Behold I dream a dream of good

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes is not dead, but that seems a mere technicality. It’s only because the world thinks he’s dead now—that Moran thinks he’s dead—that he can even begin to consider himself alive. Even still, even with the tentative new grasp on himself, even with the aftershocks of having been so close, so very close to tipping over into actual oblivion, he doesn’t feel alive. His heart beats, and his lungs expand and contract, and he moves from Tibet to France to London, but it’s all just movement, just technicalities that propel a man who is but a technicality himself.

Holmes does not feel alive until he’s dressed as an ancient bookseller, and he has a pain in his back and his neck from stooping, and he smells of spirit gum and makeup, and he sees his soul from across the street.

He could hardly be blamed for nearly forgetting himself, forgetting all of this, and crying out to Watson. What else would a body do, when it sees its soul, ripped from him for far too long?

Maybe that’s overly sentimental, but he’s nearly faded away to his own death in an opium den, and spent the next several months under the careful care of monks, themselves prone to sentimentality and metaphor. He’s allowed.

And besides, it’s true.

The purpose of his mission is to guarantee that Watson is not being tailed, that Moran has not noticed Holmes’s technical state of being, that Moran has not decided to give in and kill where his loyalty has so far stayed his hand. Very shortly, nothing seems more important than cataloging everything about Watson; what weight he’s gained or lost, what new items of clothing he’s bought, what needs to be replaced, where he’s been walking, how much sleep he’s been getting, the emotions that flicker over his face (annoyance at the man who walks far too slowly in front of him, fondness for a boy who might’ve been an Irregular).

He only barely remembers that he has more to do today than drink in Watson’s presence, but suddenly the prospect of reuniting with Watson seems far too real, far too frightening. He’s been dead for so long, to himself as much as anyone, and coming back to life is daunting, like emerging from a cave and finding himself entirely unaccustomed to the light of day.

He allows himself this: he crosses their paths, he bumps into him on the sidewalk, he spills his armful of books, and he flees before they sew themselves together again, as they must inevitably do.

~

Mrs. Hudson faints when a bookseller transforms into the specter of Sherlock Holmes in her entryway.

Holmes revives her in her kitchen, and she cries in little bursts, and she clings to Holmes’s neck, and Holmes hugs her back because she doesn’t smell any different, not in the least, and her hair’s the same, but her apron is new. A present from Watson. When she confirms the deduction, Holmes has to stop himself from fingering it, from imagining Watson lingering in a shop and choosing this for her for her birthday.

Everything is arranged, she says; Mycroft’s package is here, and she hasn’t touched it, like he asked. She fixes her hair and blots her face and hugs Holmes again, arms tight around his back, before she pushes him upstairs. She promises tea, promises composure, and disappears into the kitchen.

There is danger. There will come a time when Moran must know, when Moran will step back into the hunt, and his target will be very different. His target will be far more precious. If Holmes slips, if he fails, the story of Sherlock Holmes will be over; his body, the corpse that still breathes, will complete its decomposition, and maybe the darkness will take him.

But he won’t fail. Before he was but a ghost; soon he will be resurrected.

In their sitting room, he is the bookseller. Sherlock Holmes is not alive still; he is not yet complete, but he will be soon. He sips his tea, and he waits.

Comments

[lightconductor]

Sometimes the days blended together in an endless, grey haze.

Life... went on, after death, as Watson had always known it would inevitably do. There were days he felt but half of himself, but the world wouldn't understand that, so he pulled himself together and found what purpose he could. He wrote, he worked his practice, he spent some time with the Yard, he visited the Lestrades -- in short, he carved himself out some semblance of a new life, with new reasons, and he lived that.

Yet that never stopped him musing over crimes in the papers, wondering what Holmes would have made of them, it never stopped him wanting to hear of work that Lestrade might be involved in that Watson's humble role as a police surgeon did not enter into, it never stopped him missing the feel of Holmes's body in bed beside him. At some point in the last three years he had moved rather more permanently into Holmes's old bedroom, citing that it would be mroe convenient to avoid the stairs to his own, but truly it had just made it easier for him to sleep, sometimes.

Watson tossed a quick greeting to Mrs. Hudson, who he heard but did not see, as he came home, and he ascended the steps, almost lost in thought. It had been a dull day at his practice -- he found many of them dull, frankly, after the life he'd led -- and he was looking forward to dinner, but first a cigar by the fire and a bit of reading, to lose himself in someone else's fiction.

He pulled up short, however, to find a stranger in his sitting room; it brought back memories of other days, of coming home arm in arm with Holmes to find a client waiting for them, or of later, darker days, when people had come looking for the famed detective Sherlock Holmes and only found his grieving doctor, unable to help them. That hadn't happened for quite some time. Small blessings.

"I beg your pardon, I hadn't realised I had a guest," Watson said. He was wary, on his guard, but polite all the same. In his new, dull life, strangers did not regularly come calling on him at his home. A patient, perhaps, who had missed his hours at his office down the street? But no, he realised slowly, he knew this man. It was that peculiar bookseller Watson had collided with on the sidewalk, whose peculiar books he had scattered. The tree worship, the Catallus. "What can I do for you, sir?"

[mustbethetruth]

He ought to reveal himself; he ought to drop this pretense and tell Watson now, but the pretense is the only thing that's keeping him upright. It is a difficult thing, to raise oneself from the dead, and what if -- what if he would be unwelcome? Watson has not taken up another lover, Holmes can see that; he sleeps in Holmes's room, he hasn't abandoned their flat. But what if, in the intervening years, Watson had decided to release himself from the terms of their always?

What if, upon discovering the game, he decides Holmes doesn't deserve resurrection?

"It's just that I've seen you a time or two, sir; I have a bookshop at the corner, and when I realized I'd bumped into my neighbor, I thought I ought to come and apologize for my gruff manner. Occupational hazard, sir, to be so involved in my books, and I really wasn't watching where I was going. I only wanted to apologize, sir, and to thank you."

[lightconductor]

"It's hardly worth mentioning," Watson said, rather perplexed. "You were already forgiven." He recalled the bookshop at the corner, vaguely, but could not recall this man at all before their accidental meeting earlier that day. He liked to think he was at least a little more observant than that. An owner who lurked in the back of the shop, unseen? Perhaps.

Still, it was deucedly odd. There were, too, old instincts still in him, from more dangerous days, that told him to be on his toes.

"I trust none of your books were damaged," he said, and truthfully this was something that had concerned him a little. "You needn't have come all this way merely to thank me for picking up your books."

Rather casually, he removed his hat and coat, deposited his stick in its place by the door, and turned back to this stranger, attempting to look carefully neutral.

[mustbethetruth]

He clings to the performance; he reminds himself he is still on stage, that he can't reveal himself, but he can feel his hold on the situation beginning to waver. It's time to drop the pretense, and he wills his hands to keep from shaking.

"But it wasn't far! And I thought you might enjoy -- you look the sort that reads, sir. I have here a nice assortment -- British Birds, and Catullus, and The Holy War. Something among the lot is bound to strike your interest, and there's a vacancy on your shelf, just there."

He points at a shelf that really isn't lacking any books at all, except it is lacking everything that was his. He's beginning to sweat, he realizes, and the adrenaline floods his system. If only this could stay a performance; if only he could maintain the act, then he might get through this, but in a very few moments he must step off the stage; he isn't sure he's quite ready.

[lightconductor]

Watson shut his eyes, drawing in his breath in a small expression of surprise. He hadn't expected this, and wasn't entirely convinced it was necessary, but he let Holmes work, marvelling at the touch on his skin. It was all he could do not to lean into it, to catch up Holmes's hands and find some better use for his fingers, even as irritated with him as he was.

"I'm sure I'm missing some vital part of this plan," he said, quietly because it felt like the sort of moment where softness was mandatory, "but if this Moran fellow is watching to see if you contact me, and he saw a bookseller and myself enter, and a bookseller and yourself leave, won't he guess the truth of it?"

He was clutching the cushions of the sofa under him rather tightly, feeling tense and anxious, angry and glad.

[mustbethetruth]

"He would indeed, my -- " he clears his throat, still unsure if he's allowed this, but he doesn't want to avoid saying it again, "my dear Watson. That's why he will only see a bookseller leave. I can avoid detection by leaving out the back." He pauses and smiles to himself, even though it feels odd; his excitement is building about his plan, which really is a ridiculously dramatic but thoroughly enjoyable plan, even while he's full of a low hum of uncertainty about Watson.

He can't begin to contemplate what his life would be like if Watson decides that he can't be with him anymore. So he decides not to, as much as is possible.

"Nearly finished," he says, his tone soft, and he wipes his hands before picking up a brush to apply a few wrinkles.

[lightconductor]

There was something strange about hearing my dear Watson again after so long, and it would have been a lie to claim it didn't rankle a little when he was still trying to decide whether or not he was unforgiveably angry with him. Still, the memories that it called up were entirely good ones.

"So you plan on making it appear that I haven't left," Watson clarified. He opened his eyes again, watching Holmes carefully. He was a little relieved to have a brush rather than Holmes's fingers, although that entire hesitation was strangely reminscent of their initial wariness of each other, following a kiss after a boxing match. "Do I get to know why?"

[lightconductor]

The restaurant was just as dodgy as Holmes had implied, and talk of seafood aside there wasn't much on the menu he did trust. He was, however, ravenously hungry, so he ate a little light supper, and he waited.

Good Lord, how he waited.

He could only think of the multitude of things he hadn't asked. Where had he been? What had he done? He was regretting his show of temper and his anger, now, or at least somewhat. If this evening was really going to be dangerous, he hated their last private conversation to have been so violent.

But no one would die tonight, not if Watson had anything to do about it. And he was actually going to be here tonight, and not decoyed away.

He sipped his glass of beer, waiting, growing more and more anxious about Holmes's continued absence.

[mustbethetruth]

In the time since seeing Watson the Bookseller off, Holmes has been busy. He's been back to Baker Street, to fake his return all over again, and with Mrs. Hudson's help, he set up the guise that will hopefully fool Moran. He's messaged Lestrade and waited around the corner for delivery confirmation. He's made himself known around London, and he's shaken off being followed three times. He knows there's no one after him now, something which is aided by the fact that he is not himself. In terms of Holmes's disguises, a sailor is probably his best, and probably his favorite; it's so easy to blend in that way, not to mention sailors aren't the most cleanly of people, which is helpful for disguising characteristics.

He's there on time, and he watches Watson eat for a little while, looking past the costume and into his Watson -- well, maybe not his Watson anymore, but he's here now, isn't he? That's telling. That must mean something, that he hasn't lost Watson completely. After a while of watching, he realizes he isn't simply looking; he's getting his nerve up.

Reaching up, he adjusts his cap and then starts across the street with a swaggering confidence that comes from this particular disguise. Another reason he loves it.

He drops into the empty seat at Watson's table and flashes a smile.

"Bit lonely, eating by yourself, innit?"

[lightconductor]

Watson looked up, an eyebrow raised, and he set down his glass. What it was that had attracted this sailor to him, he had no idea, but have a stranger at the table with him was more than a little awkward. For a moment, when the man had sat down he'd been very hopeful, but he was feeling rather disappointed about his new guest now.

"I'm waiting for someone, actually," he said, his tone firm but not unkind, the politest way to ask for the chap to go away that he could think of.

[lightconductor]

Watson poked the toe of his shoe at his double, an eyebrow raised. It was rather eerie to see himself with a bullethole through his temple. "He is a good shot," he said, rather appreciatively, as he bent to finger the bullethole carefully. "At least if I had died, it would have been at the hands of an artist."

It was a dark thing to say, a cruel thing to say, and yet he found he needed that sort of gallow's humour, in that moment. He rose again, and went to the sideboard to pour out brandy.

"I never asked you where you've been," he said, quietly.

[mustbethetruth]

He watches Watson with the dummy and feels only distantly ill. He'd saved Watson from this. Moran will be locked up, and they'll be safe, and there's no need to be upset. He's still standing with his hands in his pockets, taking in the almost-grisly sight of the figure when Watson's question comes from behind him, so soft and clearly the opening to something more... more.

He purses his lips as he considers his answer, his hand curled around the penknife in his pocket.

"I spent the most time in Tibet, once I'd thrown Moran off." He doesn't turn around, isn't sure what Watson will make of this, isn't eager to torment himself with watching every expression on his face.

[lightconductor]

"Tibet," Watson repeated, thoughtfully. He came to Holmes's side, wordlessly offering him a glass. "I haven't been there, though I know how the East can get into your veins, to be sure."

He sighed, wistful and lonesome, relieved, all at once. He wasn't sure he could imagine Holmes in Tibet; Holmes was so very English, so very much London personified sometimes, that to see him in such a foreign clime would have been unthinkable.

"What did you do there? Besides, apparently, hide from him."

[lightconductor]

Sleep did not come easily to Watson. Too much had happened, too much had changed too quickly, too much was now roiling about in his brain. He dozed fitfully for a short time, but at last he found himself lying wide awake, staring into the dark room. His stomach was clenched, and he felt hot and sweaty, almost feverish. On the other side of his bedroom door was Sherlock Holmes, and he could think of little else.

For all his fears of being weak, of being easily influenced, for all his anger and his hurt, he was still desperately, hopelessly, completely in love with Holmes. He couldn't deny that. Always, he had said, and perhaps that still held, but three years ago seemed a lifetime away. How could he just... forgive that, so easily?

Watson rolled over in bed, picked up his pocketwatch from the bedside table, and lit a match to read it by, before sinking back down into the bed. All this trouble was, of course, assuming Holmes really was still out there, that it hadn't been a dream, or he hadn't left. At least his expressed desire to stay suggested there wasn't some other man out there, some handsome chap who had replaced Watson in Holmes's absence. Probably some... some obnoxiously clever police inspector, who never had any difficulty in applying Holmes's methods, who was skilled at deceit, who could speak French. Perhaps a brilliant actor, rather, one who was witty and fascinating and worshipped Holmes as keenly as Watson ever had.

Watson stopped himself when he realised he was expending a good deal of hatred towards a theoretical and probably fictional man.

Without quite knowing the reason why, he rose from the bed. He had cast off his nightshirt in his feverish agony, but he pulled the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around him. Softly as he could, he padded out into the sitting room, needing to see for himself.

And there was Holmes, of course, stretched out on the sofa in his shirtsleeves, so perfectly beautiful Watson could have wept. He stood there in the darkness, clutching the blanket, just looking, and not sure what to think.

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes has not slept well for the greater part of the last three years. It's a testament to how much he's longed to be in Baker street, how much the familiar smells and the feel of the sofa beneath him bring him a sense of security, that he falls asleep at all. It couldn't last, however; not with things so uncertain between himself and Watson, and certainly not when he feels someone watching him.

That's a feeling that has kept him from sleeping more than once in the past three years.

He starts awake, though outwardly it only looks like his eyes slide open. Of course, it isn't Moran standing there. It's Watson, wrapped in his blanket and looking a little miserable, and Holmes's stomach turns in a different kind of fear.

"Watson?" he asks, and he pushes himself up. "What's the matter?"

[lightconductor]

For a moment, Watson didn't know how to answer that. He didn't know how to phrase I just wanted to make sure you were really here in any way that made sense, or sounded anything other than pathetic.

And then, quite simply, it dawned on him that the easiest thing to do was to answer Holmes's question honestly. It was the sort of logic that came easily in the middle of the night, in the madness of darkness. "I need to ask you a question," he said, rather slowly, picking his words with care. "And I need you to answer me honestly, whatever the truth might be. Can you do that for me?"

[lightconductor]

"You're incorrigible," Watson laughed breathily. He shifted downward to kiss Holmes's chest, going by feel with his eyes closed. "But I don't think I would have you any other way, either."

He gave a long sigh, pulling himself very close. "Perhaps some time I ought to let you take it off, then. In the meantime, I'm already naked as a jaybird, so there isn't much point." He placed several more kisses across Holmes's skin, then added thoughtfully, "Perhaps it would be worth getting up to see if there's coffee."

[mustbethetruth]

At the thought of food, his stomach actually growls, which makes sense considering he's barely eaten a proper meal for the past... he isn't even entirely sure. He's been preoccupied with coming back and avoiding the possibility of encountering one of Moran's men; eating had hardly seemed important, as usual.

"And breakfast, apparently." He cups the back of Watson's head and pulls him in for a soft kiss. "Naked breakfast, though; I insist. Dressing gowns only. No objections to that, I hope?"

[lightconductor]

"None at all," Watson agreed, after returning the kiss, feeling strangely grateful for it. He gave Holmes several kisses, ranging from brief and playful to lingering and seductive, before tearing himself away with a small laugh.

He stood, and fetched a couple of dressing gowns from his wardrobe; he tossed one to Holmes before pulling the other one on. Good God, but this was insane -- wonderful, but insane. How could he possibly have Holmes back in his life? How could even begin to deserve that?

[lightconductor]

Watson raised an eyebrow, but he was smiling, broadly and with no small amount of anticipation. He felt just slightly in thrall, for all the game of power, and he followed Holmes out of the tub, eagerly, impatiently.

He took the towel, before advancing to kiss Holmes hard again, too impatient to wait, still feeling clouded with lust. He had half a mind to take Holmes's hand and put it back on his cock, truthfully.

"Well? I'm out. You had better decide before I decide for you."

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes would laugh at his eagerness if it isn't so contrary to his plans, and so therefore he can't find it amusing. He gives Watson an entirely disapproving look instead and takes the towel back.

"You had better find your patience," he returns, a challenge to his voice, and he advances on Watson until he has him backed against the sink. It's effort to draw away from him; in fact, he indulges and kisses him, but only briefly, before he makes himself take a step back.

"You took your time; I intend to take mine."

He shakes out the towel and starts to dry Watson off, scrubbing the fabric over his chest; he's sure to hit the sensitive spots, to brush over his nipples, to linger over his hips. He gently towels off Watson's cock before he gets to his knees to do his legs.

[lightconductor]

Bracing himself against the sink, Watson gave a low groan at the touch on his cock. "I've already waited longer than you have," he reminded Holmes, in a sort of gasp. He slid his hand over Holmes's head, running fingers through his hair, caressing the top curve of his ears.

He felt exposed, vulnerable, but for the first time in three years that was all right. Exposure before Holmes was nothing, no weakness at all, but a mutual meeting of mind and soul -- if he could be poetic about it. It was right, in a way very little had been for those past three years.

Watson curled his fingers around the angle of Holmes's jaw, possessive and claiming, hungry.

[lightconductor]

"Ah, you have seen what I've done in the Strand, then." Watson gave a small, nervous little laugh. The writing he'd done after Holmes's death was the sort of thing he had had to do or suffocate with grief. He was proud of it, in its way, and he had made a decent sum for it, but it was also not something he'd ever expected Holmes to actually see.

He was almost afraid to ask what Holmes thought of it.

"But very well, our cases, if you say so." He smiled a little, pleased at being included in that possessive. "They shall be my first priority, so long as I'm permitted."

[mustbethetruth]

"My darling, of course you are permitted. You are my conductor of light, and my husband besides. I can't fathom taking up the mantle again without you by my side." He sighs softly and closes his eyes as he smooths his hands down Watson's back. He stills, resting comfortably with husband tucked against him, surrounded by the familiar/unfamiliar smells of Baker st. Though he's just slept, he can feel the beginnings of a restful nap starting to claim him.

"I think I'll take a nap on my sofa in my sitting room now that I don't need to worry about gunmen shooting you through the window," he says, his voice already more of a tired rumble.

[lightconductor]

Watson smiled. "I won't be going anywhere," he promised in a murmur. "So long as you need me to conduct your light." He smoothed his hand down Holmes's side, and tucked himself against him comfortably. He rather liked the idea of lying here, his ear on Holmes's chest, while he slept.

All was right in the world.