Texting Sherlock

Reichenbach

Individual Chapter

(A/N: I know, I know, I meant to prewrite some chapters before going to vacation, but that didn't end up happening. Sorry.

This is ACD style, so not modern Sherlock but the old, book style, Holmes. Enjoy!)

He wasn't well. Even though everyone pitied him and told him that he would get better, he wasn't well.

Holmes' death struck Watson as if a giant tree trunk falling down in the middle of the path of his life. It seemed impossible to move on, to go around it, and all Watson seemed capable of doing is lounging in the living room with a small glass of an unknown concoction of mixed alcohols in it.

To his remaining friends, he seemed distant, barely talked, never went out (except for supply runs for produce and more alcohol or going to visit Holmes' gravesite). Dr. Hooper only saw him once a month when she came to check on him because people were starting to get worried if he was even still alive.

She'd always left disparaged and down after visits with Watson, saying that he was a completely different person now compared to when Holmes was alive.

Truly, people always said that it was Watson that brought out the human in Holmes, but Molly now believed it was the complete opposite, Holmes brought out the life and the human in Watson.

Watson was callous, unresponsive, and unaware of the events in the outside world.

He didn't even bother fixing his inside world either, it was so ruined and in shambles that it seemed pointless to even try to put the blocks back into their rightful places.

He sighed, taking another sip of the brown-tinted liquid in his cup, and once again transported himself to that fateful day, almost two years ago now. He thought about it every single day, tying to see if there was any way to save Holmes and to stop Moriarty from executing his malevolent plan.

"I've got a note here from the hotel Holmes. Someone's in trouble" Watson faced the Detective, who was gallantly perched on a rock that overlooked the rumbling falls underneath.

"Go on then. I don't expect to be needing you in the time to come" Holmes steepled his hands under his chin.

Watson was completely unaware of the fact that it was all Moriarty's plan, to get Watson out of the scene so it would be easier to deal with Holmes.

By the time Watson had rode back to the hotel and realized that there was no medical case and that it was all a ruse, the ordeal at the Reichenbach Waterfall had already started and was close to being finished.

Watson made his way back to the falls as quick as he could, but by the time he got there, all that was left of his friend was his trusty cane and a short note addressed to Watson.

The next few years were nothing but distance, scraps of paper, and unruly amounts of strong whiskey.

The only way Watson was able to cope with the death of Holmes was to write daily letters to his friend and deliver them to his grave each Sunday. They mysteriously disappeared by the next visit he payed to his grave, but Watson never gave it much thought, always thinking that it was the cemetery keeper that cleaned them out.

It kept him occupied and somehow feeling like a decently functioning human being.

It was the second anniversary of Holmes' death that Watson came back to Baker Street to a strange feeling. He felt like something was disturbed, not in it's place.

Something still felt off as he put the products in the fridge and poured himself a drink. He proceeded to his armchair, after lighting the fireplace, and adjusted his bearings after he sat down. He sighed, repeating the same ritual that he has repeated for two years now.

Except this time it was different.

He'd finished his drink and got up to get another one, but stopped in his path when he saw a figure sitting on the couch. It was dark, but it wasn't hard to guess who the curly hair belonged to. Watson's glass slipped out from his hand, shattering into millions of pieces.

"Careful" Holmes said, "Wouldn't want to get hurt, would we?"

"Holmes?" Watson sank onto the couch, couple of feet away from Holmes, "Is it truly you?"

The Detective nodded.

Watson felt his soul being restored to the state it was in before Holmes' death, he felt his heart being mended. He sighed, looking down into his lap, smiling for the first time in two years.

"Holmes, I've never been more glad to see you" Watson admitted, making eye contact with his newly reincarnated friend.

"The feeling's mutual, my dear Watson" Holmes uttered, before getting up and going to the window, picking up his violin, and filling the room with the music that Watson had oh so missed for the past two years.

Watson grinned and went back to his armchair, settling down and watching as Holmes played his tunes.

"Is everything going to go back to normal now?" Watson asked.

"Yes, John, it will be. I assure you" Holmes said, putting down his violin and settling down across from his flat mate.

"Since when do you call me John?" Watson chuckled.

"You'd be surprised. Times will be different someday..." he paused, "John. You'll see".

"Okay. I trust you. Now, I want to know what happened. Everything" Watson said, getting up and pouring two cups of tea, for both himself and Holmes.

[I <3 HEARING FROM YOU]
What's been going on with you guys in this past week?
-I've been in Washington D.C., because it's my February break. Now that I'm back home though, writing will resume!