Sherlock Holmes, Holmes / Watson, NC-17, PART THREE OF THREE
Title: All the Dead Lie Down
Author: blacktofade
Artist: lokeloke
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Ghost!Holmes, explicit sexual content, NSFW artwork within text
Word Count: ~8,000/~30,000
Notes: Please let lokeloke know how brilliant her artwork is because she put so much effort into this challenge! A huge thank you to gracefulfool for being an amazing beta, as this fic would be nothing without her. Any other mistakes are my own. A big thank you to my FList and my DJers for helping/encouraging/yelling during the writing process. Title is from Emily Dickinson's It was not death, for I stood up.
Summary: The ghost of Sherlock Holmes haunts John Watson and reveals that there is a mystery to be solved. Watson has to figure out how Holmes died and why Holmes has chosen him, of all people, to visit beyond the grave.
Watson finds himself feeling restless after breakfast. It is a quiet Sunday morning, a week or so after his first liaison with Holmes, and the weather outside is begging for his company, a temptation he cannot ignore. He fetches his overcoat and hat from his room before heading downstairs. Gladstone is pacing in the hallway outside of the front door, as though he already knows where Watson is going. Watson collects the lead off the side table and quickly attaches it to the dog’s collar before leaving the house and heading in the direction of Regent’s Park.
Gladstone pulls the whole way there, tugging at the lead and grunting for breath; his pink tongue lolls out of his mouth and his lips curl up in what looks like a smile. Watson treads carefully as his leg aches with each step, but he is soon immersed within the trees and grass of the park. Gladstone happily digs his nose into a pile of leaves and snorts when he finds nothing more than dirt beneath. He cocks his leg against almost every shrub they pass and kicks up dirt to spread the scent, but only manages to cover Watson’s trousers in mud.
The air is pleasantly cool and there’s not a cloud in the sky. When they reach the lake’s bank, Watson lets Gladstone off the lead to further explore the territory, though they’ve been here hundreds of times before. Gladstone always stays nearby, never having enough courage to wander too far off. Watson lowers himself onto a park bench and props his cane up against its side. He crosses his legs, resting his right ankle on his left knee, and folds his hands into his lap. There are a few others enjoying the pleasant weather - a family of four have spread a tartan blanket out upon the grass and are feasting on sandwiches and juice; the children throw their crusts to the ducks, though pigeons try their best to steal the majority of the treats.
Watson watches as Gladstone picks up a stick and takes it to the younger child - a boy of about six - dropping it at his feet and wagging the short stump of his tail in excitement. The boy laughs and the parents watch in obvious contentment as he scoops it off the floor and throws it as far as he can. Gladstone waddles after it, going as fast as his short legs will carry him, though before he reaches it, a squirrel shoots up a nearby tree and distracts him. Instead of fetching the stick, Gladstone sits and barks up at the creature until Watson whistles clearly and the dog’s ears perk up. Gladstone ceases his noise and settles for walking to the water’s edge, where he greedily laps up a cool drink for himself.
The young boy follows after him and crouches at his side as he gently pets him on the back. Gladstone stops drinking and turns his wet face to the child’s face, licking and slobbering all over him. The boy laughs loudly in delight, then stands and runs off, letting Gladstone chase after him in a playful manner.
Watson doesn’t notice Holmes appear beside him, but he’s there nevertheless when he turns to regard a couple strolling past arm-in-arm.
“You look happy,” Holmes says, almost as though he doesn’t expect it.
Watson smiles but doesn’t look at him. He waits until the elderly pair is out of earshot before saying, “I have no reason not to be.”
Holmes hums musingly then falls silent. Without thinking, Watson reaches out and settles his hand over Holmes’ own. He can’t feel anything, but when Holmes turns his palm upwards, Watson imagines the feeling of their fingers linking and - for the moment - it’s enough. If he could, he would spend the rest of his day in such bliss. The universe, however, thinks otherwise as Gladstone turns his attention away from the young boy and starts chasing the one or two geese that are snoozing on the shore; they honk loudly in distress. Watson whistles again and this time motions for Gladstone to return to him. Gladstone does, with his face long and miniature tail curving between his legs; he knows he’s done wrong, but he still pants happily into Watson’s face as Watson bends down and clicks the lead back onto his collar.
For a second, Gladstone pauses, then barks - just once - in Holmes’ direction.
“Good boy,” Holmes says quietly and Gladstone’s ears prick up as though he hears. His tail begins to wag and then he turns in circles at their feet until he finds the position he wants, and lies down heavily with a faint grunt.
“Why can’t we just let everything go, Holmes?” Watson says, so unexpectedly that he even catches himself off guard. “Is it really necessary to catch your killer? It won’t bring you back, you know.”
Watson’s chest tightens, but he says nothing more.
The hand under Watson’s own suddenly solidifies and Watson clings to it tightly, even though it makes his fingers ache.
“It is not truly about my death, Watson; it is about making sure that nothing happens to you. I cannot help but worry that the murderer will take you as their next victim. Then who will take care of our dog?”
At their feet, Gladstone raises his head off his paws and tilts it to the side as though he’s listening intently. Holmes drags a red rubber ball from his pocket and tosses it across the grass. Gladstone, quickly freed of his lead by Watson, runs after it.
Watson knows Holmes is deflecting, but he doesn’t mention it. He tips his head back and settles his gaze on two doves that are perched together on a branch some metres up; their sides are pressed firmly together and their heads are tucked under their wings to keep out the light.
“I feel I am more in danger of being robbed at the present moment,” Watson sighs, looking back at Holmes. “A sleeping man on a park bench is just what a young thief will be looking for this fair afternoon.”
“Yes, except I know that no one will approach with a dog like Gladstone strolling about nearby. He may be even tempered, but no one else knows that.”
Watson concedes to his point with a soft laugh, but falls silent when Holmes’ other hand comes up to brush against his cheek. He can feel heat upon his face and although he knows he’s in a dream, he can’t help the insecurity he feels. Being in the open, acting with such intents would certainly be enough to earn time in gaol, but Holmes seems indifferent. He rubs his thumb carefully under Watson’s eye.
“I do not wish to see you hurt, Watson, this is why we must not stop yet.”
He leans in and presses a gentle kiss to Watson’s temple before letting him go. Gladstone returns, dropping the ball at their shoes, and Holmes bends and scoops the saliva-covered object up gingerly. He throws it again and Gladstone once again races after it.
Gently, Watson drifts back into consciousness, where he finds himself alone with Gladstone, who’s now snoring and twitching his legs in sleep. He leaves him be, allowing him to spend time with Holmes. He is their dog after all.
*
As he passes Thomas’ study, he cannot stop himself from knocking lightly on the door to enquire as to the man’s plans for lunch - Mrs Hudson has made a hearty beef stew and it would only be fair to draw Thomas’ attention to it and invite him downstairs for a bowl.
Although his knuckles rap only lightly against the wood, the unlatched door opens enough that he can see inside.
“Thomas?” he calls out, taking a step into the room, looking for any signs of movement. A faint flutter catches his eyes, but when he looks again, he realises it’s just the curtain billowing out in front of the open window.
“In here,” comes a muffled reply and Watson moves further in the room. The door at his back suddenly shuts by itself, and he turns towards the noise to find Holmes clicking the lock into place.
“What are you doing?” Watson whispers angrily. “Grimsby is here, too.”
Holmes looks at him carefully.
“He is downstairs conversing with the landlady.”
“Holmes,” Watson warns, trying to step around the ghost to free himself before Thomas returns and catches him, but Holmes shoots him a levelling look.
“Watson,” he says, his face as serious as Watson has ever seen it.
Watson rubs his brow as his mind wars with itself.
“Fine,” he spits out “what is it?”
All Holmes does is tip his head towards Thomas’ desk.
Watson sucks on his teeth for a brief moment before humouring Holmes and turning around. There’s nothing out of the ordinary on his fellow-lodger’s desk, just a few scattered papers that are covered with sketches of insects with their Latin genus written carefully underneath. The many ink smudges across the left-hand side of the page belie the neat script.
“Top right-hand drawer, under the wooden panel lining the bottom.”
Watson looks back at Holmes frustrated.
“I am not snooping, Holmes; do it yourself.”
Watson reaches through Holmes’ body and grasps the door handle, but Holmes pauses him with a hand on his shoulder; he can’t feel it, but he can definitely see it and he hates that it’s enough to make him pause. Holmes looks at him evenly.
“Watson, this is of great importance,” there’s a pause before he ends with a soft, “please.”
Watson sighs and knows that he’s forever cursed to follow Holmes’ inane plans.
“Fine, if I must. Keep watch and inform me if Grimsby approaches this room.”
He quickly moves towards the desk, opening the drawer Holmes mentioned. He pushes aside pens and pencils to hook his blunt fingernails under the fake bottom panel and carefully raises it up at one end. He peers inside, expecting to find nothing more than Holmes’ overactive imagination, but instead, he finds a small syringe and seven or eight different bottles of liquid.
“He is an addict?” Watson asks in confusion.
“No, Watson, look again.”
Watson does, reaching into the drawer to grasp one of the phials. In tidy script, similar to that on the notes on the desktop, the word Loxosceles winds around the body of the glass and Watson frowns. It fails to make sense to him, but he has no time to think, as Holmes suddenly turns towards him and motions for him to set Thomas’ belongings back in order. Watson quickly pockets the bottle he’s holding, curious as to what is inside it, slides the panel back into place, and closes the drawer. Holmes unlocks the door and throws it open before Watson even reaches it and it only takes a second for it to click gently behind him; he reaches the safety of the landing, just in time to notice Thomas’ head as the man slowly climbs the stairs.
“Ah, Watson!” Thomas says in greeting, smiling pleasantly. “Have you tried Mrs Hudson’s stew? I daresay it’s the best I’ve had in a long while.”
Watson offers a small smile, “I was going to go downstairs and have some, but my leg seems to be playing up; I think I’ll just rest it for now and have her send a bowl up later.”
He heads towards the stairs that lead to his room, looking back and nodding once as Thomas says, “That is a shame, John; do let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
Watson makes his way upstairs, emphasising his limp and trying to ignore the way the small phial in his pocket presses insistently against his leg, reminding him of his wrongdoing.
*
He sets the bottle on his desk - trying not to flush as he remembers exactly what he and Holmes had once done on said object, and moves to his bookcase, running his fingers along the spines of the tomes as he looks for one specific title. Holmes appears, pacing at the end of the room, unnerving Watson tremendously.
“Sit down, Holmes!” Watson snaps, drawing out a book and flipping it open.
He flicks through the entries until he finds the one he wants. He scans it briefly before reading aloud.
“Loxosceles. Genus of spider; includes the brown recluse - also known as the violin spider - found mainly in North and South America. Potent tissue-destroying venom can cause lesions of the skin and can occasionally lead to fatality.”
Watson looks from the book, to the phial of liquid, to Holmes.
“That’s spider venom in there?” he asks incredulously.
“The man said he was a collector of butterflies, moths, and spiders, did he not? He spent a fair amount of time in America, so it cannot be that much of stretch to assume this is his handiwork.”
“But why would he have venom? I am sure the needle in his drawer had been used - there was a fine condensation along the inside of the glass.” He sighs and sits heavily behind his desk. “I am not a detective like you, Holmes; I cannot put two and three together to make four.” He sets an elbow on the desktop and rests his forehead in his palm. “Put me out of my misery and tell me what it all means.”
Holmes moves to crouch beside his chair, placing his chin on the armrest and peering up at him.
“I cannot tell you that which you do not know. I can, however, give you this.”
Watson looks up as a gentle metallic ring sounds out in the silence and finds a small key resting on the wood near his arm. He picks it up and turns it over in his fingers, trying to figure out what it could open. He doesn’t know anywhere that’s off limits to him in this house, only - he glances down at the desk drawer near the floor - the one part of Holmes’ room Watson could never clean because it was locked.
It only takes Watson a moment to unlock the drawer and slide it open. At first, he doesn’t know what he’s meant to be looking for; the drawer is full of old bits of newspaper and sheets of what appears to be blank paper.
“At the bottom,” Holmes supplies and finally Watson finds a small notebook in the back corner. He carefully withdraws it and flips the cover open. He recognises it as one of his very own books, its pages filled with cases that were presented to Holmes, but were never taken, due to them “not having enough mystery” in Holmes’ words. Watson had written them down, nevertheless, as he believed - and still does - that every case deserved to be heard.
He scans through the pages catching names, dates, and locations, here and there.
1890: Fernly: wife complains of missing silverware - cook having affair with husband; silverware sold to pay their future passage to Netherlands.
1890: Berns: daughter (twenty years old) missing after dinner party with family friends - ran off with family friend’s son; probably now residing in Dorset.
1890: Boisduval: family friend missing during stay at French estate - Frontignac too much of a temptation. Secretly left family to start anew on foreign soil.
Watson rereads the last logged case, trying to place why it sounds so familiar, but gets distracted when he notices Holmes’ careful gaze on him.
“Why let me into this drawer now?”
“There’s no point in continuing to hide something that is now out in the open.”
Watson doesn’t really understand, but then he glances back down into the drawer and a headline catches his eye.
Watson remembers that case, but knows it has to have been at least two years since it occurred. He sets the notebook aside and reaches into the desk to grab a handful of newspaper cuttings, leafing through articles describing many of the cases they solved together, and letting the warmth of realisation spread over him.
“I was too sentimental for my own good, Doctor,” Holmes says, turning his head and resting his temple on the back of his hands.
Watson lets them flutter back into the drawer, then pulls out the sheets of paper he previously thought had nothing on them. The first page has a picture of Watson and Holmes standing shoulder to shoulder, though Holmes is hiding his face with his own hat; the second has Watson looking much the same as in the first, though Holmes is turned completely away; the third has Watson and Holmes looking straight at each other, laughing and seemingly unaware of the picture being taken.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Watson asks, placing the photos back into the drawer. He moves to run his fingers through Holmes’ hair, until he realises that he can’t. His hand drops back into his lap uselessly as Holmes turns his face towards him.
“It took my own death to give me enough courage to tell you.”
“Why didn’t I see it?”
“You probably did, Watson; however, you see, but do not observe. I have told you this many times before.”
This time Watson can’t stop himself from carding his fingers through Holmes’ hair. His fingers meet no resistance, meet nothing at all, except air, but Holmes tilts his head, as though he feels the touch, and closes his eyes.
“Do not feel sorry, Watson,” he says, apparently noticing Watson’s emotions through the contact.
The head under his hand suddenly becomes solid and Watson takes advantage of it by tightening his fingers in Holmes’ hair and leaning down towards Holmes’ lips.
Before he can kiss Holmes, there’s a loud bang on his door and he finds himself jarring awake, falling into a reality that’s devoid of Holmes’ presence.
The door swings open to reveal Thomas, who quickly enters the room looking fairly panicked. Watson sits up straighter and tries to wrap his mind around the intrusion.
“Watson, sorry to barge in like this, but have you seen my - ” he trails off as his eyes fall noticeably on the glass phial on the desk corner and Watson berates himself for not having kept it out of sight.
“Oh, Doctor,” Thomas says, striding towards him and snatching the bottle away. “I’m so glad you found this; I must have dropped it earlier, I’ve been looking for it ever since.”
The blatant lie seems to drip easily off Thomas’ tongue and Watson begins to wonder just how many times he’s been fooled by the man before.
“Were you, indeed?” Watson questions, gazing intently at the other man. Thomas blinks, looking slightly taken aback.
“Is something the matter?” he asks as Watson quietly shuts the desk drawer with his foot and stands.
“Tell me, Grimsby, why is it that would keep deadly venom in your room?” Thomas looks rather shocked, but Watson continues. “I have looked this substance up and it would be of no use to anyone, except a man with ill intent.”
“Are you accusing me of being such a man, Doctor? I can tell you now there’s not a wicked bone in my body, sir; ask my father, or even the ghost of my mother and you will surely know the truth.”
Watson pauses, brow dipping in thought. He glances away from Thomas and catches sight of a book laying on the seat of his armchair; it’s Jean Baptiste Boisduval’s text sitting innocently in the exact spot where Holmes had been when he had decided to rearrange Watson’s bookshelves one morning in the past. A headache begins near the crown of his head as he tries to make sense of it; he looks back at Thomas, who is now staring at the book with interest.
“You were not lying when you said you had that text,” he says, tipping his head up slightly.
“No, indeed,” replies Watson, blankly, as Boisduval’s lepidopterist book is the least of their worries at this moment - but then the penny drops, clanging as loudly as the chimes of Big Ben. The case with the missing family friend at Boisduval’s French estate fits alongside Thomas’ account of his mother’s disappearance and Watson almost wants to hit himself for not realising it sooner. The family friend from Holmes’ case was Thomas’ mother, the same mother who was murdered because no one could find her. The one Holmes ignored for thinking she’d run off to live a more extravagant life alone.
He takes a step back, trying not to let his face show any of his newfound knowledge, but accidentally knocks into his chair in the process. As though hearing Watson’s thoughts loud and clear, Holmes appears at his side, his face a mix of a thousand different emotions.
“You are figuring it out, are you not, Watson?”
Watson blinks against the wave of confusion and tries not to follow Holmes with his eyes.
“You know it all, Watson, you have all the pieces; you just need to rearrange them to form the puzzle’s picture.”
Watson rubs at the side of his head as it pounds at the onslaught of thoughts.
“The window, Watson, with the drainpipe that could not possibly hold anything more than ten stone in weight.”
Watson can feel sweat form on his palms; he knows Thomas cannot be heavier than nine and a half.
“What is on his hand?” Holmes asks, clearly nudging him towards another clue.
There’s ink smudged along the side of Thomas’ left hand.
“You are left-handed?” Watson asks and the question seems to take Thomas off guard.
“I am,” he says glancing down at the limb. “I get in an awful mess at work with all the ink I use.”
“What was on the curtain, Watson?” Holmes presses and Watson knows with a sinking feeling what he’s getting at; Holmes pointed out ink on the material when he first revealed that he had been murdered. Watson fails to believe it would be enough to prove that Thomas is his killer.
“Who failed to look into the disappearance of his mother, claiming that it was nothing but a childish whim of hers to want to stay in France to eat, drink, and be merry?”
Holmes reaches out and gently places a hand against the back of Watson’s arm; a pain flairs in the crook of Watson’s elbow and spreads down to his wrist, and he recognises it as the same pain Holmes shared with him when he was tucked up in his bathtub; it’s the feeling of a needle pushing under his skin.
“It was I, Watson; I let Thomas’ mother die, albeit unknowingly, and he blames me for everything. He wanted revenge, and he got it.”
Watson can’t help but look at Holmes finally.
“He killed you,” he whispers, ignoring Thomas’ request for him to speak up. Holmes nods solemnly.
“The venom, Watson, the venom.”
Watson moves his gaze to the bottle in Thomas’ clenched fist and a feeling of great despair winds itself around his body. An injection of poison would appear no different from one of cocaine.
“I am sorry I ever doubted you, my friend,” he says quietly, but Holmes motions for him to pay attention to Thomas instead, saying, “There is time later for apologies, Watson; first you must deal with this fiend.”
Watson understands as he turns to Thomas.
“You,” he whispers, his voice both shocked and deadly at the same time. He feels nauseous at the thought of having Holmes’ killer under his roof for so long.
“Doctor?” Thomas asks confusedly.
Watson has no way to defend himself, for his gun is resting in a chest under his bed, but he has more weight to add to his advantage over Thomas; he could probably wrestle him to the ground and bind his hands with his belt.
He moves from behind the desk and takes two steps towards Thomas, who’s wearing an expression that says he has no idea what’s going on.
“You,” Watson repeats, pointing and biting back his rage. “You killed Sherlock Holmes.”
Thomas almost fools him with his acting when he lets out a shocked noise and a loud yelp of, “What?”
“I know it was you, Grimsby!”
Watson strides forwards, grabbing Thomas by the collar and pushing him against the nearest wall. Thomas gasps for air and claws at his hand with feeble fingers, as his glasses fall and smash on the wooden floor.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Your methods were sloppy; you should have covered your tracks better. Did you really think you could get away with it?”
Thomas continues to look surprised, as though he has no idea why Watson is accusing him of murder. Watson shakes him harshly, crashing his back into the wall with no mercy. Thomas winces in pain and there’s a loud clatter as Thomas drops the small phial of spider venom. He kicks at Watson’s legs, but Watson hardly feels the blows with all the anger thrumming through him.
He grips tighter at Thomas’ throat, watching as the man slowly turns a deep red. Thomas thrashes his arms, managing a smarting blow to Watson’s cheek, but Watson had been right earlier, as he’s easily able to overpower the other man. He smashes his elbow and the back of his arm against the side of Thomas’ face, splitting the other man’s lip.
Thomas stops struggling as he licks away the drawn blood, still looking shocked. Watson almost starts to think that maybe Thomas didn’t do anything, but then Thomas smiles nastily, baring his teeth.
“It took you long enough, though. I was almost set with my plans; I was going to give you the same fate as your friend this very night. Though...” he trails off and Watson pushes him harder, dragging a hiss of pain from the other man before he continues. “There’s still time.”
Watson doesn’t notice Thomas’ wandering hand until it’s too late. Thomas pulls a book from a nearby shelf and there’s no time for Watson to move away before Thomas crashes it into the side of his head.
A sickening crack echoes in his ears and Watson lets go of Thomas’ neck, stumbling backwards in pain before finally crumpling to the ground as the light of the room dims from sight in a flurry of dark dots.
*
When Watson awakens, he finds himself sitting on the floor, bound to the foot of his bed. It feels as though half of his head is on fire and blood drips freely behind his ear and down his neck. The room spins precariously before his eyes land on Thomas, who’s crouching next to him, a needle and phial that looks all too familiar in one hand.
“Ah, Doctor,” he says, smiling warmly. “I’m glad you are awake. For a moment I thought I’d gone and finished the job all too soon.”
Watson struggles against his bonds, but they’re strong and fail to give even the tiniest amount. Watson’s heart begins to race; there’s no one around that can help him, and he knows he won’t be able to call out a warning to Mrs Hudson as there is something - possibly one of his ties - looped around his head, cutting into the corners of his mouth, and successfully stopping him from speaking loudly or clearly.
His eyes land on Holmes, who is pacing behind Thomas, his hands buried in his hair, tugging at the strands. When he notices Watson’s gaze on him, he stops and turns towards him.
“Watson,” he says, his face twitching as though it’s taking all his effort to try to keep his expression calm. “Do not panic; I am thinking up a plan as we speak. I always have a plan. You will be okay.”
Holmes’ words don’t help in the least, as rising panic fills him; he’s certain he’s about to meet his end, once and for all. He pulls against the restraints as lets out a noise of pain when the ropes twist and burn against his skin.
Thomas looks up at him and sneers, “There’s no one here to save you, Watson, so do keep the noise down.”
Watson slumps back, barely able to think above the pounding of his skull, and when he lets his chin press against his collarbone, he feels the slowly drying blood down his neck begin to crack and flake.
Thomas crouches in front of him, gripping Watson’s face roughly, and tilting it up so he’s forced to look at him.
“I suppose you’re wondering how this all happened to you, Doctor? Well, I believe you may as well know, if only for your own sake. A parting gift from me to you, as it were. My father owns a copy of each of your stories, Doctor, and it made it easier for me to understand Holmes, his habits and his downfalls. I knew I could use his addiction to my advantage and that is how I hid the venom. If any doctor were to perform blood tests, they would see nothing more than what they wanted: death via cocaine, as was Holmes’ usual poison.”
Watson regrets having made Holmes’ weaknesses so public, but he’d just wanted everyone to know the sort of man Holmes was, and his methods, nothing with ill intent.
“With Holmes gone, my need for vengeance was satiated; however, I overlooked one small detail: my father’s visits with you. I did not foresee that he would talk you into allowing me an interview about the open lodgings, but what was I meant to do, ignore my father’s wishes and rouse suspicion? No, I held my head high and came to your door, which you opened readily before me. Would you believe it if I told you that I never planned to harm a hair on your head? I lived in fear of being caught and tried everything I could to gain your trust and keep you from the truth, but that did not stop the inevitable. The revenge I has enacted upon Holmes was still fresh in my veins and I was about to grant you the freedom of life, but then you began poking around in business that did not concern you.”
In his mind, Watson yells vehemently that Holmes is certainly business that concerns him.
“I knew I had to do something about it. I lied, I got you drunk and told you as much of the truth as I could, but if anything, that made it worse. Now everything is out and I cannot leave you to run off and tell the public, so I think we shall make it look like another suicide, what do you think, Doctor? I will find your body and scream for the landlady to send a note to the nearest hospital, though any help that arrives will be too late to save you. I will not be able to live here with my delicate sensibilities and will regretfully leave this house. Maybe I’ll move to Devonshire? I hear the weather is mild this time of year and everyone around me will encourage a getaway to help me recover from this tragedy. But you must know, Watson, that I am not a murderer, I am only seeking to keep my secret safe. I took justice into my own hands and you got in the way. I am sorry to have to do this, but you leave me no choice.”
Thomas pats him gently on the cheek then begins to fill the injection with venom and Watson’s heart pounds even faster. No one can save him. Holmes can’t even grab Thomas to stop him; what chance does he have? All Holmes can do is make Thomas feel - and then it dawns on him.
The gag muffles the word he lets out, but he tries again, nonetheless.
Holmes drifts closer until his hand falls to Watson’s shoulder.
“Think it, feel it; anything, Watson, just do it!”
The word pain fills his mind and he screams it inside with every fibre of his being. Holmes, you can make him feel pain! he thinks and Holmes’s face surprisingly brightens with understanding. He lets go of Watson and moves to stand behind Thomas, who is now bringing the needle up to the crook of Watson’s exposed elbow.
“Do it!” he yells, despite the tie stifling his speech.
Holmes’ hand appears through the front of Thomas’ chest, but Thomas doesn’t even flinch. Watson looks at Holmes, his brown creased with worry and panic and everything in between, but Holmes appears to be too busy concentrating to return the glance.
The needle slips under his skin, pinching and burning as it goes, but Watson can’t pull his arm away from the intrusion; he can only watch in horror as it pushes deeper into his arm.
“Holmes!” he yells through the gag and Holmes finally looks at him. Watson can see how affected he is by the sight in front of him and it’s in that moment that Thomas begins to scream a deep, full noise from the very depth of his lungs. He pulls backwards and drags the needle with him; a bead of blood appears at the injection site on Watson’s arm, but the syringe falls - thankfully still full - to the floor as Thomas writhes around beside it. Holmes doesn’t take his eyes off Watson and keeps his arm within Thomas’ chest.
After a loud hiccough breaks up the noise of his yell, Thomas falls silent, lying limp on the ground. Holmes blinks, breaking their eye contact, then slowly pulls his hand back. Watson watches as Thomas’ chest rises and falls, but he knows there’s no way to assess the damage until the other man regains consciousness.
Before either of them can say anything, the door bangs open, revealing Lestrade with two officers and a concerned looking Mrs Hudson peering over their shoulders in the background. Watson sags with relief and holds still as Lestrade quickly tugs the tie out of his mouth and over his head, then cuts the bonds around his hands and feet with a pocketknife.
“It is lucky we were not a minute later,” Lestrade says, eyeing the unconscious man on the floor. “However did you manage to knock him out?”
Watson tugs the tie over his head then brings a hand up to touch the sore spot of his skull, wincing in pain as he does so; Lestrade obviously forgets his own question as he shoots him a look of concern.
“Are you badly injured?”
Watson shakes his head carefully. “I am fine,” is all he says, as he looks towards Holmes, who’s crouched over Thomas’ body. “I’m not sure about Grimsby, though.”
As he says it, Thomas stirs, causing the two officers to jump into action. They each grab one of Thomas’ arms and keep him pinned to the floor. Thomas’ eyes flutter open and he gazes about the room with a wide-eyed, childlike expression.
“Where am I?” he asks before throwing his head to the side and falling silent. Watson almost sends him a biting reply when Thomas continues. “The wicked man is nothing but dirt and decay and he spreads fear and pain.” He directs this towards where Holmes is squatting, as though he can finally see the spirit; however, he pauses and looks towards Watson as he says, “The rooks outside told me so.”
It takes Watson a moment to realise that Thomas isn’t making any sense at all. He looks towards Holmes, who looks just as confused as he feels, then towards Lestrade.
“The man is clearly mad!” cries Lestrade, nodding for his men to lift Thomas into a standing position, which they do, with no obvious help from Thomas.
“I spoke to the moon and it told me that the world looks very different from space. The stars said the same thing, but Mrs Turnam’s shoes are both for the left foot.”
“Whatever you did, Watson, has certainly done the trick; the man has clearly been incapacitated, once and for all.”
Watson doesn’t know what to say; he has a million lies to explain away Thomas’ malady, but he can’t put voice to even one of them. He meets Holmes’ eyes again, but Holmes is too busy staring at his own hands.
“I do believe the asylum is missing a patient,” Lestrade says, as the officers drag Thomas from the room and - from the amount of thumping beyond the door - down the stairs.
Watson rubs at his wrists, which have red bands around them from the burning rope that had bound them together, and nods towards the syringe on the floor.
“There’s poison in that; he almost got me.” He shows off the mark on his arm and Lestrade frowns.
“This is more serious than we thought, Doctor; it’s fortunate that we received your telegram in time.”
It’s Watson’s turn to frown as he says, “Telegram?”
“Only a quarter-hour ago you sent the police station a telegram revealing the truth behind Thomas’ past and asking us for assistance,” Lestrade says with a slight furrow of his brow. “Are you sure you’re not concussed?”
Watson looks towards Holmes, who’s standing with his arms folded, back against his bookcase, silently regarding them. Their eyes meet briefly and Holmes shrugs; Watson suddenly understands that he truly has Holmes to thank for saving him. Holmes blinks, turning his face away and breaking the moment.
“Yes, of course, the telegram,” Watson says, rather distracted, but Lestrade seems to be more focussed on picking the hypodermic needle off the ground and studying its contents.
“There’s more of the poison in Thomas’ desk drawer, if you need additional evidence.”
“I think we have enough to keep him locked away for a long time; if he ever manages to become sane enough to leave the asylum, that is.” Lestrade gently pats him on the shoulder. “Your detective skills rival those of your late friend, Holmes,” he says kindly.
Watson shoots Holmes another glance as he mumbles, “Is that so?” without taking his eyes off Holmes’ form. Holmes lets out a bark of laughter in amusement before vanishing.
The door opens and one of Lestrade’s men steps inside.
“Sir, we have Mr Grimsby secured; we’re waiting on your word.”
Lestrade nods then looks back towards Watson.
“Are you sure you're all right, Doctor? We could drop you at the hospital on the way.”
Watson shakes his head.
“I’m fine, but I’ll feel better once I know Grimsby is locked away for good.”
“I’ll make sure that happens, my friend, if it’s the last thing I do.”
He nods at his officer, who turns and leaves, and moves to exit the room himself. When he reaches the doorway, he stops and looks over his shoulder.
“Holmes would have been proud, you know.”
Watson smiles politely and tips his head as Lestrade finally leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him.
“I am,” says a voice at his back; Watson turns to find Holmes standing by the mantelpiece. They share a small smile before Holmes suddenly looks grave and turns to face the fireplace, which only houses burnt logs and dark ash.
“I knew all along that it was he, and I couldn’t do anything about it,” Holmes says, his voice even. “I tried to warn you, I really did.”
“I know,” he says quietly and the noise seems to draw Holmes to him, as the other man finally turns around and moves to stand closer.
“But what I did to him, Watson, that was not natural.” He shakes his head and looks at the floor.
Watson pushes out a snort of disbelieving laughter. “Look at you, Holmes; nothing about you is natural, nothing about this whole situation is natural! I’m talking to a ghost after just escaping the grasp of a man who wanted to kill me.” He softens his voice as Holmes finally looks back up at him. “You have far more to worry about than whether what you did was natural or not.”
Holmes smiles crookedly for a moment, but then turns sombre and looks down again.
“What if the same thing happens to you, Watson? What if I touch you for too long and you go mad?”
“Then I will be no madder than I usually am with you around. You possessed me once and I came out fine - nothing will change. Holmes, look at me.” Holmes complies after a beat. “You thought of the worst possible thing, with the greatest amount of emotion you could muster. Unless I really get on your nerves, I don’t think we’re going to have a problem.”
“That is exactly it, Watson. I wasn’t thinking of pain or sadness; I was thinking about you and everything you’ve done to help me. The fact that you didn’t run away screaming when I suddenly reappeared in your life after you’d buried me six feet under. How you didn’t just call in someone to try to exorcise me so you could sleep in peace. Watson, the fact that I can enter your dreams is evidence alone that you care for me and want me near you; I cannot do that with just anyone. They must let me in, unconsciously or not; they must reciprocate my thoughts and feelings about them.”
“But you thought of those things in response to me asking and needing your help, Holmes. Grimsby went mad because you were saving me, nothing more, nothing less. I’m sure the only way you could drive me mad would be if you were trying to save me from myself.”
Watson reaches out with the intention of letting his fingertips drift through Holmes’ shoulder, but the other man steps out of his reach.
“Holmes, you are stuck with me until the end of my years, do you honestly expect me to believe you won’t touch me at all during that time, especially now that you wholly have me?”
Holmes folds his arms and takes another step back.
“Holmes, you are being unreasonable.”
Holmes narrows his eyes.
“No, Watson, I am not.”
With that, he vanishes and Watson is left standing alone, his wrists burning and head throbbing painfully. He needs a stiff drink or- his thoughts are interrupted by a light knock on his door.
Upon opening it, he finds Mrs Hudson looking flushed, probably from the excitement of Thomas’ removal. It’s not the first time that a skirmish has broken out within the house, but Watson knows it’s been rather a long while since the last one, which, if he remembers correctly, involved Holmes firing shots into the air to warn a man who threatened both their lives with a piece of lead piping. Part of the ceiling had cracked and fallen onto the man’s head and they’d had to carry him down to the street, where they had stuffed him into a hansom and paid enough fare to get him to the hospital. Mrs Hudson had certainly not been happy with the damage - which, if Watson remembers correctly, she had voiced to him rather loudly for almost two hours - but she had been glad for their safety.
“Inspector Lestrade asked me to check on you from time to time today. He thought a woman’s touch might be just what you needed.”
“Anyone would think I’d been gravely injured,” Watson says with a light laugh. “It is nothing I can’t fix myself; I shall live to see another day.”
Mrs Hudson suddenly grasps one of his hands in both of hers.
“That I am glad of, Doctor, for I would not know what I would do with myself if I were to lose both of my old tenants.”
There’s a sadness in her expression, but it disappears as Watson squeezes her hands lightly in return.
“I do rather think I need a sit down, though,” Watson says as exhaustion washes over him. Mrs Hudson releases his hand and smiles.
“You deserve one, dear,” she tells him. “I shall bring up some tea and broth in just a moment.” She smiles at him kindly before she turns away, shutting the door behind her.
He slowly makes his way towards his settee, which he falls upon with a sigh as his eyes slip closed. He does not hear Mrs Hudson re-enter the room, but when he wakes a few hours later, he finds a blanket draped over him and a cup of cold tea on the side table.
*
It stings when he rubs an alcohol solution over the cut on the side of his head; pain flares around the back of his skull and licks at the very top of his spine.
It’s awkward to use the mirror on the bathroom wall to see where to clean, as the reversed image continuously throws him off, but he manages.
He doesn’t hear Holmes appear, just notices a heaviness in the air. He looks past his own reflection and finds Holmes lounging in the empty bathtub. Holmes meets his eyes in the mirror, but when Watson turns around to face him, he’s busy staring at his hands as he picks at his fingernails.
“Be useful, Holmes,” Watson says tossing him the alcohol soaked cloth. Holmes’ brows raise in surprise, but he catches the cloth with an invisible grasp, nonetheless.
He doesn’t have to be close - could be halfway down Baker Street and would still be able to clean the blood off the back of Watson’s neck - but Holmes remains in the cold, empty bath, and kneels behind him as Watson sits on the lip of the tub offering him his back. There is nothing except the steady rubbing of cotton against his skin; no stray fingers or heated breaths against his neck that Watson would expect to feel were someone of flesh and bone cleaning his wound.
The first couple of buttons on his shirt undo themselves and his collar peels itself away from his skin as Holmes reaches the end of the trail of blood. After a few moments scrubbing at the dried red stain, the cloth disposes of itself in the bin across the room and Watson’s collar slides back into place.
He’s about to move away when a feeling that he knows does not belong to him spreads down his body; it feels a lot like the need to be forgiven, and it isn’t until he turns his head that he notices Holmes’ hand resting on his shoulder. He gently slips off the bath to kneel on the floor, facing Holmes, and making them almost eye-level.
“I would never hurt you on purpose, Watson,” Holmes says quietly and Watson can’t help the soft laughter that escapes from his throat. Holmes looks slightly affronted, but Watson smiles reassuringly.
“I know that, Holmes, as sure as I know that the sun is hot and the earth is round.”
Watson rests his hand atop the one Holmes has curled around the edge of the porcelain bath, their fingers blending until Watson can’t decipher where his flesh begins and where Holmes’ ends. He shuts his eyes and breathes evenly.
“It feels like hope and fear, but nothing like madness.”
He opens his eyes again and finds Holmes looking at him with an expression that says he truly doesn’t know why Watson continues to remain by his side. Watson shrugs to say he has no idea why he does either, but lets his emotions wash over him, the kinds that make his chest swell and his lungs ache. He lets Holmes feel the affection he has for him and doesn’t stop until Holmes closes his eyes and bows his head, smiling softly.
He knows Holmes understands now.
*
It takes only two weeks for Watson’s wounds to heal and only three weeks for Thomas Grimsby’s trial to show up in the headlines.
Watson sits at his desk, his feet resting upon its top, with the paper propped up on his legs. He hums distractedly and turns the page.
“Grimsby has been found guilty of murder and attempted murder. He’ll be locked up for a while, I suspect.” Holmes doesn’t respond, not even when Watson looks over at him and raises his brows. “Don’t you feel better for knowing so?”
“Minutely,” Holmes responds, “what good will it do for a dead man? The only comfort I feel is knowing that he will no longer be able to get to you.”
Watson hums again and goes back to reading an article about the rising prices of imports.
He only makes it three sentences in when Holmes leans over Watson’s shoulder and says, “Don’t you find that exceedingly dull, Watson? Can’t you find any other ways to pass your time?”
“Don’t,” Watson warns, as he knows what Holmes is thinking.
“Don’t what?” Holmes replies, his voice seemingly innocent.
Watson shakes out his paper and tilts his head away from Holmes, who begins to lean further into his space.
“Stop it.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“Yes, well, it’s the ‘yet’ I’m anticipating and asking you not to even think about doing.”
He doesn’t even need to look at Holmes to know he’s smiling.
“Holmes,” he warns, but even as the name dies on his lips, Holmes leans in and kisses his neck gently with soft, warm lips.
“Holmes, that is precisely what I told you not to do,” he complains, though he doesn’t move away.
“You should be thankful for the rest; I don’t think you’ve ever slept so much in all your years.”
“Yes, but it is hardly rest when you exhaust me with your insatiable appetite each time you do this to me.”
“I never hear you objecting,” Holmes whispers, his breath heated against Watson’s skin.
“You never give me chance to!”
Holmes’ fingers work at the buttons of Watson’s collar, while his mouth moves to press kisses behind Watson’s ear.
“And I never shall.”
Watson lets out a hitched sigh as Holmes catches his earlobe between his teeth.
“When I wake, I won’t let you get a word edgewise; I have grievances to make known and you shall listen to them.”
Holmes nips at the curve of Watson’s jaw lightly.
“Yes, well, until then,” he says as he leans in towards Watson’s mouth.
“And don’t let the newspaper get rumpled; I want to finish reading that later.”
“Yes, dear,” Holmes jokes before tipping Watson’s head back and covering his mouth with his own.
FIN.
«« PART ONE // « PART TWO // MASTERPOST
Author: blacktofade
Artist: lokeloke
Pairing: Holmes/Watson
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Ghost!Holmes, explicit sexual content, NSFW artwork within text
Word Count: ~8,000/~30,000
Notes: Please let lokeloke know how brilliant her artwork is because she put so much effort into this challenge! A huge thank you to gracefulfool for being an amazing beta, as this fic would be nothing without her. Any other mistakes are my own. A big thank you to my FList and my DJers for helping/encouraging/yelling during the writing process. Title is from Emily Dickinson's It was not death, for I stood up.
Summary: The ghost of Sherlock Holmes haunts John Watson and reveals that there is a mystery to be solved. Watson has to figure out how Holmes died and why Holmes has chosen him, of all people, to visit beyond the grave.
Watson finds himself feeling restless after breakfast. It is a quiet Sunday morning, a week or so after his first liaison with Holmes, and the weather outside is begging for his company, a temptation he cannot ignore. He fetches his overcoat and hat from his room before heading downstairs. Gladstone is pacing in the hallway outside of the front door, as though he already knows where Watson is going. Watson collects the lead off the side table and quickly attaches it to the dog’s collar before leaving the house and heading in the direction of Regent’s Park.
Gladstone pulls the whole way there, tugging at the lead and grunting for breath; his pink tongue lolls out of his mouth and his lips curl up in what looks like a smile. Watson treads carefully as his leg aches with each step, but he is soon immersed within the trees and grass of the park. Gladstone happily digs his nose into a pile of leaves and snorts when he finds nothing more than dirt beneath. He cocks his leg against almost every shrub they pass and kicks up dirt to spread the scent, but only manages to cover Watson’s trousers in mud.
The air is pleasantly cool and there’s not a cloud in the sky. When they reach the lake’s bank, Watson lets Gladstone off the lead to further explore the territory, though they’ve been here hundreds of times before. Gladstone always stays nearby, never having enough courage to wander too far off. Watson lowers himself onto a park bench and props his cane up against its side. He crosses his legs, resting his right ankle on his left knee, and folds his hands into his lap. There are a few others enjoying the pleasant weather - a family of four have spread a tartan blanket out upon the grass and are feasting on sandwiches and juice; the children throw their crusts to the ducks, though pigeons try their best to steal the majority of the treats.
Watson watches as Gladstone picks up a stick and takes it to the younger child - a boy of about six - dropping it at his feet and wagging the short stump of his tail in excitement. The boy laughs and the parents watch in obvious contentment as he scoops it off the floor and throws it as far as he can. Gladstone waddles after it, going as fast as his short legs will carry him, though before he reaches it, a squirrel shoots up a nearby tree and distracts him. Instead of fetching the stick, Gladstone sits and barks up at the creature until Watson whistles clearly and the dog’s ears perk up. Gladstone ceases his noise and settles for walking to the water’s edge, where he greedily laps up a cool drink for himself.
The young boy follows after him and crouches at his side as he gently pets him on the back. Gladstone stops drinking and turns his wet face to the child’s face, licking and slobbering all over him. The boy laughs loudly in delight, then stands and runs off, letting Gladstone chase after him in a playful manner.
Watson doesn’t notice Holmes appear beside him, but he’s there nevertheless when he turns to regard a couple strolling past arm-in-arm.
“You look happy,” Holmes says, almost as though he doesn’t expect it.
Watson smiles but doesn’t look at him. He waits until the elderly pair is out of earshot before saying, “I have no reason not to be.”
Holmes hums musingly then falls silent. Without thinking, Watson reaches out and settles his hand over Holmes’ own. He can’t feel anything, but when Holmes turns his palm upwards, Watson imagines the feeling of their fingers linking and - for the moment - it’s enough. If he could, he would spend the rest of his day in such bliss. The universe, however, thinks otherwise as Gladstone turns his attention away from the young boy and starts chasing the one or two geese that are snoozing on the shore; they honk loudly in distress. Watson whistles again and this time motions for Gladstone to return to him. Gladstone does, with his face long and miniature tail curving between his legs; he knows he’s done wrong, but he still pants happily into Watson’s face as Watson bends down and clicks the lead back onto his collar.
For a second, Gladstone pauses, then barks - just once - in Holmes’ direction.
“Good boy,” Holmes says quietly and Gladstone’s ears prick up as though he hears. His tail begins to wag and then he turns in circles at their feet until he finds the position he wants, and lies down heavily with a faint grunt.
“Why can’t we just let everything go, Holmes?” Watson says, so unexpectedly that he even catches himself off guard. “Is it really necessary to catch your killer? It won’t bring you back, you know.”
Watson’s chest tightens, but he says nothing more.
The hand under Watson’s own suddenly solidifies and Watson clings to it tightly, even though it makes his fingers ache.
“It is not truly about my death, Watson; it is about making sure that nothing happens to you. I cannot help but worry that the murderer will take you as their next victim. Then who will take care of our dog?”
At their feet, Gladstone raises his head off his paws and tilts it to the side as though he’s listening intently. Holmes drags a red rubber ball from his pocket and tosses it across the grass. Gladstone, quickly freed of his lead by Watson, runs after it.
Watson knows Holmes is deflecting, but he doesn’t mention it. He tips his head back and settles his gaze on two doves that are perched together on a branch some metres up; their sides are pressed firmly together and their heads are tucked under their wings to keep out the light.
“I feel I am more in danger of being robbed at the present moment,” Watson sighs, looking back at Holmes. “A sleeping man on a park bench is just what a young thief will be looking for this fair afternoon.”
“Yes, except I know that no one will approach with a dog like Gladstone strolling about nearby. He may be even tempered, but no one else knows that.”
Watson concedes to his point with a soft laugh, but falls silent when Holmes’ other hand comes up to brush against his cheek. He can feel heat upon his face and although he knows he’s in a dream, he can’t help the insecurity he feels. Being in the open, acting with such intents would certainly be enough to earn time in gaol, but Holmes seems indifferent. He rubs his thumb carefully under Watson’s eye.
“I do not wish to see you hurt, Watson, this is why we must not stop yet.”
He leans in and presses a gentle kiss to Watson’s temple before letting him go. Gladstone returns, dropping the ball at their shoes, and Holmes bends and scoops the saliva-covered object up gingerly. He throws it again and Gladstone once again races after it.
Gently, Watson drifts back into consciousness, where he finds himself alone with Gladstone, who’s now snoring and twitching his legs in sleep. He leaves him be, allowing him to spend time with Holmes. He is their dog after all.
*
As he passes Thomas’ study, he cannot stop himself from knocking lightly on the door to enquire as to the man’s plans for lunch - Mrs Hudson has made a hearty beef stew and it would only be fair to draw Thomas’ attention to it and invite him downstairs for a bowl.
Although his knuckles rap only lightly against the wood, the unlatched door opens enough that he can see inside.
“Thomas?” he calls out, taking a step into the room, looking for any signs of movement. A faint flutter catches his eyes, but when he looks again, he realises it’s just the curtain billowing out in front of the open window.
“In here,” comes a muffled reply and Watson moves further in the room. The door at his back suddenly shuts by itself, and he turns towards the noise to find Holmes clicking the lock into place.
“What are you doing?” Watson whispers angrily. “Grimsby is here, too.”
Holmes looks at him carefully.
“He is downstairs conversing with the landlady.”
“Holmes,” Watson warns, trying to step around the ghost to free himself before Thomas returns and catches him, but Holmes shoots him a levelling look.
“Watson,” he says, his face as serious as Watson has ever seen it.
Watson rubs his brow as his mind wars with itself.
“Fine,” he spits out “what is it?”
All Holmes does is tip his head towards Thomas’ desk.
Watson sucks on his teeth for a brief moment before humouring Holmes and turning around. There’s nothing out of the ordinary on his fellow-lodger’s desk, just a few scattered papers that are covered with sketches of insects with their Latin genus written carefully underneath. The many ink smudges across the left-hand side of the page belie the neat script.
“Top right-hand drawer, under the wooden panel lining the bottom.”
Watson looks back at Holmes frustrated.
“I am not snooping, Holmes; do it yourself.”
Watson reaches through Holmes’ body and grasps the door handle, but Holmes pauses him with a hand on his shoulder; he can’t feel it, but he can definitely see it and he hates that it’s enough to make him pause. Holmes looks at him evenly.
“Watson, this is of great importance,” there’s a pause before he ends with a soft, “please.”
Watson sighs and knows that he’s forever cursed to follow Holmes’ inane plans.
“Fine, if I must. Keep watch and inform me if Grimsby approaches this room.”
He quickly moves towards the desk, opening the drawer Holmes mentioned. He pushes aside pens and pencils to hook his blunt fingernails under the fake bottom panel and carefully raises it up at one end. He peers inside, expecting to find nothing more than Holmes’ overactive imagination, but instead, he finds a small syringe and seven or eight different bottles of liquid.
“He is an addict?” Watson asks in confusion.
“No, Watson, look again.”
Watson does, reaching into the drawer to grasp one of the phials. In tidy script, similar to that on the notes on the desktop, the word Loxosceles winds around the body of the glass and Watson frowns. It fails to make sense to him, but he has no time to think, as Holmes suddenly turns towards him and motions for him to set Thomas’ belongings back in order. Watson quickly pockets the bottle he’s holding, curious as to what is inside it, slides the panel back into place, and closes the drawer. Holmes unlocks the door and throws it open before Watson even reaches it and it only takes a second for it to click gently behind him; he reaches the safety of the landing, just in time to notice Thomas’ head as the man slowly climbs the stairs.
“Ah, Watson!” Thomas says in greeting, smiling pleasantly. “Have you tried Mrs Hudson’s stew? I daresay it’s the best I’ve had in a long while.”
Watson offers a small smile, “I was going to go downstairs and have some, but my leg seems to be playing up; I think I’ll just rest it for now and have her send a bowl up later.”
He heads towards the stairs that lead to his room, looking back and nodding once as Thomas says, “That is a shame, John; do let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”
Watson makes his way upstairs, emphasising his limp and trying to ignore the way the small phial in his pocket presses insistently against his leg, reminding him of his wrongdoing.
*
He sets the bottle on his desk - trying not to flush as he remembers exactly what he and Holmes had once done on said object, and moves to his bookcase, running his fingers along the spines of the tomes as he looks for one specific title. Holmes appears, pacing at the end of the room, unnerving Watson tremendously.
“Sit down, Holmes!” Watson snaps, drawing out a book and flipping it open.
He flicks through the entries until he finds the one he wants. He scans it briefly before reading aloud.
“Loxosceles. Genus of spider; includes the brown recluse - also known as the violin spider - found mainly in North and South America. Potent tissue-destroying venom can cause lesions of the skin and can occasionally lead to fatality.”
Watson looks from the book, to the phial of liquid, to Holmes.
“That’s spider venom in there?” he asks incredulously.
“The man said he was a collector of butterflies, moths, and spiders, did he not? He spent a fair amount of time in America, so it cannot be that much of stretch to assume this is his handiwork.”
“But why would he have venom? I am sure the needle in his drawer had been used - there was a fine condensation along the inside of the glass.” He sighs and sits heavily behind his desk. “I am not a detective like you, Holmes; I cannot put two and three together to make four.” He sets an elbow on the desktop and rests his forehead in his palm. “Put me out of my misery and tell me what it all means.”
Holmes moves to crouch beside his chair, placing his chin on the armrest and peering up at him.
“I cannot tell you that which you do not know. I can, however, give you this.”
Watson looks up as a gentle metallic ring sounds out in the silence and finds a small key resting on the wood near his arm. He picks it up and turns it over in his fingers, trying to figure out what it could open. He doesn’t know anywhere that’s off limits to him in this house, only - he glances down at the desk drawer near the floor - the one part of Holmes’ room Watson could never clean because it was locked.
It only takes Watson a moment to unlock the drawer and slide it open. At first, he doesn’t know what he’s meant to be looking for; the drawer is full of old bits of newspaper and sheets of what appears to be blank paper.
“At the bottom,” Holmes supplies and finally Watson finds a small notebook in the back corner. He carefully withdraws it and flips the cover open. He recognises it as one of his very own books, its pages filled with cases that were presented to Holmes, but were never taken, due to them “not having enough mystery” in Holmes’ words. Watson had written them down, nevertheless, as he believed - and still does - that every case deserved to be heard.
He scans through the pages catching names, dates, and locations, here and there.
1890: Fernly: wife complains of missing silverware - cook having affair with husband; silverware sold to pay their future passage to Netherlands.
1890: Berns: daughter (twenty years old) missing after dinner party with family friends - ran off with family friend’s son; probably now residing in Dorset.
1890: Boisduval: family friend missing during stay at French estate - Frontignac too much of a temptation. Secretly left family to start anew on foreign soil.
Watson rereads the last logged case, trying to place why it sounds so familiar, but gets distracted when he notices Holmes’ careful gaze on him.
“Why let me into this drawer now?”
“There’s no point in continuing to hide something that is now out in the open.”
Watson doesn’t really understand, but then he glances back down into the drawer and a headline catches his eye.
Watson remembers that case, but knows it has to have been at least two years since it occurred. He sets the notebook aside and reaches into the desk to grab a handful of newspaper cuttings, leafing through articles describing many of the cases they solved together, and letting the warmth of realisation spread over him.
“I was too sentimental for my own good, Doctor,” Holmes says, turning his head and resting his temple on the back of his hands.
Watson lets them flutter back into the drawer, then pulls out the sheets of paper he previously thought had nothing on them. The first page has a picture of Watson and Holmes standing shoulder to shoulder, though Holmes is hiding his face with his own hat; the second has Watson looking much the same as in the first, though Holmes is turned completely away; the third has Watson and Holmes looking straight at each other, laughing and seemingly unaware of the picture being taken.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Watson asks, placing the photos back into the drawer. He moves to run his fingers through Holmes’ hair, until he realises that he can’t. His hand drops back into his lap uselessly as Holmes turns his face towards him.
“It took my own death to give me enough courage to tell you.”
“Why didn’t I see it?”
“You probably did, Watson; however, you see, but do not observe. I have told you this many times before.”
This time Watson can’t stop himself from carding his fingers through Holmes’ hair. His fingers meet no resistance, meet nothing at all, except air, but Holmes tilts his head, as though he feels the touch, and closes his eyes.
“Do not feel sorry, Watson,” he says, apparently noticing Watson’s emotions through the contact.
The head under his hand suddenly becomes solid and Watson takes advantage of it by tightening his fingers in Holmes’ hair and leaning down towards Holmes’ lips.
Before he can kiss Holmes, there’s a loud bang on his door and he finds himself jarring awake, falling into a reality that’s devoid of Holmes’ presence.
The door swings open to reveal Thomas, who quickly enters the room looking fairly panicked. Watson sits up straighter and tries to wrap his mind around the intrusion.
“Watson, sorry to barge in like this, but have you seen my - ” he trails off as his eyes fall noticeably on the glass phial on the desk corner and Watson berates himself for not having kept it out of sight.
“Oh, Doctor,” Thomas says, striding towards him and snatching the bottle away. “I’m so glad you found this; I must have dropped it earlier, I’ve been looking for it ever since.”
The blatant lie seems to drip easily off Thomas’ tongue and Watson begins to wonder just how many times he’s been fooled by the man before.
“Were you, indeed?” Watson questions, gazing intently at the other man. Thomas blinks, looking slightly taken aback.
“Is something the matter?” he asks as Watson quietly shuts the desk drawer with his foot and stands.
“Tell me, Grimsby, why is it that would keep deadly venom in your room?” Thomas looks rather shocked, but Watson continues. “I have looked this substance up and it would be of no use to anyone, except a man with ill intent.”
“Are you accusing me of being such a man, Doctor? I can tell you now there’s not a wicked bone in my body, sir; ask my father, or even the ghost of my mother and you will surely know the truth.”
Watson pauses, brow dipping in thought. He glances away from Thomas and catches sight of a book laying on the seat of his armchair; it’s Jean Baptiste Boisduval’s text sitting innocently in the exact spot where Holmes had been when he had decided to rearrange Watson’s bookshelves one morning in the past. A headache begins near the crown of his head as he tries to make sense of it; he looks back at Thomas, who is now staring at the book with interest.
“You were not lying when you said you had that text,” he says, tipping his head up slightly.
“No, indeed,” replies Watson, blankly, as Boisduval’s lepidopterist book is the least of their worries at this moment - but then the penny drops, clanging as loudly as the chimes of Big Ben. The case with the missing family friend at Boisduval’s French estate fits alongside Thomas’ account of his mother’s disappearance and Watson almost wants to hit himself for not realising it sooner. The family friend from Holmes’ case was Thomas’ mother, the same mother who was murdered because no one could find her. The one Holmes ignored for thinking she’d run off to live a more extravagant life alone.
He takes a step back, trying not to let his face show any of his newfound knowledge, but accidentally knocks into his chair in the process. As though hearing Watson’s thoughts loud and clear, Holmes appears at his side, his face a mix of a thousand different emotions.
“You are figuring it out, are you not, Watson?”
Watson blinks against the wave of confusion and tries not to follow Holmes with his eyes.
“You know it all, Watson, you have all the pieces; you just need to rearrange them to form the puzzle’s picture.”
Watson rubs at the side of his head as it pounds at the onslaught of thoughts.
“The window, Watson, with the drainpipe that could not possibly hold anything more than ten stone in weight.”
Watson can feel sweat form on his palms; he knows Thomas cannot be heavier than nine and a half.
“What is on his hand?” Holmes asks, clearly nudging him towards another clue.
There’s ink smudged along the side of Thomas’ left hand.
“You are left-handed?” Watson asks and the question seems to take Thomas off guard.
“I am,” he says glancing down at the limb. “I get in an awful mess at work with all the ink I use.”
“What was on the curtain, Watson?” Holmes presses and Watson knows with a sinking feeling what he’s getting at; Holmes pointed out ink on the material when he first revealed that he had been murdered. Watson fails to believe it would be enough to prove that Thomas is his killer.
“Who failed to look into the disappearance of his mother, claiming that it was nothing but a childish whim of hers to want to stay in France to eat, drink, and be merry?”
Holmes reaches out and gently places a hand against the back of Watson’s arm; a pain flairs in the crook of Watson’s elbow and spreads down to his wrist, and he recognises it as the same pain Holmes shared with him when he was tucked up in his bathtub; it’s the feeling of a needle pushing under his skin.
“It was I, Watson; I let Thomas’ mother die, albeit unknowingly, and he blames me for everything. He wanted revenge, and he got it.”
Watson can’t help but look at Holmes finally.
“He killed you,” he whispers, ignoring Thomas’ request for him to speak up. Holmes nods solemnly.
“The venom, Watson, the venom.”
Watson moves his gaze to the bottle in Thomas’ clenched fist and a feeling of great despair winds itself around his body. An injection of poison would appear no different from one of cocaine.
“I am sorry I ever doubted you, my friend,” he says quietly, but Holmes motions for him to pay attention to Thomas instead, saying, “There is time later for apologies, Watson; first you must deal with this fiend.”
Watson understands as he turns to Thomas.
“You,” he whispers, his voice both shocked and deadly at the same time. He feels nauseous at the thought of having Holmes’ killer under his roof for so long.
“Doctor?” Thomas asks confusedly.
Watson has no way to defend himself, for his gun is resting in a chest under his bed, but he has more weight to add to his advantage over Thomas; he could probably wrestle him to the ground and bind his hands with his belt.
He moves from behind the desk and takes two steps towards Thomas, who’s wearing an expression that says he has no idea what’s going on.
“You,” Watson repeats, pointing and biting back his rage. “You killed Sherlock Holmes.”
Thomas almost fools him with his acting when he lets out a shocked noise and a loud yelp of, “What?”
“I know it was you, Grimsby!”
Watson strides forwards, grabbing Thomas by the collar and pushing him against the nearest wall. Thomas gasps for air and claws at his hand with feeble fingers, as his glasses fall and smash on the wooden floor.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Your methods were sloppy; you should have covered your tracks better. Did you really think you could get away with it?”
Thomas continues to look surprised, as though he has no idea why Watson is accusing him of murder. Watson shakes him harshly, crashing his back into the wall with no mercy. Thomas winces in pain and there’s a loud clatter as Thomas drops the small phial of spider venom. He kicks at Watson’s legs, but Watson hardly feels the blows with all the anger thrumming through him.
He grips tighter at Thomas’ throat, watching as the man slowly turns a deep red. Thomas thrashes his arms, managing a smarting blow to Watson’s cheek, but Watson had been right earlier, as he’s easily able to overpower the other man. He smashes his elbow and the back of his arm against the side of Thomas’ face, splitting the other man’s lip.
Thomas stops struggling as he licks away the drawn blood, still looking shocked. Watson almost starts to think that maybe Thomas didn’t do anything, but then Thomas smiles nastily, baring his teeth.
“It took you long enough, though. I was almost set with my plans; I was going to give you the same fate as your friend this very night. Though...” he trails off and Watson pushes him harder, dragging a hiss of pain from the other man before he continues. “There’s still time.”
Watson doesn’t notice Thomas’ wandering hand until it’s too late. Thomas pulls a book from a nearby shelf and there’s no time for Watson to move away before Thomas crashes it into the side of his head.
A sickening crack echoes in his ears and Watson lets go of Thomas’ neck, stumbling backwards in pain before finally crumpling to the ground as the light of the room dims from sight in a flurry of dark dots.
*
When Watson awakens, he finds himself sitting on the floor, bound to the foot of his bed. It feels as though half of his head is on fire and blood drips freely behind his ear and down his neck. The room spins precariously before his eyes land on Thomas, who’s crouching next to him, a needle and phial that looks all too familiar in one hand.
“Ah, Doctor,” he says, smiling warmly. “I’m glad you are awake. For a moment I thought I’d gone and finished the job all too soon.”
Watson struggles against his bonds, but they’re strong and fail to give even the tiniest amount. Watson’s heart begins to race; there’s no one around that can help him, and he knows he won’t be able to call out a warning to Mrs Hudson as there is something - possibly one of his ties - looped around his head, cutting into the corners of his mouth, and successfully stopping him from speaking loudly or clearly.
His eyes land on Holmes, who is pacing behind Thomas, his hands buried in his hair, tugging at the strands. When he notices Watson’s gaze on him, he stops and turns towards him.
“Watson,” he says, his face twitching as though it’s taking all his effort to try to keep his expression calm. “Do not panic; I am thinking up a plan as we speak. I always have a plan. You will be okay.”
Holmes’ words don’t help in the least, as rising panic fills him; he’s certain he’s about to meet his end, once and for all. He pulls against the restraints as lets out a noise of pain when the ropes twist and burn against his skin.
Thomas looks up at him and sneers, “There’s no one here to save you, Watson, so do keep the noise down.”
Watson slumps back, barely able to think above the pounding of his skull, and when he lets his chin press against his collarbone, he feels the slowly drying blood down his neck begin to crack and flake.
Thomas crouches in front of him, gripping Watson’s face roughly, and tilting it up so he’s forced to look at him.
“I suppose you’re wondering how this all happened to you, Doctor? Well, I believe you may as well know, if only for your own sake. A parting gift from me to you, as it were. My father owns a copy of each of your stories, Doctor, and it made it easier for me to understand Holmes, his habits and his downfalls. I knew I could use his addiction to my advantage and that is how I hid the venom. If any doctor were to perform blood tests, they would see nothing more than what they wanted: death via cocaine, as was Holmes’ usual poison.”
Watson regrets having made Holmes’ weaknesses so public, but he’d just wanted everyone to know the sort of man Holmes was, and his methods, nothing with ill intent.
“With Holmes gone, my need for vengeance was satiated; however, I overlooked one small detail: my father’s visits with you. I did not foresee that he would talk you into allowing me an interview about the open lodgings, but what was I meant to do, ignore my father’s wishes and rouse suspicion? No, I held my head high and came to your door, which you opened readily before me. Would you believe it if I told you that I never planned to harm a hair on your head? I lived in fear of being caught and tried everything I could to gain your trust and keep you from the truth, but that did not stop the inevitable. The revenge I has enacted upon Holmes was still fresh in my veins and I was about to grant you the freedom of life, but then you began poking around in business that did not concern you.”
In his mind, Watson yells vehemently that Holmes is certainly business that concerns him.
“I knew I had to do something about it. I lied, I got you drunk and told you as much of the truth as I could, but if anything, that made it worse. Now everything is out and I cannot leave you to run off and tell the public, so I think we shall make it look like another suicide, what do you think, Doctor? I will find your body and scream for the landlady to send a note to the nearest hospital, though any help that arrives will be too late to save you. I will not be able to live here with my delicate sensibilities and will regretfully leave this house. Maybe I’ll move to Devonshire? I hear the weather is mild this time of year and everyone around me will encourage a getaway to help me recover from this tragedy. But you must know, Watson, that I am not a murderer, I am only seeking to keep my secret safe. I took justice into my own hands and you got in the way. I am sorry to have to do this, but you leave me no choice.”
Thomas pats him gently on the cheek then begins to fill the injection with venom and Watson’s heart pounds even faster. No one can save him. Holmes can’t even grab Thomas to stop him; what chance does he have? All Holmes can do is make Thomas feel - and then it dawns on him.
The gag muffles the word he lets out, but he tries again, nonetheless.
Holmes drifts closer until his hand falls to Watson’s shoulder.
“Think it, feel it; anything, Watson, just do it!”
The word pain fills his mind and he screams it inside with every fibre of his being. Holmes, you can make him feel pain! he thinks and Holmes’s face surprisingly brightens with understanding. He lets go of Watson and moves to stand behind Thomas, who is now bringing the needle up to the crook of Watson’s exposed elbow.
“Do it!” he yells, despite the tie stifling his speech.
Holmes’ hand appears through the front of Thomas’ chest, but Thomas doesn’t even flinch. Watson looks at Holmes, his brown creased with worry and panic and everything in between, but Holmes appears to be too busy concentrating to return the glance.
The needle slips under his skin, pinching and burning as it goes, but Watson can’t pull his arm away from the intrusion; he can only watch in horror as it pushes deeper into his arm.
“Holmes!” he yells through the gag and Holmes finally looks at him. Watson can see how affected he is by the sight in front of him and it’s in that moment that Thomas begins to scream a deep, full noise from the very depth of his lungs. He pulls backwards and drags the needle with him; a bead of blood appears at the injection site on Watson’s arm, but the syringe falls - thankfully still full - to the floor as Thomas writhes around beside it. Holmes doesn’t take his eyes off Watson and keeps his arm within Thomas’ chest.
After a loud hiccough breaks up the noise of his yell, Thomas falls silent, lying limp on the ground. Holmes blinks, breaking their eye contact, then slowly pulls his hand back. Watson watches as Thomas’ chest rises and falls, but he knows there’s no way to assess the damage until the other man regains consciousness.
Before either of them can say anything, the door bangs open, revealing Lestrade with two officers and a concerned looking Mrs Hudson peering over their shoulders in the background. Watson sags with relief and holds still as Lestrade quickly tugs the tie out of his mouth and over his head, then cuts the bonds around his hands and feet with a pocketknife.
“It is lucky we were not a minute later,” Lestrade says, eyeing the unconscious man on the floor. “However did you manage to knock him out?”
Watson tugs the tie over his head then brings a hand up to touch the sore spot of his skull, wincing in pain as he does so; Lestrade obviously forgets his own question as he shoots him a look of concern.
“Are you badly injured?”
Watson shakes his head carefully. “I am fine,” is all he says, as he looks towards Holmes, who’s crouched over Thomas’ body. “I’m not sure about Grimsby, though.”
As he says it, Thomas stirs, causing the two officers to jump into action. They each grab one of Thomas’ arms and keep him pinned to the floor. Thomas’ eyes flutter open and he gazes about the room with a wide-eyed, childlike expression.
“Where am I?” he asks before throwing his head to the side and falling silent. Watson almost sends him a biting reply when Thomas continues. “The wicked man is nothing but dirt and decay and he spreads fear and pain.” He directs this towards where Holmes is squatting, as though he can finally see the spirit; however, he pauses and looks towards Watson as he says, “The rooks outside told me so.”
It takes Watson a moment to realise that Thomas isn’t making any sense at all. He looks towards Holmes, who looks just as confused as he feels, then towards Lestrade.
“The man is clearly mad!” cries Lestrade, nodding for his men to lift Thomas into a standing position, which they do, with no obvious help from Thomas.
“I spoke to the moon and it told me that the world looks very different from space. The stars said the same thing, but Mrs Turnam’s shoes are both for the left foot.”
“Whatever you did, Watson, has certainly done the trick; the man has clearly been incapacitated, once and for all.”
Watson doesn’t know what to say; he has a million lies to explain away Thomas’ malady, but he can’t put voice to even one of them. He meets Holmes’ eyes again, but Holmes is too busy staring at his own hands.
“I do believe the asylum is missing a patient,” Lestrade says, as the officers drag Thomas from the room and - from the amount of thumping beyond the door - down the stairs.
Watson rubs at his wrists, which have red bands around them from the burning rope that had bound them together, and nods towards the syringe on the floor.
“There’s poison in that; he almost got me.” He shows off the mark on his arm and Lestrade frowns.
“This is more serious than we thought, Doctor; it’s fortunate that we received your telegram in time.”
It’s Watson’s turn to frown as he says, “Telegram?”
“Only a quarter-hour ago you sent the police station a telegram revealing the truth behind Thomas’ past and asking us for assistance,” Lestrade says with a slight furrow of his brow. “Are you sure you’re not concussed?”
Watson looks towards Holmes, who’s standing with his arms folded, back against his bookcase, silently regarding them. Their eyes meet briefly and Holmes shrugs; Watson suddenly understands that he truly has Holmes to thank for saving him. Holmes blinks, turning his face away and breaking the moment.
“Yes, of course, the telegram,” Watson says, rather distracted, but Lestrade seems to be more focussed on picking the hypodermic needle off the ground and studying its contents.
“There’s more of the poison in Thomas’ desk drawer, if you need additional evidence.”
“I think we have enough to keep him locked away for a long time; if he ever manages to become sane enough to leave the asylum, that is.” Lestrade gently pats him on the shoulder. “Your detective skills rival those of your late friend, Holmes,” he says kindly.
Watson shoots Holmes another glance as he mumbles, “Is that so?” without taking his eyes off Holmes’ form. Holmes lets out a bark of laughter in amusement before vanishing.
The door opens and one of Lestrade’s men steps inside.
“Sir, we have Mr Grimsby secured; we’re waiting on your word.”
Lestrade nods then looks back towards Watson.
“Are you sure you're all right, Doctor? We could drop you at the hospital on the way.”
Watson shakes his head.
“I’m fine, but I’ll feel better once I know Grimsby is locked away for good.”
“I’ll make sure that happens, my friend, if it’s the last thing I do.”
He nods at his officer, who turns and leaves, and moves to exit the room himself. When he reaches the doorway, he stops and looks over his shoulder.
“Holmes would have been proud, you know.”
Watson smiles politely and tips his head as Lestrade finally leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him.
“I am,” says a voice at his back; Watson turns to find Holmes standing by the mantelpiece. They share a small smile before Holmes suddenly looks grave and turns to face the fireplace, which only houses burnt logs and dark ash.
“I knew all along that it was he, and I couldn’t do anything about it,” Holmes says, his voice even. “I tried to warn you, I really did.”
“I know,” he says quietly and the noise seems to draw Holmes to him, as the other man finally turns around and moves to stand closer.
“But what I did to him, Watson, that was not natural.” He shakes his head and looks at the floor.
Watson pushes out a snort of disbelieving laughter. “Look at you, Holmes; nothing about you is natural, nothing about this whole situation is natural! I’m talking to a ghost after just escaping the grasp of a man who wanted to kill me.” He softens his voice as Holmes finally looks back up at him. “You have far more to worry about than whether what you did was natural or not.”
Holmes smiles crookedly for a moment, but then turns sombre and looks down again.
“What if the same thing happens to you, Watson? What if I touch you for too long and you go mad?”
“Then I will be no madder than I usually am with you around. You possessed me once and I came out fine - nothing will change. Holmes, look at me.” Holmes complies after a beat. “You thought of the worst possible thing, with the greatest amount of emotion you could muster. Unless I really get on your nerves, I don’t think we’re going to have a problem.”
“That is exactly it, Watson. I wasn’t thinking of pain or sadness; I was thinking about you and everything you’ve done to help me. The fact that you didn’t run away screaming when I suddenly reappeared in your life after you’d buried me six feet under. How you didn’t just call in someone to try to exorcise me so you could sleep in peace. Watson, the fact that I can enter your dreams is evidence alone that you care for me and want me near you; I cannot do that with just anyone. They must let me in, unconsciously or not; they must reciprocate my thoughts and feelings about them.”
“But you thought of those things in response to me asking and needing your help, Holmes. Grimsby went mad because you were saving me, nothing more, nothing less. I’m sure the only way you could drive me mad would be if you were trying to save me from myself.”
Watson reaches out with the intention of letting his fingertips drift through Holmes’ shoulder, but the other man steps out of his reach.
“Holmes, you are stuck with me until the end of my years, do you honestly expect me to believe you won’t touch me at all during that time, especially now that you wholly have me?”
Holmes folds his arms and takes another step back.
“Holmes, you are being unreasonable.”
Holmes narrows his eyes.
“No, Watson, I am not.”
With that, he vanishes and Watson is left standing alone, his wrists burning and head throbbing painfully. He needs a stiff drink or- his thoughts are interrupted by a light knock on his door.
Upon opening it, he finds Mrs Hudson looking flushed, probably from the excitement of Thomas’ removal. It’s not the first time that a skirmish has broken out within the house, but Watson knows it’s been rather a long while since the last one, which, if he remembers correctly, involved Holmes firing shots into the air to warn a man who threatened both their lives with a piece of lead piping. Part of the ceiling had cracked and fallen onto the man’s head and they’d had to carry him down to the street, where they had stuffed him into a hansom and paid enough fare to get him to the hospital. Mrs Hudson had certainly not been happy with the damage - which, if Watson remembers correctly, she had voiced to him rather loudly for almost two hours - but she had been glad for their safety.
“Inspector Lestrade asked me to check on you from time to time today. He thought a woman’s touch might be just what you needed.”
“Anyone would think I’d been gravely injured,” Watson says with a light laugh. “It is nothing I can’t fix myself; I shall live to see another day.”
Mrs Hudson suddenly grasps one of his hands in both of hers.
“That I am glad of, Doctor, for I would not know what I would do with myself if I were to lose both of my old tenants.”
There’s a sadness in her expression, but it disappears as Watson squeezes her hands lightly in return.
“I do rather think I need a sit down, though,” Watson says as exhaustion washes over him. Mrs Hudson releases his hand and smiles.
“You deserve one, dear,” she tells him. “I shall bring up some tea and broth in just a moment.” She smiles at him kindly before she turns away, shutting the door behind her.
He slowly makes his way towards his settee, which he falls upon with a sigh as his eyes slip closed. He does not hear Mrs Hudson re-enter the room, but when he wakes a few hours later, he finds a blanket draped over him and a cup of cold tea on the side table.
*
It stings when he rubs an alcohol solution over the cut on the side of his head; pain flares around the back of his skull and licks at the very top of his spine.
It’s awkward to use the mirror on the bathroom wall to see where to clean, as the reversed image continuously throws him off, but he manages.
He doesn’t hear Holmes appear, just notices a heaviness in the air. He looks past his own reflection and finds Holmes lounging in the empty bathtub. Holmes meets his eyes in the mirror, but when Watson turns around to face him, he’s busy staring at his hands as he picks at his fingernails.
“Be useful, Holmes,” Watson says tossing him the alcohol soaked cloth. Holmes’ brows raise in surprise, but he catches the cloth with an invisible grasp, nonetheless.
He doesn’t have to be close - could be halfway down Baker Street and would still be able to clean the blood off the back of Watson’s neck - but Holmes remains in the cold, empty bath, and kneels behind him as Watson sits on the lip of the tub offering him his back. There is nothing except the steady rubbing of cotton against his skin; no stray fingers or heated breaths against his neck that Watson would expect to feel were someone of flesh and bone cleaning his wound.
The first couple of buttons on his shirt undo themselves and his collar peels itself away from his skin as Holmes reaches the end of the trail of blood. After a few moments scrubbing at the dried red stain, the cloth disposes of itself in the bin across the room and Watson’s collar slides back into place.
He’s about to move away when a feeling that he knows does not belong to him spreads down his body; it feels a lot like the need to be forgiven, and it isn’t until he turns his head that he notices Holmes’ hand resting on his shoulder. He gently slips off the bath to kneel on the floor, facing Holmes, and making them almost eye-level.
“I would never hurt you on purpose, Watson,” Holmes says quietly and Watson can’t help the soft laughter that escapes from his throat. Holmes looks slightly affronted, but Watson smiles reassuringly.
“I know that, Holmes, as sure as I know that the sun is hot and the earth is round.”
Watson rests his hand atop the one Holmes has curled around the edge of the porcelain bath, their fingers blending until Watson can’t decipher where his flesh begins and where Holmes’ ends. He shuts his eyes and breathes evenly.
“It feels like hope and fear, but nothing like madness.”
He opens his eyes again and finds Holmes looking at him with an expression that says he truly doesn’t know why Watson continues to remain by his side. Watson shrugs to say he has no idea why he does either, but lets his emotions wash over him, the kinds that make his chest swell and his lungs ache. He lets Holmes feel the affection he has for him and doesn’t stop until Holmes closes his eyes and bows his head, smiling softly.
He knows Holmes understands now.
*
It takes only two weeks for Watson’s wounds to heal and only three weeks for Thomas Grimsby’s trial to show up in the headlines.
Watson sits at his desk, his feet resting upon its top, with the paper propped up on his legs. He hums distractedly and turns the page.
“Grimsby has been found guilty of murder and attempted murder. He’ll be locked up for a while, I suspect.” Holmes doesn’t respond, not even when Watson looks over at him and raises his brows. “Don’t you feel better for knowing so?”
“Minutely,” Holmes responds, “what good will it do for a dead man? The only comfort I feel is knowing that he will no longer be able to get to you.”
Watson hums again and goes back to reading an article about the rising prices of imports.
He only makes it three sentences in when Holmes leans over Watson’s shoulder and says, “Don’t you find that exceedingly dull, Watson? Can’t you find any other ways to pass your time?”
“Don’t,” Watson warns, as he knows what Holmes is thinking.
“Don’t what?” Holmes replies, his voice seemingly innocent.
Watson shakes out his paper and tilts his head away from Holmes, who begins to lean further into his space.
“Stop it.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“Yes, well, it’s the ‘yet’ I’m anticipating and asking you not to even think about doing.”
He doesn’t even need to look at Holmes to know he’s smiling.
“Holmes,” he warns, but even as the name dies on his lips, Holmes leans in and kisses his neck gently with soft, warm lips.
“Holmes, that is precisely what I told you not to do,” he complains, though he doesn’t move away.
“You should be thankful for the rest; I don’t think you’ve ever slept so much in all your years.”
“Yes, but it is hardly rest when you exhaust me with your insatiable appetite each time you do this to me.”
“I never hear you objecting,” Holmes whispers, his breath heated against Watson’s skin.
“You never give me chance to!”
Holmes’ fingers work at the buttons of Watson’s collar, while his mouth moves to press kisses behind Watson’s ear.
“And I never shall.”
Watson lets out a hitched sigh as Holmes catches his earlobe between his teeth.
“When I wake, I won’t let you get a word edgewise; I have grievances to make known and you shall listen to them.”
Holmes nips at the curve of Watson’s jaw lightly.
“Yes, well, until then,” he says as he leans in towards Watson’s mouth.
“And don’t let the newspaper get rumpled; I want to finish reading that later.”
“Yes, dear,” Holmes jokes before tipping Watson’s head back and covering his mouth with his own.
FIN.
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