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]

"He'll have left his mark in the form of a few bruises," he says, forcing an airy tone to his voice; he waves his hand dismissively, which helps him feel a little more put-together. "No permanent damage, otherwise." Well, none inflicted today.

He turns his attention to Lestrade, still wary of his friend, still uncertain whether or not he should be expecting a punch to the other side of his face.

"I think you want a little unofficial help. Three undetected murders in one year won't do, Lestrade. But you handled the Molesey Mystery with less than your usual -- that's to say, you handled it fairly well."

[theyarder]

So, this is a weird scene all around, and he couldn't begin to guess what's going on between Holmes and Watson. He'll have to come by soon, maybe catch Watson alone and have a chat. For now, though, he can't do anything except deal with Holmes and all his hesitant greeting; even his insult lacks its usual punch, and he sounds so... so nervous.

He's had a lot of time to think about this after he left Mrs. Hudson, after he had a talk with Mary and loitered around on Baker street for the past few hours. It's the wax figure of Watson that seems to settle it for him; this all has something to do with Watson's safety, he's sure of it. That's not to say Holmes maybe was an enormous prat about it all, but still.

"That's sweet, Holmes," he says wryly, but then his smile turns more serious. "It's good to have you back in London. And I'm not talking about my arrest record, before you try that."

[huntstigers]

Moran fights through the cloud in his mind, and he comes up fighting too, pulling against the arms that restrain him. His hands are in cuffs too, and he pulls against them, not caring overmuch about the metal that digs into his skin. His vision's already adjusted to the dark, but the coppers that hold him uncover their lanterns and bathe the room in light. He sees them there -- not just Holmes, but Watson too, the man he just shot, and with a cry of rage he pulls at the men that hold him again.

"You -- !"

It clicks, what Holmes must've done, and he glares at him.

"You fiend. You clever, clever fiend."

[lightconductor]

This entire situation was strange, beyond strange. There was much that Lestrade would want to know, Watson had to assume, but no privacy or time to say it, even if Watson had no notion of what to say about any of what was going on. Now that the rush and adrenaline were over, what was he to do with Holmes now?

At the sound of a new voice, Watson tensed, and the glare he turned on Moran was close to murderous, defensive and angry. He had no urge to kill this man, but he was certainly angry, whatever else he might be. He had never killed in anger, though he had certainly killed for survival.

"You'd best keep him away from me, Inspector," Watson said, not taking his eyes off Moran. "The Colonel might find that I can be just as dangerous as he can be."

[mustbethetruth]

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.

[huntstigers]

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."

[theyarder]

"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.

[lightconductor]

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?"

[mustbethetruth]

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."

[huntstigers]

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.

[theyarder]

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.

[lightconductor]

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."

[mustbethetruth]

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.