A/N: Sorry for the sudden ending to this one, but I really just ran out of steam... Continuation from the previous response.
From W. Y. Traveller: A letter
As I travel East, Watson's wife suffers two more miscarriages. He mentions this only in passing in the letters he sends, between talk of his practice, London society and his new work as a police surgeon. Somehow I never find time to respond. I mean to send my sympathies, my solidarity, but it feels hollow. Life in London seems distant. By the time I arrive in Lhasa, communication has ceased altogether.
The practice of the Tibetan monks, Lojong, reshapes my mind. The twin practice, Luejong, does the same for my body. Over the two years I spend among them, my tremors cease and my hand eye coordination returns. I do not feel as I was; I feel new. I feel grown.
Through Providence or otherwise, a letter arrives for me just as I mark the third year anniversary of my so-called "death". It is from my brother, dated two months previous.
My dearest brother,
I hope you shan't be offended if I do not waste time with pleasantries, or indeed on enquiring as to the details of your travels. I pray you are well, but write you with both news and an urgent request.
Mrs Mary Watson passed away last night. As you may know she had suffered six miscarriages, and unfortunately never recovered from the last of these. Repeated infection eventually led to sepsis and she was pronounced dead in the early hours of this morning by her own husband, your dear friend.
Go to him, Sherlock. I suspect you will not need persuading in this matter, but if you do, then you need only remember the many occasions on which he has assisted you in your own times of need. Do not fail him now.
Your brother,
Mycroft Holmes
We meet, a month and a half later, in our old rooms in Baker Street.
"My dear fellow," he grasps me immediately in a firm hug, then holds me out at arms length to observe me properly, announcing with evident approval, "You look healthy."
He looks different, but not so different as I expected. Not so different as I feel. Watson has always possessed a sturdy, dependable quality. A hidden core of resilience, unerodable. I had thought it to be formed during his army years, but perhaps it was some event of his childhood that had forged him this way. Perhaps it is simply something innate.
Seeing him now, with the gifts of my time away, I feel I measure up to this strength in a way I never have before. I grasp his hand between two of my own.
"I am so very sorry for your terrible loss."
His face crumples at that, in a way that is painful to behold. He takes a moment to gather himself and, when he does so, his voice is thick, "Thank you, Holmes. And I apologise, for I am somewhat more prone to emotional outbursts than I might otherwise be."
"Entirely understandable." I gesture him to his armchair, going to my own and lighting my pipe as I do so. Watson notes the action and the ease with which I perform it, smiling softly.
"Your time away has done you good."
"But I was gone too long."
He does not pretend not to know what I mean. "It might have been nice to hear from you, know you were well. This last year..." He exhales shakily. "I could have done with some good news. But you needed to focus on your recovery. I do not blame you for that. And I never imagined that Mary..." He swallows. "No one could have known."
"You have too much goodness in you," I inform him, and he laughs aloud at the blunt tone with which I deliver the compliment. "When I left, I did it for entirely the wrong reasons. I was frightened to be vulnerable, dependant on another. So I ran."
He levels a hard gaze at me. "Then I made a mistake in letting you. We're neither of us perfect, Holmes."
"Nonetheless," I meet his gaze, calmly and openly, with my own, "I am still sorry."
The rest of the evening, night and early morning is spent deep in conversation, catching each other up on what has happened in our time apart. It is only the sunrise that interrupts us and, when Watson's cacophonous yawn interrupts him mid-sentence, I wave him upstairs to bed.
At the living room door, he turns back. "Holmes... I assume it was Mycroft who called you back here?"
I nod.
"I thought so. He caught me in a- a weaker moment, after Mary's death." He clears his throat awkwardly. "But I understand if you wish to return to Tibet. I shall manage."
"Go to bed, Watson," I instruct him firmly. "I have no desire to be anywhere but here."
He looks doubtful, but follows my order and trudges upstairs to his old bedroom.
It takes little persuading for Watson to move back in. We spend a depressing day clearing out his Kensington home and that evening I use the excuse of needing to practice my so long untouched violin to play all his favourite tunes. He watches me knowingly, but says nothing.
"People really will believe anything, won't they?" I am glancing over the latest story in The Strand - The Adventure of the Empty House. "Who is this Colonel Moran?"
"Oh, he's real enough," Watson calls over his shoulder from where he is ensconced at his writing desk. My return has prompted a flurry of creativity from him and he has been writing in every spare moment between our cases. "I didn't tell you about that? You would have found it interesting Holmes. We didn't capture him with a wax bust of course, just a simple arrest although he fought like a devil..."
I snort. "Your imagination works in a strange way, Watson."
"To your credit," he points out, and picks up a sheaf of letters from a corner of his desk, waving them in demonstration. "You've seen these, I assume?"
I lay The Strand aside. "I have."
"And?"
I walk over to extract one letter in particular from his hefty collection. "And this one looks promising. From ex-president Murillo. Have you heard of his recent troubles, Watson?"
"I have indeed." He has turned fully now from his desk, attention piqued. "You think you can help return the missing papers?"
"I am certain of it."