Prompt: The struggle of making up for the wrongs of one's past, from V Tsuion

I do not know what I expected when I returned from three years roaming across the world, chased by that fiend Colonel Moran. It may be that I let the softer emotions get the better of me, for I must admit that, very often, it was only the thought of my future return to London which gave me the strength to continue on.

It is a reminder never to allow emotions to interfere with one's state of mind. When I pictured London, as I did many times throughout those three years, it was always as I had left it - Lestrade in charge of the Yard, arguing with Gregson, Mycroft ensconced in his domain at the Diogenes Club, sticking his fingers into every major event one could think of, Wiggins and his little band of Irregulars forever frozen in childhood though they must now be well on their way to adulthood. And of course, Watson in his armchair next to the fire as Mrs. Hudson brought us tea.

That was not so true to life, for Watson had been married some three years before I was forced to leave, but when I thought of London, and of home, I suppose, it always appeared in my mind as it had been prior to his marriage.

I am a creature of habit who dislikes change. No doubt one of these newfangled alienists would have much to say about this, but I maintain that it is entirely natural for one to dread a change in a comfortable situation.

I was the more foolish, then, to imagine that time had not passed during my absence. Of course it had, and I returned to London to find that Lestrade and Gregson, while still in their places at the Yard, were even further enemies and had new faces working under them who I did not know. Mycroft was, annoyingly, so pleased with my performance as his agent that he seemed to think I would be at his disposal rather than returning to my own life and career. I spent far too much time refusing missions which would take me away from my chemical studies and my violin, both sorely missed these past three years.

Mrs. Hudson might always be counted on to be the same as ever, at least, but it was Watson who, sadly, had changed the most. I had heard of his wife's death too late to attend her funeral, a rare oversight for which I doubt I shall ever forgive Mycroft. Or else an intentional one, for his own purposes, in which case I am sure I never shall.

So Watson and I, despite his happiness on first seeing me alive, were suddenly awkward with each other, a situation I disliked intensely and knew not how to fix. Watson is the last person who I ever wished to quarrel with, yet this strange in-between phase might even be worse, for I did not know what he wished me to do. Whenever I asked, he insisted he was fine, or else that it was merely grief for his wife, and that he was happy at my return.

Yet I can still read his thoughts upon his face as easily as ever, and I know when he is attempting to deceive me. I know too the signs of Watson controlling his temper, and I am certain the truth is that he is angry with me.

Perhaps that is understandable, to a degree. I did deceive him for three years, though this was for his own protection. Surely he could understand that, as he had on so many previous occasions. Watson had always been excellent at allowing me space to work at my own pace rather than insisting I tell him my conclusions before I was ready.

But this situation was obviously different, and as it was my fault, I should be the one to find out how I could fix it. I decided to visit Watson at his practice this very evening to set things right.

"Good evening, Watson," I said as he ushered me in.

"Holmes," Watson said, not exactly welcoming, but he took my hat and coat himself and motioned me into the armchair which had always been mine. "I did not expect to see you tonight."

"I-" I did not know how to begin. Facts and figures are one thing; emotions are entirely alien to me. "I wished to talk to you," I finished lamely.

Watson watched me impassively and I swallowed. So I would get no help from him. Very well.

"You are angry with me," I finally said. "You think I cannot tell, but I can."

Watson sighed. "It is complicated, Holmes. But yes, partly, anyway, I am."

So I was right. I can never be completely certain when emotions are involved, but with Watson I am rarely mistaken. "Allow me to apologize again, my dear Watson."

Watson laughed bitterly. "For what, Holmes? You cannot apologize if you do not know what it is you have done."

Here I faltered at his impeccable logic. "I deceived you for three years. I allowed you to believe I was dead," I said with some hesitation, unsure if this was the correct response.

Watson waved a hand. "You have, in the course of a case, deceived me dozens of times. I have always understood that you have your reasons and that the consequences might be dreadful if you did not. Especially in this case."

Watson is one of the few people to continue to surprise me, even years of friendship. I was at a loss as to what else could account for his anger.

Of course. What a dunce I can be. "Watson, I am so dreadfully sorry I was not present at your wife's funeral service. I have been quite angry with Mycroft for failing to inform me of her passing in time."

"Holmes, I can hardly be angry with you for that!" Watson said. "As you said yourself, it is Mycroft's fault, not yours."

I was now utterly confused. "Then I have not the slightest idea why you are angry with me, Watson."

Watson chuckled mirthlessly again. "'Always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my secret,' is that not what you said?"

It was. I wondered for the briefest second how he remembered it so clearly when I remembered that, of course, he must have written it down. Even now, in his anger, he was thinking of future stories he might write.

Far from my usual impatience with his stories, this knowledge gave me hope. Surely if he was intending to continue to write his hopelessly romantic accounts of my cases, he could not be so angry that he had decided to end our long association.

"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,'" Watson quoted. He sighed. "Holmes, I am perfectly willing to do what is necessary to protect you in a case, but your reasoning…do you truly think so little of me? That I would be incapable of writing your death so the public might believe it?"

"Watson, dissimulation is not among your talents, as I have said before. I was only ensuring-"

"I am no liar in person, that is true," Watson said, cutting me off with some heat. "However, of us two, I daresay I am the only writer of fiction, which I think would qualify me to write an untrue account should it be required. I have the entire Empire believing you hate all women and that I am an utter imbecile compared to you, haven't I?"

It was. Watson downplayed his own intelligence in his stories, which accounted in no small part for why I disliked them so intensely. They are hardly true to life in that respect. Though in portraying me as a misogynist, he did serve to discourage many of the love letters I had been subject to receiving before he did so.

I have no more against women than I do against men, simply a lack of interest in anyone less intelligent than Watson, and indeed in anything other than intellectual pursuits.

"I apologize, Watson," I said. "You have pointed out a blind spot which I will not forget in future."

"Thank you," Watson said stiffly. "As to your other quote - Holmes, did you truly believe that I would tell anyone something you had told me in confidence? Had you let me in on your activities, I could have assisted you! I certainly would not have given you away. I think I ought to have earned your trust in that respect!"

Oh, I had indeed miscalculated. "No, I did not," I said quietly. "I am sorry, Watson. I did not explain properly. Had it been a simple matter of not telling our friends and acquaintances, of course I knew you would not betray my confidence."

"Did you think I did not wish to assist you?" Watson asked. "I would have come with you, had you asked."

"I know, my dear Watson," I said. "I wanted nothing more than your assistance, though knowing how long and difficult the case would prove to be, I did not wish to take you away from your wife and your practice."

"I still could have been of assistance," Watson said stubbornly. "It was dreadfully lonely here, you know, Holmes."

It had hardly been less lonely for me, though I did not say so. I could tell there was no need, and of course, it was of my own doing. "I did not wish to alarm you unduly, when I returned," I began. "Perhaps that is my mistake - that I thought I could simply return to my life with no change despite the years that have passed. But if I did not tell you of my adventures of the past three years, please be assured it was because of nothing you have done. Rather, it was entirely due to Colonel Moran and what henchmen he had left."

Now Watson looked confused. "What do you mean, Holmes?"

"You have now met Colonel Moran," I said. "Had you known of my whereabouts…do you believe he would have had any qualms about how he tried to get that information from you? Your practice is easily found, and had he believed you knew anything of my continued existence, I am sure there is little he would not have done to obtain that information."

All traces of anger or stiffness had now left Watson's face, and it was my turn to laugh bitterly. "You see, Watson, I could not tell you, or else it would have been tantamount to sending him after you, and Mrs. Watson," I said.

"Holmes-" Watson began, and I knew what he was going to say before he did.

"Do not apologize to me," I said. "I ought to have explained this from the first. Though you may rest assured I will do everything in my power to make up for this deception."

"There is no need, my dear Holmes," Watson said. "You already have. Do forgive me for misjudging you, and please stay for a drink."

I smiled at last. My dear Watson. All was right with the world again.