mustbethetruth | (no subject)

Holmes can't shake the feeling that this is his greatest triumph. This journey, this race through the Continent with Moriarty on his heels, is going to be a turning point in Holmes's life. It's the climax his life has been building to, and his life will only spiral downward from this point in the falling action that will carry him to his conclusion. He's taking down the Napoleon of crime, or maybe he's the one that will be taken down; either way, this is an apex he's working toward with each step they take, each city they visit.

The only thing he isn't sure of is if this is the greatest acting job he's ever given himself, or if his invigorated spirits are truly genuine and he's suspicious of his own attitude for no reason. He does appreciate his life up to this point; he does appreciate what he's been able to accomplish, but he isn't ready to let any of it go. Not yet -- not really. Maybe in a way he is tired; it is exhausting to be him in general, and then with added expectations... it's taxing.

No, what really calls his happy front into question is the sense of finality that looms over this entire trip with Watson. What a holiday, or what a grand farewell tour. It could be both. It feels like the latter, but he thinks that might just be him. At any rate, each kiss with Watson feels like his last, and he himself feels like a skeleton in a danse macabre, leading Watson to their death.

With such morbid thoughts, he's confused by his mood's determination to stay cheerful, but then he's rarely in charge of his moods, anyway.

He opens the door to their room and holds it for Watson, feeling strangely like a liar for the smile on his face.

"After you, my dear boy, if you can still walk after that meal."

Threaded | Flat

Watson laughed, finding Holmes's cheer to be contagious. For all the seriousness of their current situation, for all the danger and worry, it was difficult to be truly upset. He had a good meal in his stomach, a lover who was charming and brilliant, and nothing but adventure on the horizon. Together, they could face anything. It was easy to be charmed by it all, and to be strangely happy, despite everything. Perhaps they would just keep running forever, like this, the two of them and nothing else, the shadow at their back but never quite reaching them. There was a certain romantic poetry in that, which appealed to a man like Watson.

"I think I can manage, somehow. I didn't overindulge that much."

He very nearly waltzed in, turning to smile at Holmes with a dangerous amount of affection on his face. "But I think I could easily turn in for the night, now. What say you?"