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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"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.

Holmes lifts his eyebrows at the question, suddenly unsure of how he ought to answer it. Is Watson offering? Should Holmes admit that he'd been planning on staying here? Would he be offended? Holmes sips at his drink and considers his response carefully, but it does seem... more favorable that Watson isn't looking at him with as much... hardness as he had earlier.

"That depends on you, I think," he starts. "I'd been hoping... to stay here. I hadn't considered..." He trails off and lets his eyes drift away from Watson, self-conscious. "If you'd rather I not stay here, I could find something else."

Watson hesitated, not sure how best to answer this. Was he supposed to welcome Holmes into his bed again, so soon? He was still hurt, and angry, and the thought of just ignoring everything that had happened was strangely painful. He wasn't ready for that, not yet. He couldn't imagine turning Holmes out into the street, either.

At last he nodded, not looking directly at Holmes. He was afraid of what he might see there: expectation, perhaps. "The bed upstairs isn't made up," he said. "Will the sofa do for tonight?"

Holmes tries to tell himself that this isn't discouraging. That this isn't a final answer to whether or not he and Watson will be together again. This is just tonight, and Watson isn't ready to share a bed with him again. Holmes tries not to consider the idea that Watson doesn't love him anymore, but his chest constricts anyway; his body considers it, even if his mind refuses to.

"I'm simply content to be home," he says at last, after a moment in which he attempts to find something to say that wouldn't be too dissuading. "And very glad to hear that I may still call it my home."

"It's certainly still your home," Watson said. Truthfully, it had been hard to adjust to Baker street without Holmes, and if Holmes was here to occupy it again, then he couldn't do anything to prevent that from coming to pass.

He twisted his fingers around his glass, feeling anxious and awkward, stealing small glances at Holmes when he thought he wasn't looking. He felt like some shy young boy in the company of a girl he was sweet on but who was socially beyond him. Part of him hated himself for being so... well, so weak, so vulnerable to Holmes.

But good God, had Watson ever missed him. And he didn't know what to do.

"It's good to have you home," he said.

It pains him that neither of them seems to know what to do with this situation, how to broach the new boundaries of their relationship -- the new definition of their relationship. The both of them are nervous; he doesn't have to try very hard to see that in Watson, and he doesn't have to try hard to read his thoughts, either. He feels certain enough to reply to Watson's thoughts, though in a less... typically-him way.

"It's good to be home," he says softly, his eyes on Watson. "I've missed you."

It's certainly true, and it's a bit of a relief to say it, since he can't yet say what he would really like to (I love you, please don't shut yourself off forever from me).

A smile flickered over Watson's face. To hear that he was missed was far better than the fear that the absence had meant very little to Holmes, that walking away had been easy. It would break his heart to split himself away from Holmes now, but it would break his heart more to know he meant that little.

He drained the last of his brandy, and set the glass aside. "I should probably try to sleep," Watson said quietly. "It's been rather a long day, and it's getting quite late... I don't have office hours tomorrow but I may be called on for an emergency, one never knows."

He rose, looking anywhere but at Holmes. "You may stay up if you wish, of course. I'll just fetch you a blanket."

Holmes doubts that either one of them will sleep much tonight, but he agrees with Watson that this conversation needs to be over. Not in a bad way; it's just simply over, and they need to walk away and digest it all. He nods and sips his brandy, letting Watson get the blanket, and staying put in his chair to afford him the space.

"Thank you," he says, for the blanket, for letting him stay, for not punching him again, for smiling. "Good evening, my dear Watson."

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Behold I dream a dream of good

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