Victoria Station. After three years, it is a homecoming to walk this so familiar platform. This station has seen so many of my -- our departures and returns. It is a bit disconcerting to make this journey from the Continent alone. As if I am incomplete; and so I am without my Watson.

London. So amazingly the same. The moist, gritty, stifling air of the city. So different from Europe.

"Where to, sir?"

Startled from my reverie, I looked up at the Cabbie, for an instant, disoriented. George, was his name, but he would not recognize that under the grey hair and grizzled beard of this old man was his former client Sherlock Holmes.

"Pall Mall," I croaked.

George hopped down from his seat. "Allow me, sir," he said as he solicitously hoisted my bag up top of the cab.

The London streets were a bit more dank, grimy and clogged than I remembered. In three years undoubtedly more people had crushed into the teaming metropolis. More crime, more intrigue, more puzzles for a consulting detective to solve. I forecast that business would be good once I made known my return.

The Commisionaire at the door did not even request me to sign in. After hearing that Mr. Sigerson was here to see Mr. Holmes, I was straight away waved on to brother Mycroft's office.

Few had been the times I had met Mycroft here at his government offices. He and I both preferred the more neutral setting of the Diogonese Club across the street.

"Welcome home, Sherlock," was his warm greeting accompanied by a handshake. "You have done very well for us."

As when we were growing up, he was so easy to read. His tone was congratulatory because of the high value of my intelligence reports sent to him these past years. His voice ended with slight regret that I had chosen to come home so soon. Undoubtedly, if Mycroft had his way, I would have remained dead for decades to pursue his international agents instead of petty criminals.

"Are you sure you would rather not remain dead? We have no one in the field who can touch your unique talents, brother."

"Quite sure," I replied and settled into one of the comfortable chairs by the fire.

He shook his large head in disappointment. "After you expose Moran, your resurrection will be public. There will be no going back." He sighed and studied his drink. "Pity. You -- I mean Sigerson -- was very useful to me in the field you know."

Resurrection meant a revitalization to life. For three years I had lived a vagabond existence; skulking through the countries of the world as Sigerson the explorer. Always on guard, always watchful for those who might penetrate my deception, for those who might observe a single slip which would prove my downfall. There would be no going back to that netherworld existence, and for that I was glad.

Here, at home, was all I really held dear. My London, Baker Street. Watson. There was a shadow of disappointment that he was not here in the room to greet me. Perhaps Mycroft had wanted a private debriefing. Just as well. My reunion with Watson would be better appreciated in the privacy of his home. I would have to alert him to break the news gently to Mary, so as not to alarum her.

With thoughts of the Watsons' cozy home in Kensington, there returned a slight tremor of the old jealousy I had felt at Watson deserting me for a wife. During my world sojourn I had forgiven him the defection. There had been much soul searching in my solitary -- lonely travels. I realized I did not like to be alone anymore. Watson's friendship and companionship (even when married) had ruined me for aloneness. My cocaine had been my only assistant in my life as a spy. I readily admitted it had been a miserable absence. Eagerly I would embrace my work and my old friend with whatever assistance he could offer to me. His time for me, no doubt, would be limited indeed. Watson was a father now! I smiled at the thought. A son or a daughter for my dear friend? Will he want me disturbing the comfortable life he has grown accustomed to in three years? A disturbing question I had pondered since that moment on the ledge of Reichenbach when I had chosen not to call to him and reveal my presence. How happy and contented he must be now. Would he even want me to come back into his life? The doubt, the fear, brought that subtle, familiar itch, desire, for the cocaine. I subdued the urge. Watson would be so disapproving if I arrived at his home in the grips of the drug he so hated. His astute medical deductive powers would soon enough inform him I had been indulging the drug rather freely these past years. Away from his watchful care I had not been mindful of my health.

" . . . Baker Street. Sherlock?"

"What?"

"I asked if you will stay at Baker Street tonight?"

"If I can conclude this business with Moran tonight, yes."

"Shall I alert Mrs. Hudson?"

"No." With evil glee I thought of the wonderful drama in my miraculous return if I appeared on her doorstep today. "I shall do that myself. Have you told Watson I was returning today?"

"No." He swiveled in his huge chair away from me and faced the window overlooking the street. "Perhaps you should not stage too many reappearances today. It would be better to wait."

The prevarication, the nervousness, was second nature to Mycroft, but he did not usually try to ply his career on me, who could so easily detect his facade. Thus, I was alerted to trouble. His tone of voice -- the hesitation and uncertainty brought my nerves to full alert. I was almost afraid to discover what was amiss. Danger and suspicion I expected in the intrigue I left behind in Europe. I did not anticipate problems here.

With trepidation, I enquired, "What is wrong, Mycroft?"

He swiveled slowly back to face me. When he glanced my way, light-grey eyes of guilt brushed mine. He stared at his meaty hands folded on his massive desk.

I stiffened. "What have you done?"

He looked up. "Watson does not know you are alive."

I gasped, unable to catch my breath for a moment. It was difficult to regain my footing from the shocking news. Mycroft remained silent, allowing me to collect my scattered thoughts. Soon after my arrival in Florence, within days of my 'death', I had informed Mycroft of my escape and instructed him to pass the information on to Watson so my friend would not needlessly worry.

"How could --" I stuttered. I was able to read in his face the answer. Watson was a possible breach in Mycroft's veil of secrecy.

"It was for your safety, Sherlock. I could not allow any slip --"

"Do you think Watson would have been a danger to me? In ANY way?"

Mycroft's broad shoulders shrugged. "His very devotion to you would have been a danger in your guise."

I shot out of the chair and paced the room. I still could not comprehend the magnitude of this horror. To think Watson believed me dead for three years! My poor friend.

"I'm sure he will understand, Sherlock."

"Damn you!" I spun round and stabbed my inconsiderate sibling with a cold glare. "You said you had kept my rooms in Baker Street."

"I have. Watson required very little explanation about the rooms. He was in some amount of shock over your death." He pointed a podgy finger my way. "Which you may explain away as you like. You may not, however, reveal the truth of your work these three years."

You want me to lie to my friend?"

"As if you haven't already? The good chronicler should be accustomed to it by now."

"What am I supposed to tell him?"

"It is no concern of mine, Sherlock." His eyes narrowed. "It is your responsibility."

I glanced away from his condemning stare. I had used Mycroft as he had used me. I had intended my duplicity and faked death to be revealed by my brother. Now the dirty work was back in my hands.

"Appeal to his sense of duty," was Mycroft's languid suggestion.

"For God and country? That is a coward's wasteland of excuses," I snapped. "Watson deserves better than that!"

I thought back to the early days in Baker Street when Watson had been so disillusioned with life because of the hardships he had endured while in his country's service. I could not foist this pathetic excuse upon him in explanation for the pain he must have suffered since Switzerland.

"I forbid you to tell him your true assignment."

"You forbid? You forbid! Don't forget I have been doing your bidding for three years, brother. As a favour to you!" 'As an escape,' I finished guiltily. On that ledge at the Falls I fantasized a secret life away from the cares and concerns of Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps, in some twisted corner of my mind I wanted to punish Watson and abandon him as he had abandoned me. I had been the one to choose deception. I was more to blame than Mycroft. If Watson did not want me back, I had no one to take responsibility for it but myself.

I tapped my fingers on the mantle, searching my brain for an easy route out of this box. Perhaps Watson was not so anguished over my death, after all. He would have built a new life for himself -- a life without me. Certainly the role of husband and father had filled much of the loss he felt for his friend. Grief would have been blunted. Momentarily my resolve weakened for my much-desired reunion with my friend. Perhaps I should indulge in a diluted solution of cocaine, just to see me through the afternoon. No matter what excuses I foisted upon Watson, he would not take them well. If I took in the broad view, though, I KNEW Watson would be overjoyed at my return to life, to London, and I reasoned that the joy would certainly outweigh the deception. With that uplifting thought, I removed the disguise of the old man.

"I have secured you new digs in Church Street, Sherlock. You are a book seller. I thought you would appreciate that." Mycroft handed me keys and told me the address of the shop I could use as a base of operations in my planned trap for Moran.

Church Street. I smiled bitterly to myself. Just round the corner from Watson's house. I wondered if Mycroft was aware of the fortuitous proximity. Undoubtedly. Mycroft was aware of almost everything. In his own twisted manner, this was probably his way of accommodating my biographer and myself. Nevertheless, there would be Hell to pay for this, and I would not soon forget or forgive Mycroft's deception.

Once more in the guise of Sherlock Holmes, I finalized my plans with Mycroft. He made a few random suggestions, but his disinterest was obvious. These insignificant criminal chases held no interest for him. With a final shake of the hand I strolled out a back door of the building and hailed a cab, which would take me to my much, longed for digs in Baker Street.