A/N: Well, I don't believe this has ever been done before! I actually (relatively) approve of one of my stories! (Yes I know half of it is from Sir Doyle) I hope you enjoy!
Watson's POV
"…With five volumes you could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not, sir?" I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted for the first and the last time in my life. Certainly a gray mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling aftertaste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his hand. "My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected." I gripped him by the arms. "Holmes!" I cried. "Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful abyss?"
It had only been two weeks since that occurred. After three long years of self-isolation, Sherlock Holmes leaped from the shadows of death, and destroyed the last of ex-Professor Moriarty's organization. Colonel Sebastian Moran. Holmes had indeed survived that dreadful abyss, and caused me no little astonishment. I had been a fool.
Anyone should have known that Sherlock Holmes was perfectly capable of outwitting death. Especially myself. I find myself embarrassed.
"I lay upon my face and peered over with the spray spouting up all around me. It had darkened since I left, and now I could only see here and there the glistening of moisture upon the black walls, and far away down at the end of the shaft the gleam of the broken water. I shouted; but only that same half-human cry of the fall was borne back to my ears."
To this day I can still remember that place. That dreadful chasm, that horrible abyss. The gateway to Hell. The only man who could survive that place would have to be Sherlock Holmes. I was utterly astonished every time I talked to the man. Especially on that faithful day three years ergo the opus to the Great Hiatus. The man was a devil! I nearly fainted a second time as I touched him to assure myself that he was indeed alive. I had to keep up all my energy from fainting a second time. Somehow he survived that place, and somehow he fooled everyone.
I'll always hate him for it.
Not that I hate my friend, on the contrary I love him as a brother would. But how could he have done this to me? In three years, three years, he could not have even come to London to see me? After Reichenbach, the night in the Englisher Hof, he did even venture to send some word of assurance of his life. All the hours I spent of weeping, and mourning over my friend, he could not interrupt a day of his time to see me? I am not a puppet! So why does Holmes seek to treat me as one?
"I had only one confidant—my brother Mycroft. I owe you many apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it should be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you would not have written so convincing an account of my unhappy end had you not yourself thought that it was true. Several times during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to you, but always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my secret."
He regards his brother as a more reliant companion. Why does he not call Mycroft his Boswell, if he's so much more reliable? Holmes used me to do his dirty work. If he's so smart, then why is it not that he could have taken up a pen, write an embroidery, and put it under my name? Why did it have to be like that?
I needed him. After my beloved Mary died, I needed him. At the time I yearned for someone the most, at the hour of loneliness, when I had neither friends nor family, Holmes was out playing hero, making a lie. Three years was spent with Moriarty's business, not my suffering, even after the mans death, his ilk was more important.
I only wish my closest friend had more faith in me...But somehow I doubt it.
A/N: I just realized how to make new chapters! So next I'm making a second chapter with Holmes's POV. Poor Watson. Please r&r!