mustbethetruth: (Default)
Sherlock Holmes ([personal profile] mustbethetruth) wrote2012-01-24 03:33 am

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.
theyarder: (Oh.)

[personal profile] theyarder 2012-01-30 03:49 am (UTC)(link)
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: (calm)

[personal profile] lightconductor 2012-01-30 04:02 am (UTC)(link)
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."