This picks up where A Game of Shadows leaves off. I know it's been done before, but now it's my turn. I don't own Sherlock Holmes, or any of his grand adventures, though I do wish I could accompany him. Dang, that would be fun! Anyways... Please read and review! I hope you like it, and I'll try my best to do justice to the great Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.

Chapter 1

"Sometimes, being a friend means mastering the art of timing. There is a time for silence. A time to let go and allow people to hurl themselves into their own destiny. And a time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it's all over." ~Gloria Naylor

"I'm going to go lie down for a bit, Darling," Mary Watson said to her husband with a quick kiss on the cheek. A day of travel coming back from their late honeymoon in Brighton had left her rather tired. She was quite relieved to be home.

"Alright, Dearest," John Watson said, kissing his wife on the cheek. As she made her way up the stairs, John went to his office. On his desk still lay the oxygen device that had once so fascinated his late friend, Sherlock Holmes. It still puzzled him how such a contraption had ended up at his doorstep. At first, he had thought that Holmes had delivered it. But that was absurd. Holmes was dead. Watson had seen him go over the balcony himself, had witnessed the long drop, and the ice cold water that waited at the bottom. There was no way his friend could have survived such a fall. It was entirely impossible. And though Holmes had often pulled himself and countless others through impossible situations before, this time the feat was too great even for the famous Sherlock Holmes. Watson knew that. It had taken him some time to accept it, but he finally had resigned himself to the fact. Also, he knew that if Holmes somehow would have survived, he surely would have returned to explain his great escape in exaggerated detail to Watson, whether he had wanted to hear it or not. Watson could not help but smile a bit, thinking about his friend's wild antics.

"Oh God, Holmes," he groaned, sinking down in his desk chair. "After all that we've been through... every time I thought for sure it was over... and this is how it ended? Though I must admit, you had to prove me wrong, didn't you? You weren't a selfish bastard after all. You jumped, taking Moriarty with you so the world would finally be free of him," he sighed, wiping the blasted tears from his eyes. "Now you're just a bastard," he chuckled humorlessly.

Watson groaned again, rubbing his hands over his face wearily. And then, something caught his eye. He looked at the manuscript he had been writing before he and Mary had left for their honeymoon. "Curious," he muttered, taking the last page out to better inspect it, "I could have sworn the last thing I wrote was 'The End'..."

Now, there was a question mark placed at the end. Watson frowned. Why would he have phrased it as a question? The adventures of Holmes and Watson were finished... weren't they?

His gaze travelled down the page where another line was written that he was sure he did not write: "Come at your earliest convenience. Or, if it is inconvenient, come anyway."

Watson's heart started to race. Even for Holmes this was impossible. Right? Perhaps it was worth giving Mrs. Hudson a call. Then again, he thought as he rose from his chair and headed out, perhaps he was descending into a madness similar to that he had claimed Holmes suffered from. His friend was dead, but if there was a possibility that he wasn't... well, it was certainly worth looking into.

His hand on the doorknob, he heard the crinkle of paper beneath his shoe. Frowning slightly, Watson reached down and picked up an envelope.

"My dearest Dr. Watson,

First, I must ask that you burn this letter as soon as you are finished reading it. Alright? Good. Now then, I know you are on your way to Nanny's. Did you leave a note for your new wife who is resting up the stair? No, you did not. I must say, Watson, I am somewhat disappointed. With all that talk of your undying love for Mary, and you neglect to tell her you are stepping out? What would she think if she awoke to an empty house? No. That will not do at all. Go and write a note.

On second thought, don't do that. Do not go to Mrs. Hudson's, Watson. She knows nothing of this. No one does, and you must promise to tell no one of this. I am trusting you with my life, Watson. Just as you must trust me. All will be revealed in time, that is my promise to you, my friend. But for now, do not attempt to discover my whereabouts. For now, it must be enough for you to know that I am not dead as everyone supposed, but neither is it yet the proper time for me to be alive. So, burn this letter. Live your life of imprisonment, which you call matrimony. And know, that one day, we will meet again.

Ever yours,

S. Holmes"

Watson's hands trembled as he continued to stare at the letter after he had finished reading. Holmes was alive! "You bloody bastard," he muttered, producing a lighter from his pocket and letting the orange flame burn the letter. When it was gone, Watson leaned against the wall, suddenly feeling quite dizzy. He was alive! Homes had survived! How was this even possible? For months he had forced himself to come to grips with his death, only to find that he was alive! Watson never knew he could feel so many emotions at once. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. He was filled with overwhelming joy, blinding anger, crippling relief, and unmeasurable amounts of frustration and confusion. How could Holmes do this to him? How could he lead him to believe that he was dead, only to write to him now to tell him that he was in fact alive but he was not to try and find him or contact him in any way? It was completely psychotic!

It was completely Sherlock Holmes.

For nearly a year, Watson tried to put Holmes out of his mind. But he had to admit that he payed much too much attention to their postman, the lamp lighter, the waiter, even the beggar he saw on the street. He thought he saw Holmes in one of his infamous disguises everywhere. It was slowly driving him mad that he could not go after his friend. What if he was in trouble? What if he needed help? Both were likely. But he forced himself to live his life as Holmes suggested, and trust his friend that all would be set to rights eventually.

Indeed, Watson did live his life. Two months after the strange letter from Holmes, Mary revealed to her husband that she was pregnant. Come December, they would be parents.