Hi

A little angsty fic about Holmes' return after the Great Hiatus. The first chapter will be Holmes' point of view, and the second Watson's.

Please review, and let me know what you think of it.

Enjoy!

Onwards...

Holmes crossed the familiar cobbles, toward the familiar street which had haunted his dreams for the past three years. He felt an unfamiliar longing, as though something was drawing him there. It was like a painful ache within his soul, calling him home. He knew his absence had been long, unexplained and totally necessary. If any of Moriarty's men had known he was still alive after the fateful afternoon in the Swiss Alps, no one he knew would be safe. Not Clarky, not Lestrade. Not even Watson. His poor, dear, Watson. As Holmes had lain on the precipice, he had heard his friends' agony filled cries, cursing Moriarty and begging Holmes to come back to him. How he wished he could climb down, to comfort his Boswell, to put an end to his grief. But he didn't. He had no choice. Watson would be first on the list to be captured, to be tortured if need be. And he couldn't have that. If this was the only way to keep Watson safe, he would do it without hesitation; he owed Watson that much.

So it was with a heavy heart that he left the Falls, making his way across the continent, in the opposite direction even he expected himself to take. Away from London, away from his cases. Away from Watson.

And that was where he stayed for three years, keeping himself busy in the foreign lands, keeping out of the way. Keeping everyone else safe.

It was the least he could do.

He walked towards those seventeen stone steps, that oak door that held so many memories. He slowly reached out and stroked the door handle with his fingertips, savouring the feeling he took little notice of before. He jumped backwards with a shout of surprise as the door opened and an unfamiliar couple strode out, hand in hand.

'I say, are you alright?' the man exclaimed, putting out a hand to steady the detective.

'Yes' stuttered Holmes, looking intently at the man, who regarded him kindly. 'Who are you? Which is your apartment?'

The man shared a confused look with his wife, a red headed woman. 'My name is Charles Lefton and this is my wife, Elizabeth. We occupy apartment 221B'
'Ah.'
Holmes felt as if the bottom had just fallen out of his stomach. Of course; Watson no longer lived here; he hadn't occupied it in over three years. Of course Mrs Hudson would advertise for more lodgers. He vaguely wondered what had become of all his experiments, all his peculiar knick knacks that Watson used to complain so much about. 'Could I please see the landlady? I used to live here, you see.' Holmes rather wanted to see a familiar face. Mrs Hudson had been one face that he had felt was lacking in his life these past years.

Charles gave out a bark of a laugh. 'You must be the detective she spoke so fondly about' he smiled.
Holmes already had another sinking feeling as the twinkle left the mans eyes.
'The dear woman passed away two years ago'
'Ah'
Holmes didn't understand what he was feeling; a gut wrenching mixture of grief, pain and guilt. Mrs Hudson was dead? She had been as fit as a war horse when he had left; how could she had died? She was one of the people who he thought would live forever, one of the few constants in his life.
Charles patted him on the shoulder. 'She always said that she knew you weren't dead.' his brows creased. 'She and that doctor chap were always at logger heads about that. He said you had died. She always said that before she went, you would come back.' He peered at Holmes. 'I'd say she was a few years too fast in the going.'

Holmes sighed. 'Indeed' he muttered. He looked at the man, his heart heavy with emotion. 'Where is she buried?' Charles directed him and Holmes went on his way, meandering through the well trodden streets, thoughts running through his head, mismatched memories and half thoughts that made no sense. He let his feet guide him through the cemetery, eyes averted. Making his way as instructed, he quickly found the headstone he was looking for. Looking down at the inscripted stone, he felt a wave of emotion run through him.

He had missed so much during these last three years. He had lost his landlady. His home. What else had changed? Sighing, he ran a hand down his face, looking around with tired eyes, the cemetery gloomy and unwelcoming. He had to see Watson. He had to explain. He had to make this right. He turned on his heel, not before taking one last look at the headstone in front of him. He owed Mrs Hudson that much, for his lies. The landlady always had trust in him, even sometimes misplaced, but always there. The pair always had a mutual respect for the other, bouncing off each other in the dark hours. Sighing again, guilt crushing him from the inside, Holmes made to walk back out of the cemetery, tipping his head in respect.
And stopped dead.
To his utter amazement, he watched his dear Watson walk slowly up to a lonely headstone before kneeling down in front of it, his posture that of a broken, crushed man.
Holmes slowly walked towards him, as silent as he could. But he stopped again when he heard Watson speak.

'Three years to the day, old boy. The years don't make the pain any easier.'

Holmes felt his heart shatter and break; Watson was grieving. For him. He bowed his head, feeling warmness creep up his cheeks, shame clouding his looked up again from his ashamed stance as Watson spoke again.'I suppose by the third anniversary I should have begun to come to terms with your passing. But I haven't and don't think I ever will. It's as if I'm walking around with only one arm.' he laughed harshly, an unnatural sound that didn't suit him. 'There are a lot of things I cannot do with only one arm.'

Holmes walked forwards a little more and cleared his throat, his heart dreading what was about to happen. He watched Watson's back tense as he turned around, no doubt shocked by the familiar voice interrupting his grief stricken ramblings.

Holmes saw Watson's eyes widen and his mouth open in horror.

'Holmes?'