CHAPTER 1: RESTLESS

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You unbelievable BASTARD!

Incredulous and infuriated, John Watson lay on his back, wide awake in bed, and staring up through the darkness. Mary lay curled asleep beside him. Her soft rhythmic breathing usually brought him great comfort, except for tonight.

Noooooo, not tonight.

Having looked the very-much-alive Sherlock Holmes square in the eye, despite believing he was dead, John's thoughts swirled and collided in emotional chaos.

Two years I grieved! You LET me grieve… Two bloody years feeling dead inside!

John hitched a breath: Sherlock flailing and falling, followed by the unmistakable thud of a body on impact, were etched deeply in his mind. He winced with pain and turned onto his side careful not to disturb Mary, but he would not close his eyes.

Watching you die nearly fucking hell killed me!

Over the stretch of months that followed the suicide, John could not shut his eyes in restful sleep without his memory replaying every vivid moment over and over and over as he mourned the man he failed. The initial shock and disbelief dissipated over time, and John resumed the guise of normality at work and in public. Yet, Sherlock's inexplicable death troubled him with biting guilt and blinding grief as intense as the sandstorms of Afghanistan. He felt parched by hopelessness and lost in disillusionment as if he were still stumbling through the hot desert, except instead of sand, this was a wasteland of endless desolation from which he might never emerge.

Until six months ago, when he met Mary

She rescued him. Her kindness and tenderness over the subsequent months, like tiny sips of water slowly administered to a dehydrated patient, nurtured and refreshed him. Weary of being emotionally crippled, John allowed himself to feel love again. With Mary by his side, if she would have him, he had a chance to recover...maybe not fully...but well enough. Tonight's marriage proposal was—would have been—a tremendous step toward quenching that thirst.

Then he caught sight of the dead man.

"…like staring at the face of an old friend."The baritone voice coaxed him to look up.

In that instant, when he focused on the distinctive face of Sherlock Holmes, it was like a long drink of water—satiating, then drowning him.

Afraid to cast his eyes away, John was gripped by fear. For so long, he had been tormented by bereavement hallucinations. These "ghosts"—tall, look-alike passers-by—compelled him to rush in pursuit, his heart in his throat with hope; but each time it was dashed by the shocked surprise of yet another stranger thinking he was deranged. Three months ago, when he decided to restart his life with Mary, John finally stopped "seeing" Sherlock as much.

In The Landmark's Restaurant, John stared hard at the ghost peering back at him. Stammering as he stood up at the table, he shook in disbelief, faltered, dropped his head, and drew in a deep breath. When he raised his eyes to meet the familiar face for a second time, he glared with white hot fury. His heart galloped, his brain clamored for control whilst his fist slammed hard on the tabletop. It all became a blur, but something sparked him to react, and he launched into an attack, his passion blindly overtaking his reason.

Can't remember what you said. Don't know why I throttled you, Sherlock. Always imagined I'd bloody-hell kiss you if you stopped being dead—damn all the old rumors! And then, there you were tonight. Just like that. LIKE NOTHING HAPPENED!

Mary stirred, before falling back into her deepest slumber, allowing John to stream his quiet reflections without interruption.

NOT DEAD! How many times I hoped for THIS—that the Great Sherlock Holmes survived. Thought I was going insane —couldn't deny what I saw and thought was true. So, what DID I see?

Rolling onto his stomach John heaved a soft sigh into his pillow so as not to wake Mary.

I meant it when I said: "no one would ever convince me that you told me a lie"— your abilities WERE real. I knew YOU were REAL. NOT a fake! Except you faked your own death, you IDIOT! You faked me out too. You, the one person I most admired, trusted, believed in….! We're BOTH idiots!

He flipped onto his back and felt his rage rise as he remembered certain details from the evening: his hands had circled Sherlock's neck and could feel the rapid pulse. His assault had drawn blood. Even in that frenzied moment, he was overjoyed, an internal voice yelling—corpses don't bleed!

Recalling that thought vaporized John's fury. Immediately heart-wrenching relief replace it. Please, God, is it really true? Sherlock lives?

Staring up at the ceiling, his lips quivered, his chest heaved but whether with laughter or weeping, John was not sure.

You really are back—whole, intact—NOT an invalid! SO, WHY I AM FUCKING FURIOUS?

"Offended," Mary had said as she climbed into bed, ending their banter about Sherlock since they returned home. "Because you weren't his confidante," she had added.

Offended? Offended doesn't even begin to describe it, Sherlock. Of course I'm pissed. Who wouldn't be? I HAD BEEN your confidante.

Blinking back tears, John turned his head toward the window, dawn would be lighting the pane soon.

On our first case, Sherlock, you said, "the frailty of genius is that it needs an audience." That stuck with me. Figured I was the "audience, the frailty of your genius needed." Was I wrong?

John sighed softly, flooded with wave upon wave of memories.

Thought you realized that social ties were not a bad thing—that friends protect each other—ironically, those were my last words to you in Bart's lab before I went dashing off to Mrs. Hudson. Did you do that on purpose, Sherlock? Was it all part of your plan with your network of conspirators to get me out of the way? Damn you! Why couldn't you trust me? How could you doubt me?

Throwing one arm over his head on the pillow, John couldn't believe Sherlock would question his integrity. Sherlock had many times shown that he greatly prized John for his trustworthy character and unswerving loyalty, especially since the friendless, consulting detective had never before found these attributes in anyone else.

Don' think you answered tonight WHY you faked your death. That answer slipped by. Maybe because I was so caught up with how many people were in on this oh-so-complicated hoax—except ME! Okay. Okay, for whatever reason, Mycroft, Molly, and 25 or so "street tramps" were your helpmates. I don't really get it. Hmmm, but after…months after, dya think to contact me? At least with one bloody clue?

"…I wanted to so many times…"

Bollocks! What an arse! You're the cleverest man in the whole world! You obviously didn't try hard enough, Sherlock. I'm supposed to believe what you said tonight! That you feared I might be indiscreet, "let the cat out of the bag." Now, that's offensive. I wasn't good enough? No, not good. Not good, Sherlock!

Restless, John tossed to his side, closed his eyes, and curled his fists under his moist cheek.

So what went wrong, Sherlock? Did you simply not imagine the devastating effect your death would have on me …? Do you care that your absence left a terrible hole in my life? Of course you wouldn't care. You're Sherlock! Can't let anything interfere: 'the brain's what counts; everything else is "transport!"' Wouldn't be so difficult for you.

Just me. I cared too deeply—Hmmmmmm, still do…..

Rampant thoughts swung the pendulum of John's emotions back to fury...

You git! Did you want to provoke me tonight? Fucking hell you set me off, I was in such a blind fury—yeah, now I remember—it was that stupid mustache remark! Oh, that was going too far!

...then to amusement...

You were really shaken—you actually looked surprised, upset. Didn't expect me to react like that. And you didn't fight back. Why? Was it you didn't want to fight back. You didn't want to fight ME.

...then to indignation...

And the nerve! Bloody hell, you told me tonight…

"…London's in danger from an imminent terrorist attack and I need your help…"

My help you need now? Not for two years ...and suddenly NOW?

Did you think we would pick up from where we left off? How could I? You'd gone off a ledge—and Jesus, a few times after, nearly followed! How close I came to giving it all up—because of you. So you thought time would JUST freeze until the Great Sherlock returned? Maybe, maybe if I had known …wouldn't have felt so hopeless.

You may think I'm acclimated to violence and the trauma of war. Not true, well not completely, especially not the violence of your death. No. That was too much. To survive, I had to move on. Find something or someone to live for—boring to you, obviously. Fortunately, I found Mary, a Godsend of a woman, my Mary Morstan. (I will propose without interruptions next time.)

John gently reached for her hand, and smiled as she mumbled and turned over. Having unburdened his anger, he felt refreshed, even amused, and stifled the urge to giggle.

Heh, heh! Sherlock, your face looked so sheepish tonight, when you realized, after finally getting my attention as that bloody French waiter that your surprise had backfired. Guess I looked formidable in my shock. It was a shock—almost couldn't breathe. Felt like I was drowning.

"… bit mean to spring it on you like that. Could have given you a heart attack. Probably still will… In my defense, it was very funny…"

Funny all right! How ironic. I die of a heart attack just when you've come back. And I wouldn't come back in two years to upset you. No. I'm not like that. Dead is dead with me.

It was ridiculous. John chuckled silently at the absurdity.

But you do OWE me an enormous apology. 'Cept, not quite prepared to accept it…, yet. That's probably why I didn't react well tonight. Don't recall ever being in such a blind rage…You accused me of OVERREACTING! Noooooo…beg to differ, here. My reaction IS what normal human beings do, especially when a "friend" apparently faked a suicide.

Just being honest. When it comes to you, can't be any other way. Since our partnership began, I've felt defensive, even protective about you. Not good at explaining this. Therapist mentioned something about "my trust issues, and painful fear of loss since Afghanistan." She suggested I'd transferred my sense of duty, loyalty, and allegiance from the service to you—maybe.

I'm not trained as a psychiatrist, but I admit, what we had between us, you and me, was the strongest THING—yeah, don't know what to call it—I'd ever felt. I trusted you, like no one else!

Why? Who knows? Not that I hadn't been warned away from you. Despite what everyone was saying, I continued to work with you. I felt you wanted my help. Guess your addiction to thrills was something I shared a bit. Solving the most challenging cases was exciting stuff, but scary when you seemed to get your kicks by risking your life. I suspected sometimes you were only motivated to prove to yourself that you were clever—why you needed to prove that was anybody's guess. It made you very vulnerable, and here is the mystery: your vulnerability made me vulnerable.

On the battlefield, you must be willing to support the mission and the team. It's inescapable. You become so protective, that others mean more to you than your own life. If they die, you will die. You feel the need to protect each other in any and every situation.

Sherlock, you had become my best friend and my deepest responsibility. I had to watch your back. Only then, could I feel safe too. I certainly don't know if you ever noticed. Maybe you did. Maybe, you saw my concern when others tried to hurt you. That stare of yours, puzzling over my reactions like a kid learning to read for the first time. You're a child, Sherlock, when it comes to emotions.

Remembering countless instances, John warmed once again to his perplexing friend.

Hard to believe, but true. You were picking up social cues, at least from me. I KNOW I am not wrong about that! So maybe you COULD SEE me, see me better than I saw myself. If socially challenged Sherlock could read me, then I must have been very transparent to everyone else!

Well, I couldn't expect to hide my horror. Not after what I just witnessed—your leap off the rooftop at St. Bart's.

"… a fake, John…"

I was so obstinate about believing in you, that you were not a fake, maybe I refused to see when you were faking.

"…a magic trick…"

Was that it, Sherlock? Were you trying to tell me not to trust the lie of your death? I've gone over and over and over those last words. They were hints, then? I didn't believe you would really jump, not the Sherlock I knew. Kept thinking you had another plan—so I was right about that—turns out you did, just not one that included me. Even so, I wouldn't listen to the lies from the rooftop. Then, the unthinkable happened….And after…after… after the fall, when I rushed to check your pulse, did I miss something? True, took a bad spill, cyclist hit me. Banged my head hard; concussed slightly.

So, if this "final note" was actually you telling me that the suicide was a fake, the shock and grief made it too hard for me to understand. Pillock! I WAS the idiot 'cause I didn't get it.

More tired than wired now, John felt the loose threads of his understanding weaving more questions than answers. There WAS something more to Sherlock's long absence, but now his mental fatigue from an emotionally draining day tangled his thoughts in knots.

So with Moriarty dead, who was so dangerous? What made you feel so threatened that you had to fake your death? A great sacrifice for you if it meant you had to withdraw from London. Why do that? Why leave the city you loved, the consulting work you craved, and yes, even the people you had begun to care about…Were you being watched?

Was I being watched?

It had to be a threat SO DANGEROUS that you didn't want me and my honest emotions "letting the cat out of the bag." Guess the real question was: if I discovered you hadn't died, how would I appear to these unseen enemies? Not grief stricken enough? What I lived through these past two years I could never have faked.

Huh? Hmmmm. John yawned. Maybe, Sherlock, you knew my real weakness: that I was NOT good enough at faking my feelings when it came to you.

Drowsiness blanketed John at last. He snuggled next to Mary. The heated argument with Sherlock, the one that would remain unspoken, was now over. He was feeling cool-headed and relieved, even content. As sleep drifted quickly over the weary man, his last thoughts were vague and disjointed.

…the most human... being I've ever known… another chance to explain…, Mary likes you…