This started out as a writing exercise for me to get more into Holmes' thought processes, which eventually turned into a post-Empty House fic. I adore stories focusing on Holmes' return and the emotional fallout, because no way do I think Watson just flat out forgave Holmes. That kind of shock would have taken time to work through, and Watson definitely isn't a doormat. So that's where this fic came from. There's so many amazing fics out there addressing Holmes' return and I hope this lives up to the Canon and all SH lovers out there.

This is book-verse with one exception; I loved the Granada version of EMPT, especially the fight scene between Holmes, Moran and Watson. I also thought it was really interesting how Brett channeled so much animosity into confronting Moran, so I've alluded to that scene here a bit.

Tomorrow's Hope

I had told Watson that I owed him a thousand apologies, that I had no idea that he would be so affected. As I reflected on the events of the past twenty-four hours, I cursed myself for my love of theatrics. What had I been thinking, suddenly revealing myself like that to Watson, who had believed me dead for three years?

It was perhaps poetic justice that I had received a shock in turn when Watson, who had never flinched from even our most dangerous and disturbing cases, turned white and staggered before collapsing to the floor. I had been so alarmed that I barely rushed forward in time to keep his head from striking the edge of his desk.

And yet, despite the extreme shock I had given him, Watson had proved his worth as always. No, that is not quite correct, he had nothing to prove to me – he never had. Watson's bravery and his iron nerves were qualities that I had never doubted. Indeed, they had in all likelihood saved my life tonight. Had Watson not clipped Moran with his pistol I am not sure if I would have been able to hold the tiger by the tail, as the saying goes, until Lestrade arrived.

Colonel Moran had shot both of us one last, hate-filled glared as he was dragged out of the room. Watson did not flinch from the glare, moving to stand beside me in silent solidarity. Moran's eyes moved from me to Watson before landing back on me, something cold and cruel flashing in his eyes. I had no doubts that Moran would have eventually gone after Watson, even if I had never revealed myself and had remained in hiding for fifty years.

I had shifted slightly, resisting the urge to move in front of Watson and place myself between my friend and this mad tiger. While I could admit to myself that Watson was as dear to me as my own brother, I could not betray any emotions to such a dangerous enemy.

Once we were settled back in our old rooms in Baker Street and I had provided Watson with the promised explanations, I was surprised to see him stand stiffly (the damp April, or possibly exhaustion, was aggravating his leg) and walk over to the fireplace.

I watched as he placed one hand on the mantle as if to take some weight off of his leg, rubbing at his face with his other hand. His entire frame was thinner than I had remembered; the low flames of the fire caught in his auburn hair and in the lines around his mouth and eyes that had not been there three years ago.

My ruse had been necessary, but never had I meant to add to his grief or to his tally of lost loved ones. First his mother, then his father and brother, and finally his wife.

I wished I could comfort him over Mary's death – the good lady had been a fine and noble woman – but there was nothing I could say. Those emotions were unfamiliar to me and I feared that any words I could offer would only sound insincere.

But I would not leave my friend like this; the only other time I could recall Watson looking so worn and lost was when we had first met. Then he had been weakened from illness and his still-healing wounds, but now the damage was to his spirit rather than his body.

And I had helped caused that damage. I would have to learn to live with that – I must live with that. If Watson could endure three years of grief then I could at least attempt my own reparation.

"Watson?" I asked, slowly standing. "You are not injured?" I added, frowning as I noticed for the first time that he was favouring his left shoulder. Our struggle with Moran had been brief but fierce and I again felt that same unexpected rage that had seized me earlier during Moran's arrest.

'This house is my tree, and you are my tiger!' I had exclaimed, only dimly aware of Watson trying to place a restraining hand on my shoulder, which I had sharply waved off. This man had been the primary reason I had not been able to return to London sooner, even though part of me recognised that I was attempting to ignore my own share of the blame and place it squarely with Moran.

"No, no, I'm fine, Holmes," Watson's tired voice broke through my thoughts.

My Watson has never had any skill with prevarication – there was clearly something wrong and I took a step forward.

"Watson," I began, stepping forward. Watson must have sensed my intention because his entire frame went rigid though he did not turn around.

"Don't," said Watson, his voice catching and I froze.

"Watson," I tried again, now seriously concerned.

"Just…please, a moment," said Watson, his head dropping as if a great weight hung about his neck. He put his hand to his face again and his next words almost made me flinch.

"I thought I'd never see you again."

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted iron but I ignored it. Watson was drawing in deep, steadying breaths and I realised that he was in a mild state of shock. It had been delayed by our earlier adventure but it seemed now it was coming back with a vengeance.

"I shan't come a step closer, Watson," I said, relieved that my voice remained calm and collected despite the worry that was slowly squeezing my chest like a vice. "But I would like you to sit down and rest yourself."

"No, I…I must be returning to Kensington. I have patients tomorrow." I watched as Watson took a few more deep breaths and then stood up straight, finally turning to face me. His face was alarmingly pale but he seemed more composed.

I nodded and followed him to the door, reluctant to let him leave given what just happened but I knew any attempts to make him stay would only result in that hidden temper of his rekindling.

"I will see you tomorrow, Watson," I said, trying to frame the statement with neither hope nor expectation.

"Yes," said Watson, without any hesitation and I felt the tension ease slightly from my shoulders. "Good night, Holmes."

"Good night, Watson."

After he had left I returned to my chair and stared into the glowing embers, waiting for tomorrow.