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

[mustbethetruth]

"Yes. I doubt it meant very much more to Moriarty than as a way to cause pain. Moran -- Colonel Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's second-in-command and the man who will attempt to kill you sometime tonight -- is also aware." He pauses for a moment, considering.

"And probably in love with Moriarty. That's why I doubt it should be of a concern to you that they possessed this knowledge. Ruining us with a scandal would simply be tacky."

He breathes again -- he realizes that he's almost unconsciously practicing his meditative breathing -- and lets himself look at Watson. He's impossible to read. Oh, Holmes can see the little things -- what he had for lunch, where he got turned around that afternoon on his way to see a patient, one of his patients needs to replace their wallpaper -- but he can't see what really matters right now. And he isn't sure he'd presume to try to divine it, even if he could.

[lightconductor]

Watson breathed, processing this information. "Do you mean to say, then, that this man who wishes to kill me does so because you killed his lover?"

That was almost incredible in its symmetry. It was almost unbelievable. He was used to thinking of Moriarty as some sort of monster, some terrible, inhuman creature of crime. To think that someone had loved him was almost jarring.

He ran his hand over his forehead. Put like this, the situation was making a lot more sense. "I would have some sympathy with this Moran," Watson said dully, "were he not intent upon ending my life."

[mustbethetruth]

"Strangely, I would not," he says, his tone flat. He blinks, and behind his eyes he flashes on scene after scene of the two years where Moran seemed always to be there, and then he promptly pushes the images aside.

"But yes, I suppose. That's all compounded by a strong sense of loyalty and a strict sense of duty, otherwise I'm sure I would have died that afternoon after all."

Moran is actually the last thing he wants to be talking about, but he can't see a way around it, even if it makes him tired. And it makes him remember his long descent into drugs and opium, which is not a point he would like to bring up to Watson right now.

[lightconductor]

He was probably glad Holmes had not died that day. Probably.

"Very well. You wish to catch this gentleman, and I have no desire to die, so I suppose I am at your disposal." Watson gave a little sigh. He had the distinct feeling that he was giving in somehow, losing by letting Holmes lead the way. "And as you said, you won't tell me what you plan. No surprise there."

He left the mantle, his hands in his pockets. "I haven't had my supper but you've inflicted far worse upon me. I'm at your disposal."

It was, Watson couldn't help thinking, like old times, good times.

[mustbethetruth]

He'd barely even considered the possibility that Watson would not wish to participate; he supposes if Watson had refused, he would've impressed upon him the necessity, or perhaps simply told him to leave Baker street, maybe go to Mycroft. It's a good thing that Watson is agreeing now, but it only seems to highlight for Holmes just how much things have changed.

He hates Moriarty with a passion he has not felt for some time.

"Excellent," he says, though without his usual vigor. He stands and gestures to the couch before he goes for the bag he'd been carrying as the bookseller. "Have a seat. You will need to be disguised if we are to succeed."

[lightconductor]

Watson's eyebrows raised, but he sat down on the sofa obediently. "I will need to be disguised," he repeated, rather puzzled by this. He watched Holmes carefully, still unwilling to look away from him for too long. Disguises were something new for him, at least. He was rarely thrust into that role.

But then, if it was his life on the line, perhaps this was how it would play out.

He couldn't quite suppress the thrill of excitement that was running through him in this moment.

"Very well. What role will I be playing?"

[mustbethetruth]

"The bookseller, of course." He's finding it easier to recover himself here, now that there's a task to focus on, now that there's a game afoot. This is a role too, isn't it? And a role he can slide into easier, certainly easier than being as fragile as he felt during their conversation.

He brings his bag over to Watson and kneels in front of him, as that angle will be the most useful for the application of the necessary makeup. His mind flashes on other times he's been in this position -- sensual, sexual, and romantic times -- and he firmly ignores them.

"Now then, hold still," he says, and his voice is a bit softer. He wishes he could use a brush, but with this foundation, it's easier to use his hands, and he holds his breath as he touches his fingers to Watson's face for the first time in three years. It's unfortunate that there's makeup in the way, but he tries not to react too much, all the while trying to measure Watson's reaction.