed amazement as he asked, "How is it that whenever I come here to quarrel with you, we always end up on the floor?"

"I don't know, dear fellow," Holmes said thoughtfully, raising a hand to tilt Watson's face back towards his own. "Perhaps we should do more research."

Watson leaned forward a couple inches and seemed on the verge of giving in when he let out a vexed groan and pushed Holmes away. "No, damn it!" he exclaimed, extracting himself from his partner's embrace and getting to his feet, "You still have a lot to answer for!"

"Really, Watson," Holmes scoffed, hauling himself up as well, "what could you have left to accuse me of?"

"Oh, I don't know, Holmes," Watson said sarcastically, "How about spending the stag party you were supposed to be throwing for me grappling with gypsies and Cossacks?"

"My dear chap, how could you have asked for a more thrilling stag party than that?" Holmes countered. "You seemed like you were having a wonderful time to me."

"And what of you hijacking my honeymoon, then, hmm?" Watson pressed on, crossing his arms.

"I was saving your life!" Holmes said defensively. "And can a three hour train ride to Brighton really be called a honeymoon? Don't forget, old man, I took you to Paris!"

Watson considered Holmes for a moment before finishing with a sigh, "And how about you asking me time and time again, 'Are you happy?' or 'Wouldn't you rather be here than in Brighton?' as if you didn't know the answer. Like you didn't know that, as mad as it may be, there's never any place I'd rather be than with you."

Holmes stared at him intently, searching in his words and demeanor for confirmation of his theory, which seemed rather too wondrous to be believed without further corroboration.

"Does this mean...you're staying?" he asked, trying and failing to don his accustomed air of nonchalance.

"Well, someone has to keep you out of trouble," Watson said with a grin, though the look in his eye assured Holmes he was in earnest.

As Watson closed the distance between them until there were but a few inches remaining, Holmes surveyed him with great interest, plotting his plan of attack.

Pupils blown, cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted - ideal point of entry. Surge forward, press lips to lips, initiate light tongue.

Move hand to back of neck for maximum leverage, slide up to tangle fingers in hair, tug head left thirty degrees, no, twenty-five, deepen kiss.

Slip right leg in between legs of opponent, maneuver backward toward stairs, maintain close contact.

Slide other hand beneath jacket, begin to remove from -

The rapid current of ideas shooting through Holmes' brain abruptly short-circuited when Watson brought his hands to either side of Holmes' face and kissed him intensely. Before Holmes could think of a proper counterattack, his back was pressed against the wall, his waistcoat deftly unbuttoned by the doctor's practiced fingers, and his breathing severely impeded by his companion pressing against him.

When taking in the shocked expression on Holmes' face during a brief respite from kissing him, Watson asked with a grin, "What? You didn't think catching criminals was the only application of your methods I'd picked up over the years, did you?"

"Watson," Holmes said, affectionately brushing a hand over his cheek, "You are, as always, a never-ending surprise to me."