a better way to fall (part two)

[walksbyherself]

master post


It turns out to be easier than he had feared, getting Mrs. Hudson to leave Baker Street. A few intimations about some new and hazardous trouble Holmes has gotten himself into-serious indeed, she concludes, if Watson has come back to stay-combined with the fear that Holmes may have actually worked himself into sickness convince her that now is the time to take that long overdue visit to her daughter in Bath. She fixes up a pot of tea and some breakfast before she leaves, reminding Watson to look after himself at least half as much as he looks after Holmes.

Watson insists on bringing the tray up himself. He sets it down with a clatter on the footstool.

Rache peers at the contents of the breakfast tray. "I heard a woman's voice."

"The landlady," Watson supplies, tone clipped. "I assume you need to eat."

"How thoughtful of you." Rache leans forward, reaching for the tray, and finds himself brought up short by the cuffs. "Are you going to going to feed me by hand, then?"

"Not if my life depended on it." Watson retrieves the key and unlocks the cuff around the demon's right wrist; before he can step back, Rache's freed hand closes over his fingers.

"Thank you," he says, clear and precise, his eyes locked on Watson's.

"You're welcome," Watson replies reflexively. He pulls his hand free of Rache's slowly and with some difficulty. He moves out of reach, keeping the breakfast tray between himself and the demon. If Rache notices the avoidance, he doesn't call attention to it. Instead, he busies himself with making up a plate. They eat in silence for several minutes and Watson dares to hope such conditions might last. He is soon enough disappointed.

"But why did you send that charming woman away?" The demon licks honey from his fingers and reaches for another piece of toast. "Will you be doing all our cooking for us, or will you be chaining me to the stove next?"

"I sent her away because Holmes's idiosyncrasies are one thing, but even at his worst, no one would think him possessed," Watson replies, steadfastly ignoring the second question. "Better Holmes considered reckless and me overly cautious than we be found out, since you cannot pass for him."

"Couldn't I?" Rache's posture changes-straightens slightly, but remains nothing approaching proper. The sharpness in his expression relaxes into a level of casual focus that seems to take in everything and nothing. When he speaks again, his tone is gentler, that strange mix of condescending and conciliatory that only Holmes has ever managed. "My dear Watson, it wounds me to think you do not have full faith in my abilities."

Watson feels vaguely ill. "Stop that. I can't stop you from looking like him, but I'll be damned if I let you pretend you actually are him."

Rache shrugs. "Suit yourself," he mutters around a mouthful of toast.

Watson decides to finish his breakfast in the kitchen. Afterward, he spends the better part of an hour constructing a note to Mary that tries to be suitably reassuring and cautionary. He catches one of the Regulars lurking around the kitchen door; the boy is drafted into a delivery service for the price of Mrs. Hudson's pastries.

The boy returns shortly, in the process of devouring part of his fee, with a reply from Mary. If the tone of her note is anything to go by, she is neither reassured nor cautioned, but agrees to keep her distance for the first twenty-four hours. On Tuesday, however, he is to expect a visit.

Watson slumps in his chair and wonders if paranoia will allow him to hide down here until lunch.

The knocking is becoming insistent.

"You can't ignore them forever," Rache says. After bringing up lunch, Watson had not put the other cuff back on and Rache appears inclined to test the limits of his movement, twisting to sling his legs over the other arm of the chair.

"I most certainly can," Watson mutters into his palms. "They cannot stay there all day."

Rache is undeterred. "But they could go fetch the police, afraid that the great Sherlock Holmes has collapsed from illness or been murdered in his sleep or a thousand other ailments that would keep him from answering. And what would you say when they kicked in the door and found me a hostage in my own home?" Rache's smile turns wicked; he pitches his voice to sound distraught. "'Thank God you've come, I don't know what's the matter with him; he's convinced I'm possessed, he's kept me here all night-'"

Watson is headed for the stairs before he can finish the example.

Of all the people he thought might be on the doorstep, Irene Adler is not one of them.

"What do you want?"

She slides past him into the entryway. "I heard you'd encountered some difficulties last night."

"Heard from whom?"

Adler shakes her head. "That's not important. Any time the illustrious Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are out and about, someone is going to notice. Especially when things take a rather catastrophically wrong turn."

"...I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Really, Doctor, I doubt we have time for this, but if you insist." She ticks off points on her gloved fingertips. "Fact: Sir Edward Grenville conducted an exorcism in his home yesterday evening, to remove a demon from the body of his son, Arthur. Fact: Dr. John Watson was in attendance as presiding physician, along with his companion Sherlock Holmes, who was no doubt looking for a free evening's entertainment. Fact: Arthur Grenville perished in the course of events; official cause of death was listed as stress on a weak heart. Fact: Dr. John Watson was not the physician who signed off on this cause, since he left after only a cursory examination of the deceased. Fact: though he didn't see which building they entered, a cab driver did convey a disoriented gentleman and his friend to Baker Street later that night. And, last but not least, Sherlock Holmes has not been seen in public since."

Adler beams, spreading her hands. "It's not a difficult conclusion to draw, Doctor."

Watson keeps his tone utterly disinterested, though he's not sure he manages the same with his expression. "And that conclusion would be?"

She sighs, slipping the pins from her hat. "That the demon has now taken over Holmes, of course. And that you've somehow managed to contain him-impressive, by the way-but are no doubt rapidly running out of ideas and resources. I'm here to provide you with both."

"I wouldn't have thought you were the type to put stock in gossip and ghost stories, Miss Adler."

"Ah." She smiles. "Some of us have seen things quite a bit stranger in our travels, and have learned to be prepared." She holds up her purse and gives it a healthy shake; it clanks ominously. "Now, are you going to tell me exactly what happened or not?"

Watson's shoulders slump, resigned. Even help from Adler is better than none. He leads her into the downstairs parlor and, a fraction at a time, the story comes out. Adler listens, hands folded over her purse resting in her lap. Her expression never wavers from polite interest, as if she hears this sort of story every day. When Watson is finished, she lets the silence persist for a moment longer, before clearing her throat.

"All things considered, you did very well," she begins. "Most people wouldn't even have begun to suspect by now; that you did and that you acted has no doubt saved his life."

"I appreciate the reassurance," Watson begins, "but how is it that you know all this? And I don't just mean about last night."

"As I said, Doctor, I've traveled. A broader world view forces one to accept that there may be something to that 'more things in heaven and earth' business." She smiles and he knows that's the most she'll ever say about it.

"When I learned of your predicament," she continues, "I decided to find someone with more specialized knowledge in the field. Given the specificity of my needs, it didn't take long for me to narrow the field to a gentleman in Bayswater. He may be a charlatan-he isn't someone I've consulted before-but I doubt it. When I told him what I was looking for, he seemed both sympathetic and concerned as to my friend's 'unfortunate condition.' He didn't make any claims as to how to get rid of the thing, but he did have some suggestions on keeping it contained." Adler tugs off her gloves. "Where does that delightful landlady of yours keep her salt?"

After a quick trip to the kitchen, the two of them make the rounds of every portal in the house-from the smallest windows to the cellar door, leaving a wide band of salt across every possible exit.

Adler explains the necessity in more detail as they work. "Salt at all the thresholds and windowsills will keep him inside; he won't be able to break the lines, but take care that you don't."

"But why salt?" Watson asks, letting it run through his fist to leave a line in front of the kitchen door.

"It's a symbol of purification and preservation tracing back centuries," she replies. "Silly enough now, I grant you, but they still fear it, so you and I are going to take advantage of that fear. Check the integrity of your lines regularly, because as soon as there is a gap at an exit, he will know about it."

They complete their task in the entryway, leaving the broadest possible line before the front door. Adler dusts off her hands, pleased with their handiwork.

"I have one other thing for you," she says. She retrieves her purse from the parlor and empties its contents into her hand-a pair of matched silver cuffs. They are two inches wide and covered in chased silver designs that might be interlocking letters or symbols or silhouettes. There is a hinge on one side, and a small square latch that looks almost too easy to open. Watson notices that the designs continue onto the interior of the cuffs, twice as numerous as on the outside.

Adler looks particularly proud of them. "He said they were the best he could come up with on such short notice, apologizing all over himself. If this is what he can do on no notice, I said, I promised him a commission."

Watson tries to seem half as enthusiastic. "And they are what exactly?"

Adler holds one up in each hand. "Think of them as a tether. So long as the demon is wearing one, he cannot go but so far from the other-a few dozen yards or so. If he tries, I'm given to understand he'll be quickly reminded why it's a poor decision until such time as he closes the distance."

"They're...remarkable," Watson replies slowly, "but I'm not certain what good they'll do me. I don't plan on showing him off around town."

"Would you rather leave him here alone and unsupervised while you search for ways to be rid of him?"

Watson opens and shuts his mouth. "The lady has a point," he murmurs.

"Watson!" Rache's voice resounds from upstairs, somewhere between curious and panicked. "Who is our house guest?"

"None of your business!" Watson calls in return.

Adler puts a hand on his arm, her smile crooked. "If you think I came all this way to leave without getting a look at him, think again, Doctor. Besides, there are windows in that room." She hefts the bag of salt. "We have not yet dealt with them."

Watson knows his odds of dissuading her are next to nothing, and reluctantly leads her back upstairs. When they enter the room, Rache leans as far forward against the limits of the handcuff as he can without falling off his seat. "Well, aren't you a clever thing." He grins sharply.

"Not half as clever as you, I'm sure." Adler pulls up a chair across from him, lashes demurely lowered.

"And a flatterer, too." Rache turns his smile on Watson, who keeps his attention on salting the windowsill. "Tell me she's moving in."

Adler sighs regretfully. "Much as I'd love this opportunity to study possession up close, I have pressing commitments elsewhere. I'm sure you understand."

"Certainly, but do stay for tea at the very least. Watson can rid me of these needless restraints and we'll make it a party."

She shakes her head. "I make it a personal policy not to break bread with those holding my friends hostage."

Rache blinks wide, innocent eyes. "You prefer to be holding them hostage yourself?"

"Not so much my friends..." She slips one of the cuffs from her handbag, twirling it around her finger.

Rache pales visibly. "And here I thought I wouldn't get to travel," he quips, but his voice is hoarse.

"So glad I can remove that concern from your thoughts," Irene replies, retrieving the other cuff and passing them both to Watson. "It would be a shame if you came all this way and never got to see any of London."

"How kind," Rache manages, his smile strained. "You do come so very well prepared for this sort of thing. There can't be many women of your description; I shall have to make inquiries."

"I doubt very much if anyone remembers me."

"However could they forget you?" he murmurs, leaning forward to touch her hand, but she is just a hair out of reach.

"And now who's a flatterer?" she replies, standing up. "Well, it has certainly been enlightening, but I have other business to attend to. Good day, sir."

"A very good day to you as well, my dear." He waves goodbye.

Watson follows her out, catching up with her in the entryway when she pauses to put back on her hat and gloves. "Thank you, Irene. I don't--"

"You don't need to thank me," Adler finishes for him. "You've protected him often enough that I was overdue a turn. Now, there's a woman in Paris who might be able to help; I have a ticket booked on the next ferry out of Dover. The information on where she can be found is piecemeal at best, so I can't make promises as to speed. When I find her, however, I will send her back to you if there's the slightest chance she can do something."

"Not coming back yourself?"

Adler smiles. "My face is still a touch too famous around here after that business with Parliament and my cunning escape. Don't tell me you'll miss me, doctor?"

Watson thinks about what's waiting for him upstairs, about the uncertainty of Adler's lead and the likelihood of failure. He smiles. "All right, then. I won't."

Watson waits until evening before he actually removes the handcuffs. Rache is out of his chair in an instant and heads straight for the window, drawing up short when he sees the salt on the windowsill. He leans as close as he can to the glass, trying to get a better look at the world outside.

Watson clears his throat. "You can have Holmes's room." It took him most of the evening to feel able to say those words.

Rache looks back at him, grinning. "I should hope so," he replies. "I do have everything else of his."

Watson clenches his jaw. "You're lucky I don't lock you in there."

"And then will you send me to bed without dessert?" The grin turns into a sneer. "I think both of us ran out of luck quite some time ago."

Watson can't help agreeing with him, which he takes as a sign that he needs to sleep.

Mary arrives promptly after lunch on Tuesday. She brings with her Watson's medical bag, three clean shirts, a clean pair of trousers, and his pistol. The lines of salt are granted only a skeptical glance and an arched eyebrow. "One of Holmes's experiments," Watson explains. "God only knows what it's for, but if a single grain is disturbed, he insists he will have to do it all over again."

That gets her to laugh. While she deposits the bags in Watson's room, Watson heads for the doorway to the study, where Rache is examining a haphazard pile of books.

"Mary is here, Holmes," Watson says, a little too loud.

Rache's jaw drops ever so slightly, before he shuts it with a click and slides into Holmes's posture like a glove. "A ministering angel to the sick," he replies. "Definitely your wife."

"Mistress Mary." The thing wearing Holmes's face smiles and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I must thank you for the generous loan of your husband; I crave your indulgence in keeping him near me a little while longer."

She smiles back. "No thanks necessary, Mr. Holmes. It would be cruel of me to keep him from you in your time of need."

"Your lady is entirely too giving of you, Watson. If she is not careful, I may well lock you away and keep you entirely to myself this time."

"I am giving, Mr. Holmes, not a saint to part with all her worldly possessions." There is laughter in her tone, but the promise of something more serious hides around her eyes. "If you were to keep him hostage, I would have to join the criminal element myself to recover that which belongs to me."

"And I, in turn, would be bound by law to pursue you." Rache's grin sharpens. "What a chase that would be."

Mary sips at her tea, still smiling. "All the same, I am thankful such a fate need not befall us."

Conversation continues in a more pleasant vein for another quarter of an hour, at which time Mary makes her excuses. Rache thanks her for the pleasure of her company and begins flipping through a volume on botany before she is entirely out of the room. Watson walks her to the door.

Mary's placid smile persists until they reach the front stoop. "There is something wrong with him, John," she murmurs, casting a glance at the closed door as if Holmes might hear her through it. "And it's more than any normal sickness, whatever you're pretending."

Watson opens his mouth to speak; she presses a finger to his lips. "You've already decided not to tell me the truth of it; I cannot say it delights me, but I assume you have your reasons." The looks she gives him adds that his reasons had better be good ones or he'll answer for it later. "Just promise me that you will be careful."

"As careful as I can," he replies.

"I suppose it will do," she says, and kisses him goodbye.

When Watson returns, Rache has set the book aside and is staring out the window, one leg drawn up beneath him on the seat.

"Why did you play along?"

Rache doesn't turn to look at him. "Because I knew if I frightened her, I would never hear the end of it," he says softly. "What happened to being damned?"

Watson runs a hand through his hair. "Maybe I already am."

"Well, you are in prison," Rache muses, reaching for the book again. "I suppose it's good practice."

"In prison..." Watson murmurs, staring at the floor. A moment later, he swears and runs from the room. When he returns, it's with his jacket over his arm and hat in one hand.

"And where are you off to?"

"Newgate Prison. There's someone there who might know what to do with you."

"I doubt that very much, but do give them my fondest regards."

"You're coming with me," Watson says.

Rache's flippant tone doesn't change, but his eyes are a fraction wider. "Actually, I'm quite comfortable here, so why don't you go talk to the gentleman in jail and I'll...guard the house."

"If you think I'm leaving you here by yourself, you're sorely mistaken."

Rache smiles. "You could always have that clever woman with her little bag of tricks come watch me. She could hold her own, I'm sure."

"She very well might," Watson muses, taking one of the cuffs from his jacket pocket. "But I see no reason to involve her in this any further than absolutely necessary. This I can handle myself."

"Give yourself that much credit, do you?" Rache's eyes don't stray from the silver.

Watson doesn't reply. He flips open the latch with a fingernail and closes it around his wrist. The metal is cool and unexpectedly light. When he draws out the second cuff, Rache gets to his feet.

The scuffle is terribly brief. When the dust settles, Rache's back is pressed against a bookshelf; one of Watson's arms is pressed against his throat. Watson's other hand closes the second cuff around Rache's right wrist. The demon's eyelids flutter and his mouth works soundlessly when the catch flips closed.

"There," Watson murmurs. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Lord Coward is in Newgate Prison waiting to die. The men who put him there are the last visitors he expects to receive. (That they are the only visitors he has yet received is telling in a way he prefers not to think about.)

The doctor looks as self-righteous as ever, though the detective might have a little more nervous energy than usual. Perhaps the years of near death experiences and drug use have finally pushed him over the edge. Coward certainly hopes so. He sits on his cot with his back to one wall and his eyes on the other, waiting for them to make the first move. It is, to his mild surprise, the doctor who speaks first.

"There was a death last night."

"Not mine," Coward drawls. "And sadly, not yours either. So my reasons for caring are rather slim and none."

"The victim was demonically possessed," Watson adds.

Coward doesn't turn his head, but he does cut his eyes over at the two men. "And you have proof of this, do you?"

"Considerable," Watson replies. "But we also have questions, and if you can answer them, there will be something in it for you."

"What? A promise the knot will break my neck instead of leaving me to strangle?" Coward snorts. "How tempting." He shifts on the narrow cot, presenting his back to his visitors and falling into sullen silence.

Rache sighs. "Let's drop this charade, doctor. His Lordship is hardly going to be wooed by your petty offerings, when all you've shown him is a dead man he cares nothing for who might have dabbled in a similar field. If you want to get him talking, you should try telling him that the gentleman died during a failed exorcism, during which the demon jumped to a different host, and you would be ever so obliging if he could help you get rid of the little nuisance without killing the dear gentleman he's occupying."

Coward's head whips around, eyes wide. "You're the demon."

"I told you." Rache grins at Watson. "He's really very bright; Henry didn't keep him around only for his looks."

Coward is on his feet in an instant, his expression torn between offended and amazed. "How do you know about Henry?"

Rache's voice drops low, conspiratorial. "Is that really the question you want to ask me?"

Coward looks openly desperate before schooling his expression into something more calculating. "If I'm going to help you with this, I want something in return."

Watson frowns. "If you think this will get you released-"

Coward shakes his head. "Hardly. All I want is information."

"Done."

"Definitely off your game today, Watson," Rache drawls. "Who's to say what information he wants? And if you can even provide it? Caveats, I think, are in order." The demon ticks points off on his fingers. "You agree to talk and we agree to answer your questions, on the condition that we cannot tell you what we don't know, and you don't have to be happy with the answers we can give you."

"Agreed," Coward says.

Rache curls his hands around the bars. "Tit for tat, then. What can you tell us of demons?"

Coward doesn't answer right away. "Why do you need my help on this topic? I would have thought you expert enough."

"Self-discovery is an important experience, so I'm told. Besides, it will help the doctor and for now, what helps the doctor helps me." He flashes a smile that shows too many teeth. "You were saying, my lord."

"Demons were never a part of our rituals," he begins.

"The Order's or Blackwood's?" Watson interrupts.

"Neither," Coward replies. "Such a summoning is considered black arts, which kept the Order away from it, and Blackwood always preferred to keep things more...human."

Rache makes a soft, regretful sound and turns away. "If that's all you have to say-"

"Wait." Coward grasps for Rache's hand to keep him by the door. "I said we never did it, not that I was ignorant. There are more men than the Order in London with a taste for power and not all of them claim scruples. There were Order members who spoke of having been approached, attempts at recruitment by another organization. They had little to say in the way of detail, but these others promised greater power and more readily obtained, if one might have the courage to try for it."

Rache snorts. "And from this, you inferred demons?"

At this, Coward smiles. "I might not have, had they not come to me. I thought it presented a unique opportunity. If we had rivals in our city, he...Lord Blackwood would want to know. I played them out, feigned interest to see how much they might reveal. They told me of their pursuits, something far more powerful than any one ritual."

"Something like Blackwood's plan," Watson muses, "with all those ceremonies and sacrifices?"

Coward shakes his head. "Both more and less than all that. They claimed it could be accomplished in one night and without blood, of which I was skeptical. They assured me that it would be like an engine, providing them with limitless power for decades. When I asked what would provide this engine with power, they grew much more circumspect, but they confessed it would be something not of this world. If it was not a demon they sought to bind, then it was something entirely outside my realm of experience."

"They would not say in detail how this...engine was to work?" Rache presses.

"No. It seemed to be a very closely guarded secret; I'm not even certain all of them knew the extent of it. I couldn't get any further detail without fully committing myself, and when I brought it up such a scheme with Lord Blackwood, he decided against it. They were in the early stages of their work at the time; our own plans would be complete long before theirs, and they would no doubt bring their findings to us to curry favor-or more likely die in their attempted work." He snorts "Demons are said to be quite difficult to manipulate."

Rache chuckles. "You have no idea."

"What of the means?" Watson asks. "How would they get such a thing, or hope to keep it when they had? And how would they send it away when they were done with it?"

"The getting is difficult enough, and the keeping harder still, especially for a long period of time as they seem to intend. A circle is the general method, but they might need more than one; as I said, the problem is how long they would need to keep the demon trapped. As for dismissing it afterward..." He shrugs. "I do not know. Breaking the containment would only turn it loose in the world, not return it to where it came from." Coward gives the matter a moment's more thought, running a hand roughly through his hair before shaking his head.

"That's everything," he says. "That's all I can give you." Coward turns his attention fully to Rache. "Now, what can you tell me about Henry? Have you seen him?"

"I have not," Rache says. "There was no one human in the place I came from; if they ever had been, they forgot long ago. It is nothing like your conception of Hell; Henry may be there, yes, but I cannot speak to it."

"Then how did you-"

"Know? I didn't erase all that the detective knew simply by taking up residence. He figured things out months ago, but had rather more pressing concerns at the time-preventing mass murder, he tells me-than outing you and the late Lord Blackwood."

Coward flinches, drawing back a step as he realize how little his information has bought him. "I...I see."

"Do you?" Rache cocks his head. "There might be more we can do for you, if you've been keeping anything back. A ritual, perhaps? The names of your phantom engineers?"

"No," Coward says. "No, there's nothing. I've told you all of what I know."

"Come now." Rache's tone is wheedling. "All that time spent at Henry's knee-or on your knees, you did enough of both-and he taught you nothing of his methods?"

Coward's eyes go dark in anger, his lips compressed into a thin, bloodless line. "I told you, invoking power was something we did, yes, but not creatures such as you."

"Power," the demon repeats dryly. "You must know by now it was all a sham. Science and conjurer's tricks, nothing magical in the whole lot. But that wasn't what stung the most, was it?"

Rache leans fully against the cell door, his face slipping between two bars. "It was that he left you," he breathes, tone shredded between compassion and gloating. "That he broke and ran when it all went to shit and he didn't take you with him. You, whom he favored." He takes a step back, smiling crookedly. "Just as well, probably, or you'd have been hanging next to him on Tower Bridge."

Coward snarls and lunges, palms slamming against the bars.

"I think we're done here," Rache calls to the guard, his eyes locked with Coward's.

Silence hangs heavy in the air on their way out of the prison; they are several blocks away from it before Watson manages to ask, "What was that supposed to accomplish?"

"I suspect 'my personal amusement' is not going to suffice as an answer." Rache stuffs his hands in his pockets. "The Order dealt in tricks and Blackwood in murder, neither of which would have taught him anything immediately useful to either of us. This mysterious cabal with their 'demon engine' might prove informative, but that assumes they are still in operation and have any chance of being successful."

"None of that says why you did it."

Rache gives Watson an incredulous look. "Why? Because we needed information from him and that was the speediest way to accomplish it. Because he's lying to himself about what happened and how it happened and it's so stupid I can hardly stand it. Because the answers are all laid out inside my head and they're the only weapon I have, so I'll wound who I like. In short, because I can."

"It's not your head."

He grins, flashing all his teeth. "It is now."

Watson has almost forgotten about the cuffs by the time they're back at Baker Street, but Rache won't stop fidgeting, pacing the room while he tries to tuck the edges of his shirt cuff between his skin and the metal.

Watson had been jotting down details of Coward's testimony; he puts his notebook aside. "Give it here."

Rache drops to one knee beside his chair, thrusting out his arm petulantly. "About time you offered. Thought you were going to just watch me twist all evening."

Watson flips the latch open with his thumbnail, the cuff falling neatly into his lap. The demon hisses through his teeth. Where the metal had rested, Rache's skin is blistered and red, hot to the touch like a sunburn.

"What is this?" Watson murmurs, stunned.

"It's blessed silver, you imbecile. What did you think it was going to do to me?"

"You didn't say-"

"I assumed that someone who had such toys knew what they were for." Rache pauses in his preparation for a fresh tirade when he sees the look on Watson's face. Outrage smooths into curious amusement. "Did you not? In that case, you should know better than to take presents from strange ladies."

"Strange is not the first word I'd use for Irene-"

"Irene," Rache sighs, eyes bright. "Thank you, doctor. Holmes was being most unhelpful when it came to the lady's name."

Watson curses, the sound washed out by Rache's laughter.

He should have anticipated this. He hasn't been sleeping well since Sunday night; not enough rest always brings them on, and the constant stress from dealing with Rache has done him no favors. He resigns himself to the nightmares from the moment he lays down.

It begins, as always, with the battle itself. Tonight he is not wounded straight away, but defends his position admirably. It's everyone else who dies: Rodney and Hollins, Clay, Smith, Wentworth and Ingram. Every time he turns around, the man he thought he was defending lies dead, shot by some unseen rifleman. Soon, always too soon, Watson is the only one left alive.

He can hear the Ghazi moving closer, but cannot see them properly in the failing light. He flails wildly into the dimness at every sound, cursing and screaming, but before long he hears the bark of a rifle and-

-he is in the infirmary tent, wounds swathed in bandages. Ghostly medics walk up and down the rows; they refuse to stop or even turn their blurry faces in his direction when he calls out to them. Shapes lie on the camp beds beside him, but sheets are pulled up over where their faces should be and he cannot be certain if they have faces at all. After enough neglect from the staff, he cried out to the things in the beds.

Slowly, the sheet to his left begins to rise and fall, as if in time with someone's breath.

"Watson?"

The voice comes from outside his dream; it must, because he has never once heard anyone speak to him in the ghostly infirmary.

"Watson."

He moves toward wakefulness, but elements of the dream linger, blurring the line between what is and isn't real.

The bed curtains (tent) shift; wind, he thinks at first, but feels no breeze and realizes the movement was deliberate. The mattress (cot) sinks under the weight of another body. (the Ghazi followed them on the retreat, they've taken the camp, dealt with everyone except the wounded-) He braces himself for the blow (muscles tense and the bullet in his thigh burning afresh) and draws his breath to scream.

"Quiet, dear, you're only dreaming." The words are murmured in his ear, the voice that says them as reassuring as the words themselves. But only until he remembers who-what that voice belongs to now and he nearly screams all over again.

He opens his eyes. Rache is kneeling beside him, bent down to keep his face beside Watson's, with a hand resting on his shoulder.

"This isn't your room," is all Watson can think to say.

Rache laughs, sitting back on his heels. "I know that. If I had wanted to be alone, I should be in there still."

"What do you want?"

"This isn't about me. It's kept him quiet, watching you sleep." Rache looks almost proud. "Thought of it myself, as a compromise."

"Compromise," Watson repeats. He shakes himself, sitting up. "And what do you mean 'quiet'?"

"I mean that Holmes is rather inclined to run his mouth and I am unfortunately bound to hear him. He can be placated, however, and this is one way."

Watson doesn't mean to ask. "And the others?"

"Given that I live in rather closer quarters with him, I think I'll keep that to myself."

There are a great many things Watson does not like about that smile. "Get out."

"You're certain you don't want me to stay?" The question is soft, earnest and innocent and so like Holmes that something knots in Watson's chest and will not be moved.

"I'm certain," he chokes out. "Go."

"Sweet dreams, doctor," Rache says, leaving without a backward glance.

After that, Watson sleeps with a chair wedged beneath the doorknob.

part three