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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"Of course," he answers instantly, because what else would he say at this time? Anyway, there isn't anything he'd particularly like to lie about, he doesn't think; he's weary of lying, weary of having to hide things, hide himself. If he comes back to Watson, he doesn't want it to be under false pretenses; he doesn't to lie to Watson and lose him over something that's less significant than his faked death.

"Anything, Watson."

Watson swallowed, hard. His throat felt dry, and there seemed to be a lump in it, which was inconvenient in the extreme. How could he possibly ask this aloud? Still, he had begun. He had to finish it.

"Did I--" He stopped, broke off, pulled the blanket tighter around him. Briefly, he wished he had bothered to stop and find his discarded nightshirt. "Did I mean so little to you that it was easy for you to disappear like you did?"

And that was, at the heart of it, what scared him; that disappearing, dying, had been easy for Holmes, that he would do it again if necessary, that always could be truncated to mean whatever was convenient as necessary.

The question is horrifying to him, if only because it's patently flawed. He wants desperately to get up, to take Watson in his arms, but he isn't sure if he'd be allowed.

"No -- no, Watson, if you meant little to me, I wouldn't have disappeared at all." He decides he can't make this point from the sofa, and he stands, taking a small step closer to Watson. "The whole point of Moriarty's scheme was to kill me while I lived. To be separated from you, to know that I could never talk to you again, never let you know that I lived..." He closes his eyes briefly and shakes his head.

"I confess that I was weak. That I let my... my despair control me. That was how I wound up nearly dead in Tibet. But the thought of you compelled me to recover, once my head was clearer, once I finally had the upper hand on Moran and I knew I could succeed without risking your life."

He takes another hesitant step and half-reaches for Watson, itching to hold him.

"There was nothing easy about disappearing. Never for one day was it easy."

Watson's expression faltered a little; that had been precisely what he'd wanted, desperately, to hear. He was silent for a long moment, trying to work out exactly what to say, how to say it, trying to make himself believe completely.

At last, he shifted the blanket a little, extending a hand towards Holmes. "The sofa can't be very comfortable," he murmured. His expression was a little haunted, a little sad, a little relieved. "Would you... would you come to bed?"

Sex was the last thing on his mind, but he needed some degree of closeness which he'd missed terribly.

"Yes," Holmes says, and with it he can feel every himself fill head-to-foot with relief. He takes Watson's hand but doesn't start to the bedroom yet; instead he wraps Watson into a hug, nestles into the crook of his neck, and breathes, needing to smell him, needing to feel him, needing to know that he's been accepted back into this.

"Yes, please. I love you." He hadn't even planned to say it; it slips out as he draws away, drunk on Watson, and he colors, grateful for the darkness of the room.

"I love you too. I'm angry with you," his voice was more tired than really angry, "but I love you."

Watson drew Holmes towards the bedroom, sliding their fingers together. "Don't you ever do this to me again," he murmured, his voice very soft. "Not ever. I had to go to your funeral. If I have to go a second time, I shan't survive it, so it had better be in earnest next time."

He was very close, not daring to draw more than an inch or two away from Holmes if he could help it. With the bedroom door closed behind them, he turned to Holmes and began, slowly and methodically, to undo Holmes's buttons.

"If I have to be separated from you a second time, I shan't survive it, either. I barely survived this one." He's afraid to move, afraid to startle Watson away in this moment, but he allows himself a hand against Watson's cheek, his touch gentle, seeking acceptance.

"Always, John. You and I -- this is always." He wants to say more, but isn't sure what it is he wants to say; his emotions choke out his ability to form words, and they tumble around inside him until he feels like a nonsensical mess.

He takes an unsteady breath, reveling in the fact that it's breath he shares with Watson in the limited space between them. Once he notices that, he can't seem to stop himself; he closes the space remaining between them and kisses him, struggling not to be too eager, not to be too desperate, to let Watson set the pace.

Watson's kiss was very gentle, very slow, exploring and reacquainting himself with Holmes. It was far less mad and needful than their earlier kiss, Moran unconscious at their feet.

He wasn't interested in words, not then, not particularly. He slid Holmes's shirt off his shoulders, and drew him towards the bed. It was, he felt, of the utmost importance that he tuck them in together, where they belonged, where no madmen with air guns could harm them.

"Please," he whispered, brokenly. He was already halfway drawing Holmes down under the covers with him. "Take off your trousers." He needed as much bare skin as possible that he could touch with his own; that was all there was to it.

Holmes can't argue with that; it's clear what they both need, and it isn't sex -- well, not just now. They need this intimacy, the absence of anything between them, to make this real, to cement their return to one another. No more tentative uncertainties between them. No more question of what's allowed.

He sheds his trousers and joins Watson in bed, tucking their bodies together, and he lets his kisses fall wherever they fall, feather-light against Watson's shoulder, his face, his lips. That moustache tickles his lip and it's glorious, and he snakes his arm around Watson's waist to hold them together.

"This is where we're meant to be," he murmurs, softly.

Tucking himself against Holmes, being able to feel him against him from head to toe -- it was like being fitted together with the other half of himself, a matching puzzle piece, for the first time in three years. Watson gave a small, breathy sob, his fingers wandering over Holmes's skin, exploring and relearning.

He dearly hoped there was no reason for the pair of them to get out of bed tomorrow. Or all week, for that matter. Anyone who came calling could bloody well come back later.

"Shhh," he soothed. He pressed a series of kisses gently over Holmes's skin, his fingers still gently stroking.

He shushes, content, warm, hopeful. He closes his eyes and breathe Watson in deeply, and tries to relax through all his relief and exhilaration at being accepted back into this. Perhaps it's unhealthy to consider himself incomplete without Watson, but Holmes isn't a healthy person at the outset. Watson completes him, and it's wonderful to sink into his arms again.

He drifts asleep, and back awake, and asleep again, but none of it is tiresome or exhausting. His sleep is peaceful; he doesn't dream, and then when he wakes, there is Watson beside him, solid and beautiful and real.

When the light comes in through the windows, he lets himself wake fully and simply lies still, breathing, being. He's smiling to himself in the early morning light of what he hopes is their room again, and he feels drunk on it all.

When Watson woke, he gave a long, slow sigh of utter contentment. He hadn't had many things to say about life that were neither bitter nor depressed, lately, but this morning he was perfectly at ease. He shifted slightly closer, needing to have as little space between them as possible.

He could have said good morning, he could have said any number of things, but he just held Holmes from behind a little close, sliding a leg in between Holmes's, tangling them closer. He pressed a kiss against the back of Holmes's neck.

He presses back, thrilled by everything; by the breath on his neck, by the kiss there, by the perfection of Watson's leg mixed up in his own, by the curves of their bodies fitting together. He seeks out one of Watson's hands and tangles their fingers together, but then thinks better of it and brings it to his lips; he kisses his knuckles, his fingertips, his palm, treasuring the ability to do this again.

"Hello," he says at last, struck with a sudden desire to hear Watson's voice, to complete the sensory image his mind is currently recording.

Something about 'hello' as a morning greeting made Watson laughed. "Good morning," he said, savouring the words like a fine wine, like an expensive tobacco. He pressed another kiss against Holmes's neck, closing his eyes.

There were too many things to say, so he said nothing, merely nuzzled against Holmes, smelling him, tasting him, treasuring him.

"You're not allowed to go anywhere today," he murmured, sounding sleepy. "Not without my express permission."

"I have spent three years dreaming of nowhere but here," he returns, enjoying the way Watson's laugh feels against him. "At the moment, I feel as if I could spend three years just like this, without moving, except occasionally to turn over so that I might kiss you at my leisure."

Because he has all the time he could want to kiss Watson. Because they have always, and he hopes to never be in the situation again where he'll have to separate them. They are clearly not meant to be separated.

"That sounds ideal to me," Watson murmured. "I am, by the way, still angry with you, but not seriously. Staying here is your punishment."

He trailed a series of lazy kisses over Holmes's neck, and caught his earlobe casually between his lips. "We should formulate an excuse if anyone comes calling," he mused, laughing a little. "One of us has been injured, rest and recouperation is necessary, no visitors permitted. Coming back from the dead is a neat trick, but I'm certain it must take it out of you?"

"Tell them you have a splitting headache," he counters, as casually and lazily as he's said everything else this morning, but it saddens him that Watson is still angry. There isn't much that he could do for that, can he? Watson loves him enough to force them to stay in bed, which is something that Holmes can live with. He just has to start getting used to living with the thought that Watson might never forgive him.

He turns over, not content for the moment to be in a position where he can't touch or kiss Watson as much as he'd like. He retangles their legs, pulling one of Watson's in between his, and he skims his fingertips down his side before he lets his arm drape over him and hold him close.

"Or tell them I slipped and hit my head in the bath." He grazes his lips against Watson's in a tease of a kiss. He doesn't even need to tell his fingers to do it; they start counting Watson's ribs of their own accord.

"What an anti-climactic end to rising like Lazarus from the grave," Watson chortled. He pressed a kiss against Holmes's forehead. "You ought to be careful. I just might start claiming that to be true."

He let his fingers trail over Holmes's face, his cheekbones, his lips, before being unable to help himself and kissing him again.

"Is this a new 'always' or the same one after a brief and unfortunate interruption?" he wondered, softly.

He blinks, surprised at the question, but then he continually forgets that Watson had a kind of closure that Holmes never got. Traumatizing though it was, Holmes's funeral at least gave Watson an endpoint; for Holmes, their relationship has been frozen in time, though more often than not, it felt like he'd gotten trapped on some pages that got ripped out of a notebook.

"For me, it's the same one." He reaches his hand up between them so he can touch along the line of Watson's jaw, his thumb brushing against his chin.

"I can understand if it's a new one for you... or if you no longer feel that way." It occurs to him that he hasn't quite heard Watson return Holmes's strong declarations, and it's a blow that he needs a second to recover from. If he needs to win back Watson's affections, then... then he'll do that.

"If I no longer felt that way, you wouldn't be here now," Watson pointed out, rather firmly. "Nor would I be bullying you into acts of sloth. I love you. That hasn't changed. Nor, I am beginning to suspect, will it ever."

He ran his fingers through Holmes's hair, his touch delicate and careful. "No, I'm quite content with it being the same one. I'm merely clarifying." He kissed Holmes gently.

After a moment of merely kissing him, enjoying it for the luxury of something long missed, Watson drew back a little, resuming stroking Holmes's face and hair. "Oh, if you were wondering what has become of your belongings, what isn't here is in the possession of your brother. If he's disposed of anything terribly valuable, you must take it up with him."

He lets himself be relieved, lets himself believe in Watson because Watson can't lie very well, for one, and for two, he wouldn't lie about such things as this. His fingers are restless, too, and they follow the line of Watson's neck to his collarbone, tracing it with a gentle fingertip.

Oh, dear. This may be a sensitive subject. He revels in Waston's love and gentle touches, very much afraid that in a moment they won't be so readily available.

"I doubt very much that he would have gone through my belongings, as he knew that I would be back for them," he says softly, avoiding Watson's eyes to instead watch his fingertips slide over his skin.

"He what?" Watson raised himself up a little in the bed, drawing back. "Do you mean to say that he knew?"

He couldn't have hidden the agony in his voice for anything. All of the sympathy Mycroft had offered, all of the support, all of the help -- for what? Had the man been laughing at him secretly? Was it just pity that he felt?

"Holmes..." Watson felt completely lost, and he wasn't sure what to say. "Why?"

Holmes sighs and rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling because it's easier than the shock and hurt in Watson's face.

"I needed someone to wire me money. That was the excuse I gave to Moran; he was interested in my staying alive, so he didn't pursue it. What I didn't tell Moran, though he must have known, was that Mycroft was keeping an eye on you for me. He didn't actually tell me much about you. I'd asked him not to. It... made it more difficult."

He sighs again and hazards a look at Watson.

"I am sorry. But if Moran or the people he had following you -- and he did, Watson, make no mistake about it -- thought for one second that I'd contacted you, or you knew I was alive, well. You saw what would have come of it."

Edited 2012-02-01 00:21 (UTC)

Watson sank down onto the bed again, his expression solemn. There was a tiny part of his heart that had been feeling crushed since yesterday, and it was doing no better now. He wanted so badly to shake Holmes, sometimes, to make him understand.

"I would have gladly shouldered some of the danger to be relieved of some of the grief," he said, gently. "Do you have any idea what is to lose a lover," he hesitated, not liking the word, "to lose a spouse, and not be able to tell the world that? I do consider you that," Watson added, rather awkwardly, "of a sort, and I'm sorry if you don't like the term."

Spouse. How strange to hear that word applied to him, for since he was a very young man, he felt certain that he would never be anyone's spouse. And no, he never would legally, but what else do he and Watson have? They aren't merely sleeping together; they live together and love one another, and they have promised always. To Holmes, that had been a way of saying spouse. It had been a way of saying soulmates, really, but spouse will do.

"I didn't say I don't like it," he murmurs in return, entirely uncertain of how to reply to this.

"What more can I say except that I am sorry and at the time I felt I had little choice?" he says, frustrated, disappointed in himself. "At the time, it was necessary. While Moran pursued me, the thought of somehow informing you of my safety seemed unthinkably dangerous because a world without you in it -- and me the cause of your death -- was unbearable. At least you would live on. At least, I thought, however painful it might be, you could find closure in the event I didn't return to you."

Behold I dream a dream of good

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