mustbethetruth | Behold I dream a dream of good

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Behold I dream a dream of good

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.

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The thought of Moran setting himself up on Watson terrifies Holmes more than the thought of taking on Moran himself. It isn't that he doubts Watson's abilities; it's that Moran has snaked his way into Holmes's psyche to the point where he can't quite believe that he managed to capture the Colonel after all.

He can't show that he's shaken; he can't show a weakness in front of him, not now, but Holmes is shaken, feels weak, and so he has to appeal to performance. He has to appeal to the theater to carry him through.

That's the only reason he can come up with to justify what he says.

"Ah, Colonel!" says Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar; "'journeys end in lovers' meetings,' as the old play says."

Moran's face darkens, and Holmes grins as brightly as he can, to appear as unaffected as possible.

"I don't think I've had the pleasure of seeing you for -- what is it -- a year or so now? I see you found my second faked death as convincing as everyone else found my first."

He turns to Lestrade and Watson. "Gentlemen, may I introduce to to Colonel Sebastian Moran, late of Professor Moriarty's clan of criminals, and even later of Her Majesty's Indian Army, where he developed those shooting skills Moriarty would find useful. Your bag of tigers remains unrivaled, does it not, Colonel?"

Moran only sneers, and Holmes imagines that if he were an animal, he'd be snorting and stomping; the image helps him, and he clings to it.

"I wonder that my very simple stratagem could deceive so old a shikari. It must be very familiar to you. Have you not tethered a young kid under a tree, lain above it with your rifle, and waited for the bait to bring up your tiger? This empty house is my tree and you are my tiger. You have possibly had other guns in reserve in case there should be several tigers, or in the unlikely supposition of your own aim failing you. These," he points around, "are my other guns. The parallel is exact."

It feels delightful to be able to throw all of this in Moran's face, and soon enough his smile isn't plastered on, but fairly genuine.

Edited 2012-01-30 02:44 (UTC)

Oh, the bastard. He thinks he's so clever, throwing Moran's habits in his face, and the thing is, he is clever. The thing that makes this terrible, unbearable, enough to make him spit nails is that Moriarty would have chastised him for getting caught in this way. So obvious. So expected.

He stops struggling, though his face is no less fierce, no less full of rage and murderous intent. He takes his eyes off Holmes only long enough to stare down this Lestrade. Maybe he should have gone after him, first. Shaken Holmes's defenses. Moriarty would have approved of that.

"Do I have to listen to this? If I am to be arrested, can we not get on with it? So far as I understand it, the law doesn't require me to put up with the infuriating ramblings of this man. But then, you are the experts."

"Right then," Lestrade says, glaring hard at Moran. "Right... No, we can move this arrest along, but just so you know, Colonel." Lestrade takes a step closer, trusting that his men have this man under control. Lestrade is much shorter than Moran, and he looks up at him, and Moran is fierce, oh yes; he looks like a hunter, or whatever he is according to Holmes, but Lestrade's used to staring down such men.

"The only thing keeping me from attempting to strangle you, sir, is my uniform, and some days that barrier feels thinner than others." He backs away and gives his own brand of a fierce smile. "Just keep that in mind, Colonel. Alright, boys, carry him away, for the attempted murder of Dr. Watson. Unless there's anything you'd like to add?" he asks, turning to Watson and Holmes.

It was strange to hear 'attempted murder of Dr. Watson' spoken aloud. He hadn't really thought of it that way. If he was returning to the way things were -- if life was going to be dangerous again -- then he would have to expect that people might try to kill him from time to time. It was almost refreshing. To hear it phrased in such legal terms was peculiar.

"No," Watson said quietly, "I think I'm quite content with the way you've put it." His gaze flicked to Holmes, a bit uncertainly. If nothing else, Watson was firm in the fact that he felt no remorse for any pain Moran might be feeling on his account. "Just make sure he doesn't cross my path again, would you, Lestrade?"

Lestrade nods at Watson, but Holmes reaches out a hand to stop him.

"One moment, Lestrade. I believe you have the wrong charges."

He forces himself to ignore Moran as he approaches his airgun, and he waves his hand over it, inviting everyone's attention. It's a performance; he needs to have it mastered, needs to keep himself in control.

"Interesting weapon, isn't it? Unique; a curious invention, made in Germany on the order of the aforementioned Professor Moriarty. Noiseless, quick, lethal, and, as you'll find, the weapon that murdered the Honourable Ronald Adair some time ago. On those charges you should bring up the Colonel," Holmes says as he pivots around again and fixes his gaze on Lestrade. "Keep Dr. Watson and myself out of the papers, Lestrade. We wouldn't want to steal your glory, after all."

If only he would stop bringing up that name. Moran isn't interested in resisting anymore, is fine with just going along, because he's fairly certain now they'll put him in jail. If Moriarty were here -- God, but that pains him to say -- then he would get Moran out of this mess with two telegrams, but Moriarty is not here. Moriarty has lost, and Holmes has won.

He glares them both down as the constables lead him away. Lestrade says something or other to them, agrees with Holmes's readjustment of the terms of arrest. That doesn't matter anymore.

He wants to plot revenge -- yearns for revenge -- but Moriarty had been clear.

Holmes has won. The game is over.

Lestrade watches the boys lead Moran out, and he really ought to follow, but he can't just... Well, he hasn't see Holmes in three years, has he? He went to Holmes's memorial service, but now here he is, and Lestrade can't just walk away from him.

"Right, well. It's good -- good to have you back, Holmes." He clears his throat and holds out his hand for Holmes to take, which Holmes does, but then they're shaking hands and it's ridiculous. Lestrade pulls Holmes in for a loose, brief hug.

"Okay, I'm off." Abruptly, he turns on his heel, but he only gets as far as the door before he stops. He hesitates a moment, and then he produces the penknife from his pocket. "Ah. I took this. Watson let me have it, I mean to say. You'll be needing it back now. For your post."

He waits for Holmes to take it, and Holmes says thank you, but Lestrade decides to leave before anything else supremely embarrassing happens. He adjusts his hat and nods at Watson before he makes his exit.

Watson looked rather sheepish. "Lestrade seemed to want something to remember you by," he excused himself, halfheartedly.

Left alone with Holmes again, he wasn't sure where to begin, what to say. He gave Holmes a rather anxious little smile; dismissing Holmes entirely seemed a bit beyond him. Where would he go? Did he have some place to stay arranged already? Was he merely hoping to be welcomed back immediately with open arms?

"I think this all calls for a celebration," he said. "Besides the fact I need to see exactly what you've set up in the sitting room, I propose drinks, and good cigars."

He can see what Watson's doing. It hurts. It isn't an offer back into Baker street; it isn't an acceptance, it isn't forgiveness. Watson hasn't made up his mind yet, but he at least doesn't want to turn Holmes out, not yet. Well... That's a start.

"I accept." He offers a smile, one that isn't as steady as the performance smile. Watson deserves more than a hollow performance.

He leads them across the street, and Holmes finds himself relaxing already in the comfort of Baker street, but would he be allowed to stay here more permanently? He tries not to think about that too seriously and instead climbs the seventeen steps to what used to be their sitting room and now maybe is just a familiar room.

"There's your unfortunate double," Holmes declares as he enters, and he gestures at the dummy on the floor.

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.

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.

"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."

He takes the glass from Watson and considers his answer; he transfers his eyes from the model of Watson to the liquid in his glass, but he mostly sees the walls of the monastery, the kind faces of the monks, plates of food that his constitution did not appreciate for some time.

"It wasn't the Tibet in my veins that was the problem," he says after a moment, and he brings the glass to his lips for a drink. "I spent my time there under the patient care of some very kind monks who helped me replace what I was putting in my veins with things like Tibet and meditation techniques, other ways to manage my black moods."

He gives Watson a small smile. "I have not touched a needle in nearly a year. So there's something."

Watson's eyebrows raised; he hadn't expected that, not in the least. Holmes's drug use had long since been something that caused him pain, as had the black moods than prompted it. To cure both -- or at least, cure one and assuage the other -- was something he had never dared hope for, not ever.

"That's... impressive," he said, suppressed feeling lurking in the back of his voice. He wasn't even sure what feeling, as there were too many to name. "What these monks have taught you is clearly a valuable thing."

He was watching Holmes carefully, a faint smile on his lips. He wasn't sure if he was still in the position to be able to celebrate this properly, as a lover.

Mrs. Hudson hurries up the stairs, still nervously excited. She'd been on the stair when the shot had been fired, and she'd been keeping herself downstairs, as Holmes instructed, but now that they're home -- well, she can hardly keep herself from rushing up to see what's happened. She only just thinks to knock, but with a touch of sadness; maybe in all the chaos those two had found a way to make up? She doesn't blame Dr. Watson for his reaction; this isn't the kind of thing that a person could digest easily. She just hopes that he can accept what Holmes has one and accept him back into his life; surely their happiness together is worth that.

She flies in when Holmes calls out, far too giddy to remember things like propriety. Her lodgers are back -- well, hopefully -- and she got to help.

"Oh -- oh!" She stops when she sees the dummy on the floor, the hole in his head, and she puts her hand to her chest. "Oh, goodness. How lifelike that looks!"

Holmes doesn't know what he's allowed, what boundaries he ought to respect, what liberties he can take. He doesn't know, either, how to ask, and even though he can deduce a man's life story from his outfit, he's too afraid to deduce permission in Watson's eyes. A misstep could break this fragile thing between them.

He's a little glad for Mrs. Hudson's intrusion, even if it means continued awkwardness with Watson once she leaves.

"'How death-like' would be more apt," Holmes corrects, smiling wryly, cheered by her excitement, though really it wasn't a very exciting day for anyone else.

"As long as it's him and not me," Watson said, turning to Mrs. Hudson, giving her a broad smile. At least he knew where he stood with her. He set his glass on a nearby surface and bent to his wax double, giving it another look. He thought, strangely, of the dark times in the last three years he had thought of doing such a thing to himself. At least he hadn't done that, small mercies.

"Where did the bullet go?" he wondered aloud. "It's passed right through my head." He couldn't have explained why he picked such a pronoun, except that it was him, and he was feeling fatalistic and morbid, despite everything, perhaps because of everything.

"Let's see." Probably she should not be encouraging such fascinations, but the whole situation is odd; the whole day has been one odd thing after another, and it must be alarming indeed to see oneself shot through on the floor. Mrs. Hudson sets about looking for the bullet, and doesn't get very far before she finds it on the floor.

"Here it is, Doctor," she says as she comes up with it. What a strange thing to hold a bullet in her hand, even if it's a bit harmless now; she's happy to hand it over to him. "I should add, Inspector Lestrade came by earlier. He had tea with your double there."

"Of course he did," Holmes says, though he is a little pleased with himself, even through his distraction as he tries to determine what Watson's fascination with the bullet is all about. Something more concerning than this potentially bizarre out of body experience? His own faked death had been pretty odd, he must remember; he'd felt a little identity-less initially.

"Did he notice he was not speaking with Dr. Watson? That's the more interesting question."

"Holmes," Watson laughed, "honestly. That's unworthy of you."

Still, his laughter was genuine, and it felt surprisingly good to laugh over such a ridiculous thing again. It felt like a long time since that had been the case.

Still, he looked curiously at the bullet in his hand, puzzled by it. "It's a revolver bullet," Watson said, faintly wondering. "It's a soft-nosed revolver bullet. From a gun like that? No wonder the police were perplexed over Adair's death. It hardly seems credible." He turned it over in his hands several times, and then slipped it into his pocket.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes." She laughs, as much at Holmes's joke as at Watson's merriment. That's a good sign, it has to be. She can feel the things between her lodgers starting to repair, slowly, and oh but she does have a lot of hope for them. She ought to leave them now, of course, let them work things out a little bit more. She'll be around in the morning and -- hopefully -- be able to deliver breakfast to her lodgers once again.

It's good to have her family together again. She doesn't know what she would do if these two couldn't work things out. She'd remain loyal to Dr. Watson of course, but she would miss Holmes a great deal, and it would pain her to think of him nestling into some other widow's spare room, somewhere out there in the big city.

"Well, I've had about all the excitement I can take for an evening. Good evening, Dr. Watson, and Mr. Holmes." She reaches out a hand to both of them, squeezes their forearms fondly, and then turns to leave.

He watches her go with a softening smile, though he suspects he'll miss her tension-diffusing presence. How convenient it would've been if she'd stayed and he and Watson couldn't broach the topic or the feelings that they're hesitant to broach when they're on their own. Still, it must be done, and Holmes is eager to find out... where he stands with Watson.

"A singular bullet for a singular gun," he says, nodding at where it rests in Watson's pocket. "What will you do with it?" he asks, because that's easier than asking any of the other questions in his mind right now.

"Keep it, I suppose," Watson said. He picked up his brandy glass again, and went to sit down in one of the chairs in front of the fire. "Assuming Lestrade doesn't need it for evidence against Moran, that is. I might keep it as a souvenir of one more time I was shot and lived anyway."

That's why he couldn't have thrown himself off the cliff at Reichenbach, no matter his heartbreak. If he were to die violently, it would be by bullet. It was that simple. Bullets sought him out, time and again, and he survived. One day, if he had not died of old age first, one would catch him fatally. He was a soldier at heart, still, and the thought had little horror for him. Ideally, the bullet would not be one of his own.

"Perhaps I'll wear it on my watch chain."

"I'm sure they'll find other bullets among Moran's belongings. It would be better if our names stayed out of the court proceedings, so I doubt they'll have need of that one."

He takes his brandy over to the other chair and sits as he considers how odd it may or may not be to see that bullet dangling from Watson's watch chain. Strangely morbid perhaps, but the more he considers it, the more he finds himself in favor of the idea. Like carrying around a trophy of Watson's survival, Moran's decline, and the success that the past three years managed to find, despite everything.

"Now we've both faked our death," he says with a tentatively amused smile.

"So we have," Watson mused. "I hadn't really planned on it, but ah well. I have no complaints with the way it worked out tonight."

He sipped his drink, wondering if he was imagining the thick tension in the air between them, if it was all on his side. He hadn't any idea how to bring it up, even if he had any notion of how he might answer the questions it would raise in any case. He didn't know. He was feeling lost and confused and quiet, but it was good to sit down with Holmes opposite him and pretend that everything really was going to be all right.

"What are your plans?" he asked, softly.

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Behold I dream a dream of good

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