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-- All the usual disclaimers apply -- I own nothing -- just borrowing these guys for a while --

BAKER STREET REUNION

by

GM

05 APR 94

JWH

"You're troubled, Watson," Holmes stated conversationally, yet concern clearly tinged his tone.

He languidly blew smoke rings in the air to dispel any inquietude he might have felt. His eyes betrayed subtle discontent as he watched me in silence.

With little effort I had settled back into a nostalgically comfortable routine; a splendid supper the night before, the long-absent and well-loved companionship and quiet discussion so common, for so many years, at Baker Street. We soon had moved into high adventure with the stalking and capture of Moran. The anti-climactic but wonderfully routine matter of giving evidence and explanations to Lestrade finished the remarkable events. (Holmes' first visit to the New Scotland Yard was singular in his lack of comment.) We returned to Baker Street for breakfast and conversation.

It mattered little to me what we did or said. To once more be at Holmes' side was enough. With surprisingly little demure from him I wrote up notes of the last twenty-four-odd hours while he dictated details and resettled in the rooms. He made it clear he would tolerate no more published accounts of our adventures, but requested I again keep records for his use.

By this afternoon, lazy dialog had slowed to near non-existence. I found myself frequently studying Holmes; afraid if my eyes strayed too long from him he would disappear like a figure in a magician's act. Like a ghost. Like a delusional vision of the person I would most want resurrected.

Holmes had not lost his ability to read my thoughts and moods. Whether from the generous helpings of port, or the fatigue of drained nerves and lack of sleep, I was more than ever susceptible to his skillful questioning. I found I had no ability to prevaricate on this afternoon by the warm fire.

"Only troubled that the day's --" I smiled slightly "-- the two days of adventures must draw to an end."

"An end?"

I stifled a yawn. Accustomed as I was to physician's calls at all hours; to my past experience of unusual hours working with Holmes, these last days still had been most trying. I rarely experienced such emotionally traumatic moments accompanied by almost forty hours of waking activity.

"I fear this wonderful magic carpet must return me to reality."

His face wrinkled in puzzlement. "Watson, in your own round about way," he said with fond exasperation, "what are you saying?" He shifted position and crossed his legs in the basket-chair.

I nodded toward the clock. "I have evening surgery shortly, Holmes."

He waved away the comment with a sharp sweep of his hand. "Nonsense. Your locum can fill in for you under the circumstances."

Again I stifled a yawn. I remained in my chair. There was a marked slowness to my movements which was not accountable to the fatigue or liquor. I was singularly reluctant to leave these nostalgic and comfortable rooms, reluctant to leave my friend's side. Averse to ending this glorious reunion.

The crackling fire in the grate, the pungent odor of shag, the faint scent of good liquor were pleasantly familiar and sorely missed landmarks. Gladly I embraced these elements as a chilled, abandoned soul greets a flaming candle in the window at the end of a cold and harrowing journey.

The amicable effects helped transcend me back through the years. With Holmes on one side of the fire and I on the other it was indeed like old days. I could imagine there had never been a break in our lives. It was simplicity itself to think the mad flight across Europe; Moriarty, Moran, the death of my dear Mary, or the 'death' of Holmes at the Falls, had been elements of a tragic nightmare. My conscience, however, would not allow me complete peace and happiness. A discordant undercurrent, a cloud of unease, hovered round the room.

All these dramatic episodes had indeed occurred. Like the most horrific nightmares, some of the dread and appalling fear lingered even in the cleansing light of reality. Yesterday, when my friend had staged his miraculous reappearance in my consulting room, I had emerged in a kind of rebirth much as Holmes must have experienced three years ago. My nerves had not yet settled. My heart still was numb, yet aglow from my fondest, wildest wish come true. The shock of Holmes' return; followed by our tense adventure with Moran, followed by a return to our old rooms, had given me no chance to think or pause for recovery.

In the past few hours of our tranquil interlude, a shade of melancholy settled upon me. Perhaps it was the port; the weariness, the natural depression succeeding the incredible mood swings experienced in the last two days. Having dabbled in mental specialties, I understood my reaction to be a natural course. Whatever the reason, I now felt a nagging sadness bittering the idylic return to my old existence.

Life had changed drastically in three years and it would be impossible to be the same men we were in '91. My mind continuously returned to Holmes' explanation of his absence. I had been hurt beyond words to know he had witheld his survival -- his trust -- a secret from one who presumed to be his closest confidant and friend. Each time I thought of the grief I had experienced because of his death, again I felt the stab of betrayal and hurt. Happiness at his resurrection could not erase my wounded pride, my profound guilt that these past three years I had felt more grief at his death than my wife's and child's.

Mrs. Hudson inadvertently leveled a reminder that the injury was still a raw pain this afternoon. She mentioned her joy that Mycroft had ordered the rooms untouched. This had elicited a scathingly sharp comment from Holmes about his brother. His resentment confused me until I started to piece together the reaction -- and my own feelings -- toward Mycroft.

I felt remorseful hurt at Holmes' years-long silence. I felt bitter resentment toward Mycroft. These were unworthy attitudes, I knew. How could I begrudge my best and finest friend so recently returned from the dead? He had retrieved my soul from a purgatory of mourning and emptiness. Despite his cruel deception I still loved him as my friend.

More justified, I felt, was a resentment of Mycroft. I am not one to hold a grudge, but the cold, distant and aloof elder Holmes had made it clear my association with Holmes ended with the incident at Reichenbach. He blamed me for not protecting Holmes' life; a sentiment I could only agree was justified. Without Holmes I was nothing. Indeed, that was exactly how I felt and Mycroft's cruelly blunt accusations had added to my low self-opinion.

The swirling emotions of joy, pain, and reunion, of yesterday were still confusing to me. The deception and suppression of Holmes' fate was still an unresolved hurt in my own mind. Guilt at this made me uncomfortable; a traitor within the gates of Baker Street. The uncertainty made me doubt my own role of companion, assistant and roommate to Holmes, although those were the roles he clearly desired me to resume. If I was uncomfortable returning to my old position in his life, how could I simply move back to Baker Street as if nothing had happened to disrupt our routine?

Convinced the matter would be more appropriately left for a later moment, I resolved to depart. I slowly rose from my chair. I used the excuse of evening surgery as a means to avoid confrontation with the real issue.

"I must leave, Holmes," I announced round a desultory yawn.

Before I could step toward the door Holmes had bodily blocked my way.

"Watson, you must stay!" he implored.

"I have patients --"

"I have just returned from the dead, Watson!" He nearly shouted with urgency and offered the flash of a quick smile to dispel the abruptness of his outburst. "Certainly our reunion is more important than your patients."

I idly wondered how many patients I had neglected over the years. In the early days of our partnership, before ever I met Mary, I had temporarily signed on as a locum for a friend. It was never exacting or time-consuming work; yet Holmes had wordlessly resented the brief periods which interfered with his investigations. There had been times when I had actually suspected him of inventing reasons for me to abandon my medical work in order to accompany him. In my more cynical moments I did not put past his ego that kind of manipulation. Considering his most recent deception, the theory did not seem so far-fetched now.

How many times had I abandoned my long-suffering wife to join Holmes on some adventure? Mary had never resented my absences and never complained. For myself, not one moment of those cases did I regret. They were the greatest events and memories of my life. They had lent a touch of ironic immortality to our actions -- as if I ever had been and ever would be alongside Holmes in his many adventures. Each case had seemed another link in lives, which I considered inexorably connected.

I would soon be back here for good. Exactly when would depend upon the resolution of my own doubts and feelings. The amazing reunion had occurred so abruptly my mind still boggled at it. I had lost my acclimation to Holmes' powers to astound. The greatest surprise of his career and my life, his miraculous return, still numbed my brain. I lacked the courage to instantly reclaim my old place here at Baker Street.

Ever sensitive to Holmes' nature, I read now vulnerability in his eyes. Despite the recent separation, his face betrayed emotions, which were as easily read by me as an open book. Over the years I alone had learned to read his expressions; read the words-he-did-not-say, as his inner emotions. I accepted his uniquely odd habit of an occasional curt, complimentary word, or his slight smile of praise, as the only rewards I would receive from him for my devotion. Many times I had longed to hear how I knew he felt, although it was impossible for him to express those feelings. His traumatic childhood had caused him to close his emotions, and thus become a cold, detached reasoner to the world.

Now I saw and recognized those mute affections in his expression and I considered them priceless gifts. I rejoiced to see how much Holmes needed me to stay -- how much he needed me. I did not require hearing his acceptance. Holmes could not express his own guilt and remorse (which I knew he felt) over his deceptions. I had accepted this yesterday with a forced grace, yet still accepted it. Holmes alive and back in London, no matter what subterfuge, was still Holmes back from the dead.

I would ignore this disturbing rift and in a day or two, hopefully, I would overcome the resentment and be ready to pick up where we left off three long years ago. I determined to go about my medical duties followed by a good night's sleep. Rest would put life in perspective.

"Holmes --"

He seized me by the arm with a tremendous grip. "Watson, you cannot leave!"

"My practice has never been much, but I do have responsibilities. Yesterday and today --"

"Then you must sell the practice!"

I considered acting naive but rejected the thought instantly. I could not deceive Holmes, particularly when he so easily read my feelings.

"Your remarkable return has given me a shock, you know."

He smiled with tender amusement. "I did not intend to upset you, my dear friend."

"I need to adjust, Holmes." I did not acknowledge the question that if I could not bear to have him out of my sight, how could I leave for a few days of introspection? A more than usual absence of logic on my part. Still, this once, I would not be deterred. I needed solitude, even if only for a day.

His voice was terse, sober and oddly disturbing. "After three years?" Every word restrained meanings he could not bring himself to reveal.

Voicing the time of absence made something snap inside my mind. My requirement for adjustment was born precisely of that interminable gap. The hurt and betrayal, which had been simmering under the surface suddenly, erupted. The impulsively hot emotions quashed his tentative explanations.

"YOU were the one who chose to pretend to be dead! We cannot just drop back into place as if nothing had happened!"

As if struck by a physical blow, he backed away a few paces. His face was pale with a deep, inner pain.

I felt my heart crack with sympathy. Whatever anguish my friend had inadvertently caused by his absence, he had suffered as well, perhaps, in his way, as much as I. Could I be the cause of more hurt to one who had always been the center of my world? How could I harm my friend when it was so difficult for him to expose even this much of his vulnerable soul? Time would heal my lingering hurt over his lack of trust of me. I shoveled my doubts and regrets into a shallow grave. The ache of grief -- my ever-present companion for three years -- was lightened. I felt the cleansing wash of forgiveness clear my conscience and I knew only revealing the truth would set aside my own guilt in this matter.

Tight with emotion, I cleared my throat to force the words through. "Holmes, I was angry and hurt to learn you had not called to me at Reichenbach." My voice was so shaky I could hardly speak. I drew in a deep breath. "To learn you had chosen your brother as a confidant instead of me -- I felt betrayed."

"Watson . . . ."

I could no longer stand the wounded expression on his face and so I rushed through the rest of my purge. "It doesn't matter, what's done is done."

Holmes moved to the mantle and absently fumbled with his pipes. Needing to keep a sense of contact, I moved to stand close to him.

"I will not argue with miracles. I would have paid any price to have you back again, Holmes." My throat was burning and I felt tears rimming my eyes. Emotions were too strong to say more. Just as well. Guilt would not allow me to voice my joy that Holmes had been the loved one returned instead of my poor wife. "You returned me to life," I said after a time. "Now we must put the past behind us."

Holmes nodded and shot a quick glance at me. "Are you prepared to do so?" He busied himself with charging his pipe with tobacco from the Persian slipper. He choked as he drew in the first puffs.

I smiled at his absent-mindedness. The tobacco in the slipper had not been changed for three years and must have been dreadfully stale. I dug his cigarette case from my pocket and placed it on the mantle. After the initial, harsh confrontation with Mycroft, I had forgotten to return Holmes' case. Afterward I had never had the courage to face another meeting with the elder Holmes, and thus had retained the case.

"If you still wish it, I shall stay tonight after all," I conceded in a non-answer.

My friend turned to face me, the hurt in his eyes flickering with the light of hope. "Now, my dear Watson," he said with a brighter tone and tentative smile, though doubt shaded his face. "Of course it is my wish. We will send a message to your locum."

I found a sudden mischievous delight in seeing my great and confident friend, for once, uncertain about a situation. He awaited my final acceptance to the plan, my agreement that all was about to return -- very much -- back to old times. As I stared into his compelling, intent green eyes I realized my doubts were insignificant to this incomparable reunion, made sweeter in its unexpected arrival. What better place to deal with any problem than at the side of my great friend?

"Excellent idea, Holmes," I responded with a smile.

"Wonderful!" he cried out. He patted me on the arms, then skipped to the door. "Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted down the stairs, in his imperious, confident tone of old. Typical of his impulsive nature, he ignored the bell and chose to shake the nerves of our landlady with his commands from on high. "Send for a messenger! And prepare dinner for two," he finished. He flashed one of his quick smiles. "I took the liberty of having your old room prepared. You will move back at the soonest possible convenience?"

"Uh -- I --" I stammered. I had not thought about the long-range readjustment.

"Of course," said he. "We shall put your practice on the market as soon as possible. A full partner will not have much time for medical duties." It was a statement, but again there was a trace of question in his tone.

I was beginning to remember that old, breathless feeling of Holmes' fast-paced manner of dealing with life. My mind sped to keep up with his racing intellect. "Yes, certainly," I agreed.

Once more his plans so perfectly echoed my own sentiments. I remember few other details of that evening beyond our mutual eagerness to return to our proper places -- the only roles possible in our lives.