When Watson returned to consciousness he felt the most comfortable he had ever been. Morphine then, he decided. Unless he had been asleep for longer than he imagined that was. He doubted that. He'd taken a beating, he would admit that much, but he wasn't about to give Colonel Moran the honour of beating him into a several day stupor. He did have some pride left after all.

He opened his eyes, as soon as recognized where he was, sat bolt upright in bed. This action drew a startled yelp from the person sitting next to him as he was pulled up out of his own slumber. Someone was holding his hand. Watson whirled to face the owner of that hand, his head spinning in revolt against the series of quick actions.

Sherlock Holmes, when he could see through the dizziness, looked quite a shock paler than Watson remembered him and his face was lined with both worry and cautious joy. It was then he realised that Holmes was dressed in the same manner as the violinists at Lady Rosalie's affair.

"You suggested the Vivaldi piece then?" Watson found was the first question to leave his mouth. A stupid and far less important one but clearly his subconscious had other plans.

Holmes smiled wanly. "I could not help myself," he admitted. "Mycroft was certainly less than impressed with me."

"I'd imagine not," Watson agreed. His voice was starting to shake and his mind was slowly realising the surreal quality of the conversation. "He referred to you as-"

"A bloody, sentimental idiot," Holmes finished with huff. "He informed me as such. Several times, actually."

Watson had seen the brothers get into minor insult spats before and the image that his mind gave him was too much to keep his reaction silent. He laughed long and hard, his ribs and chest protested at the ill use but when he heard Holmes's barking, haughty laughter join in he decided the pain was worth it.

That was when he grabbed the man by the arms and pulled him into a bear hug. He chest again protested, as did his better sense. His better sense reminded him that he was hugging Sherlock Holmes and that act was likely to have a volatile reaction but Watson ignored it.

He was further encouraged by Holmes the untouchable hugging him back just as tightly. "Oh my dear Watson," Watson's once lost friend forced out of his no doubt compressed lungs. "I've missed you so."

"I do believe," Watson argued, the words equally strained, "that I have suffered more than you have."

The embrace on Holmes's end changed. It turned into softer, more comforting one and was far less tight. "That you have," he agreed. He pulled away but continued to look at Watson, his face completely serious. True remorse, something that Watson had only seen on Holmes's face a handful of times, was both there and in his voice as he said. "I am deeply sorry. I had no idea that you would be so affected."

"What the devil sort of reaction were you expecting?" Watson sputtered. "Did you expect me to simply continue after that? I am not you, Holmes. I cannot be as cold blooded, as unfeeling, as that!"

Holmes head sagged to his chest. Watson was sharply reminded of Lestrade's guilty school boy look of a few days ago. Might as well have been a few years ago for all that had happened since. "I could not have gone on had positions been reversed let me assure you," Holmes murmured. "You faired much more admirably than I would have." His right hand moved to cover his left forearm. "I know that I have done the unspeakable to you and I have no right to even ask your forgiveness. I do, however, ask for it nonetheless."

"And you of course have it," Watson said. "But I would appreciate an explanation." He'd alternated so long between wanting to weep into his friend's arms and wanting to throttle him that it was simply too much for him to commit to either extreme. Holmes's practice of emotional detachment would be put to the test. "I know this was another of your attempts of protecting me," he revealed. "Mycroft admitted that much. Something about Moran giving you an ultimatum."

Holmes's face switched to an expression of utter loathing. "Moran," he snarled, "witnessed his dear professor's demise and attempted to send me along to join him. As I fled he declared on no uncertain terms that if he ever heard from me again that your life was his to do with as his pleased."

"So you hid?"

"So I hid," he sighed. "I am willing to be responsible for certain things but your death through my own carelessness – I should have brought you with me to the falls and I should have known that Moriarty would not have come alone there – is not one of those things."

There were several follow up questions to that. Why did you not let me know was the more prominent one but it was pointless to ask. Holmes would either admit, or not admit, his stupidity in excluding that option but the truth of the matter was that once Holmes made of his mind that was the end of things. Once he had decided he was going to ground he was going to commit to it. If he could have somehow managed without contacting Mycroft at all he would have done it. Money was unfortunately quite the necessity though. Mycroft also would not have had quite the same reaction to receiving a telegram beyond the grave.

"You have a kinder heart than my brother ever has." He'd missed this, Watson realised. He'd missed Holmes being able to read his mind and, to his shock, it appeared that Holmes had missed surprising him with truths like this. They both smiled awkwardly at each other and Watson decided to let this particular point rest. Holmes had admitted fault, which was an occasion in of itself, and there would be no winner in this contest.

"Then you wandered for a year and yet came back anyway," Watson deduced. He was going to ask whether Holmes had been Sigerson as Moran had suspected but decided it was a question for another time. "Why did you come back? I trust you were not doing casework during this time?"

Holmes shook his head. "I was limited to the part you saw me play. I could do very little else without endangering myself or you."

"So you kept silent."

"I kept silent."

"Why bother coming back then? If there was no opportunity yet for you to capture Moran?"

Holmes looked at him in confusion, another expression that Watson rarely saw. "Is it not obvious?"

"Evidently not."

"Mary died," Holmes said simply. He made an attempt at a shrug and tried to look away. He was either shy or ashamed, maybe both. "I meant to only stay a short while," he continued. "I did not want to jeopardize your life any more than I had to but then-"

The key puzzle piece fell in Watson's lap. "Then I fell ill."

Holmes nodded. "Then I could not leave. Not when they were not certain if you would…" he made a vague gesture with his right hand and then let it fall. "I could not leave, no matter the danger. Not after that."

Watson was speechless. The man before him was more emotive, more expressive, than he had been in all the years he'd known him. Or rather thought he'd known him as all this new information seemed to suggest. The idea that Holmes would have become a bookseller, have hid so close to him, simply because he was worried had never crossed his mind. Yes there had been a strategic reason for being there but it seemed to be the furthest thing from great detective's mind. Even now, Watson observed, Holmes was looking at him with open relief that he was fine after the scuffle with Moran along with the fear of rejection.

Best put that to rest, Watson decided, Holmes had clearly not taken any joy out his deceit and had suffered as badly as he had. How would it be, Watson wondered, to watch a friend suffer from afar and dare not step in for fear of the consequences. No, Holmes's actions had flaws but he had done the best he could. Now, if only he had the words to express that to his friend.

Blessedly, for them both, Holmes understood without words. "A thousand apologies again and a thousand thank yous, my dear Watson."

"Not at all," he soothed, reaching out and grasping his hand. He winced and pulled the hand back. Apparently his body had had enough of squeezing and being squeezed. Holmes looked ready to give his best impression of Mrs. Hudson during flu season but he quickly batted his friend off. "It isn't that bad," he assured him. "Not much harm done."

"But not no harm done!" Holmes argued. He all but shoved Watson back into the bed. "You should have a look at yourself, doctor. Though the eye is not nearly as bad as it looked."

"Moran's was far worse," Watson all but bragged. He hoped that was true.

Holmes chuckled. "That it was. I do believe he will spend almost all of his prison time, before he is executed that is, with only one functioning eye."

"That is a comfort indeed!" Watson laughed, wincing yet again. This time Holmes leapt into action before he could move. He was told to lie still and rest under no uncertain terms and that he'd bring some food in for them. Holmes's deafening shout of "Mrs. Hudson!" echoed through Baker Street and it was then that the tears touched Watson's eyes. He'd been waiting for those.

He was home. At some point during the day Holmes would ask him to sell his practice and move back in with him, and he would agree to it. The practice in Kensington had only ever really been a house to him and never a home. He'd have to do something about Eliza though. Maybe Mrs. Hudson could do with some assistance. He'd be sure she was looked after though. For all of Eliza's ignorance of the true reason for her employer's distress she had been a great help in her own way.

"MRS. HUDSON!!!!"

Watson snorted and relaxed onto the pillows as the bickering between landlady and tenant that had peppered their home life before went full force. He shut his eyes and smiled to himself.

It was good to be home. Very good indeed.