I wrote this story to be emotional and really depressing, but to have redemption at the end. Watson's joy at finding Sherlock Holmes still alive after three years doesn't totally eclipse the hurt he feels at not having been told of Holmes's master plan regarding his "death", and I think that if Holmes and Watson had the chance to hash out those feelings and talk it over, that this is what would've happened. I wrote this to follow the Granada TV Series adaptation of The Empty House, and minimal dialogue was lifted from that, so if it sounds somewhat familiar, that's why :) Most of this is just reminiscing about how hard the three years were for Dr. Watson, and in the end, how Reichenbach really affected Holmes. I hope you don't think it's too sappy or unlike Holmes and Watson, but either way, leave any comments/reviews and tell me what you think! Thanks!

Every night for those long, eternally hopeless three years where I was forced to accept the nature of my friend Sherlock Holmes's death, there would be nightmares, sufficient in their terror to keep me awake at all hours during the darkly hours. During the first two years, my sweet Mary was able to detain the demons, but not completely extinguish them. I became less of a husband to her, and more of a brooding hermit. She did not deserve such a wretched fool as her spouse, but then again her lovely nature and patient disposition never failed to amaze and mystify me. If ever there was a more winning woman deserving of the entire world's treasures and earthly pleasures, Mary was at the top of a much excluded list. Even Holmes couldn't help but comment occasionally as to her amiable qualities, but only when I would be in such a mood to dispel circumstances pertaining to the topic.

But alas, because of my isolated, grieving manner, and wearied heart, Mary succumbed to a fatal case of consumption, and right under my nose. It was too late when I'd finally noticed her pale complexion, her strained stamina, and her dull eyes. Those blue eyes, normally vivacious and alight with kindness, had become flat and dead. And soon, her spirit was lifted from her body to a better place; I had no doubt that she was in more appropriate hands than those of her selfish husband.

I tried with all my power to rid myself, once and for all, of the feeling of constantly dragging about a sepulcher. I concentrated all my energies upon my medical practice, taking on the most grueling and horrifying of enigmas to distract me. But the black band I wore on my arm would not be so easily forgotten. Eventually, it was as if it had molded itself to my soul. That was when I realized that even if I tried and tried again to cut away my memories of Reichenbach, I would only attach myself to the woeful symbol of the deaths of the two best people I had come to know and love with more intensity than should have been appropriated.

Those nightmares returned with a fiery vengeance that I had not accounted for previously. They became immensely more vivid and realistic, causing me to feel more frightened. It began as a simple reminiscence of the Swiss page halting us at the base of Reichenbach Falls, clutching the letter meant to move me out of the way for Professor Moriarty to finally dispose of Sherlock Holmes. Then, as the nights of that last year wore on, the nightmare contorted itself to more epic proportions. I would wake up, perspiring freely with the same cold, horrific feeling gripping my bones. My sudden realization that the note wasn't genuine, and that I'd left my dearest friend in the hands of his most forlorn enemy...that sensation of dread and despair could never leave me.

Next, I would be standing on the edge of Reichenbach, staring down into the rocky abyss below. A faint black figure would be visible to me, floating peacefully down the stream at the base of the falls. My eyes would peel over the sight below me, looking for something left of my friend, for it had been obvious to me that as two pairs of footprints had walked down the path to the falls and none had returned, my friend had inevitably met his death. I would cry out to him frantically for a long time. The water would be falling thunderously, and crashing against the rocky terrain at the base of the falls; I would barely be able to hear my own thoughts, let alone my voice.

"Holmes!" There would be no answer. "Holmes!"

Then, it was at this point where my dream would take an interesting turn. The third time I would call his name, a voice, faint and distant, would answer, "Watson!"

"Holmes!"

"Watson!"

And each time I would scream his name, the answering reply would sound closer and more discernable. After only minutes I could ascertain a tall, gaunt figure taking stance on the side opposite of the falls, the wide valley below us daring one of us to topple over the edge. He would wave to me, smiling widely. His appearance had never looked so immaculate, and his spirit never more jovial.

"Watson!" he would call again. "I have done it! Moriarty is no..."

By some unfortunate chance of fate, he would lose his footing. I could only watch from the other side, unable to do anything but scream, as my best friend, Sherlock Holmes, would tumble over and plummet to the bottom of Reichenbach.

The nightmare would end after than final sequence, and leave me in an even worse state than before. Each day, I could see my own health deteriorate before my eyes; I was losing much more weight than I should have because my eating habits had practically deteriorated. Not to mention I was considerably gloomy and secluded myself from society. I do not understand how my maid continued to tolerate my behavior that last year, but tolerate it she did. I never had any visitors, save my patients, and detached from my club and, very painfully, Mrs. Hudson as well. I had never given any reason to the poor woman as to why our correspondences fell through, and I can only imagine, at present that is, how much affected she was.

To only aggravate my state of being further, I offered my services to Scotland Yard as a temporary police surgeon. To say that I was received warmly would have been quite the overstatement. The fine, upstanding officers of Scotland Yard, and even my good friend Inspector Lestrade, were very silent upon my integration into police matters. All the fellows at the Yard were acquainted with Sherlock Holmes, some more than others, and the feeling of supreme loss was ubiquitous amongst the men. The constables knew, from gossip and Lestrade most likely, that I had perhaps taken my friend's death the worst of any man in the world, even his own brother Mycroft. Thus, they were either afraid to approach me for fear of initiating more grief through the connecting medium of our dear consulting detective, or some were rather put out by my antisocial habits and were too offended by my appearance to welcome me. It took a few months, but I began to feel a sense of belonging and purpose once again, and I became on friendly terms with every Yard officer.

So, that was the account of my welfare and actions for the three years which I was without my companion, friend, and partner, Sherlock Holmes. Now, I shall turn attentions to the day when he reappeared most suddenly and unexpectedly.

The murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair had quite stirred London, and the police, to its very core. I was called in the day after the murder took place by Lestrade, and presented the necessary evidence at the inquest after inspecting Adair's body. It was a few hours following that when I came face to face with Sherlock Holmes once again.

I had been most unsuspecting when the old bookseller I had accidentally ran into on the steps of the courthouse forced his way into my consulting room at my practice. A few pleasantries were exchanged, and after turning my attention away from him for just a few moments, away was the beard and wrinkles that had before adorned the man, and in his place was Sherlock Holmes, rubbing his hands together and requesting to smoke in my consulting room. My mouth had gone agape, and my heart had stopped. Before I knew it, I had fainted pitifully to the rug.

My senses returned to me when I felt a long, smooth hand brush my forehead and the tip of a flask touch my lips, pouring brandy into my mouth. I opened my eyes to be staring into a pair of green eyes, as filled with life as if he had not died three years ago.

"A thousand apologies, my dear Watson," he had said softly. "I had no idea you should be so affected."

His voice was not bereft of feeling and sincerity, and I couldn't help but clutch his arms to judge their reality and badger him about the last three years. He had seemed hesitant to discuss such matters, as he said before he delved into his tale that we would be partaking in a dangerous expedition later that night. I quickly assuaged his uncertainty with an agreement to be by his side when he liked, where he liked. That relaxed the tense shoulders and furrowed brow, and he proceeded to relate to me his extraordinary feats of the last three years. At one point, he told me that there had been one person he'd taken into his confidence about his situation; his brother Mycroft had been the recipient of such honors. A sudden pain stabbed my stomach, and I was overwhelmed with hurt.

"I would've thought I was as trustworthy as your brother," I'd told him, barely disguising my injured pride.

"Of course you are, Watson!" Holmes had cried. "But you have a kinder heart," he'd added with a quirk of a smile.

My pain subsided for the time being, but a remnant lingered on. He had seen the look of offense cross my eyes, and had quickly tried to rectify it; as evident as his intentions had been, and as appreciative of them I was, they did little to bury that emotion forever.

Once he had finished explaining to me the details of his life over the past three years, we both rested for what he had assured would be a perilous night. And he had been correct. Holmes was almost asphyxiated by that notorious scoundrel Colonel Moran, and he gave me a sound punch or two that grazed my old war wounds. In the end, we were successful in bringing Moriarty's second-in-command to justice, and I found myself retiring to my old rooms in Baker Street for the night. It had felt natural to do so, being in such close proximity to Mrs. Hudson and 221B as it was. Besides, Holmes had invited me to stay.

The rooms had been preserved by Mycroft through instructions given to him by his younger brother, and I felt much at peace when I was offered a pipe by Holmes and smoked with him in front of the hearth for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Holmes himself was in such a gregarious mood, and he talked for hours on end about anything he could think of. He went into more detail about the commissioning to build the bust of himself especially.

Around midnight, I rose to retire to my bed, as I'd had a long and exhausting day with my friend, reawakened from the dead. Holmes would not hear of it, however, and forced me back into my chair.

"Now, Watson, you've been rather quiet this evening! Tell me, how is dear Mary?" he chattered.

I stiffened, shielding my eyes from him so he could not notice the anguish buried in them. "You didn't know?"

"Know what?"

"She died, Holmes. About a year ago."

Holmes looked absolutely shocked, an expression I've only seen him wear a few times in the span of his large and experience career. I would have been delighted if it had been under any other circumstances that the notion had come about, but his surprise only etched the despair deeper.

"Oh Watson, I had no idea..."

"Of course you didn't," I said bitterly. "You were off traveling the world, gallivanting across continents...why should you be bothered with such trivial matters?"

"I could never consider such an idea 'trivial', Watson. You know that!"

"Do I, Holmes?"

The route our conversation was taking was beginning to rekindle the old feelings of hurt and injury I'd felt earlier in the day. The man didn't even realize just how much distress his "death" had caused to many people, and me. He was evidently clueless of the depressing weight in my chest that was present only because he had allowed me, his friend, to think him dead when someone else had known he wasn't. Holmes hadn't even the decency to contact me; he said I would have committed an indiscretion because of my affectionate nature towards him, but he didn't know that I had an iron will. If he could've just told me to keep his existence a secret, I would have with no reservations. Damn Holmes and his suspicious nature, damn him for not trusting me! What kind of friend did he think I was?

"Do I really even know anything about you anymore?" I asked. "You lied to me, deceived me, and didn't reserve any faith or trust in me! I would have thought that even though I am not Mycroft, and have a 'kinder heart' as you put it earlier, you could have had the decency to let me know about the truth of the matter, instead of leaving me to wallow in grief and believe you to be gone forever."

"Watson!" Holmes was sitting erect in his chair, his eyes betraying his confusion. "I explained this to you earlier, dear fellow! I was only taking necessary precautions to ensure my identity be kept a secret!"

"Am I unnecessary then? Holmes, I'm beginning to think that you place little value in our friendship, and in me!"

"How could you even suggest such a thing?"

"You have no idea of what it was like, Holmes. To lie in my bed every night while nightmares of you falling over Reichenbach plagued my sleep, to be reminded of your death whenever I smelled tobacco or heard the tune of a violin. And then, the only person who loved me enough to stay by my side and at least attempt to extinguish my pain was gone, in an instant, and I couldn't do anything about it, Holmes!" I took a breath, my anger simmering in the pot and threatening to boil over. I chanced to look up at my friend, and became even more outraged as I watched him refill the bowl of his pipe, as if I was merely discussing a concert we'd attended some time ago. I shot out of my chair and began to pace the room.

"I couldn't save her, Holmes, because of you! Because you had to deceive me into thinking you were dead, I couldn't be the husband she deserved! I practically ignored her, Holmes! I didn't even recognize the symptoms of consumption until the day before she died! I had become this selfish shadow of a human being, wallowing in my misery and my loss of the greatest friend I had come to have in my lifetime, and in the process, I lost my wife! My Mary, Holmes! My Mary!"

Holmes remained silent. I regained my seat and stared at him coldly.

"And, as if your disappearing into oblivion wasn't enough, Mary's death took away my last shred of control and my last reason to live. What point was there in remaining now that the two people I loved best were gone?" Holmes looked up sharply. His green eyes were ablaze and demanding an explanation.

"Yes, Holmes, you heard correctly," I said quietly. "I care for you greatly, old man, can't you see that?"

"I had thought something of the sort," he replied, his unsteady voice complimenting his weary countenance.

I sighed, feeling...tired. There was no more fury I could withhold and drive into my statements; it had all drained when I read the apologies in his eyes. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes actually seemed afraid to speak. And to me, of all people. He must have thought that a bull-pup was an understatement compared to the rage I could secrete within my limbs.

Holmes remained in his chair with the same beaten expression on his face, one that I have seen him wear only once in his lifetime. I could only shake my head wearily and stand up with full intention of leaving his presence for my own room.

"Watson," he spoke softly, "wait a moment."

In all honesty, I did not want to wait any more. I had spent three long years waiting for my misery to be lifted, and when it could have been so easily done...My patience and tolerance for the greatest friend I'd ever had was almost ripped from my soul. And yet, I stopped in my tracks, but didn't turn to face him.

"Watson, I cannot blame you for your anger towards me, and for the irreparable pain I have caused you through my unnecessarily secretive precautions. I realize, now, that I should have entrusted my secret to you."

"You could not have realized this sooner?" I said bitterly.

"Wait, let me finish," he interrupted. I fell silent again and waited for him to continue.

"You must comprehend, Watson, that I am by no means a man who is sensitive to the nature of his fellow human beings. I am not completely void of any emotion, no no no. I am not such an imbecile. However, I want you to know exactly what I was thinking during that climb up the falls, the complete and sincere truth. If you do not wish to hear my accounts, then I will not force you to listen. But, my dear friend, it would ease a little of the anxiety that the day has brought upon us."

I considered his proposition, and was a little annoyed to find my interest piqued when I should have been furious with him. I surrendered to my curiosity and sat down once again, across from Holmes, and waited.

Holmes retained the calm, stoic expression as I saw most often in our acquaintance, and began his story.

"Now, I should like to begin with the letter I wrote to you during the moments before my nearly fatal encounter with Professor Moriarty. Watson, every second that ticked past as I scribbled what were supposed to be my final words seemed elongated to me. I could not find it in my heart to write to you a goodbye that so worthy a man as you deserved. I'd wished at that point, and I still do, that Providence would bestow upon me the right phrases that could convey what I wanted to. You may not believe me when I say that as I was writing hastily, Watson, thoughts of you kept flickering in my mind, and how my demise would bring you the utmost despair."

Holmes paused to look me, dead in the eyes. "I had truly thought that my last moments on this earth would be spent grappling with my enemy, Watson. I had not accounted for any preconceived knowledge of a form of Japanese wrestling to enter my mind and control my limbs. I had sincerely believed that as Moriarty would die, that I would die as well."

"But you didn't," I said quietly.

"No, Watson, I didn't. As I saw Moriarty tumble over the edge and scream out for God to help him, and heard his body crash against the rocks at the bottom of the abyss, the euphoria overtook me. I had finally rid the world of the most dangerous man Providence could ever have the mistake of forming. And at the time, I'd assumed that I could return to you at the inn and enlighten you as to my ultimate battle.

"But, as I told you before, Fate had placed an extraordinary chance in my path. I had an opportunity to hunt the rest of Moriarty's gang from a covert perspective; how could I not take that chance and save the world's population from even more decimation at the hands of the most vicious criminals known to man? So I'd decided to disappear, and having eased my indecisive conscience I began my climb upwards.

"My dear fellow, this is the part of the story that might seem unnatural, and at times particularly false, but I assure you that each and every word I speak of in relation to this subject is the absolute truth. As I held on to the rocky precipice, sometimes slipping and almost plunging to join Moriarty, my thoughts wandered invariably to you. I had much time to think about the situation I had now placed myself in, and you as well, my dear Watson. I knew that you would mourn my death with that astounding loyalty that never fails to amaze me, and that you would irrevocably accept my death as a finality. But as I gained each inch up that slope, the guilt of deceiving you was magnified by the thousands, almost enough to force me to abandon my plans and go back."

The man before me was being brutally honest; I could see it in his eyes. Each statement made a new incision into my heart, and mangled it until tears had formed in my eyes. Holmes was becoming alarmed at my suddenly woeful manner. He still had not grown accustomed to tears.

"Watson, I have no right to ask this of you, but I beg you, please don't cry until I am finished. Such raw emotion would only make this harder for me to say," Holmes asked, his own voice thick and gruff to conceal his own sorrow.

I nodded my acquiescence, and Holmes continued after clearing his throat.

"I did not want to grieve my friend in such a way, Watson. Even though you may call me an automaton, a machine without feelings, I felt every sickening emotion related to sadness and despair that day. Not towards Moriarty; I held no grief over finally ridding the world of him. But towards you, my dear Watson, I was suddenly in possession of such a range of sensations that I was overwhelmed. As I climbed to safety, you consumed my thoughts, and then I saw you with the inspectors observing the scene of my death. Each cry you elicited, each heave of your shoulders as you read my letter, wrenched my heart. I almost cried out your name, Watson.

"But I had to carry out what I had planned to do. I tried to put all feeling aside and safely escape Reichenbach, but as you know, Moran gave me chase and I ran ten miles straight before I felt I was out of danger. The rest you know, Watson," he concluded.

It was many minutes before I made any movement, but it did not take much longer for a single tear to slip from my eye. And then another. And another.

As I sobbed, I made no sound; as much as Holmes deserved to be present when I poured out every single feeling of despair I'd felt for three years, I did not want to make my dear friend feel any more uncomfortable than he obviously was. It was such a difficulty for him to relay his feelings to me, and for that I had never been more grateful. I knew that in my heart all was forgiven between the great consulting detective and myself, but he didn't. I extracted my handkerchief and quickly dabbed away any wetness on my face before speaking to him.

"Thank you, Holmes, for allowing me to understand. It must have been very difficult to tell me this, but I hope you know how much I appreciate it."

"You deserve so much more from me, Watson. I have taken advantage of one of the most important allies man has in this world; a friend. And for that, I am more sorry than you could ever imagine," he answered.

I stood up and went to his side, and waited until he looked up at me and could see the full emotion behind what I said next. "Holmes, I would rather be taken advantage by you every day for the rest of my life than never have become your friend at all."

Holmes's thin lips quirked into a small smile, and I felt the weariness of the day finally press down upon me. I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, bade him goodnight, and left him to his thoughts.

As I settled under my covers, I couldn't help but think that at the conclusion of our rather trying conversation, I'd noticed a small tear slide down Holmes's cheek. But that might have been wishful thinking.