Fic: Broken Substitutes - Final Part (4/4)
Full headers & Part 1 are [ here].
Holmes/Watson (past Mary/Watson); NC-17; 8'823 words for this part, about 33’000 overall
>> Watson tightened his grip on the revolver, inhaled deeply and slowly levered himself into a crouch. His pulse was thumping in his veins, but his hands were steady. Exhale. Inhale. <<
Note: Last part, phew. Done! All my gratitude goes to my four lovely helpers.
Disclaimer: I totally disclaim.
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Broken Substitutes
Part 4
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Watson was familiar with the single-minded focus that overcame Holmes when he had the solution to a case in his hands; sleep became a hinderance, as did nutrition and human company. It was, maybe, a testimony to the tolerance Holmes had built up over the years that Watson was allowed around him during such times at all, and so, while Holmes poured over metal pieces, Watson was stretched out on the divan and studying the plan they’d retrieved from the office, a plan that Holmes had gifted with only a short look before he’d hummed in satisfaction and ambled away to resume his work on what was probably a perfectly working device in his mind already.
At some point, Watson must have drifted off because he woke to the low buzz of electricity, a blue glow outlining Holmes’ features. “Are you done?” Watson mumbled, his tongue too tired to work properly.
Holmes jerked before he turned with a slight smile. His hair was in disarray, a streak of oil on his chin that filled Watson with soft, gentle affection, a little foggy through the veil of sleepiness. “Only the first stage,” Holmes said. “Go back to sleep.”
The next time Watson woke, he found Holmes’ jacket draped over his body, but it didn’t entirely stave off the cool air that suggested it was a couple of hours before sunrise. Holmes was nowhere to be seen, but the gathered pieces on his desk looked closer to a final construct than they had earlier; it appeared that he was attempting to rebuild not only the device itself, but also the broadcaster.
Stretching his aching limbs, a tired twinge in his leg, Watson scraped a hand through his hair before he made his way into the sitting room. He found Holmes in front of the fire, cross-legged with several glass cylinders that promised nothing good lined up in front of him. When he looked up, his eyes reflected the flames, giving him the frighteningly fitting air of a demented genius, and Watson stupidly, uselessly longed to touch him.
“Good morning,” Holmes said brightly.
“Good morning.” Watson sank onto the floor beside him, leaning over to examine the row of cylinders. “What is this supposed to be?”
“This,” Holmes’ waved his hand at a pile of dried leaves that Watson had failed to notice, “is to become the most powerful anaesthetic you will ever have the fortune to encounter.”
If Watson were less tired, he’d have challenged the notion that it was a fortune. “A part of your double trap, I assume?”
“Precisely.” Holmes picked up one of the cylinders, a clear liquid in it that looked like water. “A chemical reaction, Watson. And then a gas that is so powerful an entire room will drop into a sound sleep if only a very small portion of it is released. This will ease your way into Moriarty’s house.”
Watson stretched out on the floor, too tired to sit upright any longer. He blinked at Holmes from underneath lids that had problems defying gravity, his mind barely capable of forming thoughts that weren’t concerned with Holmes’ hands and the beautiful, healing skin of his bare forearms. “What about you?”
“I will already be inside. I’ll-” Abruptly, Holmes’ cut himself off, his gaze focusing on Watson. His sharp expression softened as he shook his head. “There’ll be time for explanations later. You have patients lined up in a few hours, so I suggest you get some rest first. It is not advisable for the doctor to fall asleep over an appointment.”
“Since when are you the responsible one?” Watson muttered, but there was no heat in it.
Holmes’ voice hinted at a smile that didn’t show on his face. “Don’t worry, it won’t become a permanent institution.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
“Yes, you were.”
Rather than lower himself to a game fit for the nursery, Watson mustered up a half-hearted glare and pushed himself to his feet. “Wake me at nine,” he told Holmes, hoping his firm tone would be enough for Holmes to actually remember the time and what it implied. “I want to hear the plan before I receive my first patient. Otherwise, I won’t be able to muster any concentration if I have to wonder what you’re cooking up here.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Holmes’ expression was openly amused, but Watson decided he was too tired to care, for once. He fixed Holmes with another hard look before he turned and made his way towards his bedroom, not quite steady on his feet, his balance betraying him. When he glanced back, his hand on the doorknob, Holmes was bent over his cylinders again, but his lips lifted in a quick smile before making room again for undivided concentration.
Watson quietly closed the door.
--
Careful analysis as well as previous experience should have warned Watson that Holmes wasn’t likely to wake him the way a normal, sane person would - after all, Holmes was neither. Yet Watson shot up with a start when he felt a cool hand on his stomach, only to find Holmes grinning unabashedly at him from beside the bed, Holmes’ “Good morning” sounding far more awake than it had any right to, considering it must have been a night of no sleep for him. The dark circles beneath his eyes reminded Watson of when Holmes had only just returned to London, but the rest of him didn’t look quite as unhealthy.
Which was about as far as Watson’s thoughts had progressed when Holmes’ hand dipped lower, underneath the waistband of Watson’s undergarments. His nightshirt had already been pushed out of the way, the blanket folded to the side.
“Holmes,” Watson managed, but even he could tell his attempt at protest was far from convincing.
“Yes?” With a beatific smile, Holmes leaned over him, his hair a tousled mess and his clothes not much better. Instead of pointing this out, Watson twisted a hand in the collar of Holmes’ shirt, pulling him onto the bed. Holmes came easily, his fingers circling Watson’s cock in a loose grip, and there had been something about a plan and time constraints, but neither of those ever seemed to matter very much with Holmes. Nothing ever seemed to matter very much with Holmes.
“You were supposed to explain your plan,” Watson got out just before his mouth sought out Holmes’ without his conscious consent, effectively stopping whatever explanation Holmes might have been willing to share. Holmes appeared far from objecting; his weight settled on top of Watson, hand twisted awkwardly so as not to loosen his grip. It was mildly ridiculous, Watson supposed; they were mildly ridiculous, lacking any elegance and restraint, lacking common sense. It was a welcome excuse, then, that he still felt drowsy, everything hazy around the edges. Holmes’ body was perfect and warm as if it belonged in Watson’s bed.
Watson arched his hips off the mattress in an attempt to get closer, Holmes’ fingers slipping away. As it allowed Watson to drag Holmes in between his legs, their bodies aligning, Watson wasn’t about to complain. He felt slightly exposed with his nightshirt tangled up underneath his arms, undergarment sitting low while Holmes was fully dressed, the coarse material of his trousers scratching along Watson’s legs. The rough friction instilled the moment with red-hot reality.
“Plan,” Watson repeated into Holmes’ mouth, biting down on Holmes’ lower lip for emphasis.
“Plan. Yes.” Holmes lifted his head, gaze unfocused, his arms trembling from how he was holding himself up at what must have been an uncomfortable angle. His mouth settled below Watson’s ear, shaping words against Watson’s throat. “There’s a plan, yes.”
“What is it?” Watson asked even as he twisted his hips in a way that made Holmes groan and drop his forehead down on Watson’s chest, damp, quick exhalations fanning out over Watson’s ribcage. It filled Watson with a glorious sense of triumph to see Holmes like this. He slid one palm lower to settle on Holmes’ arse, pulling him down even as he pushed up, their cocks sliding together, the friction of Holmes’ trousers almost too much, almost.
“You don’t-” Whatever Holmes had meant to say trailed off into a soft sigh, the rhythm building between them not quite steady, too fast and urgent to make a claim at finesse. Watson wouldn’t have it any other way.
He tugged Holmes’ shirt out of the trousers, hand settling on the naked stripe of skin to feel Holmes’ back muscles shift as he moved. Turning his head to inhale the scent of smoke and some unidentified herb, most likely the plant Holmes had been working with, Watson closed his eyes and pressed his lips to Holmes’ hair. The silence in the room was only broken by their breathing and the muted noises of a London morning, wheels clattering and someone shouting down on the road. The reminder that life existed outside the walls of this room helped Watson cling to a tiny shred of control, kept him from being swept up in the moment entirely. He couldn’t risk losing himself like that.
Voice so quiet it didn’t carry further than the bed, Watson asked, “Why did you call me John? Yesterday. You… Why?”
Holmes stilled, but only for a moment. Then he ground his hips down, one hand coming to rest against the side of Watson’s throat. “Because that is your name. Obviously.”
“Yes. But-” Watson lost his focus when Holmes repeated his move, a little twist to the end that made Watson’s thighs fall open, had him tip his head back and squeeze his eyes shut. He heard Holmes’ short, hurried intakes of air beside his ear, and blindly, he turned to cover Holmes’ lips with his own, panting into Holmes’ mouth as the darkness behind his lids was washed away by brilliant red, feeling Holmes twitch against him even as he tried to hold on to his control for just another moment, crashing down with Holmes clinging so tightly to him there was an edge of pain to it.
They remained like that for several moments, entwined on Watson’s bed with the light of the study slanting in through the half-open door. It was Holmes who moved first, shifting off Watson with a faint sigh, and Watson only just remembered to let him go.
“Did you get any sleep at all?” he asked. He drew his nightshirt down, uncomfortably aware of his damp undergarments, but he imagined Holmes wasn’t much better off. The thought was surprisingly alluring.
“A few minutes?” Holmes shrugged, careless as he always was when his own health was concerned. “Anyway, I rebuilt the device, along with a trigger that will cause an explosion that is forceful enough to blow up this house.”
Watson must have slept through Holmes’ experiments with dynamite or whatever other explosive substance had caught his fancy. Amusement on Watson’s part probably wasn’t the appropriate reaction, but then, a saner man would have found a more stable flatmate a long time ago. A saner man would not be lying beside Holmes with his undergarments sticky and his heart rate slowing only gradually.
“Don’t tell Mrs Hudson,” Watson advised.
“I wasn’t planning to.” Holmes’ mouth quirked. “However, the explosive is only the obvious trap, the one that’s easy to find. By removing it and thus making the device workable for them, the first use of the trigger will release the anaesthetic.”
“We’ll let them steal it?”
“No.” Holmes shook his head. “That would not give us enough insight into where and how they release the anaesthetic, and anyway, Moriarty wants me along with the device. He is no inventor, so he’s probably counting on saving time by forcing explanations from me.”
Watson laid his head on the pillow, speaking to the ceiling. “Don’t underestimate him.”
“Someone else warned me of that already.” Holmes sounded wistful. He paused for a long second, settling in beside Watson, his words stirring the fine hair behind Watson’s ear. “Either way, I don’t think I am underestimating him. He’ll take me along with the device, either because he wants to ensure he understands everything perfectly, or because he wants to gloat. Both are equally likely, if you ask me.”
“I fail to see how it is a great plan to have you kidnapped by a madman who might possibly be your equal in intellect.”
“Your scepticism wounds me.” Holmes cleared his throat. “The great plan is you. There is no immunisation to the anaesthetic, only an antidote which you must bring with you. You will have to get in through the trapdoor and deal with the guards Moriarty will most certainly have running around, the ones who won’t be in the same room when the mechanism is triggered. Preferably before they notice that something is amiss and shoot me while I’m unconscious, just to make a point.”
Watson sat up, shaking his head. “Do you have a condition that forces you to put yourself in harm’s way?” His fingertips were buzzing with how very much he didn’t like this plan, a fear he didn’t want to examine too closely.
Holmes met his glare calmly. “Tell me a better plan and I will happily execute it.”
“Let them steal the device, observe them and be there when the second trap is triggered.”
“That isn’t a better plan.” Perfectly at ease, Holmes crossed his arms behind his head. “For one, if they steal the device but know I’m still out there, their security precautions will be much stricter than if they know me safely in their hands. Secondly, Moriarty is looking for me as much as he is looking for the device. He wouldn’t be satisfied with obtaining only one.”
“What if they take us both? Or tie me up, or otherwise ensure I am in no position to come to your aid?” Watson leaned forward, into Holmes’ field of vision. “I can’t very well free you if I am dead.”
It was a question that was at least enough to get Holmes’ attention. He met Watson’s eyes with a seriousness that hadn’t been there before, voice pitched low. “We’ll have to ensure you are not around when they take me. He won’t go out of his way to harm you, or it might endanger my cooperation. It won’t cross his mind that taking you might be the smartest course of action.”
“What do you mean?”
Holmes shook his head, his gaze skittering away. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I think it does,” Watson protested. He leaned further in, making it impossible for Holmes’ to evade his eyes.
Holmes’ face went blank, his voice smooth and expressionless. “Moriarty can’t possibly understand how much you mean to me, Watson.” By the sound of it, he might have been reading aloud a text that had no connection to his person. “He might understand enough to know I’d return to England for you, but understanding that I am more likely to cooperate if your life is threatened than if it is my own, that is beyond his imagination.”
You mean more to me than my own life.
Holmes hadn’t said it in those very words, but the message was clear, and maybe Watson had missed a turn in the conversation because it hit him without warning, a sharp kind of pain that squeezed the air out of his lungs, chased a tremble along his spine and made his vision grow dizzy. It wasn’t-Holmes hadn’t ever shown any inclination, he hadn’t, or maybe he had, but it just wasn’t like Holmes to-Or maybe it was, but if that was the case, Watson didn’t want to know, didn’t want to fall that deeply ever again, didn’t want-
He couldn’t.
“What do you mean?” Watson asked despite himself, every syllable scraping away at his throat. He didn’t want to know, he didn’t.
“Watson.” The look Holmes gave him was amused only on the surface; underneath were too many tangled layers for Watson to sort them into one neat meaning, and his brain was too hazy to even try. “You are not stupid.”
“What did you do in Italy?” Watson barely recognised his own voice.
“Nothing of consequence.”
Watson wanted to let it go, wanted to move on and never look back, but his body betrayed him; he tossed his weight around to pin Holmes to the bed, no escape. “What,” he repeated quietly, “did you do in Italy?”
“You are not actually ready to hear this.” Holmes lay quietly beneath him, unresisting even as Watson tightened his hold, pressing Holmes deeper into the mattress. He no longer tried to evade Watson’s gaze, the light from the open door bathing one half of his face in a warm hue. The strain of his muscles was all that gave him away.
“I think that’s up to me to decide,” Watson said. There was an uncomfortable rush of noise in his ears, his head pounding.
Holmes stared up at him, expression unreadable. Then he twisted suddenly, throwing Watson off effortlessly. Watson landed heavily on the mattress, not bothering to look over when Holmes said, “I needed to come to terms with the fact that I’d lost you. Which should tell you that Italy was too many drugs and too many people who didn’t look enough like you.”
The words didn’t quite make it past the pounding of Watson’s head, so he focused on the one thing that made sense. “You’ve never lost me.”
“You chose your wife.”
“You never liked Mary.”
“It was nothing personal.”
Somehow, the room didn’t feel entirely steady, ceiling pressing down on them. Watson balled his hands into fists, nails cutting crescent-shaped marks into his palm. He didn’t quite know what he was saying, the words dragged from a great distance. “She did like you, you know? Despite that first impression, she said…” His throat wasn’t quite working. “Said you cared for me as much as she did, and that it was reason enough for her to like you, even if the feeling wasn’t mutual.”
“She could afford to be generous.” Holmes rolled off the bed, the mattress dipping towards Watson. When Holmes opened the shutters, too much light streamed into the room, painful in its brightness, reducing Holmes to a mere cut-out, a shadow. “She already had you.”
“There was never a time when you didn’t have me,” Watson told Holmes’ back. It was easier than saying it to his face and yet painfully inadequate, true but incomplete, another omission of facts. They seemed to be doing a lot of that, and just this once, Watson wished Holmes hadn’t felt it fit to share, hadn’t dragged into the light what Watson had strove so very hard to ignore.
“Never in the way that I wanted.” Holmes turned, but it didn’t change the fact that his body was a two-dimensional shape. “Not entirely. I’ve come to accept it as an unfortunate aspect of life.”
Watson sat up, shaking his head, his body too cold and overheated at the same time. He didn’t feel certain enough of his coordination to get up, the room swaying about him. “Holmes,” he began, helpless and weak, and then he didn’t know how to continue. This hadn’t been part of the equation, hadn’t been part of their deal, and a dagger of irrational anger shot through his stomach, but it faded almost right away.
“Breakfast is on the table.” Holmes’ voice was still calm, infuriatingly so. He turned to leave without another glance at the bed, adding, just before he closed the door, “I’ll be in my study. I’d rather not be disturbed.”
The silence he left behind was worse than the shaking walls and terse words. Watson stared at the closed door, gaze unfocused, and then he propelled himself off the mattress, the light that streamed in through the window blinding, painfully so. He threw himself around and drove his fist into the wall.
His knuckles ached from the impact, but the wall remained undamaged and unimpressed.
--
Watson could count on one hand the times when the door to Holmes’ study had been firmly closed to him. It was most certainly closed now; the gentle, seemingly random plucking of strings signalling that Holmes wasn’t in the mood to put some effort into the playing of his violin. As Watson didn’t care to face him at the moment, he was rather grateful for the opportunity to eat his breakfast relatively undisturbed, even though the alien being that had taken residence in his stomach ensured he didn’t have much of an appetite.
After having choked down one slice of toast, his leg throbbing from what might be an oncoming change of the weather, Watson retreated to his study. The walls were staring down at him, sneering at his cowardice, and the shelves shrunk away from him in disgust. He was glad when the first patient arrived to distract him from the background of Holmes’ playing - if the aimless carpet of notes even deserved to be called that.
When the patient left again and Watson sat down to take some notes, he couldn’t remember what diagnosis he’d made.
Blessed silence accompanied the visit of the second and third patients, and he forced himself to focus, smiling and asking appropriate questions despite the fact that his spine felt frozen, a pool of solid lead lodged in his stomach. He skipped lunch to work on what he told himself was a necessary review of his patient records, rearranging files that were already immaculate. His lunch break dragged for what felt like an eternity, the room hostile and too large around him.
During the old Colonel’s visit, there was a small explosion in Holmes’ study, and they both paused and listened for further sounds. Judging by the shrewd look the Colonel bestowed upon him, Watson did a poor job of hiding his relief when the commotion was followed by a triumphant exclamation from Holmes.
“I daresay your colleague is back, then?” the Colonel remarked.
“Whatever gave you that impression?” Watson asked, but for the first time since Holmes’ abrupt departure from his bedroom that morning, he felt his lips twitch into the suggestion of a genuine smile.
“Well.” The Colonel drew the word out, the crooked teeth in his mouth revealed by a grin. “He is not particularly subtle, is he?”
“I suppose he isn’t,” Watson said, although that wasn’t entirely true; Holmes had been-He’d hidden parts of himself quite well, or maybe Watson just hadn’t wanted to see. He still wished he didn’t carry the weight of knowing. It wasn’t fair that Holmes burdened him with it, made him long for what couldn’t possibly work. It couldn’t. It was-It couldn’t, not when society would inevitably find out and the mere thought of losing Holmes again made Watson’s insides contract. There was nothing there for them.
“You are not particularly subtle either, Doctor,” the Colonel said. His tone was casual, but his eyes were glinting with humour, sparking when Watson flinched before he pulled himself together, holding himself very stiff and straight.
“I am not certain what you’re referring to.”
“Of course, yes.” There was no reproach in the Colonel’s voice. “I did mention you looked better, didn’t I?”
An unwilling smile tugged at Watson’s lips. “You did, yes. Thank you.”
“Very well.” The Colonel’s motions were slow and calculated as he clambered to his feet with a groan, one hand supporting his weight on the back of his chair. He picked up the new coughing solution from Watson’s desk, squinting to examine the label before burying it in his pocket.
Watson led him to the door with an uneasy tension simmering in his bones, fading marginally when the Colonel bid him farewell in his usual manner, no change in his demeanour that Watson could detect. He watched the old man descend the stairs carefully, one step at a time, before he turned away with a short glance at the door to the sitting room. It had been curiously quiet since Holmes’ expression of satisfaction, the kind of quiet that made everything within Watson clench in trepidation.
If recent revelations had made Holmes neglect to honour his promise, Watson wouldn’t forgive either of them. He fought his reflex to storm into the room and make sure that Holmes was all right.
It wasn’t his right. Not anymore. He’d forfeited it this morning.
As opposed to earlier, his study felt claustrophobic when he returned, and for all that he sat down at his desk and pretended to take notes, his hand didn’t actually move. He didn’t hear any other sounds through the wall, and it might have been a good or a bad sign; he just didn’t know anymore. The house was too quiet.
His next patient was an elderly woman whose tiny dog kept barking at anything that moved, and even at furniture that didn’t, while she berated it in a cutting tone. Watson could feel a headache creeping up, but Lady Catherine was a new patient and the wife of a respected entrepreneur, so it would be advantageous if he could count her amongst his regulars.
Feigning sympathy, he listened to her complaints about numerous symptoms and sleeping troubles. Her litany was rudely interrupted by the sound of a bullet.
Watson’s heart skipped a beat. Lady Catherine shrieked in a most inelegant manner, and even her dog stopped yapping for a moment before it started up again, louder and with twice the enthusiasm. “Hammer and nail,” Watson declared with what he hoped was an unconcerned smile. “My colleague said he wanted to put up some paintings. His timing is rather unfortunate.”
“Paintings?” Lady Catherine repeated, just as a second gunshot could be heard, then silence. Even the dog had fallen quiet. Icy fingers were squeezing down on Watson’s lungs, his heart hammering high in his throat. In order to keep himself seated, he gripped the edges of his chair, repeating to himself that he couldn’t interfere; if this wasn’t just Holmes letting off some steam, Watson would have to let them take Holmes, would have to stick to what he remembered of the plan and follow instead of coming to Holmes’ aid right now, instead of making sure Holmes was all right and alive, and-
He had to be. He had to be alive. Holmes was never wrong; it was impossible he’d misjudged Moriarty so thoroughly that he’d left himself stripped bare of defences when he’d actually needed them. It was impossible.
Only gaping silence filtered through the wall. Watson’s knuckles ached from holding on to the edge of his seat.
When he couldn’t hold still any longer, he silently rose from the chair, walking around Lady Catherine who sat with her hand pressed to her mouth. It might have been the movement that made her sorry excuse for a dog come out of its trance, its shrill barking ringing in Watson’s ears. He attempted to ignore it as he rested his ear against the wood of the door, listening for any sign of life in the hallway. Over the barking, he barely caught the sound of footsteps progressing down the stairs. It had to be three people at least, and possibly four.
He waited for the steps to fade before snapping a sharp command at the dog that jumped around his legs. It shrunk back, and he drew his revolver and slowly opened the door without sparing even one more glance at Lady Catherine.
The hallway was deserted, but the door to the sitting room was wide open. Watson was vaguely aware of an outraged question from Lady Catherine. He pulled the door to his study shut and pressed his body against the wall, creeping forward. No sounds greeted him. Raising his revolver, he took a deep breath, suddenly calm.
Then he threw himself around, ignoring the twinge in his leg as he burst into the sitting room. It was empty.
Holmes’ study was empty as well, the desk cleared of the metal pieces that had been scattered about over the last few days. One bullet had lodged itself in the doorframe, another had torn open the wall beside it. Watson spun around to make sure he hadn’t missed anything before he lowered his weapon, rapid thoughts chasing each other in his head. He pushed away all those that wouldn’t help him rescue Holmes.
If Watson failed, there was no accounting for what he’d do.
He needed more bullets, needed a cab and the plans, he needed the plans and even more so, he needed the antidote. He didn’t know where Holmes had hidden it; where would Holmes hide things from an intruder if he wanted Watson to find them?
Holmes’ violin, leaning innocently against the divan, caught his eye.
--
The Afghan war had taught Watson a number of things, few of them pleasant and only some of them useful. How to approach potentially adversarial places without drawing attention to himself was one of them, and if he’d mastered it even more thoroughly, he might have never taken that bullet to the leg.
His body pressed flat to the ground, he took cover behind a naked bush to survey the empty stretch of muddy grass that separated him from the trapdoor. He was grateful that all remnants of snow had melted away; even with sinking twilight, it would have been too easy for anyone who looked to spot him against a white surface. As it was, Watson could only hope that Holmes was correct in the assumption that with Holmes held captive, Moriarty’s entire attention would be drawn inwards.
Hopefully, Holmes had been correct in all his assumptions.
Not for the first time, Watson forced the thought to the back of his mind. He tightened his grip on the revolver, inhaled deeply and slowly levered himself into a crouch. His pulse was thumping in his veins, but his hands were steady. Exhale. Inhale.
He pushed his body forward, hurrying over the stretch of grass in a ducking run, expecting the telltale whistling of a bullet any moment. None came. Throwing himself to the ground beside the trapdoor, he didn’t bother with niceties, just aimed his revolver at the rusty metal chain and fired once, twice. The chain broke, but the sound had been too loud in the quiet neighbourhood, echoing from house walls. He pulled the trapdoor open and, after a quick look to ensure the fall wouldn’t kill him, lowered himself down just as he could hear someone shouting inside the house.
It was the first sign of life he’d caught since since the explosion that had sounded several minutes ago. The trapdoor closed over his head as he let go.
He landed amongst coals. Not pausing to dust himself off, he rolled off, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness even as he searched the walls for the slightly brighter rectangle that would tell him where the door was located. From there, it should be a narrow corridor with three doors leading into small rooms, fit for storing items or prisoners, and the fourth door should lead up a set of stairs that would take him up to ground level. He hoped he’d make it there before meeting the origin of the earlier warning shout.
Eyes still adjusting, his fingertips encountered wood instead of bricks. It felt rough and worn, so he took a small step back and kicked out rather than waste another bullet on the lock. The wood gave slightly, but it wasn’t enough, taking three more attempts before it let him through. Slipping out into the dark corridor, he pressed himself to the wall and listened to the sound of his harsh breathing. Further ahead, something rustled, followed by the scuttling of tiny claws over the stone floor.
If mice were his only company down here, Watson could consider himself lucky.
He exhaled quietly before he set back into motion. Somewhere in the house, there was at least one person waiting for him, warned by his gunshots. Time to meet them and find Holmes.
Counting out two doors on his right side, knowing another would have to be on his left, he squinted into the darkness. His eyes were growing used to the lack of light, so he could just make out a rectangular shape, the door that should lead up to ground level. He drew closer quietly, listening, and was greeted with permeating silence. He was about to try the handle when he noticed that the line of light was less obvious on one side, as if a shape were pressed against it. It had about the dimensions of a grown man.
Levelling his revolver at it, body weight on his good leg, Watson counted to three before he calmly released the bullet.
It punched straight through the wood and he fired again just as someone cried out in pain, probably stumbling back; all Watson had was a working assumption. It grew more likely when something heavy hit the ground, followed by a pained groan. If circumstances were different, if Holmes had been by his side instead of held captive somewhere within this house, Watson would advise for caution, would take cover and wait another moment before advancing, but-But Holmes wasn’t by his side.
The light streaming in through the two bullets holes allowed Watson to take clear aim at the lock. It burst when his fifth bullet hit, and he instantly retreated against the wall, blindly reloading his revolver, before he kicked the door open and took two quick strides, ready to shoot at the first sign of movement.
The man on the ground wasn’t likely to move. Watson grabbed the weapon out of the man’s hand in passing, sliding it into the pocket of his coat, and something about the bulky shape seemed familiar, a silhouette much like the black shadow that had been lurking in the flat opposite 221B. It could be mere coincidence, of course.
With newfound certainty, Watson moved on.
Ground level proved to be deserted, the bright light hurting his eyes. He narrowed them against its glare, slinking through rooms and keeping his back to the wall, always straining his ears for the fall of a foot, the unintentional rustling of cloth. None came, and maybe it wasn’t a surprise; one guard in the house while the rest of the kidnappers were assembled around Holmes and the device would make sense.
According to the plan, Moriarty’s study was likely to be located on the first floor, second door on the left. It was the logical place for him to question Holmes, so it was where Watson turned, an ache in his chest that had nothing to do with shortness of breath. The vial with the antidote was safely tucked into his breast pocket; he wasn’t going to consider the question of whether Holmes would be in any state to receive it, he wasn’t. Holmes was all right, he had to be, there were too many things-They couldn’t leave it where they’d left it, it couldn’t be the ending of their…
It couldn’t be the ending.
Watson had barely set foot on the stairs when a bullet whirred past his left elbow. Half a second earlier, it would have hit him straight in the heart.
Cursing his own distraction, he threw himself back, landing with a painful jolt, his shoulder hurting from where he’d tried to catch himself; fortunately, it wasn’t his right shoulder, or his aim might have been affected. Lying motionlessly, he squinted up at the winding staircase, but couldn’t see anyone.
He hated losing time, could barely force himself to lie still. Observing what little he could see through half-closed eyes, he tried to calmly evaluate the facts the way Holmes had taught him - there was at least one person waiting for him upstairs, and that someone might be the Professor himself or one of his helpers. That person might or might not have noticed that the shot had missed. If they had, they’d be biding their time, waiting for him to come into their line of sight again; if they hadn’t, they might be coming down to check. Judging by the angle, the bullet must have come from where Watson was headed, and his only chance was that his assassin grew incautious. Watson was at a clear disadvantage here.
Had it been a guard in front of Moriarty’s study? Had Moriarty told someone to keep watch while he was inside, questioning Holmes who was likely to be bound? What of the explosion earlier; had it been forceful enough to be Holmes’ first trap? Watson hadn’t seen how Holmes had rebuilt the device, hadn’t seen it in its finished state because he’d been too-
Someone stepped onto the staircase. From his position, Watson could only make out the person from the leg down, adrenaline trembling in his limbs as he adjusted his grip on the revolver, waiting, waiting for a second foot to appear, then a man’s body from the waist down, worn trousers and a dirty shirt, a short handgun in his hand, cocked but held loosely, as if he were already certain of his victory. One more step down the stairs.
Watson fired.
He could tell he’d missed the heart because the man’s hand went up to his shoulder, dropping the handgun as he scrambled back and away. Watson rolled to his feet, everything in him screaming not to lose more time than he already had, and yes, he’d missed his target but the man was hurt, might not be in a position to cause much harm, and either way, Watson just didn’t have the strength to do the wise thing anymore; Holmes could be in serious danger, and that was one call Watson had never been able to ignore.
He hurried up the stairs, picking the handgun up as he went, clutching it even as he searched the landing. It was empty, a corridor leading to too many rooms where a hurt man could hide and find a new weapon. Watson found he couldn’t care less. He didn’t bother to check whether the door to the study was locked; he fired twice and kicked it open, revolver raised, but no attack came.
Holmes was sitting with his back to him, tied to a chair. He was slumped over, and Watson spared only a glance at what must be Moriarty, dark suit and sunken over his desk, both hands visible and empty. Then Watson hurried forward, fumbling for the antidote even as he considered how to cut Holmes’ bindings. There was a letter opener on the desk, a polished piece of sharp-edged metal, and Watson didn’t want to see that in Moriarty’s fingers. He knocked it to the floor while he sank down before Holmes, Watson’s knees hurting from their harsh impact with the floor, and it didn’t matter in the least, all that mattered was that Holmes was fine, he was, and that the antidote would wake him and they could get out of here before the wounded man returned.
Holmes’ pulse was steady and regular. Thank God.
Watson hadn’t realised just how tightly the worry had gripped his heart until it suddenly lifted, left him feeling high and weightless. With trembling fingers, he cupped Holmes’ jaw and gently tipped Holmes’ head back, chipping the vial’s top off by knocking it against the edge of the chair. Watson rose and leaned over Holmes to dribble some of the liquid into Holmes’ mouth, massaging his throat so he’d swallow. Watson barely waited for Holmes’ lids to twitch, then he bent his head and pushed their mouths together.
His urgency contrasted with the slow, sleepy reaction it drew from Holmes; there was a whispery sigh before Holmes parted his lips, tilting his head, his exhalation shivering over Watson’s skin. Watson slid his tongue into Holmes’ mouth, tasting an unfamiliar bitterness. It should have scared him that he knew what Holmes usually tasted like, smoke and darkness and the honey he liked to add to his tea, it should have, but the ugly twist of impossibility didn’t come.
He pulled back just enough to rest their foreheads together, waiting for Holmes to blink his lids open, eyes drowsy. “Welcome back,” Watson whispered.
Holmes needed time to focus his gaze. His voice sounded as if it was coming from somewhere far away, each word taking longer to form than normal. “You came.”
“Of course I did,” Watson replied, and it hurt, drove a sharp-edged dagger into his chest, but he couldn’t bring himself to blame Holmes, couldn’t even bring himself to stop touching Holmes’ face, telling himself it was damage he was checking for when it really wasn’t. He was, maybe, almost ready to admit as much.
“I’m glad. I’m glad you’re here.” Holmes’ smile was drugged and lopsided, his pupils widened. He was still bound, and Watson blindly disposed of the antidote, reaching for the letter opener instead. He cut Holmes’ ties quickly and only just managed to catch Holmes when he threatened to tumble off the chair, bodies colliding heavily. They couldn’t stay here.
“We need to get out of the house,” Watson told Holmes, his lips brushing Holmes’ cheek as he spoke. “Can you make it?”
“’Course I can,” Holmes mumbled, tongue seeming to stumble over every third letter. He was warm and pliant against Watson’s side. “Is Lestrade comin’?”
“Should he be?” Watson asked. He spared a glance at Moriarty, searched the room and couldn’t see the device anywhere.
“Oh, yes.” Holmes snorted softly. His lips dragged over Watson’s throat in a most distracting manner. “Think that was the part of the plan tha’ I didn’t get ‘round to sharing with you.”
Because that was when their conversation had taken a different turn.
Watson exhaled and dismissed the thought, tightening the arm he’d wrapped around Holmes’ waist. “We’ll need to find a police officer once we’re out of here, then. There’s another man in the house, and I only wounded him, so he might be back. Where’s the device?”
“Safe.” Holmes nodded towards the book shelf, then stumbled and slumped further against Watson, his hands fisting the material of Watson’s coal-stained coat. They’d both look ridiculous once they got out of here; it would be sheer luck if they found a police officer who knew them and thus wouldn’t mistake them for two madmen, one dirty, the other either drunk or drugged. Holmes’ face scrunched up. “It’s why it took longer for the gas to… He wan’ed to test the range, of the trigger, and… Anyway. Made certain I didn’t catch the code. Something… eight. Don’t know.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Watson told him calmly. He’d been listening for movement, but hadn’t been able to catch anything.
“Tie the Professor up,” Holmes said suddenly, his voice a little stronger, pupils not quite as blown as they’d been.
“We don’t have-”
“It’s fine.” Holmes smiled at him, full of trust and fondness, his restraint clearly affected by the chemicals working in his brain. Instead of kissing him again, Watson nodded quickly and led Holmes to the sofa, handing him the weapon he’d taken from the first guard even though Holmes’ fingers were barely able to hold on to it, much less raise it to fire. Then Watson used the bindings that had held Holmes to tie Moriarty to the desk chair, tighter than necessary.
Watson forced himself not consider the fact that Moriarty was responsible for Mary’s death. He couldn’t sink so deep as to hit an unconscious man, and more importantly, he had to get Holmes out of here as quickly as possible. The bindings would hold until the police were here, at least if Watson’s shot had hit true enough to ensure that the wounded man didn’t interfere.
“Done,” he said softly, stepping away.
He drew Holmes back to his side, and Holmes’ moment of clarity had been short-lived; he was pliant and unfocused, unresisting when Watson steered him towards the door. Watson kept a tight grip on his revolver as they left the study, finding the hallway deserted, all doors closed. They could open at any moment, so Watson carried rather than dragged Holmes down the stairs, blinking sweat out of his eyes by the time they reached the main entrance without having been intercepted.
The cold winter air was welcome, cooling his heated face. Pressed to his side, stumbling along, Holmes was mumbling softly to himself, his breath stroking Watson’s throat. “Need a new dog,” was one thing Watson caught, and, “my fault, it’s my fault he killed her,” and then, earnestly, “Glad you’re here, Watson. John. You’re-”
“I’m here,” Watson interrupted, breath hitching in his chest. “I’m here and it isn’t your fault.” His muscles ached with the strain of carrying both his own weight and the better half of Holmes’, and he needed to get them to safety, couldn’t allow himself the distraction of listening to Holmes, not when Holmes wasn’t making any sense at all.
“You’re here,” Holmes muttered. He sounded quietly distraught. “But you’re not-Your wife isn’t, and it’s-”
“The fault of an unscrupulous bastard. A bastard who isn’t you.” Watson drew Holmes closer, gravel crunching under their shoes as they made their way towards the gate, not nearly as fast as Watson would like. Holmes’ breath fluttered against his throat. “Holmes,” Watson said softly, allowing himself only a brief glance before he surveyed their surroundings again, his arm tired, struggling to hold onto the revolver for even one more second. “Are you still with me?”
“Yes.” Yet Holmes sounded close to sleep. “I’m-And you are, too. With me.”
Watson took a deep breath, smelling gunpowder and coal dust and Holmes. Despite the danger that was still lurking all around them, despite the gentle stitch in his lungs he’d come to associate with mentions of Mary’s death, he found himself smiling a little. “Of course I am.”
--
It wasn’t until the following morning that Holmes finally recovered from the anaesthetic.
Watson was startled out of his doze when Holmes sat up abruptly, throwing back the covers. Unfortunately, Watson had been stretched out on top of the very same covers, so Holmes’ sudden awakening dislodged his support, and he only just avoided tumbling to the floor. Holmes, hair trying to escape in several directions at once, studied him with a questioning expression.
“I happened to be lying on that,” Watson told him, disgruntled. He feared it wouldn’t be enough to distract Holmes from the palpable relief that had taken a hold of Watson, his chest expanding at the sight of Holmes alive and well, something warm and hopeful unfurling in Watson’s stomach.
“Well.” Holmes lifted an eyebrow, cautious amusement hiding in the corners of his eyes. “Clearly, that was a mistake. You should be used to my habits by now, Watson.”
As Watson wasn’t entirely certain how to answer, he shook his head and sat up, scrubbing a hand over his chin. He must be looking a mess, unshaven and clad in the same sweaty, dirty clothes he’d worn when he went after Holmes. It didn’t make him feel any more stable. “Some things take a while to sink in.”
The amusement spread from Holmes’ eyes down to the curl of his lips. “I’m disappointed. I thought that at least you would know me well enough to be aware of the fact that I prefer you under my covers rather than on top of them.”
“I…” Watson cleared his throat and lowered his eyes, quite like a fumbling schoolboy. “Aren’t you curious to know how things turned out?”
“I assume his man dragged Moriarty to safety before the police arrived,” Holmes said easily. He didn’t appear the least bit offended by the idea. “After all, if there is one thing you can rely on, it’s that Scotland Yard only arrives on the stage when the play is over. The question is, did they or didn’t they leave with the device?”
“They did.” Watson sank against the headboard, stretching out his bad leg. Since he didn’t turn his head, he couldn’t see Holmes’ face. “Apparently, the man was smart enough to discover the antidote. I’d… been too preoccupied with getting you out to consider the consequences of leaving the vial unattended.”
“I appreciate your priorities.” Holmes’ smile coloured his voice, and it gave Watson the courage to glance at him. While there were angry red marks around Holmes’ wrists where the bindings had cut too tightly, he looked well-rested on all other accounts, very different from the man who’d returned to England, returned to Watson’s life with dark circles under his eyes and not enough substance on his bones. Morning light outlined the healthy colour of Holmes’ skin, and while he was still too thin, it was nothing Watson wouldn’t be able to rectify, given a little time.
They had enough time, now.
“I suppose this makes us the hunters again.”
“Us,” Holmes repeated slowly, as if tasting the word in his mouth. He slid up until he was leaning against the headboard beside Watson, the lack of space making their shoulders overlap. His tone was serious again. “Yes. I must say, I much prefer that to being the hunted. And we will find him, Watson.”
“We will, but it won’t change what matters.” Watson paused, studying the grey morning light and the shapes it painted onto the wooden floor. They were hard to fixate, seeming unsteady and flickering even though the light was unchanging. “Do you really blame yourself for Mary’s death?”
That it took Holmes a long time to reply was an answer in itself. “She was a tool in Moriarty’s plans for me.”
“And yet that doesn’t make you responsible.”
“If I were less dependant-”
“Stop.” Watson twisted around to grip Holmes’ shoulder, nails digging in to drive the point home. “Stop,” he repeated.
For a long second, several seconds, Holmes stared at him, face expressionless. Then something about the line of his mouth softened, and he nodded, looking off at the window as if he didn’t trust himself to look at Watson any longer. Watson let go of Holmes’ shoulder and leaned back again. He focused on the mildly throbbing ache in his stomach, but it didn’t rob him of breath anymore, didn’t make him feel like a stranger in his own skin, itching to get out.
Maybe the Colonel had been right; the healing powers of the human mind were amazing.
The Colonel.
“I know how they found out you’d succeeded in rebuilding the device,” Watson said.
“One of your patients, I assume.” Holmes nodded. “Yes, I thought they might have covertly interrogated a few of them, maybe inquiring about your skills as a doctor, whether they felt at ease because there were some strange rumours about that other tenant…”
“True rumours.”
“Vastly understated,” Holmes corrected. “I am much worse than they say.”
“You are,” Watson allowed. He let the idea sink in, wondering how much the Colonel had been willing to share with a stranger, how much he’d really seen - but Watson refused to believe the Colonel would deliberately reveal anything that might discredit Watson. For all that the Colonel enjoyed a good chat, he wasn’t gullible; he’d only share what he thought was perfectly fine to share, such as the fact that the infamous other tenant really was more of a genius scientist.
It was unlikely they’d been found out already. And even if they were, eventually, Watson thought he might consider it worth the risk. He inhaled. “How much do you remember?”
Holmes studied him for a brief moment before he smiled. “All of it.”
“So you remember-”
“That you kissed me while I was helpless and unable to resist?” Holmes’ voice carried a smug note. “Why yes, I do.”
“That wasn’t quite-”
Once again, Holmes cut him off, but this time, it was by moving to straddle Watson’s thighs, his body pressing close. “Oh,” he said softly, voice pitched low. “But it was exactly that.”
Watson’s hands settled on Holmes’ back, ripples of Holmes’ spine shifting against his palms as Holmes inched just a little closer, lips brushing Watson’s throat as Watson asked, “Exactly what?”
“This,” Holmes said cryptically. He pulled back just enough to smile at Watson, an expression in his eyes that made the gentle, sweet warmth in Watson’s stomach expand. He’d barely decided to accept it for what it was when Holmes told him, the same low pitch to his voice, “You are in love with me. Quite hopelessly so.”
Watson tipped his head back and didn’t avert his eyes. “Unfortunately, yes.”
It wasn’t often he managed to surprise Holmes. This was one of those rare times; Holmes’ eyes widened a little before he inhaled roughly through his teeth, said, “John,” and tilted forward. Watson caught him.
=== .finis. ===
Thanks, fandom. It was a fun ride! Now, you could:
- Go back to [ Headers & Part 1] or
- download the [Soundtrack] or
- comment below. All feedback is much appreciated. :)
(Or, uh. You can do something else entirely, of course.)
ETA: TRULY FUCKING INCREDIBLY AMAZING COMIC BY pyromagnus OMG!!!