Okay, so this may be a bit angsty. And you might, dear reader, have read several Empty House stories recently. I have, certainly. But, you know, I couldn't miss out on all the fun. Holmes' POV.

The words came so easily. They weren't strictly lies. There was simply a pang of guilt when I mentioned that I had feared his emotional outburst. His! I had heard his voice break when he had screamed my name, but my scream had had to be swallowed. It was still there, undigested. How I wished to scream now! I had watched my friend weep and felt his sob shake in my ribcage. We had cried together into that dreadful cascade, and he had not seen my tears for all the water. He had not had to stay and wait! I was like an insomniac in both night and day, watching the clock tick and the sun fall so slowly!

Nobody had been on my side for three years.

And what of my confidant? Mycroft thought I was unnecessary drain on his bank account, not a brother! Watson was so much more trustworthy, so much kinder, and even if he didn't understand why I had left he still accepted –knew- that I had not done it without reason.

I awaited the strike of his gentle hand. It never came, but inside I felt it. How was he so considerate? He had mourned for no reason! I had mourned my death as he had- I had lost my life for three years. My career was too treacherous. My country was too hazardous. My home was too unsafe. My friend was not dangerous enough- he would trust anyone, even the hand that held a gun to his head. That had been my hand, the gun my pen. That was why I couldn't write.

Why couldn't I tell him? God only knows. I was in severe need of his word as respite, and asked Watson for his forgiveness. He said there was nothing to forgive. At this I choked, and asked him if I could use his clinic bathroom.

"It's on the third right out of the door, my dear friend."

This broke my reserve, and as I closed the door behind me, I leaned against it and allowed myself to break down, just this once, to cry for every day between today and the last time I had seen my dear friend Dr John Watson. My arms dangling at my sides, I slid down and sat on the floor where I knew I belonged. My heart burned so badly that I was numb.

It couldn't have been a minute of lapse. I wiped my eyes, and waited for the red patches to fade, staring at myself in the mirror. How much older did I look? Were my eyes darker for all the years I had spent underground? My hair was still thick. My nose was still sharp, my voice was still sharp, and my soul was still blunt.

I looked myself in the eye. "Do you deserve this?" I asked aloud.

Then I blinked, rose my eyebrows, forced myself to smile, and went back to my friend.