a better way to fall (part four - finale)
master post
Watson does not go home.
He walks as quickly as he can without attracting unnecessary attention. He tries to sort out his thoughts and does not get far. He has done all this before. This is the next logical step. Stress leads to nightmares lead to more stress. First he wants control, then he realizes he has none and can never gain any. Finally, he embraces it, understanding that everything is a risk. Everything is, for lack of a better word, a gamble.
And then he wants to celebrate that understanding.
The Reign is a place hasn't been in years, not since he was newly returned to England, not since Holmes dragged him out after he had doubled and then promptly lost what was to be that month's rent. He isn't even certain it's still standing, but places like The Reign don't ever properly die; they decay and collapse and rise again elsewhere.
Watson finds the place the same as it ever was, if a little older and looking a little more prone to collapse. He slips inside and takes a look around. He is better dressed than some of the other men, but not all; he thinks he sees one or two members of Parliament right beside the ring, shouting encouragement to the fighters.
He finds the book maker easily enough: a portly fellow with thinning hair standing back from the action with a notebook and pencil. Watson asks after the odds and the man shakes his head. "Bets closed on this fight; it's not likely to last much longer, though, the way he's been pounding on that poor bastard."
Watson nods and makes his way closer to the ring, trying to get a better look. One of the fighters is a tall man, reminiscent of Blackwood's French giant. There are a few bruises beginning to purple on his midsection, but his face is free of damage and he seems almost complacent. It's not hard to see why. His opponent is a much smaller man with dark, sweat-soaked hair who looks to be in considerably worse shape.
The smaller man stumbles across the ring and Watson gets his first good look at his face. He wishes he felt more surprised to realize it's Rache-Rache who squares himself and studies his opponent and charges face first into the other man's fist.
The punch spins him almost completely around. Rache staggers, one hand going to his mouth. He stares at his fingertips as if transfixed by the blood on them. His opponent shares no such fascination and is swinging again, this time aiming low. Watson thinks he can hear the breath being driven from his lungs.
Rache crumples to the ground; when he lifts his head, half his face is coated in sand. He pushes himself up onto his feet, says something to his opponent that's inaudible over the crowd. The big man sneers and bellows something back. Rache shrugs, loose-limbed and ready. He moves and everything changes.
He doesn't fight a thing like Holmes. Holmes analyzed his opponent's every weakness and exploited it, ruthlessly efficient. Rache is like a cat with a mouse cornered, wringing every last moment of play from it before its heart gives out. He keeps no guard up and his blows are taunting as often as they are effective.
He leaves an open-handed slap against the other man's ribs, ducks beneath his left hook and slams a wicked set of blows just over his kidneys. The man groans and staggers; Rache kicks at the back of his leg, forcing him to kneel. Rache circles again, but only after he slams both hands down over his opponent's ears. Watson recognizes the move from Holmes, as well as the discombobulated sway the man acquires, which leads him right into Rache's fist.
The larger man keels over, landing flat on his back in the sand. Rache bares his teeth in a red-tinted grin as the judge holds up his hand. The crowd roars, victory and frustration in equal measure. Rache exits the ring with a swagger, pausing to speak with the manager a moment; scheduling his next fight, most likely, but only until he sees Watson. Rache shakes his head, changes his instructions, and crosses the room.
"You came."
"I didn't-"
"Of course you did." One arm slung around Watson's shoulders, Rache crowds him back against the wall in the shadow of a support beam. The line of his body fits along Watson's from shoulder to hip.
"And aren't you glad to have found me?" The scent of blood from his battered mouth is cloying in the small space. He braces his forearm on the wall beside Watson's head.
"Not particularly." Watson isn't sure if closing his eyes will make things better or worse. "I hadn't thought to find you anywhere. You should still be at home."
"But it's not my home, remember?" Rache sounds far too cheerful. "Besides, why would I be there after you left the door open for me? It was remarkably kind of you, really. I should thank you."
"I didn't leave the-" He had been so intent on getting out of there, away from that face and that voice, that he stumbled a number of times-in the hall, on the stairs, and yes, once by the door, but surely he wasn't so careless.
Rache's presence indicates otherwise.
"You did," Rache murmurs, smiling. "And I would be foolish indeed not to take advantage of such kindness. But if you didn't come here for me..." He tilts his head; Watson doesn't rule out the thought that the demon is smelling his hair. "Oh, you do have such bad habits, doctor. Did you ever tell Mary about them? Or does she yet think the Watson family finances are safe?"
"They're perfectly safe," is all Watson manages before Rache cuts him off again.
"Of course they are." Rache over enunciates the words and Watson realizes the other scent lurking underneath the blood.
"You're drunk."
His expression must be disgusted enough to be amusing, because Rache roars with laughter. "I am. It took quite a bit-all my winnings from the first fight-but it seems to have stuck at last. I understand why you all do this; why you don't do it all the time is the real question."
Rache pushes back from the wall a bit, skimming his fingers through Watson's hair. "It's so beautiful out here, and you're afraid-you're all afraid-that I'll treat it like a child with a glass and smudge it or break it just to hear the sound. That's not what I want at all. There's nothing at home, absolutely nothing. Not a touch or a taste or a scent. It would drive you mad, John, which I should dearly like to see, if one could see there and if I could get you there." The demon's expression is wistful. "I deserve this world so much more than you. You take everything for granted, but I won't. I won't."
Watson's mouth is dry. "And Holmes? What does he deserve?"
"What any of us deserves," he replies. "To get what he wants."
Silence reigns until Watson can bring himself to ask, "And what does he want?"
Rache smiles. "He wants to die. He wants you to be his friend, to perform this one mercy for him. If you cannot love him, can you do this?"
Watson shakes his head. "You're lying again."
"Again, I am not." Rache sounds all too amused. "But you seem awfully certain I should. What makes it a lie? And why do you so desperately need it to be?"
"I don't need anything from you."
"Ah, now you're lying. What is it? Is it easier with me because you can pretend it's hate? Because you're going to get rid of me and all of this will go when I go?" He brings his mouth right beside Watson's ear. "I hate to tell you this, John, but it's not going anywhere."
Watson draws a breath, more shakily than he intended.
Rache's smile persists. "Do you believe me now? I've never lied to you, John; I haven't needed to. The truth is so much crueler than anything I could ever invent."
Watson draws himself up a little straighter, feels something in his jacket pocket thump against his leg. He slips his hand into the pocket and is greeted with a ring of silver. Watson decides to improvise. "If you're going to keep nattering on like this, I'd rather you just got on with it and killed me now."
"No." Rache shakes his head, tone gently chiding. "I don't want to kill you, John. I want to destroy you utterly."
Rache savors the look of horror on Watson's face, until he feels cool metal brush his left wrist and the world narrows to the stripe of fire at the end of his arm. He howls; the sound is lost in another roar of the crowd. Watson thinks he can smell flesh burning.
"I am sorry," Watson whispers in his ear; he isn't sure which of them he's apologizing to anymore.
(The other cuff is right where they left it-on the floor of the entryway back in Baker Street. He hadn't even been sure it would work with no one wearing it, although the thief hadn't worn it, just carried it off. Watson had hoped the principle would hold true; it has indeed and he wishes he could be anything like proud of himself.)
Rache cradles Watson's jaw with his free hand. "John?" he slurs, eyes glassy with pain before they roll back into his head. Watson manages to get an arm around his waist before he collapses entirely. He slings Rache's arm across his shoulders, hoisting the body of his friend as if his earlier libations and the strain of his fights has at last caught up with him. He murmurs a string of conversational nonsense, gaining no notice from the other patrons except a step or two out of his way as he heads for the street.
It isn't easy to hire a cab in this part of town, but a sufficient amount of money waved at the driver eases his reservations. They tumble out at Baker Street, Rache twitching spasmodically and hiding his face in Watson's shoulder. He feels feverish; Watson only hopes he hasn't managed to poison him as he guides him upstairs to the study.
He eases Rache down to the floor, using one of the discarded handcuffs to latch his ankle to the chair originally used for his captivity. Rache doesn't appear to notice; Watson hurries into his room to retrieve what he needs. On his return, he crouches down beside his patient and takes his first look at the damage.
His wrist is a fright; the damage is wider now than the cuff itself, creeping up to the heel of his hand and extending equally far down. Watson lifts the latch and takes the cuff off as gently as he can.
Rache groans.
Watson sets the silver aside and begins going through his kit.
"And here we are again," Rache mutters, pressing the bruised side of his face against the carpet. "Only I believe I was in better shape before. What have you been doing to me, Watson?"
Watson doesn't answer.
"You brought me back here for what?" Rache wonders. "To keep me as a pet? You want to be rid of me, but you can't cast me out and you won't let me go. What is this, John? Penance?" He levers himself into a sitting position, studying the latest additions to his collection of burns. "For what sin?"
"For leaving him to you," Watson replies, getting to his feet. The weight of the pistol is easy and familiar in his hand. "But not any more. I'm going to give him what he wants."
The sound of the hammer drawing back is horrifically loud in the room. Rache looks up from his mangled wrist, eyes wide in his pale face. "John?"
Watson pulls the trigger.
Holmes draws his breath-his and only his, for the first time in days-like a drowning man reaching the surface. His wrist feels numb-he thinks he can smell it burning still-and the bullet graze along his shoulder throbs in time to his heart, but his mind is his own and he would dance if he thought he could stand. This feeling only lasts until he looks at Watson's face.
"Sherlock. So nice to see you again."
"Rache." He thinks his voice should sound hoarse, roughened by disuse, as he has not been using it. For words to come easily is as much a shock as anything else; it must show on his face by the way Watson-Rache, now-smirks.
"Have I stunned you, detective? I should hate to think I ruined you when I left; that was not my intent."
Holmes bares his teeth. "You haven't ruined me, and you won't ruin him."
"Him? Oh, no. Him I intend to take excellent care of."
Holmes debates charging him, using the chair as a weapon and subduing him, but Rache still has the gun and Holmes knows he would be dead before he got to his feet.
"This is hardly what he had in mind," the demon adds. "He hoped I'd leave you, of course, but with the barrier on the threshold still down, he hadn't expected me to relocate quite so close to home." Rache closes his eyes, savoring something intangible. "He's exquisite, although I think you'll always be my favorite. Now, if you'll excuse me, I-
-no!" Rache's voice cracks in panic. The bravado peels away, leaving him looking utterly terrified. "No, damn you! It shouldn't be enough." The color has drained from his face; his eyes are wide and rolling. His gaze darts across the ceiling and the walls; he stumbles in a circle, looking for some threat that isn't there. When he speaks, his voice is soft and sounds impossibly young. "I hope I don't kill him. I don't want to."
His eyes roll back into his head and he drops to the floor, convulsing twice before going utterly still.
"John!"
Holmes's own ragged breathing is the only reply for long minutes, until slowly Watson opens his eyes.
"John?" he whispers.
"Sherlock," Watson replies, his smile weary but his.
Watson reaches out and clasps Holmes's hand so tight, he thinks he feels bones grind together. Holmes doesn't complain. They sit there like that for a long time, in perfect silence.
Watson writes to Mary in the morning that the worst is over and he will be home soon. Holmes insists he could deliver the message in person, but Watson begs off. Secretly, he worries that if he leaves too soon, Rache will make his way back. If Holmes has deduced his fears, he says nothing.
He allows Watson to examine and clean his wounds with none of his usual protestations. He is quiet but not overtly morose; he busies himself with tidying the study, or at least relocating the piles of books and papers to their proper home. He drafts a letter to Mrs. Hudson, telling her she is welcome to conduct the rest of her visit with her daughter for leisure and not for any concerns back at Baker Street. He is industrious and polite and Watson knows something is very wrong.
It should be hard to avoid each other in such a small space. When Watson lived here before, they were forever tripping over each other; Holmes always interrupting his work, Watson inadvertently walking into the middle of a shooting gallery or an experiment involving acid. In the afternoon, however, hours pass without him hearing so much as a sound.
His nerves get the better of him and he searches every room in the house until he finds Holmes seated at the kitchen table. There's a notebook in front of him-cousin in appearance to any of Watson's-but the pages are empty.
Watson takes a seat across from him without speaking. Soon enough, Holmes breaks the silence.
"I keep thinking I should record it all. That I need to write it down because I will want to forget, but if anything like this ever happens again, I'll need to know-we'll all need to know." Holmes runs a hand through his hair, eyes not lifting from the blank pages. "I'm clearly vulnerable in some way-why me and not you, that night at the Grenville house? Why not the doctor or his assistant; they were physically closer to the circle. Or Sir Grenville-more socially powerful-or his wife or daughter, less likely to be suspected? When my wrists have healed, I think I might wear the cuffs, the pair of them. Silver seems to be the only thing that really did him harm-"
"Holmes."
The detective's head jerks up, his hands frozen mid-gesture. "Yes?"
"It wasn't your fault."
Holmes's mouth tightens, turning down at the corners. "Perhaps not, but I cannot walk away from the things he said and did while wearing my face."
"Why not?" Watson asks. "I...cannot say it will be easy to forget that time, especially not after knowing what it feels like myself. It was only a few minutes and-" He stops, takes a deep breath and tries again. "I understand that you won't ignore it, I wouldn't trust you if you could, but why do you have to atone for it?"
Holmes flinches and says nothing, staring back down at the table.
Watson hesitates before asking, "Was it true, what he said?"
"He said quite a lot of things, as I recall."
"You know what I mean, Holmes."
"Yes, I rather expect I do," he murmurs. He does not look up from the table. "And no, he didn't lie."
"How..." Watson doesn't know how to finish the question.
"How long?" Holmes supplies, the corner of his mouth not quite lifting into a smile. "How much? How have I kept it from you? How can I stand keeping it to myself?"
"Yes. All of that."
"For quite some time," Holmes begins, voice softening. "With all of me. Very carefully indeed, and I cannot stand it in the slightest, but a man will bear a great many things when it comes to love and I am no exception."
It's the first time either of them has used the word and it hits Watson like a blow. He thinks he should be used to hearing it, fond as Rache had been of taunting him with it, but it seems so much more real now that Holmes is saying it of his own power. Now that it is honest, he has no choice but to confront it and he has no idea how.
"I see I have rendered you speechless," Holmes murmurs. "I confess that is one of the more agreeable outcomes I had thought of for this scenario. Perhaps you should stay silent, and we can pretend this confession was nothing at all."
"Why would you want to do that?"
Holmes mouth twists in a mockery of a smile. "Can you think of no reasons at all? A rather lovely one with golden hair comes to mind." He makes a visible effort to soften his expression and is only partially successful. "You're not going to leave your wife, John. If I wanted you all to myself, I should have said something long before now. The time for talking, I think, has long been over."
Watson struggles with how to respond. "Whatever else, you are my friend, Holmes, and if we still cannot talk like civilized people after all of this-"
"-then maybe there is nothing to say," Holmes concludes, standing up. "Perhaps it's time you went home, Watson. We have been at close quarters long enough, I think, and Mary is no doubt concerned. Do give her my best."
He leaves before Watson can manage a reply. The notebook is still on the table.
"John, we have a visitor!"
"Just a moment." Watson slips his patient notes back into his desk and straightens his jacket before heading out into the hall. "Mary, who-"
Holmes is standing in the entryway, very near to fidgeting. It's the first time Watson has seen him since Holmes walked out of the kitchen two days ago. "That would be me, Watson. I...I hope you've been well."
He tugs at at the cuffs of his shirt; Watson gets a glimpse of still-pink skin. "I have, yes. And you? How are..." He circles his fingers around his own wrist to illustrate the question.
"Better, thank you."
"Would you care to sit?"
Holmes shakes his head. "No, I'm afraid I cannot stay. I was hoping that you might come with me. There's been another murder-several, in fact."
"Around the city?"
"No; for our convenience, they've all happened in one place." Holmes grimaces. "And if Lestrade's account is anything to go by, it's something of a mess. If you haven't the time, I understand, but-"
"Of course I do." The words come out angrier than Watson intended; he repeats himself, voice softer. "Of course I do."
The tension bleeds from Holmes's shoulders. "Excellent. I'll wait outside, then."
The crime scene proves to be the basement of a dilapidated boarding house near the Thames. In the very center of the room is a copper tank, roughly the height of a man with a small round window in the side facing the door. The area just beneath the porthole is warped and punctured, as if contents under pressure exploded outward.
A yard out from the tank are the bodies-eight gentlemen of varying ages, from their twenties to nearly sixty. Some have horrific gouges to their face and throat, others appear to have had their necks broken. The man nearest the tank has no marks on him at all, as if he dropped dead from fright.
Beginning with the unmarked man, the bodies form a zig-zagging trail toward the door, all taken down as if while attempting to flee.
Holmes bypasses all the corpses in favor of examining the tank first. "Something came at them from here."
"Inside the tank?" Watson peers in through the rupture. "I don't see how very much could fit in there; it's far too narrow for a human being, or even an animal. Whatever was in there must have been very small and very angry."
Holmes laughs dryly, taking a closer look at the construction of the tank. "It's sealed. Welded shut top to bottom and this-" He thumps the thick glass of the window with his knuckle. "-doesn't open. No valves, no tubes; perhaps they built the tank around the contents-" His voice trails off, the color draining from his face. "Oh, hell."
"Holmes? What is it?"
"It's the engine," he says, voice hoarse. "Very small and very angry. Look." Faint etchings coat the inside of the tank, shapes and figures evocative of the silver cuffs. In this case, however, mathematical equations appear to have been incorporated amongst the arcane symbols. Watson can see the hint of a diagram-geometry, he thinks-before losing the thread amongst other shapes.
"And here." Holmes taps his foot, drawing Watson's gaze down to the floor. Similar shapes radiate out on the floor beneath the tank, overlapping one another like the weave on a Persian carpet.
"How long must it have taken to do all this?" Watson crouches down for a better look.
"Months," Holmes hazards. "But it didn't matter in the end." His fingers trace the now ragged edge of the tank. "You know who did this."
Watson nods. "They got him after all."
Holmes mouth twists. "And he kept his promise to them."
Watson stands up, looking around at the dead men's faces. Even allowing for the damage done to the bodies, he doesn't see one that looks like the thief from a few days before. "But the one he told that to isn't here. Unless you see him?"
Holmes shakes his head. "An escapee?" he muses. "Still, I imagine he'll be sleeping with one eye open for the rest of his life."
They are almost back to the front door before they notice him. A young man with hair the color of old blood stands on the curb with his hands in his pockets. He stares at Holmes and Watson and makes no attempt to hide it.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
It takes another moment to place him-he was wearing a hat before and doing his best to hide his face. He slouches and Watson can see him in much that same posture, being held against a wall with Holmes's hands tight around his collar.
"You."
"Not precisely, John." The face belongs to their scholarly thief, but the grin stretching across it belongs to someone else entirely.
"Oh God in Heaven."
"I thought we had already established that He had nothing to do with my being here. Do try and keep up." The sound is different, but the inflection is all too familiar.
Watson tightens his grip on his cane, ready to draw. "What is it you want?"
"From you? Not a thing. However, a few moments of his time-" Rache points at Holmes. "-would be appreciated."
Watson opens his mouth to protest, but Holmes is already stepping forward. "I am sufficiently recovered to take care of myself, but thank you, John."
They stand a few paces away, heads bent in conference as if haggling over a price or a secret. Rache does all the talking at first, making small gestures with hands that increasingly shake. Once Rache stops talking, Holmes remains quiet for some time. His first words make Rache nod, eyes shut tight as if afraid to look at the face that was his own for a time. After a pause, Holmes speaks again and Rache laughs aloud, head tipping back to expose the whole of his throat.
Rache clasps Sherlock's hand in his, folding his other hand over top of them. Rache tilts his head closer, not quite touching as he whispers into Holmes's ear. Watson sees an echo of his posture that night at the club and it takes all of his willpower not to rush over and shove them apart.
A moment later, Rache steps away slowly on his own and moves down the street. He does not once look at Watson.
Watson, on the other hand, keeps his eyes on Rache, not relaxing until the demon is out of his sight. "What did he want?" he asks Holmes.
"He wanted me to give you this."
'This' proves to be a scrap of paper with a sloppy trifold, sealed shut with a lump of wax the color of old blood.
Watson slips it into his pocket without further examination.
"That was all?"
"Yes," Holmes says, and Watson does not let himself wonder if this is a lie.
It is not until much later that night, after Mary has gone to bed, that Watson dares to open the letter.
John,
It is very likely that you will never read this, that you will tear it or burn it and never think twice. I would not blame you in the slightest; I resigned myself to it before I ever took up my pen. But if you are reading, then read this much farther.
I would like to think I needn't remind you that I do not lie, but perhaps I had better err on the side of caution:
I do not lie.
When that fact has once again been accepted, if not ever taken for granted, accept this also: you have nothing to fear from me. Neither does your lady wife, your former landlady, or even that irritatingly knowledgeable Miss Irene. If I had wanted some manner of petty revenge, I should have taken it already and not bothered with letters.
As my departure was somewhat abrupt, you may consider this our full and proper goodbye. Go, my dear, and think no more of me.
Rache
Watson reads the letter through once more, then burns it.
Watson makes a point of visiting Holmes more regularly. They talk about his cases, or lack there of, and Watson's patients. They do not talk about the steadily growing number of occult books that have found their way into Baker Street. Watson is fairly certain he recognizes a number of them from Harper's shop.
Today is a Wednesday much like any other. Holmes has been expounding again on his theory of an interconnected criminal underworld, a massive hierarchy like the government of a nation. He is gesturing, drawing abstract shapes in the air as he talks. The cuffs of his sleeves fall back and Watson clearly sees silver around both of his wrists.
It feels like the most natural thing in the world to reach out and lay his hand over one of the cuffs, the engraved symbols catching against his palm. Holmes stops mid-word and turns to look at him. Watson leans forward and presses their mouths together.
It is not, perhaps, the best of kisses-lips too dry and too hesitant, nervousness in one party and fear in the other-but it is still a kiss. Holmes pushes him away with one hand on his chest, color high in his cheeks.
"Don't taunt me, sir." Holmes's voice is low and hoarse. "You aren't that cruel."
Watson tries to understand what the hell came over him. "I'm not; at least, I don't mean to be-"
"I know that, John," Holmes murmurs. "I will recall this moment in the spirit it was intended-as a kindness."
"Don't make it sound like pity."
"If I'd thought it was pity, I would have broken your jaw," Holmes replies, almost serene if one didn't know he was deadly serious.
Watson smiles crookedly. "Fair enough."
Silence lingers between them, more companionable than it has been in weeks. When Holmes speaks, it is not about any subject Watson might have guessed.
"Are you going to tell me what was in the letter or not?"
Watson doesn't let himself appear startled. "Are you going to tell me what he told you?"
Holmes stays silent, watching him with the smile he reserves for interesting problems and new cases.
"So long as we're agreed, then," Watson says, and reaches for his tea.
fin