[FIC]Shatter These Walls 6/?
Hey everybody! Sorry it took so long to post this one, work is taking up all my time and LJ is insanely bugged. I'm trying to work my way around that still, so please excuse any formatting errors and be sure they will be corrected once I can see my journal displayed correctly again. There are two words in a foreign language in there which I'm especially concerned about being eaten by the bug.
I hope to get back to my regular weekend schedule next week, but for now please enjoy the next chapter. It's a break from normal in quite a few ways, so I hope you're not too weirded out in the end.
As always, there would be no story without my incredible beta, jg5799. Thanks soooo much!
Title: Shatter These Walls
Author:
starlightshade
Beta:
jg5799
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, Watson/Mary mentioned (which is why I didn't tag it), headcanon of Mycroft/Carruthers, everything else is up in the air atm.
Spoilers: for both movies.
Rating: NC-17/M
Warnings: Plot. Talking. Flowery prose. M/M. Holmes' misogyny. Drunkenness. Dub-con. Rough sex. Emotional fuck-up. Amateur musicology/music theory.Now with bonus Mycroft! More warnings will be given with subsequent chapters.
Prompt:: Watson likes rough sex but doesn't want to hurt Mary. Holmes offers to help out, pretending to like it.
X-posted? Yes.
Disclaimer: No money made. No ownership claimed. Fair use applies.
Previous chapters wanted? Find 'em here: Chapter 01, Chapter 02, Chapter 03, Chapter 04, Chapter 05
Chapter 6
Train rides, Holmes surmised, were utterly boring without an explosion or a near-death experience or two, and yet they were the fastest and most reliable method of transport especially over distances as far as the entirety of Europe and most of Asia.
He had been ploughing away at unraveling as much of Triad politics and structures as he could find in a place as remote as London, England when seen from Hong Kong, but he'd been rather stuck in an uncomfortable place of having to wait for a cataclysmic event to finally set the case in motion again. Watson's overnight stay had been relegated to the far reaches of his mind together with any kind of distracting emotion. He'd allowed frustration and anger to stay as he needed both of those to deal with the tedium of case research, but the softer feelings, the Watson feelings, they were gone as far as they could be within the structured brain of Sherlock Holmes. Pleasantly numb, his brain didn't even cry out for any relief from the busy-work he was having to do. Walking the streets, he didn't even register the press of humanity as the screaming voices they normally were; instead, a pleasant trickle of information, neatly ordered, filed into his mind like the animals had into Noah's ark.
So he'd spent his days reading every single newspaper article he'd missed over his time in Switzerland that he hadn't already gone through. Mycroft had been kind enough to procure some Hong Kong papers for him, and he'd tried his hand at some of the articles printed in Chinese in the lesser-known of them. Translation notes littered his desk, haphazardly affixed to their corresponding texts, and Holmes' hair was standing on end from running his hands through it time and time again.
He'd gone out to find the city's opium dens, disguised as they were, the people stumbling from them in more than just a drunken stupor were a certain giveaway, but as with most things the police would just close one and more would spring from the ground, thus they were tolerated in some cases.
Nights of stake-outs were spent there, in various disguises, none of them comfortable, only to return to Baker Street and start combing the news for anything he could use.
Frustrated, at the end of his nerve that night and for once craving respite from the London underground, he'd finally thrown down the pen and went to retire to his bedroom to fetch the violin and clear his head from pictograms that never actually said what was written there. Why the Cantonese people thought that having a language that was pronounced, and read, completely different from how it was written he'd never understand.
He froze halfway there, by the chemicals cabinet. Something was wrong. Holmes cursed himself for having forgotten his revolver on the drawer in the bedroom. He'd hidden it under one of his hats after Mrs. Hudson had threatened to throw it out the window when he'd pointed it at her after she'd interrupted his thought processes with lunch of all the unimportant things. Though his Irregulars would retrieve and return it post-haste, he'd had no desire to actually go through a period without both it and Watson at his beck and call and had therefore promised betterment.
Now he wished he'd just kept it on his person a little longer. Relying on his fists when confronted with what was most likely an unwanted intrusion into his home wasn't a preferred method.
Holmes, after having crept across the sitting room soundlessly enough to have passed for a rat rustling around the walls, threw open the door to his sanctum sanctorum and himself into the shelter of the narrow gap between his bed and the wall, put there after an ambitious assassin had made it in there disguised as a patient of Watson's and Holmes hadn't had adequate cover and Watson had got held up at knife point, and he'd taken entirely too long to devise a way to free his friend when it had been him the blackguard had come for.
Eddie Chung had just stood in his bedroom, sans braid (a very good hairpiece, then, good enough to fool even Holmes, so a style he had worn before), face unreadable and stance the relaxed superiority of a seasoned fighter.
"How is your gwóngdùng wá?" he asked Holmes without preamble, after they'd exchanged identical nods of the head to each other, Holmes peering up over the bedding. The detective just attempted to extract himself from behind the bed without losing too much more of his dignity (not that there had been much left to lose, he'd been in his most raggedy trousers and dressing gown only, some of the more resistant dirt clinging to him- he'd had no time to bathe- prominently on display).
Chung was wearing a beggar's clothes, threadbare rags whose only fault was that they weren't odoriferous enough to pass Holmes’ muster. Most anyone else would have been fooled, though, and he silently congratulated the man on his skills in subterfuge. There was no trace of his accent anymore, either, instead he sounded just like any Harrow-educated peer Holmes had ever known.
He wasn't yet in the shape to be ejecting the presence encroaching on his space, much as he was tempted to.
"Good evening to you too, Mr. Chung," he answered instead, in Mandarin. As far as he knew the foreigner had inquired after his non-existent skills in speaking Cantonese, the language that had been taking over the peninsula and island of his origin since the advance of the Empire into that territory.
"Ko. Ko Ho-Wan." (1)
"Good evening, Mr. Owen Ko."
"Ho-Wan."
"I'm not even going to attempt to do that pronunciation justice," Holmes had insisted. "I have enough trouble keeping four different sounds for every vowel available on my tongue, an additional four would just break it. Mycroft will just have to accept my Chinese being guānhuà." (2)
"Owen it is, then. Most of your countrymen call me by that name anyway."
"What brings you here this fine evening then, Mr. Ko? I guess you didn't come for a friendly chat, or to offer a lesson in your most excellent style of combat."
"Your brother sent me."
"Obvious." Holmes rolled his eyes. "This air of tension can only come from spending extended time in Mycroft's company."
"The Enforcer has found out about Dr. Watson. He didn't take kindly to their schemes of years being exposed and threatened in one fell swoop. There has been a substantial reward put forth for both of your heads. Your brother is rounding up the doctor and his wife as we're speaking. She is going to take an extended vacation in the countryside near... Chichester I believe, in the very comfortable quarters of your brother's country estate. I am to reassure you she will be perfectly safe under both your brother's and his secretary's protection."
"What about Watson?" Holmes asked. If his brother planned to sequester the ex-soldier in Chichester, he could surely start writing the eulogy for Carruthers or whatever poor soul was sent to supervise him.
"He is on his way here as we speak, your brother has gone to fetch him. Dr. Watson will accompany us to Hong Kong, where we will lay waste to at least the part of the Triads we have in our hands thanks to the evidence you uncovered. Mr. Holmes believes his medical expertise, especially concerning tropical climes, will serve us well. We have been secured us a fast train to Brindisi leaving in about an hour- he asked to excuse him but you need to pack fast. The S.S. India is leaving Brindisi for Colombo and Hong Kong in little more than two days' time from Brindisi harbour."
"We're traveling on a Peninsular&Oriental cruise ship?" Holmes asked, for once incredulous.
"Fastest way to travel," Chung- no, Ko- quipped. 'Not to mention most comfortable. I am most grateful to Her Majesty for the opportunity."
"First class?"
"I believe so."
"My friend, the game is afoot! Let us gather my things, and Watson, and set off into the great blue open!"
"Mr. Holmes?"
"Just Holmes please, I'll be looking over my shoulder for my brother our entire trip otherwise."
"Holmes, then. Your brother asked me to hand you this." He pulled a sealed envelope from an inner pocket of his threadbare and shabby coat.
"Special Operations Executive?" he read on the little plaque affixed to the Royal seal. "I've been issued my own Letter of Marque then."
Holmes scoffed and turned around, pocketing the envelope with an air of scorn. Mycroft had a tendency to be overly cautious where the Colonies were concerned. A signed and sealed letter designating him as the Queen's personal agent was too much by far. As if he couldn't operate just as well in disguise!
"Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted.
"Mr. Holmes?"
"Mrs. Hudson, I need my trunk."
"It's in the attic..." the housekeeper said.
"Well, I need it down here."
"Maybe you should go get it then?"
"But Nanny, what do I have you for?"
"Feeding your goat?"
"Well, there is that."
"Madam, if you would be so kind as to point me towards your attic, I believe I can be of assistance in retrieving Mr. Holmes' luggage."
"Thank you, Mr...?"
"Ko. Owen Ko."
"You are most kind. If you would please follow me?"
"Holmes, you need to pack lightly. We will be hastening our journey as much as possible."
Holmes just whistled Vivaldi through his teeth and pulled the suitcase containing his most essential disguise kit from underneath the bed.
By the time he'd emptied half his closet on top of it, Ko had brought the smaller of Holmes' trunks- the one he'd bought in Switzerland when he'd found he needed more than just a hospital gown for clothing- downstairs and had let it clunk down in the sitting room.
As Holmes had needed a moment to sort through his various belongings for the absolute essentials (his second violin among them, there was no way he'd expose the Stradivarius to the tropic clime of Ceylon and their ultimate destination, it would remain with his brother, safe and sound, or he would devise a way to kill Carruthers, slowly, without suspicion falling on him) Mycroft and Watson had arrived meanwhile and were gathered with Ko in the sitting room, impatiently observing his method of "packing" (throwing in the clothes and softer items such as wigs first, then came the violin which was then, in turn, cushioned by scarves, and the smaller boxes containing make-up and ways of altering his features) while Mycroft, concisely for once, filled Watson in on what he had missed out on. The doctor had been ripped from his home at Cavendish place with little more explanation than him and his wife being in mortal danger, thanks to, whom else, Holmes. Holmes gave a sigh at that, if Mycroft had wanted to help him, that hadn't been the way to go about it. He'd not even really put Mary in danger the last time and Watson had nearly strangled him to death. It was only the vague hope that Watson would have some qualms touching him after having slept with him and therefore refrain from taking Holmes' life with his own hands.
"I am deeply sorry this case has put you in danger," Holmes said, to appease Watson. It seemed he had been successful, the murderous look on his face softened into chagrin.
"I was the one who went after you," he said, but there was no conviction in his voice and Holmes quickly turned back to his preparations (this was one case he didn't want to forget his revolver on, plus there was still the matter of testing his new and improved blood detection serum (he'd need a better name for it), and then he might need various chemicals to create diversions...).
At last, that case, too, had been securely fastened inside the small trunk, and since Watson and Ko's luggage were waiting inside the carriage for them the four men quickly made their excuses to Mrs. Hudson (who was looking equal parts terrified despite Mycroft's assurance of an increase in police patrols around Baker Street and relieved that surly Holmes was leaving for no less than two months) and then were on their way to St. Pancras.
"Godspeed, brother," Mycroft had wished him as they'd said their goodbyes, but it had been the uncharacteristic act of him going out himself to bring a sullen Watson to Baker Street that had convinced Holmes of the urgency of the matter. "Her Majesty herself is most interested in the outcome of your mission."
"I am not a soldier, or one of your agents, brother," Holmes had answered back, sharply, voice as clear and cutting as glass. "This is a case I'm seeing through to the end, nothing more and nothing less. I will thank you though for making it possible for Watson to come along."
Watson had looked up from where he'd been kneading his hat between his hands, startled.
"I could not in good conscience let you travel without a physician. Dreadful place, those tropical islands, I have heard, full of illness and squalor."(3)
"Paradisiacal," Watson had spoken up, bringing a small smile to Ko's thinned lips.
"I cannot help but agree," the Chinese man concurred. "You will know Heaven once you have seen the peninsula of Kowloon."
No, Holmes thought, there is a different heaven so much closer to me, but it's been closed to me forever.
He shook himself out, and instead went up front to help direct the carriage around the worst of the traffic around Trafalgar Square.
Which brought him back to the moment. He was sitting on top of some sacks stuffed with letters to overseas, meant to go on the same ship they were going to sail on. Watson had found more comfortable lounging space on some netting that would hold back heavier items if needed, slumped against the wall of the carriage. Ko had gone to the front to speak to the conductor.
There were... flutters of feelings rising in Holmes' chest seeing Watson, in his military dress trousers and sharp jacket, casually sprawled on the carriage floor like that. His polished boots showcased the length of his legs, the cut of the jacket and the artfully low-slung scarf enhanced the width of his shoulders, and his dark blue eyes had always been especially enticing in the half-light of dusk.
"I am... joyed that you have decided to accompany us on this adventure," Holmes spoke up carefully. They had run through the throngs of people in St. Pancras, pulling Holmes' trunk (he had installed some tiny wheels in the bottom after having tried to lug it around Europe on his trip back to England, most useful innovation even if it taxed his skills with crafting, it would surely catch on soon) and having two porters flank them carrying Watson and Ko's luggage. The special mail train Mycroft had organized passage on had been delayed for almost fifteen minutes waiting for them (despite his best efforts, they just couldn't make the time after Mycroft's unnecessarily long goodbyes), the conductor was in a snit, and Ko had been sent to pacify him. This was the first chance the friends got to catch their breath, the first time they were alone together in weeks. Watson frowned.
"It wasn't as though your brother gave me much of a choice. At least I know Mary is safe in the countryside. She was understandably angry at me being gone for yet another interminable amount of time- you are aware this trip is going to take two months at the minimum?"
"I have calculated this much, yes," Holmes admitted.
"You're looking better," Watson commented.
"I am? Why, thank you, old boy."
Holmes ruthlessly squashed whatever dark feelings were starting to churn in the pit of his stomach. Watson had utterly forgotten about that night, had only been aware of waking up snuggling a blanket on the tiger skin rug, had even thanked Holmes for his hospitality and just wandered off, back to his wife. Holmes had not returned fire when Watson had given him a hard time about the supposed vixen he had encountered the night before, had not even cared to give him hell when Watson wrongly assumed him hung over. Holmes chuckled. Nothing could have been farther from the truth, although the headache he suffered after harshly dissociating him from whatever it was that Watson had awoken in him that night in the docks would lend itself to the comparison.
"Why don't you come down here, rest a bit?" the doctor suggested. "I know you can't be all that over it yet." That, naturally, being the stake-out he'd had, disguised as a street-dweller, on the doorstep of a clothier in plain sight of the entrance to one of the better-known opium dens in the city. He hadn't slept in... four days? Or five? now...
"I'm thinking," Holmes said, and wrestled his mind back to the case. Two days, eight hours until they'd arrive in Brindisi. Their quarry, the Triad men who had escaped the shipbuilder's basement, were likely traveling as ordinary sailors on a Clipper, meaning they couldn't sail through the Suez Canal which would add significant time to their journey.
Barring any unforeseen circumstances, the India would arrive a few days before they would which gave Holmes and Ko enough time to find a way into the organization, root out most of the people involved in creating the false documents while Mycroft was discreetly eliminating the most prominent usufructuaries back in England.
Two days, eight hours 'til Brindisi. Twelve and a half to Colombo via the Suez Canal, what a masterpiece of engineering prowess, a jewel in the Empire's crown. Six hours' layover, to refuel and restock, then ten days to Hong Kong.
Ten days, Holmes believed, to rout the criminals, then two days to arrest the ones that had got away.
Back home again, slower this time, thirty days.
Two months, four days he had Watson all to himself, no, two months, four days until his return to London which would hopefully still be standing. Mycroft had promised to help out Scotland Yard in his stead, the dredges of society couldn't be allowed to feel safe without Holmes there to keep them on their toes.
"Can't you rest while thinking?" Watson asked. Holmes rummaged in his pockets for his pipe.
"If you're certain you don't mind the company," he finally acquiesced and arranged his body besides Watson's on the rather comfortable netting.
The train rattled on, its rhythmic motion lulling Holmes' senses. There was nothing to deduce in here, even Watson wasn't in a mood to offer a puzzle, just companionship, and Ko might as well have been part of the wall so far had he withdrawn into himself.
Free of stimulation and urgency, Holmes' mind went to rest, and with it his body, somewhere around the French-Italian border.
He jerked awake as the train jerked to a stop, and from there it was a mad dash through town and to the ship, Holmes' Italian thankfully adequate to the task of directing their driver as his two companions didn't speak more than a word of the language.
They were barely aboard when they cast off and the massive cruise ship was following its barges out of the harbour amidst cheers from those left behind. None of the three men were able to appreciate the grand scenario of their exit, though, as they were led through the steel giant's belly to their cabins.
Mycroft had secured them quarters on the top deck, that much was already apparent by the time they had climbed the second huge staircase. The strange looks the officer guiding them was shooting at Holmes and Watson were given reason by the time they had arrived at their cabin.
"I'm going to murder your brother, Holmes," Watson had ground out. Holmes had been too... well, even his brain had no words adequate to Mycroft's latest attempt at making his life difficult.
"Mycroft... booked us a honeymoon suite." He finally forced out past the obstruction in his throat as they stood in the one-bed bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows alone two entire walls, through which the sparkling blue of the Mediterranean could be seen behind a grand balcony.
"And the adjacent quarters for Mr. Ko," the officer added.
"Thank you, we will take it from here." Holmes tipped the man generously, his mind going back to childhood lessons in his shock. He spied a letter on the bedspread, and ripped it open even as Watson shooed out the pageboy trying to open their luggage and started unpacking himself.
Brother,
this was the only adequate cabin available at such short notice. I would thank you not to suspect me of foul play.
Short, to the point, and unsigned but definitely Mycroft's hand. Suspiciously, he turned it around and sniffed the paper. Faint hint of lemon- oh, how pedestrian, Mycroft!- and the iron tinge of his brother's personal ink. He carefully lit a match and held the paper above it. Brown lines formed under the two sentences, condensing into letters.
I can only give you this one chance. Use it.
He burned the letter.
"Holmes?" Watson asked, smelling the burning paper and seeing Holmes drop the flaming ashes from his fingers only to crush them under his heel into the expensive carpet, shook his head.
"My brother apologizes that these were the only adequate accommodations he could procure given the timeframe. Don't fret, Watson- I don't expect to sleep a lot."
He suffered a studying once-over by Watson, and kept himself as together as he could for it. The thought of the teeming mass of humanity locked into a steel trap on the water with him was enough to make him shudder, and the water...
Ever since Reichenbach, Holmes wasn't the most comfortable with large bodies of water.
"I don't think there will be much else to do on this ship for the two weeks we're going to be on it," the doctor stated. Holmes scoffed.
"There is always a case when so many people are gathered in one place."
He couldn't remember seeing anything pointing towards one, though, even though in his mind the stream of people they had passed on their way to the cabin was endless yet.
"Well, then you can solve the grand mystery of a young woman's lost jewelry, or a dog that has mysteriously disappeared from a locked cabin," Watson positively cackled.
Holmes didn't even deign to acknowledge his friend's immaturity, instead ringing the bell for the cabin boy to return for their evening finery. They had a grand inaugural dinner to get through, and if he knew anything it was that he was expected to attend and be on his best behaviour. Mycroft was certain to have mentioned the contents of the signed and sealed letter he was carrying on his person to the ship's captain at the very least.
----------------------
There were a thousand and one tiny observations made about the hundred or so first-class passengers on this voyage, but Holmes' comfortably numb mind was sorting through them without any input from his side. Still, his limbs were trembling ever so slightly with the strain of having been in this much company for so long (and the second violinist of the string quartet had forgotten to tune up his E string, which was a little flat throughout the entire first half of their program, and it just had to be Schubert, the Rosamunde Quartet to be exact, written in 1824 (4), and at least nobody had started singing), without his default fallback to Watson-watching being possible as Watson was instead watching him like a hawk.
The doctor was now getting ready for bed, clad in just a nightshirt, already underneath the covers, the light at his bedside turned up just enough that he could comfortably read the medical journal he'd found in the ship's library. Dark blue eyes were peering over the rim of the publication, taking in Holmes' quaking form, and with a sigh, Watson laid aside his reading and clambered laboriously from the bed, his cane leaning against the chair Holmes had thrown his dinner jacket onto.
"Holmes?" he asked, coming to stand behind the detective whose gaze was firmly affixed to the orange glow of the horizon over the calm waters.
"I'm fine," Holmes answered automatically, his fingers knitted together tightly enough that his knuckles were turning white and red. "I'm going to find my violin."
For certain, he was missing the numbness that had been there just a second ago. Watson's close proximity was as though his brain was startled into working faster. Instead of the orderly progression of his observations, they were now starting to pour in in droves, connections forming between people he had seen exactly once in his life so far, seemingly innocent snippets of conversation taking on meaning in context.
He needed to get away, to escape. Watson had torn down everything he had ever built up in order to shield himself, every wall preserving his inner self against the onslaught of humanity had been shattered under the doctor's touch, and then he had been left alone out in the cold. He'd rebuilt himself, made the pieces of whatever his concentration had conjured up that had allowed him to function into a makeshift cover for a breach that was impossible to mend.
In Watson's presence, the hastily cobbled-together structure was failing, collapsing again. There was no such thing as keeping the doctor out, he had become an integral part of Holmes himself and there was no shielding against him as such.
"She didn't ever expect me to be faithful to her," Watson said. Holmes continued watching the sun sink behind the waters, if he turned around, his resolve would break, he would want, he would touch, and he would lose more of himself than he could afford to lose.
"She told me as much a few days ago. She said I had seen too much to ever settle down completely, but that she hoped that she could be enough, just enough."
Not just enough, more than enough. Enough that nobody else could gain access to Watson, enough that he had gone away and had left Holmes behind and had picked him up again only to throw him away at the earliest convenience.
"She said she knew this journey would take a long time, and as long as I'd never speak of it, as long as nothing came of it, she wouldn't ask."
"She knows?" Holmes asked, and hated just how weakened his voice was in the face of both the dark deep ocean out there and Watson's fathomless eyes in the glass.
"She at least guessed. She gave as much of a blessing as she ever could, Holmes."
"I'm certain that young lady in the red dress you were so enamored with at dinner, the one two tables over, is going to be quite receptive to your advances. She has no need of a husband- she has wealth of her own, and she is an orphan with little extended family. She would be... ideal."
"I did not forget it all," Watson whispered, his hands now lying on Holmes shoulders, and the tremor running through his limbs now extended to his entire skin. Watson's breath whispered over his neck, scorching his skin like a tongue of flame, licking at every exposed surface in his mind.
"If you haven't noticed, I didn't take more than one glass of wine with dinner, Holmes."
Oh, how couldn't he have noticed? Amidst the revelers, the newlyweds, the hopeful dreamers, the brides-to-be, Watson had been the one somber, nervous, twitching quiescent point of focus for Holmes' vacillant mind. With him in the picture, it had all become so clear, so easy, and the young lady in the red dress could as well have been wearing a large banner declaring her intent for the doctor for all that he saw.
"I am, therefore, not drunk."
Neither was Holmes, and he was also very well-rested from the time spent curled against Watson on the train, sleeping, breathing Watson and being gentled by his warmth
"You... remember." Holmes was shuddering now, deeply, his bones aching with the cold he'd thought he'd left behind in that river in Switzerland, but then, there was so much water all around them so maybe it had followed him here.
"Nothing more than that, Holmes," Watson said. He finally let go of the shivering detective, pulling Holmes away from the windows by the wrist until they were both seated on the bed- their bed, for the next two weeks. Holmes was close to becoming that curled-up wreck of himself he had been that night, only he was missing a duvet to curl into, and Watson was sitting beside him instead of being all over him, so he couldn't do it, not while he wasn't alone.
The small, gleeful part of his mind that pointed out that he was alone with Watson was starting to drown out the larger one shouting in fear of being abandoned again, knowing there would be no coming back from it this time. It was utterly irrational that sometimes he wanted to be all Watson would want him to be, even though he'd have to destroy his entire self to do so.- it was still more irrational that he didn't even care. If there was a chance, just a slight chance, that he might have those two months and two days, he would gladly take it and leave the world to its fate afterwards. Mycroft could take care of it, it wasn't as though he had any vital role to play in the grand game that was life on this Earth.
"I have decided to stop fighting," Watson said, his voice soft. "My wife has given me carte blanche as she was starting to fear me. There is nothing more to lose."
There is everything to lose, Holmes thought, everything. You, I will lose you, my dear Watson, to the woman who loves you more than I could, who has willingly let you go knowing what will happen. He couldn't fathom ever letting Watson go if he had him like Mary had. It would unmake him.
"There never was," he said instead, keeping his body still while his mind trembled. "I promised you, you would have whatever you need whenever you need it."
Watson pounced.
Chapter end notes:
(1)高 浩雲 - Ko Ho-Wan. Combination of (I've been told) common names, last name means high or expensive, first names mean great or expansive and cloud(s). Created combining the names of two of my friends. Thanks guys!
(2)Guānhuà this time taken as meaning Mandarin Chinese instead of "language of the officials". I have no idea whether there was such a thing as Standard Chinese in the 1890s and will gladly take pointers and corrections on the subject.
(3)There was a plague epidemic making its way towards Hong Kong in the 1890s. Germaphobic Mycroft would, of course, know of it.
(4)My little nod to the Avengers movie for now. The classical music playing during the scene in Stuttgart starts out as Schubert's string quartet no.13, Rosamunde. (Still cackling like mad when thinking about that movie... Dost thy mother know thou art wearing her drapes? *crazy giggle*)
Next chapter ASAP. I hope I'll get some good writing hours in on the weekend, it's looking promising so far. Yay!
I hope to get back to my regular weekend schedule next week, but for now please enjoy the next chapter. It's a break from normal in quite a few ways, so I hope you're not too weirded out in the end.
As always, there would be no story without my incredible beta, jg5799. Thanks soooo much!
Title: Shatter These Walls
Author:
starlightshade
Beta:
jg5799
Pairing: Holmes/Watson, Watson/Mary mentioned (which is why I didn't tag it), headcanon of Mycroft/Carruthers, everything else is up in the air atm.
Spoilers: for both movies.
Rating: NC-17/M
Warnings: Plot. Talking. Flowery prose. M/M. Holmes' misogyny. Drunkenness. Dub-con. Rough sex. Emotional fuck-up. Amateur musicology/music theory.Now with bonus Mycroft! More warnings will be given with subsequent chapters.
Prompt:: Watson likes rough sex but doesn't want to hurt Mary. Holmes offers to help out, pretending to like it.
X-posted? Yes.
Disclaimer: No money made. No ownership claimed. Fair use applies.
Previous chapters wanted? Find 'em here: Chapter 01, Chapter 02, Chapter 03, Chapter 04, Chapter 05
Chapter 6
Train rides, Holmes surmised, were utterly boring without an explosion or a near-death experience or two, and yet they were the fastest and most reliable method of transport especially over distances as far as the entirety of Europe and most of Asia.
He had been ploughing away at unraveling as much of Triad politics and structures as he could find in a place as remote as London, England when seen from Hong Kong, but he'd been rather stuck in an uncomfortable place of having to wait for a cataclysmic event to finally set the case in motion again. Watson's overnight stay had been relegated to the far reaches of his mind together with any kind of distracting emotion. He'd allowed frustration and anger to stay as he needed both of those to deal with the tedium of case research, but the softer feelings, the Watson feelings, they were gone as far as they could be within the structured brain of Sherlock Holmes. Pleasantly numb, his brain didn't even cry out for any relief from the busy-work he was having to do. Walking the streets, he didn't even register the press of humanity as the screaming voices they normally were; instead, a pleasant trickle of information, neatly ordered, filed into his mind like the animals had into Noah's ark.
So he'd spent his days reading every single newspaper article he'd missed over his time in Switzerland that he hadn't already gone through. Mycroft had been kind enough to procure some Hong Kong papers for him, and he'd tried his hand at some of the articles printed in Chinese in the lesser-known of them. Translation notes littered his desk, haphazardly affixed to their corresponding texts, and Holmes' hair was standing on end from running his hands through it time and time again.
He'd gone out to find the city's opium dens, disguised as they were, the people stumbling from them in more than just a drunken stupor were a certain giveaway, but as with most things the police would just close one and more would spring from the ground, thus they were tolerated in some cases.
Nights of stake-outs were spent there, in various disguises, none of them comfortable, only to return to Baker Street and start combing the news for anything he could use.
Frustrated, at the end of his nerve that night and for once craving respite from the London underground, he'd finally thrown down the pen and went to retire to his bedroom to fetch the violin and clear his head from pictograms that never actually said what was written there. Why the Cantonese people thought that having a language that was pronounced, and read, completely different from how it was written he'd never understand.
He froze halfway there, by the chemicals cabinet. Something was wrong. Holmes cursed himself for having forgotten his revolver on the drawer in the bedroom. He'd hidden it under one of his hats after Mrs. Hudson had threatened to throw it out the window when he'd pointed it at her after she'd interrupted his thought processes with lunch of all the unimportant things. Though his Irregulars would retrieve and return it post-haste, he'd had no desire to actually go through a period without both it and Watson at his beck and call and had therefore promised betterment.
Now he wished he'd just kept it on his person a little longer. Relying on his fists when confronted with what was most likely an unwanted intrusion into his home wasn't a preferred method.
Holmes, after having crept across the sitting room soundlessly enough to have passed for a rat rustling around the walls, threw open the door to his sanctum sanctorum and himself into the shelter of the narrow gap between his bed and the wall, put there after an ambitious assassin had made it in there disguised as a patient of Watson's and Holmes hadn't had adequate cover and Watson had got held up at knife point, and he'd taken entirely too long to devise a way to free his friend when it had been him the blackguard had come for.
Eddie Chung had just stood in his bedroom, sans braid (a very good hairpiece, then, good enough to fool even Holmes, so a style he had worn before), face unreadable and stance the relaxed superiority of a seasoned fighter.
"How is your gwóngdùng wá?" he asked Holmes without preamble, after they'd exchanged identical nods of the head to each other, Holmes peering up over the bedding. The detective just attempted to extract himself from behind the bed without losing too much more of his dignity (not that there had been much left to lose, he'd been in his most raggedy trousers and dressing gown only, some of the more resistant dirt clinging to him- he'd had no time to bathe- prominently on display).
Chung was wearing a beggar's clothes, threadbare rags whose only fault was that they weren't odoriferous enough to pass Holmes’ muster. Most anyone else would have been fooled, though, and he silently congratulated the man on his skills in subterfuge. There was no trace of his accent anymore, either, instead he sounded just like any Harrow-educated peer Holmes had ever known.
He wasn't yet in the shape to be ejecting the presence encroaching on his space, much as he was tempted to.
"Good evening to you too, Mr. Chung," he answered instead, in Mandarin. As far as he knew the foreigner had inquired after his non-existent skills in speaking Cantonese, the language that had been taking over the peninsula and island of his origin since the advance of the Empire into that territory.
"Ko. Ko Ho-Wan." (1)
"Good evening, Mr. Owen Ko."
"Ho-Wan."
"I'm not even going to attempt to do that pronunciation justice," Holmes had insisted. "I have enough trouble keeping four different sounds for every vowel available on my tongue, an additional four would just break it. Mycroft will just have to accept my Chinese being guānhuà." (2)
"Owen it is, then. Most of your countrymen call me by that name anyway."
"What brings you here this fine evening then, Mr. Ko? I guess you didn't come for a friendly chat, or to offer a lesson in your most excellent style of combat."
"Your brother sent me."
"Obvious." Holmes rolled his eyes. "This air of tension can only come from spending extended time in Mycroft's company."
"The Enforcer has found out about Dr. Watson. He didn't take kindly to their schemes of years being exposed and threatened in one fell swoop. There has been a substantial reward put forth for both of your heads. Your brother is rounding up the doctor and his wife as we're speaking. She is going to take an extended vacation in the countryside near... Chichester I believe, in the very comfortable quarters of your brother's country estate. I am to reassure you she will be perfectly safe under both your brother's and his secretary's protection."
"What about Watson?" Holmes asked. If his brother planned to sequester the ex-soldier in Chichester, he could surely start writing the eulogy for Carruthers or whatever poor soul was sent to supervise him.
"He is on his way here as we speak, your brother has gone to fetch him. Dr. Watson will accompany us to Hong Kong, where we will lay waste to at least the part of the Triads we have in our hands thanks to the evidence you uncovered. Mr. Holmes believes his medical expertise, especially concerning tropical climes, will serve us well. We have been secured us a fast train to Brindisi leaving in about an hour- he asked to excuse him but you need to pack fast. The S.S. India is leaving Brindisi for Colombo and Hong Kong in little more than two days' time from Brindisi harbour."
"We're traveling on a Peninsular&Oriental cruise ship?" Holmes asked, for once incredulous.
"Fastest way to travel," Chung- no, Ko- quipped. 'Not to mention most comfortable. I am most grateful to Her Majesty for the opportunity."
"First class?"
"I believe so."
"My friend, the game is afoot! Let us gather my things, and Watson, and set off into the great blue open!"
"Mr. Holmes?"
"Just Holmes please, I'll be looking over my shoulder for my brother our entire trip otherwise."
"Holmes, then. Your brother asked me to hand you this." He pulled a sealed envelope from an inner pocket of his threadbare and shabby coat.
"Special Operations Executive?" he read on the little plaque affixed to the Royal seal. "I've been issued my own Letter of Marque then."
Holmes scoffed and turned around, pocketing the envelope with an air of scorn. Mycroft had a tendency to be overly cautious where the Colonies were concerned. A signed and sealed letter designating him as the Queen's personal agent was too much by far. As if he couldn't operate just as well in disguise!
"Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted.
"Mr. Holmes?"
"Mrs. Hudson, I need my trunk."
"It's in the attic..." the housekeeper said.
"Well, I need it down here."
"Maybe you should go get it then?"
"But Nanny, what do I have you for?"
"Feeding your goat?"
"Well, there is that."
"Madam, if you would be so kind as to point me towards your attic, I believe I can be of assistance in retrieving Mr. Holmes' luggage."
"Thank you, Mr...?"
"Ko. Owen Ko."
"You are most kind. If you would please follow me?"
"Holmes, you need to pack lightly. We will be hastening our journey as much as possible."
Holmes just whistled Vivaldi through his teeth and pulled the suitcase containing his most essential disguise kit from underneath the bed.
By the time he'd emptied half his closet on top of it, Ko had brought the smaller of Holmes' trunks- the one he'd bought in Switzerland when he'd found he needed more than just a hospital gown for clothing- downstairs and had let it clunk down in the sitting room.
As Holmes had needed a moment to sort through his various belongings for the absolute essentials (his second violin among them, there was no way he'd expose the Stradivarius to the tropic clime of Ceylon and their ultimate destination, it would remain with his brother, safe and sound, or he would devise a way to kill Carruthers, slowly, without suspicion falling on him) Mycroft and Watson had arrived meanwhile and were gathered with Ko in the sitting room, impatiently observing his method of "packing" (throwing in the clothes and softer items such as wigs first, then came the violin which was then, in turn, cushioned by scarves, and the smaller boxes containing make-up and ways of altering his features) while Mycroft, concisely for once, filled Watson in on what he had missed out on. The doctor had been ripped from his home at Cavendish place with little more explanation than him and his wife being in mortal danger, thanks to, whom else, Holmes. Holmes gave a sigh at that, if Mycroft had wanted to help him, that hadn't been the way to go about it. He'd not even really put Mary in danger the last time and Watson had nearly strangled him to death. It was only the vague hope that Watson would have some qualms touching him after having slept with him and therefore refrain from taking Holmes' life with his own hands.
"I am deeply sorry this case has put you in danger," Holmes said, to appease Watson. It seemed he had been successful, the murderous look on his face softened into chagrin.
"I was the one who went after you," he said, but there was no conviction in his voice and Holmes quickly turned back to his preparations (this was one case he didn't want to forget his revolver on, plus there was still the matter of testing his new and improved blood detection serum (he'd need a better name for it), and then he might need various chemicals to create diversions...).
At last, that case, too, had been securely fastened inside the small trunk, and since Watson and Ko's luggage were waiting inside the carriage for them the four men quickly made their excuses to Mrs. Hudson (who was looking equal parts terrified despite Mycroft's assurance of an increase in police patrols around Baker Street and relieved that surly Holmes was leaving for no less than two months) and then were on their way to St. Pancras.
"Godspeed, brother," Mycroft had wished him as they'd said their goodbyes, but it had been the uncharacteristic act of him going out himself to bring a sullen Watson to Baker Street that had convinced Holmes of the urgency of the matter. "Her Majesty herself is most interested in the outcome of your mission."
"I am not a soldier, or one of your agents, brother," Holmes had answered back, sharply, voice as clear and cutting as glass. "This is a case I'm seeing through to the end, nothing more and nothing less. I will thank you though for making it possible for Watson to come along."
Watson had looked up from where he'd been kneading his hat between his hands, startled.
"I could not in good conscience let you travel without a physician. Dreadful place, those tropical islands, I have heard, full of illness and squalor."(3)
"Paradisiacal," Watson had spoken up, bringing a small smile to Ko's thinned lips.
"I cannot help but agree," the Chinese man concurred. "You will know Heaven once you have seen the peninsula of Kowloon."
No, Holmes thought, there is a different heaven so much closer to me, but it's been closed to me forever.
He shook himself out, and instead went up front to help direct the carriage around the worst of the traffic around Trafalgar Square.
Which brought him back to the moment. He was sitting on top of some sacks stuffed with letters to overseas, meant to go on the same ship they were going to sail on. Watson had found more comfortable lounging space on some netting that would hold back heavier items if needed, slumped against the wall of the carriage. Ko had gone to the front to speak to the conductor.
There were... flutters of feelings rising in Holmes' chest seeing Watson, in his military dress trousers and sharp jacket, casually sprawled on the carriage floor like that. His polished boots showcased the length of his legs, the cut of the jacket and the artfully low-slung scarf enhanced the width of his shoulders, and his dark blue eyes had always been especially enticing in the half-light of dusk.
"I am... joyed that you have decided to accompany us on this adventure," Holmes spoke up carefully. They had run through the throngs of people in St. Pancras, pulling Holmes' trunk (he had installed some tiny wheels in the bottom after having tried to lug it around Europe on his trip back to England, most useful innovation even if it taxed his skills with crafting, it would surely catch on soon) and having two porters flank them carrying Watson and Ko's luggage. The special mail train Mycroft had organized passage on had been delayed for almost fifteen minutes waiting for them (despite his best efforts, they just couldn't make the time after Mycroft's unnecessarily long goodbyes), the conductor was in a snit, and Ko had been sent to pacify him. This was the first chance the friends got to catch their breath, the first time they were alone together in weeks. Watson frowned.
"It wasn't as though your brother gave me much of a choice. At least I know Mary is safe in the countryside. She was understandably angry at me being gone for yet another interminable amount of time- you are aware this trip is going to take two months at the minimum?"
"I have calculated this much, yes," Holmes admitted.
"You're looking better," Watson commented.
"I am? Why, thank you, old boy."
Holmes ruthlessly squashed whatever dark feelings were starting to churn in the pit of his stomach. Watson had utterly forgotten about that night, had only been aware of waking up snuggling a blanket on the tiger skin rug, had even thanked Holmes for his hospitality and just wandered off, back to his wife. Holmes had not returned fire when Watson had given him a hard time about the supposed vixen he had encountered the night before, had not even cared to give him hell when Watson wrongly assumed him hung over. Holmes chuckled. Nothing could have been farther from the truth, although the headache he suffered after harshly dissociating him from whatever it was that Watson had awoken in him that night in the docks would lend itself to the comparison.
"Why don't you come down here, rest a bit?" the doctor suggested. "I know you can't be all that over it yet." That, naturally, being the stake-out he'd had, disguised as a street-dweller, on the doorstep of a clothier in plain sight of the entrance to one of the better-known opium dens in the city. He hadn't slept in... four days? Or five? now...
"I'm thinking," Holmes said, and wrestled his mind back to the case. Two days, eight hours until they'd arrive in Brindisi. Their quarry, the Triad men who had escaped the shipbuilder's basement, were likely traveling as ordinary sailors on a Clipper, meaning they couldn't sail through the Suez Canal which would add significant time to their journey.
Barring any unforeseen circumstances, the India would arrive a few days before they would which gave Holmes and Ko enough time to find a way into the organization, root out most of the people involved in creating the false documents while Mycroft was discreetly eliminating the most prominent usufructuaries back in England.
Two days, eight hours 'til Brindisi. Twelve and a half to Colombo via the Suez Canal, what a masterpiece of engineering prowess, a jewel in the Empire's crown. Six hours' layover, to refuel and restock, then ten days to Hong Kong.
Ten days, Holmes believed, to rout the criminals, then two days to arrest the ones that had got away.
Back home again, slower this time, thirty days.
Two months, four days he had Watson all to himself, no, two months, four days until his return to London which would hopefully still be standing. Mycroft had promised to help out Scotland Yard in his stead, the dredges of society couldn't be allowed to feel safe without Holmes there to keep them on their toes.
"Can't you rest while thinking?" Watson asked. Holmes rummaged in his pockets for his pipe.
"If you're certain you don't mind the company," he finally acquiesced and arranged his body besides Watson's on the rather comfortable netting.
The train rattled on, its rhythmic motion lulling Holmes' senses. There was nothing to deduce in here, even Watson wasn't in a mood to offer a puzzle, just companionship, and Ko might as well have been part of the wall so far had he withdrawn into himself.
Free of stimulation and urgency, Holmes' mind went to rest, and with it his body, somewhere around the French-Italian border.
He jerked awake as the train jerked to a stop, and from there it was a mad dash through town and to the ship, Holmes' Italian thankfully adequate to the task of directing their driver as his two companions didn't speak more than a word of the language.
They were barely aboard when they cast off and the massive cruise ship was following its barges out of the harbour amidst cheers from those left behind. None of the three men were able to appreciate the grand scenario of their exit, though, as they were led through the steel giant's belly to their cabins.
Mycroft had secured them quarters on the top deck, that much was already apparent by the time they had climbed the second huge staircase. The strange looks the officer guiding them was shooting at Holmes and Watson were given reason by the time they had arrived at their cabin.
"I'm going to murder your brother, Holmes," Watson had ground out. Holmes had been too... well, even his brain had no words adequate to Mycroft's latest attempt at making his life difficult.
"Mycroft... booked us a honeymoon suite." He finally forced out past the obstruction in his throat as they stood in the one-bed bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows alone two entire walls, through which the sparkling blue of the Mediterranean could be seen behind a grand balcony.
"And the adjacent quarters for Mr. Ko," the officer added.
"Thank you, we will take it from here." Holmes tipped the man generously, his mind going back to childhood lessons in his shock. He spied a letter on the bedspread, and ripped it open even as Watson shooed out the pageboy trying to open their luggage and started unpacking himself.
Brother,
this was the only adequate cabin available at such short notice. I would thank you not to suspect me of foul play.
Short, to the point, and unsigned but definitely Mycroft's hand. Suspiciously, he turned it around and sniffed the paper. Faint hint of lemon- oh, how pedestrian, Mycroft!- and the iron tinge of his brother's personal ink. He carefully lit a match and held the paper above it. Brown lines formed under the two sentences, condensing into letters.
I can only give you this one chance. Use it.
He burned the letter.
"Holmes?" Watson asked, smelling the burning paper and seeing Holmes drop the flaming ashes from his fingers only to crush them under his heel into the expensive carpet, shook his head.
"My brother apologizes that these were the only adequate accommodations he could procure given the timeframe. Don't fret, Watson- I don't expect to sleep a lot."
He suffered a studying once-over by Watson, and kept himself as together as he could for it. The thought of the teeming mass of humanity locked into a steel trap on the water with him was enough to make him shudder, and the water...
Ever since Reichenbach, Holmes wasn't the most comfortable with large bodies of water.
"I don't think there will be much else to do on this ship for the two weeks we're going to be on it," the doctor stated. Holmes scoffed.
"There is always a case when so many people are gathered in one place."
He couldn't remember seeing anything pointing towards one, though, even though in his mind the stream of people they had passed on their way to the cabin was endless yet.
"Well, then you can solve the grand mystery of a young woman's lost jewelry, or a dog that has mysteriously disappeared from a locked cabin," Watson positively cackled.
Holmes didn't even deign to acknowledge his friend's immaturity, instead ringing the bell for the cabin boy to return for their evening finery. They had a grand inaugural dinner to get through, and if he knew anything it was that he was expected to attend and be on his best behaviour. Mycroft was certain to have mentioned the contents of the signed and sealed letter he was carrying on his person to the ship's captain at the very least.
----------------------
There were a thousand and one tiny observations made about the hundred or so first-class passengers on this voyage, but Holmes' comfortably numb mind was sorting through them without any input from his side. Still, his limbs were trembling ever so slightly with the strain of having been in this much company for so long (and the second violinist of the string quartet had forgotten to tune up his E string, which was a little flat throughout the entire first half of their program, and it just had to be Schubert, the Rosamunde Quartet to be exact, written in 1824 (4), and at least nobody had started singing), without his default fallback to Watson-watching being possible as Watson was instead watching him like a hawk.
The doctor was now getting ready for bed, clad in just a nightshirt, already underneath the covers, the light at his bedside turned up just enough that he could comfortably read the medical journal he'd found in the ship's library. Dark blue eyes were peering over the rim of the publication, taking in Holmes' quaking form, and with a sigh, Watson laid aside his reading and clambered laboriously from the bed, his cane leaning against the chair Holmes had thrown his dinner jacket onto.
"Holmes?" he asked, coming to stand behind the detective whose gaze was firmly affixed to the orange glow of the horizon over the calm waters.
"I'm fine," Holmes answered automatically, his fingers knitted together tightly enough that his knuckles were turning white and red. "I'm going to find my violin."
For certain, he was missing the numbness that had been there just a second ago. Watson's close proximity was as though his brain was startled into working faster. Instead of the orderly progression of his observations, they were now starting to pour in in droves, connections forming between people he had seen exactly once in his life so far, seemingly innocent snippets of conversation taking on meaning in context.
He needed to get away, to escape. Watson had torn down everything he had ever built up in order to shield himself, every wall preserving his inner self against the onslaught of humanity had been shattered under the doctor's touch, and then he had been left alone out in the cold. He'd rebuilt himself, made the pieces of whatever his concentration had conjured up that had allowed him to function into a makeshift cover for a breach that was impossible to mend.
In Watson's presence, the hastily cobbled-together structure was failing, collapsing again. There was no such thing as keeping the doctor out, he had become an integral part of Holmes himself and there was no shielding against him as such.
"She didn't ever expect me to be faithful to her," Watson said. Holmes continued watching the sun sink behind the waters, if he turned around, his resolve would break, he would want, he would touch, and he would lose more of himself than he could afford to lose.
"She told me as much a few days ago. She said I had seen too much to ever settle down completely, but that she hoped that she could be enough, just enough."
Not just enough, more than enough. Enough that nobody else could gain access to Watson, enough that he had gone away and had left Holmes behind and had picked him up again only to throw him away at the earliest convenience.
"She said she knew this journey would take a long time, and as long as I'd never speak of it, as long as nothing came of it, she wouldn't ask."
"She knows?" Holmes asked, and hated just how weakened his voice was in the face of both the dark deep ocean out there and Watson's fathomless eyes in the glass.
"She at least guessed. She gave as much of a blessing as she ever could, Holmes."
"I'm certain that young lady in the red dress you were so enamored with at dinner, the one two tables over, is going to be quite receptive to your advances. She has no need of a husband- she has wealth of her own, and she is an orphan with little extended family. She would be... ideal."
"I did not forget it all," Watson whispered, his hands now lying on Holmes shoulders, and the tremor running through his limbs now extended to his entire skin. Watson's breath whispered over his neck, scorching his skin like a tongue of flame, licking at every exposed surface in his mind.
"If you haven't noticed, I didn't take more than one glass of wine with dinner, Holmes."
Oh, how couldn't he have noticed? Amidst the revelers, the newlyweds, the hopeful dreamers, the brides-to-be, Watson had been the one somber, nervous, twitching quiescent point of focus for Holmes' vacillant mind. With him in the picture, it had all become so clear, so easy, and the young lady in the red dress could as well have been wearing a large banner declaring her intent for the doctor for all that he saw.
"I am, therefore, not drunk."
Neither was Holmes, and he was also very well-rested from the time spent curled against Watson on the train, sleeping, breathing Watson and being gentled by his warmth
"You... remember." Holmes was shuddering now, deeply, his bones aching with the cold he'd thought he'd left behind in that river in Switzerland, but then, there was so much water all around them so maybe it had followed him here.
"Nothing more than that, Holmes," Watson said. He finally let go of the shivering detective, pulling Holmes away from the windows by the wrist until they were both seated on the bed- their bed, for the next two weeks. Holmes was close to becoming that curled-up wreck of himself he had been that night, only he was missing a duvet to curl into, and Watson was sitting beside him instead of being all over him, so he couldn't do it, not while he wasn't alone.
The small, gleeful part of his mind that pointed out that he was alone with Watson was starting to drown out the larger one shouting in fear of being abandoned again, knowing there would be no coming back from it this time. It was utterly irrational that sometimes he wanted to be all Watson would want him to be, even though he'd have to destroy his entire self to do so.- it was still more irrational that he didn't even care. If there was a chance, just a slight chance, that he might have those two months and two days, he would gladly take it and leave the world to its fate afterwards. Mycroft could take care of it, it wasn't as though he had any vital role to play in the grand game that was life on this Earth.
"I have decided to stop fighting," Watson said, his voice soft. "My wife has given me carte blanche as she was starting to fear me. There is nothing more to lose."
There is everything to lose, Holmes thought, everything. You, I will lose you, my dear Watson, to the woman who loves you more than I could, who has willingly let you go knowing what will happen. He couldn't fathom ever letting Watson go if he had him like Mary had. It would unmake him.
"There never was," he said instead, keeping his body still while his mind trembled. "I promised you, you would have whatever you need whenever you need it."
Watson pounced.
Chapter end notes:
(1)高 浩雲 - Ko Ho-Wan. Combination of (I've been told) common names, last name means high or expensive, first names mean great or expansive and cloud(s). Created combining the names of two of my friends. Thanks guys!
(2)Guānhuà this time taken as meaning Mandarin Chinese instead of "language of the officials". I have no idea whether there was such a thing as Standard Chinese in the 1890s and will gladly take pointers and corrections on the subject.
(3)There was a plague epidemic making its way towards Hong Kong in the 1890s. Germaphobic Mycroft would, of course, know of it.
(4)My little nod to the Avengers movie for now. The classical music playing during the scene in Stuttgart starts out as Schubert's string quartet no.13, Rosamunde. (Still cackling like mad when thinking about that movie... Dost thy mother know thou art wearing her drapes? *crazy giggle*)
Next chapter ASAP. I hope I'll get some good writing hours in on the weekend, it's looking promising so far. Yay!