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.

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[mustbethetruth]

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."

[lightconductor]

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."

[mustbethetruth]

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."

[lightconductor]

"Well, I'm glad you don't object to it," Watson said quietly. There was something a little nerve-wracking about suddenly declaring you considered yourself married to someone, even if it wasn't after a gap of three years' absence.

"And I do understand you felt you had no choice. That just... doesn't always make it easier to bear." He settled down beside Holmes, wrapping an arm around him carefully. "I would be a fool to not take my husband back again." Again, saying husband brought him a flush of pleasure and abashment, but it was lovely to say all the same. "But I did have to try to make a life without you already, remember that. I have a practice. I have been working with the Yard as a police surgeon. I have your godson and my goddaughter to dote upon. There will always be a place for you in my life, but it was painful to find this sort of peace."

[mustbethetruth]

He turns, wrapping an arm around Watson in return. He's still, largely, frustrated that he can't do whatever it is that Watson wants him to do, which is probably to go back in time and change what's occurred. He can't do that though, and he may never be forgiven, and this is all very irritating to him; he'd rather not think about it.

"Provided Moriarty doesn't return from the dead too, I feel certain that you won't have to again," he says, his hand settling on Watson's waist. "Do you think you can fit your husband in between everything else? Surely I can help with the doting on our godchildren," he says gently.

[lightconductor]

"Surely you can," Watson said, smiling a little. "Wait until you see how big Robert's getting. He demands stories of you at bedtime, too."

He slid his hand over Holmes's shoulder and ribs, delicate, affectionate. "I'll find time for you somewhere, have no worry." He kissed him, gently, and settled himself down again. "Don't think me ungrateful to have you back again. Are there any other facts I should know but probably don't wish to? We might as well get it all in the open now." His voice was flippant but the concern underneath was very real. "Did you leave a string of heartbroken young men behind you all the way to Tibet? That's a good place to start."

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes snorts and rolls his eyes. "Oh yes, you know my tendency to rack up lovers. I've lost count by now. You are but a name on a list as long as Baker st. itself," he drawls, his eyebrow arched. Really the notion is ridiculous to him; it isn't as if he engages in sex for the physicality of it. It's quite a vulnerable process for him, and he couldn't enter into it lightly.

"Watson, as I said, our always never ended for me. You are it for me, my dear boy. There is no one else for me in the world." He cups Watson's face, touching over his cheekbone lightly, and he pulls him in for a kiss, tender and lingering.

[lightconductor]

Watson closed his eyes. How he could possibly be so important to Holmes, who was so extraordinary, continued to escape him. "I must seem rather ungrateful," he said. "How many people would give everything to have their dead lovers returned to them? And here I am, protesting my good fortune."

He laid his hand over Holmes's on his cheek, holding his fingers there. "I'm trying to adjust," he promised. The truth was there were so many emotions roiling about in his heart right then that he couldn't quite make sense of them himself. He was trying.

[mustbethetruth]

His irritation may be a little uncalled for. Leaning in, he kisses Watson's nose, and then his mouth gently, his hand cradling the side of his neck.

"It hasn't even been twenty-four hours. We ought to stop being so hard on ourselves. It isn't so easy to come back from the dead and declare a marriage, all within the same day." He kisses Watson again, his moustache tickling his lip, and he's smiling as he draws away. Reaching in, he smooths his thumb over Watson's moustache, arranging it neatly.

"I have missed your moustache," he murmurs warmly, a smile to his voice.

[lightconductor]

"My moustache," Watson laughed, and kissed Holmes, more enthusiastically than he had been. "Why so attached to it? What would you have done if I had shaved it in the last three years?"

Not that that was even remotely likely. He hadn't been without a moustache since his army days, and had no intention of ever going without it again. He looked far too much like a mere boy without it.

"But I'll humour you. You may count on it remaining."

[mustbethetruth]

"A kiss simply would not be the same without your moustache tickling my lip," he points out, laughing too, and he leans in to steal another enthusiastic kiss because that one had felt good, and Watson's laughter is good to hear too. It warms him, while the conversation up until now had set him on edge. He doesn't want to be on edge when he's in bed with Watson.

"I'm glad it's staying. It distinguishes you," he says, still smiling. "You are devilishly handsome, you know. If either of us had picked up a slew of lovers in this time apart, I would've thought it'd be you."

[lightconductor]

Watson's smile was very glad and very fond, and more than a little flattered. That Holmes, who he thought of being so handsome, would say the same of him was touching, and almost unbelievable.

"Nonsense," he scoffed. "Anyone I might have dallied with would have had a great deal to live up to, after you." He burrowed close, catching Holmes's hand and nibbling on his fingertips.

[mustbethetruth]

"But you could have your pick, of that I am certain," he says, smiling. He inches his leg higher on Watson and pulls him in closer against his body, not wanting any space between them.

"I could tell you precisely which pub to go to, and you would have the attention of every queer in the place." He pauses, and his smile turns playful. "Especially if you wear your uniform, but you don't need such crutches."

Still grinning, he leans in for a kiss, slow and exploring and tender.

[lightconductor]

Laughing, Watson kissed Holmes gladly, feeling ridiculously, stupidly happy. "But you forget," he teased, "I am not interested in queers, unless they're extraordinary. All the same, it's nice to know the option is there."

He caught Holmes's lower lip between his teeth, gently, before moving down to kiss his throat. Oh, he had missed this, this sort of nonsensical teasing, the lazy lounging in bed, the casual touches of affection.

"You really think that highly of my uniform, do you?"

[mustbethetruth]

"Mmm," he murmurs, half in appreciation of Watson's attentions, and half in appreciation of imagining Watson in his uniform. He cranes his neck to give Watson more room, and his fingers slide up Watson's spine, counting vertebrae.

"I am biased toward men in uniform in general," he starts, feeling coy, "and combined with my heavy bias toward the handsomeness of your person... Yes, my dear. I think very highly of your uniform. Almost as highly as I think of taking your uniform off."

He turns his head and traces his tongue along the shell of Watson's ear, mouthing at his earlobe. His fingers, having ascertained that Watson's spine is intact, start playing one of Watson's favorite pieces against his ribs.