I wrote this a long time ago-after I watched the Russian version of The Empty House, actually. I was never really happy with it. The ending in particular bothered me. So I've written a whole new ending for it, and though I like it better now than I did before, I'm still not happy with it. So review and tell me what you like and don't like please! ~II

He still couldn't believe it. Holmes was back—almost as though he hadn't been "dead" for three long years. The detective was now in his room re-arranging some of his belongings—generally meaning he was picking them up to place them in a different pile in another corner of the room. No one ever said that the great Sherlock Holmes was a tidy man.

Watson came to the doorway quietly and leaned his head against the door frame. For a minute or two he thought that he had succeeded in not drawing Holmes' attention for the detective continued sorting through his things without looking up. The doctor watched him fondly, still wondering if this might not be some vivid dream concocted and he would feel ever more pain come morning when he woke up and realized that Holmes wasn't there.

The dreams had come often before; he rarely got a good night's sleep anymore. Most of the time, the dreams were of chasing criminals through London, or sitting comfortably in front of the fire, conversing companionably, or playing chess. Sometimes Watson would wake up and swear he smelled pipe smoke and heard a violin playing quietly in the next room, as Holmes had often done to ease his nightmares of the war.

Then there were the nights that he dreamed of unspeakable things—things that no gentleman should have on his mind anywhere—not even in his subconscious. And yet it had reared its head and had only served to make his life more miserable, grief-stricken as he already was.

By some twist of fate, his friend had been returned to him, alive and well and just the same as he had always been. As though eccentric, annoying, brilliantly wonderful detectives came back from the dead every day, he was now straightening his room, humming quietly to himself.

"Watson, what's on your mind?" Holmes' voice pulled him from his thoughts. The detective hadn't looked up until he spoke; giving no indication that he had noticed the doctor's presence.

Watson startled up from his relaxed position. "I'm just glad to have you back," he answered sincerely. Holmes' lips pulled up into a little smile as he tilted his head slightly to the side.

"I am happy to have you at my side once more, as well, my dear friend. And as I said to you earlier, I am so sorry to have caused you so much grief."

Watson glanced away in a futile attempt to hide the fact that a lump had formed in his throat again. He wished he wasn't being so bloody emotional. Once he was sure he could speak normally once again, he said, "I often woke up in the middle of the night expecting to hear you playing that bloody violin." He gave a weak laugh. "I actually missed it." He still couldn't look at Holmes—he was looking everywhere but, in fact, as casually as possible.

Holmes came around the furniture until he was standing directly in front of Watson. Surprising the doctor, he placed his hand underneath the other man's chin and pulled his face up so that they were looking each other in the eye. Being trapped in the piercing grey gaze of the detective was never a pleasant thing. It felt as if he looked beyond what mere mortals could see in order to examine the soul—that's how Watson had always felt about it, anyway.

He had no choice in keeping his gaze locked with his friend's—it was as though he had lost the ability to control his own body. How many secrets would Holmes read in his eyes? Could he see the one that ran the deepest? The one that the doctor hid even from himself?

Panic made him pull away from the detective, turning his head to hide his eyes, his secrets, and just how hard it was to even just survive the last three years.

Unfortunately, Holmes wasn't ready to let him go just yet. He took a strong grip on Watson's shoulders and pulled him gently but firmly back towards him.

"Watson," he whispered in a voice so quiet that it was nearly inaudible. His hands moved from Watson's shoulders to his downcast face. Watson still refused to meet his eyes. With one hand he stroked the backs of his fingers against the doctor's cheek.

Ever so slowly, he lowered his face towards the other man's, pausing just inches away as if asking permission. When Watson didn't pull away, he questioningly brushed his lips against the other man's mouth.

The doctor surprised him by tangling his fingers in the hair at the back of his head and pulling him closer. The kiss was desperate and raw, and Holmes wondered just how long Watson had wanted to do this.

Both of Watson's hands had found their way into Holmes' hair and the detective's hands were on either side of Watson's face when the sound of footsteps on the stairs made them jump apart. Watson vaguely noticed that things were looking a bit blurred around the edges, but quickly dismissed the notion.

Holmes was studying him again intently. "What made you realize?" he asked.

Just then, Mrs. Hudson's voice came and the moment seemed to shatter into a million tiny pieces making Watson bolt upright in his bed. Reality suddenly crashed its way onto him and he put his head down in his hands. Homes was gone—dead, and not coming back. It was a dream and nothing more.

"Living without you made me realize," he answered quietly to the empty air. There was no answer. There never would be. His soul-mate was dead and he was alone.

You never know how much you love something till it's gone….