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]

The urge to catch Holmes up and kiss him had been very strong, for a moment. The mind might rage, the heart might ache, but the body remembered all the familiar smells and affectionate touches and all the meaning behind them. Watson turned away as he stood, feeling awkward and uncertain. "I think I wouldn't mind being able to help take this man down," he said, far more decisively than he was able to say many things at that moment.

"But very well, give me the rest of this costume." Watson moved to his desk, drew his revolver out of the drawer. There was no chance he would be going anywhere without this tonight.

[mustbethetruth]

He recovers the bookseller's long jacket and his hat, and he holds them out to Watson. It's strange to have waited so long to see Watson again, and now here he is, disguised almost beyond recognition. Almost. Well, hardly at all. He's still Watson in frame; it's still Watson's hair, and his warm eyes, and Holmes probably still knows every inch of his body, underneath the clothes and the costume. He swallows thickly and pushes a smile onto his face.

"Here you are. And, ah..." He trails off and smiles to himself, just a little. "You'll need lifts in your shoes. I have them here. I could only subtly adjust my height so far without being obvious about it."

[lightconductor]

Watson sighed. "Of course. Of course. It couldn't be simple. Will an inch or two really be that noticeable? How close am I planning on getting to this chap?"

He shrugged into the coat, slipping his revolver into his pocket. "Fine, I shall take the lifts. I do hope that's it. I haven't the patience for this sort of extensive disguise that you have." Never mind the acting ability; he wasn't sure how to act like an eccentric old bookseller. He clapped the hat on his head, looking at Holmes expectantly.

[mustbethetruth]

Oh. Of course he should expect to be snapped at. He'd almost been enjoying this though, so to be on the receiving end of Watson's irritation is a bit of a wake-up call. He digs the lifts out of his bag and hands them over, and he steps away, awkward and uncomfortable and at odds with himself. He wants to be out of Watson's presence because it kills him that he can't pull him into his arms, and yet he can't bear the thought of being away from him until they can meet up again.

"Not close at all, but we wouldn't want to raise his suspicion too soon. Believe me when I tell you, Watson, that this man is the best shot in all of London. In all of Europe." He pauses, remembering something Moran had revealed to him suddenly. "He's the man that shot you, all that time ago. That was a preview, actually. A warning. Of what was to come."

His eyes darken, and he looks away, down at his shoes.

[lightconductor]

Watson stopped short, looking over at Holmes with an eyebrow raised. He'd very nearly forgotten that incident -- sadly, being shot at was nothing terribly remarkable for him -- and he put a hand to his arm, to the second scar there.

"A warning," he repeated, thoughtful. If the shot that had hit him was meant as a warning and not an honest assassination, then he could well believe the man was a phenomenal shot.

There was less anger in his voice when he spoke again; having assembled the bits of costume, he turned to Holmes with his arms outstretched expectantly. "Well? How do I look? Convincing, I hope."

[mustbethetruth]

"Convincing indeed," Holmes offers, rallying himself again, and he scrutinizes Watson. "Though that's at least half due to my emulation of you in disguise." He offers a small smile, unsure if it's okay for him to joke like this again, if he can pull up these old jokes of theirs, if he's allowed, or if Watson will think now that these barbs are frustrating and annoying.

"Here are your books," he says as he gathers them, and he repacks his bag and hands it all over to him. "Now, I can at least reveal this part of the plan." He explains when and where they will meet; the location is an out-of-the-way restaurant (it may be ill-advised to eat the seafood).

"Do you have any questions?" he asks, still unsteady. Giving orders feels a little strange, too, when Holmes doesn't know where he stands with Watson.

[lightconductor]

Watson took the bag, and looked down at himself, feeling bizarrely lost. "If you've emulated me in disguise, I wouldn't be able to tell. I don't feel like myself at all."

He took his instructions with a sort of peculiar fatalism. It felt like three years ago, like any number of countless investigations, countless adventures. He could feel himself sliding into it, as though there hadn't been a gap of years and what still felt like a hole in his chest where his heart used to be. He belonged here, in this situation, for all that the hole was still there.

"I have many questions," Watson said, "but none that are pertinent." He shuffled a bit, and gave a sigh. It was hard to drag himself away, away from Holmes right now in this moment, but at the same time... he suspected he could use the space to mull things over. "I expect I will see you soon, then."

He hesitated a moment before managing to force himself away, and he turned to leave.

[mustbethetruth]

He isn't sure how to interpret this obvious unwillingness to part. It isn't as if there's affection rolling off Watson; if they were to stay together, he isn't sure what would happen, what they would talk about, if they would come to any kind of reconciliation. It's probably best that they do split up now; Holmes will be glad of the chance to think, anyway.

He feels rather like he and Watson have been stuck together with glue, and prying away from each other now will pull off skin.

"Yes, we will meet again soon. Try to... Do be careful," he says, emotion leaking out before he can stop it. He turns and starts for his room -- not his room anymore, he reminds himself with a pang -- because that's how he'll escape undetected. He really needs to separate himself from Watson, anyway, if either of them hopes to leave now.