I have to apologize if these are not very well-written. Most of them I am writing on the spur of the moment, so I won't be proof-reading them to make them better . Also for this reason, they might end up seeming a little stupid some of the time. I apologize for that, too . I do hope you still enjoy them, though! You may be the judge as to whether they are worth posting or not.

This could be considered to refer to KCS's stories in which Watson returns to war after he and Holmes retire – her stories, at least, are the only places I've read that idea before, but I am unsure if others have written about it too.

Anyway…if you like this tiny little bit, go and read KCS's! And please remember to review!

Brother

I loved my brother. This I can say with honesty. I cannot, however, say that he loved me, without it being a straightforward lie.

He hated me. This I know for sure. Not only did he tell me nearly every time we spoke, but he also made it his everyday goal in our childhood to turn my own father against me.

To his delight, it worked.

When I returned from Afghanistan in 1880, I was weak and worn. My eyes ached from all I had seen and experienced, my entire body trembling even when I slept, and my scars and wounded arm and leg were constant painful reminders that renewed those hellish memories. All I wanted was a safe home and a way to forget.

When I limped off of that train, my satchel that carried my few possessions slung over my uninjured shoulder, I looked around myself. My heart was warmed as a young soldier who could not have been much out of adolescent years was greeted with a passionate kiss from his bride-to-be. To my right, a soldier with a missing eye held his newborn son. All around me, parents, wives, children, and all family members embraced their men. Amidst the joyful sobs and tears, I heard words of love and pride from all directions, mixed with words of praise and gratitude to Providence for giving them back their loved ones.

My heart rejoiced for them, but I could not bring myself to smile, for I saw not one of my own family or friends among the crowds.

For nearly half of an hour, I searched the faces, hoping against hope there was someone there for me. But it did not truly surprise me that I found nothing; the entire way home from the war, I had thought of it. I wondered who would come, but I had soon realized that I could think of no one that would take the time to see me return.

And so, after nearly an hour, I had left for the hotel – to celebrate alone my arrival back in England.

Thirty years later, I stood at the same place again, returning home from yet another terrible war. Although this time, I returned miraculously unscathed, it did not prevent the nightmares I had and would continue to have well after I was once again settled.

And, just as before, I saw the younger soldiers take their wives into their arms, saw the fathers embrace their sons, saw the tears and heard the cries…

I found myself searching the faces yet again, praying to see one I recognized, as dreaded tears blurred my vision. Was I really alone again? Did no one wish to welcome me home? Was there no one in all of England that would feel gladness upon my return? Had my brother been correct when he'd said I could never be wanted?

And then, without warning, someone's arms were round me. I did not understand what was happening, or who it was that was embracing me. And then I knew.

I could not see his face. I did not have to. I knew beyond a shadow of doubt whose thin, trembling arms held me.

I had but a moment to return the embrace, before it vanished as quickly as it had come.

But he did not pull away, and rested both of his cold hands on my shoulders. I gripped his forearms with fervor.

"Holmes." My voice cracked and rasped as I stared at him.

His worn, pale face was glowing with a rare intense emotion. A single tear rolled down his cheek from his bright, watery gray eyes. A smile broader than I'd ever seen before sent a wave of joy through me, which gladdened my sad, weary soul and instantly mended my broken heart.

"My dear Watson…" he responded with those three words that I had wanted nothing more than to hear for so long.

At that is then I understood that it is neither flesh nor blood which makes a brother, but the bond of something greater and far more powerful.