Sometimes the days blended together in an endless, grey haze.
Life... went on, after death, as Watson had always known it would inevitably do. There were days he felt but half of himself, but the world wouldn't understand that, so he pulled himself together and found what purpose he could. He wrote, he worked his practice, he spent some time with the Yard, he visited the Lestrades -- in short, he carved himself out some semblance of a new life, with new reasons, and he lived that.
Yet that never stopped him musing over crimes in the papers, wondering what Holmes would have made of them, it never stopped him wanting to hear of work that Lestrade might be involved in that Watson's humble role as a police surgeon did not enter into, it never stopped him missing the feel of Holmes's body in bed beside him. At some point in the last three years he had moved rather more permanently into Holmes's old bedroom, citing that it would be mroe convenient to avoid the stairs to his own, but truly it had just made it easier for him to sleep,
( ... )
He ought to reveal himself; he ought to drop this pretense and tell Watson now, but the pretense is the only thing that's keeping him upright. It is a difficult thing, to raise oneself from the dead, and what if -- what if he would be unwelcome? Watson has not taken up another lover, Holmes can see that; he sleeps in Holmes's room, he hasn't abandoned their flat. But what if, in the intervening years, Watson had decided to release himself from the terms of their always?
What if, upon discovering the game, he decides Holmes doesn't deserve resurrection?
"It's just that I've seen you a time or two, sir; I have a bookshop at the corner, and when I realized I'd bumped into my neighbor, I thought I ought to come and apologize for my gruff manner. Occupational hazard, sir, to be so involved in my books, and I really wasn't watching where I was going. I only wanted to apologize, sir, and to thank you."
"It's hardly worth mentioning," Watson said, rather perplexed. "You were already forgiven." He recalled the bookshop at the corner, vaguely, but could not recall this man at all before their accidental meeting earlier that day. He liked to think he was at least a little more observant than that. An owner who lurked in the back of the shop, unseen? Perhaps.
Still, it was deucedly odd. There were, too, old instincts still in him, from more dangerous days, that told him to be on his toes.
"I trust none of your books were damaged," he said, and truthfully this was something that had concerned him a little. "You needn't have come all this way merely to thank me for picking up your books."
Rather casually, he removed his hat and coat, deposited his stick in its place by the door, and turned back to this stranger, attempting to look carefully neutral.
He clings to the performance; he reminds himself he is still on stage, that he can't reveal himself, but he can feel his hold on the situation beginning to waver. It's time to drop the pretense, and he wills his hands to keep from shaking.
"But it wasn't far! And I thought you might enjoy -- you look the sort that reads, sir. I have here a nice assortment -- British Birds, and Catullus, and The Holy War. Something among the lot is bound to strike your interest, and there's a vacancy on your shelf, just there."
He points at a shelf that really isn't lacking any books at all, except it is lacking everything that was his. He's beginning to sweat, he realizes, and the adrenaline floods his system. If only this could stay a performance; if only he could maintain the act, then he might get through this, but in a very few moments he must step off the stage; he isn't sure he's quite ready.
Watson shut his eyes, drawing in his breath in a small expression of surprise. He hadn't expected this, and wasn't entirely convinced it was necessary, but he let Holmes work, marvelling at the touch on his skin. It was all he could do not to lean into it, to catch up Holmes's hands and find some better use for his fingers, even as irritated with him as he was.
"I'm sure I'm missing some vital part of this plan," he said, quietly because it felt like the sort of moment where softness was mandatory, "but if this Moran fellow is watching to see if you contact me, and he saw a bookseller and myself enter, and a bookseller and yourself leave, won't he guess the truth of it?"
He was clutching the cushions of the sofa under him rather tightly, feeling tense and anxious, angry and glad.
"He would indeed, my -- " he clears his throat, still unsure if he's allowed this, but he doesn't want to avoid saying it again, "my dear Watson. That's why he will only see a bookseller leave. I can avoid detection by leaving out the back." He pauses and smiles to himself, even though it feels odd; his excitement is building about his plan, which really is a ridiculously dramatic but thoroughly enjoyable plan, even while he's full of a low hum of uncertainty about Watson.
He can't begin to contemplate what his life would be like if Watson decides that he can't be with him anymore. So he decides not to, as much as is possible.
"Nearly finished," he says, his tone soft, and he wipes his hands before picking up a brush to apply a few wrinkles.
There was something strange about hearing my dear Watson again after so long, and it would have been a lie to claim it didn't rankle a little when he was still trying to decide whether or not he was unforgiveably angry with him. Still, the memories that it called up were entirely good ones.
"So you plan on making it appear that I haven't left," Watson clarified. He opened his eyes again, watching Holmes carefully. He was a little relieved to have a brush rather than Holmes's fingers, although that entire hesitation was strangely reminscent of their initial wariness of each other, following a kiss after a boxing match. "Do I get to know why?"
"We are setting the trap, Watson, and I would rather not use live bait," he says, only a little pointedly. He had thought that would be fairly obvious, but insulting Watson's observation skills doesn't seem exactly prudent at the moment
( ... )
The restaurant was just as dodgy as Holmes had implied, and talk of seafood aside there wasn't much on the menu he did trust. He was, however, ravenously hungry, so he ate a little light supper, and he waited.
Good Lord, how he waited.
He could only think of the multitude of things he hadn't asked. Where had he been? What had he done? He was regretting his show of temper and his anger, now, or at least somewhat. If this evening was really going to be dangerous, he hated their last private conversation to have been so violent.
But no one would die tonight, not if Watson had anything to do about it. And he was actually going to be here tonight, and not decoyed away.
He sipped his glass of beer, waiting, growing more and more anxious about Holmes's continued absence.
In the time since seeing Watson the Bookseller off, Holmes has been busy. He's been back to Baker Street, to fake his return all over again, and with Mrs. Hudson's help, he set up the guise that will hopefully fool Moran. He's messaged Lestrade and waited around the corner for delivery confirmation. He's made himself known around London, and he's shaken off being followed three times. He knows there's no one after him now, something which is aided by the fact that he is not himself. In terms of Holmes's disguises, a sailor is probably his best, and probably his favorite; it's so easy to blend in that way, not to mention sailors aren't the most cleanly of people, which is helpful for disguising characteristics.
He's there on time, and he watches Watson eat for a little while, looking past the costume and into his Watson -- well, maybe not his Watson anymore, but he's here now, isn't he? That's telling. That must mean something, that he hasn't lost Watson completely. After a while of watching, he realizes he isn't simply looking; he's
( ... )
Watson looked up, an eyebrow raised, and he set down his glass. What it was that had attracted this sailor to him, he had no idea, but have a stranger at the table with him was more than a little awkward. For a moment, when the man had sat down he'd been very hopeful, but he was feeling rather disappointed about his new guest now.
"I'm waiting for someone, actually," he said, his tone firm but not unkind, the politest way to ask for the chap to go away that he could think of.
The shadiness of this restaurant had been convenient for its proximity to the back alleys that would lead them to the empty house across from their rooms; the side effect that most people wouldn't think too much about a man talking in hushed tones to another man is merely coincidental. He leans in and lowers his voice, and his smile borders on suggestive.
"The man who would make you wait is a cruel man," he says, but before Watson can react too strongly, he relaxes his face and straightens his shoulders, and he reaches up to push his hat back. It's only long enough for him to know that Watson has recognized him, and then he's back to the sailor, and he leans back in his seat, lifting a lazy eyebrow.
"Why don't we forget about him? I've got a place in mind where we could go," he says, still speaking lowly. It's all an act, of course, in case anyone is tailing them, though he's certain no one is.
Watson poked the toe of his shoe at his double, an eyebrow raised. It was rather eerie to see himself with a bullethole through his temple. "He is a good shot," he said, rather appreciatively, as he bent to finger the bullethole carefully. "At least if I had died, it would have been at the hands of an artist."
It was a dark thing to say, a cruel thing to say, and yet he found he needed that sort of gallow's humour, in that moment. He rose again, and went to the sideboard to pour out brandy.
"I never asked you where you've been," he said, quietly.
He watches Watson with the dummy and feels only distantly ill. He'd saved Watson from this. Moran will be locked up, and they'll be safe, and there's no need to be upset. He's still standing with his hands in his pockets, taking in the almost-grisly sight of the figure when Watson's question comes from behind him, so soft and clearly the opening to something more... more.
He purses his lips as he considers his answer, his hand curled around the penknife in his pocket.
"I spent the most time in Tibet, once I'd thrown Moran off." He doesn't turn around, isn't sure what Watson will make of this, isn't eager to torment himself with watching every expression on his face.
"Tibet," Watson repeated, thoughtfully. He came to Holmes's side, wordlessly offering him a glass. "I haven't been there, though I know how the East can get into your veins, to be sure."
He sighed, wistful and lonesome, relieved, all at once. He wasn't sure he could imagine Holmes in Tibet; Holmes was so very English, so very much London personified sometimes, that to see him in such a foreign clime would have been unthinkable.
"What did you do there? Besides, apparently, hide from him."
He takes the glass from Watson and considers his answer; he transfers his eyes from the model of Watson to the liquid in his glass, but he mostly sees the walls of the monastery, the kind faces of the monks, plates of food that his constitution did not appreciate for some time.
"It wasn't the Tibet in my veins that was the problem," he says after a moment, and he brings the glass to his lips for a drink. "I spent my time there under the patient care of some very kind monks who helped me replace what I was putting in my veins with things like Tibet and meditation techniques, other ways to manage my black moods."
He gives Watson a small smile. "I have not touched a needle in nearly a year. So there's something."
Sleep did not come easily to Watson. Too much had happened, too much had changed too quickly, too much was now roiling about in his brain. He dozed fitfully for a short time, but at last he found himself lying wide awake, staring into the dark room. His stomach was clenched, and he felt hot and sweaty, almost feverish. On the other side of his bedroom door was Sherlock Holmes, and he could think of little else.
For all his fears of being weak, of being easily influenced, for all his anger and his hurt, he was still desperately, hopelessly, completely in love with Holmes. He couldn't deny that. Always, he had said, and perhaps that still held, but three years ago seemed a lifetime away. How could he just... forgive that, so easily
( ... )
Holmes has not slept well for the greater part of the last three years. It's a testament to how much he's longed to be in Baker street, how much the familiar smells and the feel of the sofa beneath him bring him a sense of security, that he falls asleep at all. It couldn't last, however; not with things so uncertain between himself and Watson, and certainly not when he feels someone watching him.
That's a feeling that has kept him from sleeping more than once in the past three years.
He starts awake, though outwardly it only looks like his eyes slide open. Of course, it isn't Moran standing there. It's Watson, wrapped in his blanket and looking a little miserable, and Holmes's stomach turns in a different kind of fear.
"Watson?" he asks, and he pushes himself up. "What's the matter?"
For a moment, Watson didn't know how to answer that. He didn't know how to phrase I just wanted to make sure you were really here in any way that made sense, or sounded anything other than pathetic.
And then, quite simply, it dawned on him that the easiest thing to do was to answer Holmes's question honestly. It was the sort of logic that came easily in the middle of the night, in the madness of darkness. "I need to ask you a question," he said, rather slowly, picking his words with care. "And I need you to answer me honestly, whatever the truth might be. Can you do that for me?"
"Of course," he answers instantly, because what else would he say at this time? Anyway, there isn't anything he'd particularly like to lie about, he doesn't think; he's weary of lying, weary of having to hide things, hide himself. If he comes back to Watson, he doesn't want it to be under false pretenses; he doesn't to lie to Watson and lose him over something that's less significant than his faked death.
Comments 228
Life... went on, after death, as Watson had always known it would inevitably do. There were days he felt but half of himself, but the world wouldn't understand that, so he pulled himself together and found what purpose he could. He wrote, he worked his practice, he spent some time with the Yard, he visited the Lestrades -- in short, he carved himself out some semblance of a new life, with new reasons, and he lived that.
Yet that never stopped him musing over crimes in the papers, wondering what Holmes would have made of them, it never stopped him wanting to hear of work that Lestrade might be involved in that Watson's humble role as a police surgeon did not enter into, it never stopped him missing the feel of Holmes's body in bed beside him. At some point in the last three years he had moved rather more permanently into Holmes's old bedroom, citing that it would be mroe convenient to avoid the stairs to his own, but truly it had just made it easier for him to sleep, ( ... )
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What if, upon discovering the game, he decides Holmes doesn't deserve resurrection?
"It's just that I've seen you a time or two, sir; I have a bookshop at the corner, and when I realized I'd bumped into my neighbor, I thought I ought to come and apologize for my gruff manner. Occupational hazard, sir, to be so involved in my books, and I really wasn't watching where I was going. I only wanted to apologize, sir, and to thank you."
Reply
Still, it was deucedly odd. There were, too, old instincts still in him, from more dangerous days, that told him to be on his toes.
"I trust none of your books were damaged," he said, and truthfully this was something that had concerned him a little. "You needn't have come all this way merely to thank me for picking up your books."
Rather casually, he removed his hat and coat, deposited his stick in its place by the door, and turned back to this stranger, attempting to look carefully neutral.
Reply
"But it wasn't far! And I thought you might enjoy -- you look the sort that reads, sir. I have here a nice assortment -- British Birds, and Catullus, and The Holy War. Something among the lot is bound to strike your interest, and there's a vacancy on your shelf, just there."
He points at a shelf that really isn't lacking any books at all, except it is lacking everything that was his. He's beginning to sweat, he realizes, and the adrenaline floods his system. If only this could stay a performance; if only he could maintain the act, then he might get through this, but in a very few moments he must step off the stage; he isn't sure he's quite ready.
Reply
"I'm sure I'm missing some vital part of this plan," he said, quietly because it felt like the sort of moment where softness was mandatory, "but if this Moran fellow is watching to see if you contact me, and he saw a bookseller and myself enter, and a bookseller and yourself leave, won't he guess the truth of it?"
He was clutching the cushions of the sofa under him rather tightly, feeling tense and anxious, angry and glad.
Reply
He can't begin to contemplate what his life would be like if Watson decides that he can't be with him anymore. So he decides not to, as much as is possible.
"Nearly finished," he says, his tone soft, and he wipes his hands before picking up a brush to apply a few wrinkles.
Reply
"So you plan on making it appear that I haven't left," Watson clarified. He opened his eyes again, watching Holmes carefully. He was a little relieved to have a brush rather than Holmes's fingers, although that entire hesitation was strangely reminscent of their initial wariness of each other, following a kiss after a boxing match. "Do I get to know why?"
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Good Lord, how he waited.
He could only think of the multitude of things he hadn't asked. Where had he been? What had he done? He was regretting his show of temper and his anger, now, or at least somewhat. If this evening was really going to be dangerous, he hated their last private conversation to have been so violent.
But no one would die tonight, not if Watson had anything to do about it. And he was actually going to be here tonight, and not decoyed away.
He sipped his glass of beer, waiting, growing more and more anxious about Holmes's continued absence.
Reply
He's there on time, and he watches Watson eat for a little while, looking past the costume and into his Watson -- well, maybe not his Watson anymore, but he's here now, isn't he? That's telling. That must mean something, that he hasn't lost Watson completely. After a while of watching, he realizes he isn't simply looking; he's ( ... )
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"I'm waiting for someone, actually," he said, his tone firm but not unkind, the politest way to ask for the chap to go away that he could think of.
Reply
The shadiness of this restaurant had been convenient for its proximity to the back alleys that would lead them to the empty house across from their rooms; the side effect that most people wouldn't think too much about a man talking in hushed tones to another man is merely coincidental. He leans in and lowers his voice, and his smile borders on suggestive.
"The man who would make you wait is a cruel man," he says, but before Watson can react too strongly, he relaxes his face and straightens his shoulders, and he reaches up to push his hat back. It's only long enough for him to know that Watson has recognized him, and then he's back to the sailor, and he leans back in his seat, lifting a lazy eyebrow.
"Why don't we forget about him? I've got a place in mind where we could go," he says, still speaking lowly. It's all an act, of course, in case anyone is tailing them, though he's certain no one is.
Reply
It was a dark thing to say, a cruel thing to say, and yet he found he needed that sort of gallow's humour, in that moment. He rose again, and went to the sideboard to pour out brandy.
"I never asked you where you've been," he said, quietly.
Reply
He purses his lips as he considers his answer, his hand curled around the penknife in his pocket.
"I spent the most time in Tibet, once I'd thrown Moran off." He doesn't turn around, isn't sure what Watson will make of this, isn't eager to torment himself with watching every expression on his face.
Reply
He sighed, wistful and lonesome, relieved, all at once. He wasn't sure he could imagine Holmes in Tibet; Holmes was so very English, so very much London personified sometimes, that to see him in such a foreign clime would have been unthinkable.
"What did you do there? Besides, apparently, hide from him."
Reply
"It wasn't the Tibet in my veins that was the problem," he says after a moment, and he brings the glass to his lips for a drink. "I spent my time there under the patient care of some very kind monks who helped me replace what I was putting in my veins with things like Tibet and meditation techniques, other ways to manage my black moods."
He gives Watson a small smile. "I have not touched a needle in nearly a year. So there's something."
Reply
For all his fears of being weak, of being easily influenced, for all his anger and his hurt, he was still desperately, hopelessly, completely in love with Holmes. He couldn't deny that. Always, he had said, and perhaps that still held, but three years ago seemed a lifetime away. How could he just... forgive that, so easily ( ... )
Reply
That's a feeling that has kept him from sleeping more than once in the past three years.
He starts awake, though outwardly it only looks like his eyes slide open. Of course, it isn't Moran standing there. It's Watson, wrapped in his blanket and looking a little miserable, and Holmes's stomach turns in a different kind of fear.
"Watson?" he asks, and he pushes himself up. "What's the matter?"
Reply
And then, quite simply, it dawned on him that the easiest thing to do was to answer Holmes's question honestly. It was the sort of logic that came easily in the middle of the night, in the madness of darkness. "I need to ask you a question," he said, rather slowly, picking his words with care. "And I need you to answer me honestly, whatever the truth might be. Can you do that for me?"
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"Anything, Watson."
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