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]

"I was, yes. I was close to death; if I hadn't been recovered, Moran's assumption would've come to fruition." He watches Watson find the remnants of where Moran toyed with the idea of killing Holmes with a kind of surprise; he'd nearly forgotten them, as they'd simply been incorporated into his body. He runs his fingers through Watson's hair again, his touch light.

"He never stopped saying that maybe today would be the day he'd give in, break his word, and actually kill me," he explains, and he touches one of the new scars. "He said he'd keep putting obstacles in my way until I did it to myself. Maybe when he shot through the window of my room, I'd choose to sit back from my chair at that instant and put myself in the way of his bullet. Sometimes he was more personal in his threats, as you see."

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes again, laying his head back against the couch.

"It was easier to deal with his... madness, with my guilt, with everything, if I could blame some of my instability on the fact that I was consuming increasingly larger amounts of substances. He's gone now, though," he says, with some conviction. "In the system, at least. That's all that's necessary. If the law fails to keep him out of my way, then the government, by way of my brother, will intervene. It's one of the few things Mycroft has been eager about in his life."

He draws Watson closer to him and wraps him in a firm hold, and he moves his legs until he traps Watson in against his own.

"I want to hear about your three years. You have a practice, and a godchild, and a new tailor. Tell me more."

[lightconductor]

Watson chuckled breathily. "The new tailor is very good, by the way. His shirts are splendid." Whether he was quite up to Holmes's standards -- and he always saw Holmes as being so wonderfully and exquisitely dressed -- was another question altogether.

He shifted in Holmes's hold, trying to think of how to distill the last three years into a fact or two. "Far less eventful than it was for you, I suspect," he sighed. "I considered moving, but could not bear it. Lestrade was kind enough to allow me to do some work with the Yard as a police surgeon. I was grateful for it. I'm not sure I have the temperment to be a respectable general practitioner." His tone was rather rueful; he didn't think that was something to be proud of, but sometimes it had been so dull.

There was much he didn't want to admit, either, but after wht Holmes had said to him, what Holmes had admitted, he couldn't justify keeping it secret.

"In the first year, I had difficulty making ends meet. My practice was hardly anything then, and I wasted much of it at the track, or the card tables." Watson sighed, burrowing close. He would not, could not mention how close he had come some nights to putting a bullet through his head long before Moran could have got to it. "I... I am doing better these days."

[mustbethetruth]

While Holmes's life had been hellish, he knows that this kind of dull existence was hell for Watson, too. Being pursued by Moran would have been preferable to this level of... normal, everyday life. Of course he fell to his habits; hadn't Holmes fallen to his own, in order to cope? He kisses Watson's forehead and traces the line of Watson's jaw, up to his cheekbone.

"I'm glad to hear it. If you find you still struggle, I know the location of a good recovery spot. It's a bit of a journey from here, but the people are very friendly." He smiles and lets his lips brush against Watson's skin.

"Do you enjoy your practice?" he asks softly, in part for selfish reasons. Would he have to share Watson now?

[lightconductor]

"I was glad for the Lestrades," Watson murmured. "They were a godsend, even if they don't realise it." And that was a vast understatement. It had been far too easy to fall into the sort of life he had had before he had met Holmes: slothful, aimless, spending his money far too freely. He had had to learn how to be himself in London without Holmes; he had never had to do that before.

He had to think about Holmes's question, though. To say aloud that sometimes he found it unbearable seemed... well, unworthy of a doctor.

"Usually," he said at last. "It can be rewarding. It gave me the funds to let me stay in Baker Street." And it was dull. After patching up men on the battlefield, after dashing around London at Holmes's heels, attending to coughs and headaches and hypochondriacs was unbearably dull. Occassionally there was something interesting, but as interesting usually meant something unpleasant for his patient, even that was a mixed blessing.

And he wasn't sure he liked what that said about him.

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes hums thoughtfully and strokes his fingers over Watson's neck. He can hear everything Watson isn't saying, and he tries to imagine Watson getting through the day with so little to sustain him. He's glad that Watson had the Lestrades too, and their godchildren, so he could at least get some moral support, could at least invest himself in someone else's life. Holmes can be a very solitary creature; Watson, however, needs another life thrumming alongside his own.

"That sounds horrifically dull," he says distastefully. "You are a good doctor, my dear, but you were not meant to be such an ordinary doctor. You were not meant to be an ordinary anything."

[lightconductor]

Watson's sigh was one of relief, infinite gladness that he hadn't had to explain anything in more detail than that. It was precious beyond words to have someone in his life who knew what he meant without his having to say it. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed that. He also hadn't quite realised how wonderful it was to be told he was anything but ordinary.

"It can be dull," he admitted. "I suppose I have the responsibility now."

He turned his head again to kiss Holmes's skin, rather lazily.

"Do you plan on taking up the mantle again of consulting detective?" Watson wondered. "Or did you plan on retiring with Moriarty and Moran dealt with?"

[mustbethetruth]

It hardly seems a choice. Watson's life sounds exceedingly dull, and what would he do? He can hardly be the British government, and if Watson isn't idle enough to be a general practitioner, then he isn't idle enough to be a general practitioner's spouse. All the same, he is apprehensive about putting himself into a line of work that had previously led him to use drugs.

"I can't fathom retiring," he admits, reaching up to trace Watson's mouth lightly. "Not yet. My only concern is... Well, could you keep your morphine, things like that, somewhere else in the house? Or somewhere else entirely. A life of idleness would not help my predilection to chemical enhancement, but I am concerned that a return to an active life would leave me in search for more of that... vigor."

He exhales. That had been a difficult thing to ask.

"What about you?" he murmurs, happy to turn to a better subject. "Would you be willing to leave your patients to their sneezes and coughs and run out with me to a crime scene at a moment's notice?"

[lightconductor]

Watson nodded slowly. He suspected that if he were to hide the drugs that were now in his doctor's bag, Holmes would be able to find it, if he truly tried. Still, sometimes the effort was what counted. "I'll keep it safe, then. Whatever you need."

The second question was harder. To drop everything and follow Holmes was all he wanted in the world, though it seemed irresponsible a thing to do as a physician.

"My neighbour, who is also a doctor... he would be able to take my patients at least some of the time." This troubled him a little. He could hardly stand on professional courtesy indefinitely. "I would want to do exactly that. You have no idea. There is nothing I would desire more."

[mustbethetruth]

Holmes frowns a little, listening to this. Watson doesn't really want to keep his practice, does he? Does he really find it necessary to be coy about keeping it around for politeness's sake? Holmes couldn't care less about their income; money rarely worries him, and he's sure they'll resume earning enough from solving his cases again soon.

"Then why not sell your practice to your neighbor -- or anyone willing -- so that they might take your patients all of the time, and you and I can go back to living our lives as they ought to be?" It seems logical to him. And a far better idea than sharing his Watson with unworthy people.

[lightconductor]

Watson swallowed, stroking Holmes's skin gently. What it might mean that his chosen vocation meant so little to him that he would gladly cast it aside for Holmes was something he didn't like to think about, but there was only one answer he could possibly give. "I would like that," he said softly. "I only hope I can find a buyer soon."

It was not so busy a practice, nor a profitable one, and while that had suited Watson, not everyone would agree. It probably had potential, he had to admit that.

"I suppose the Yard will be losing my services as a police surgeon, as well."

[mustbethetruth]

"If you like." It's difficult to shrug in this position but that's what his voice conveys, anyway. Truth be told, he likes the idea of Watson a police surgeon; he likes that they're both putting in their services at the Yard -- not because he cares at all about the Yard, but there's something endearing about their professions going together.

"After so long I think we've earned the right to do whatever makes us happy. Do you enjoy serving as a police surgeon?"

[lightconductor]

"I do, actually. It's interesting." It was beyond that, too. It had been some small piece of the world Holmes had introduced him to, something he could still explore, if in a different context. "It doesn't take up a great deal of time, though."

He let his hand wander up, blindly, to stroke the side of Holmes's face, moving by touch. Watson let his fingers wander over Holmes's skin, over his mouth, feeling the dip and hollow of his lips and chin.

"I should have plenty of time to devote to your cases."

[mustbethetruth]

"Our cases, my boy, our cases." He turns his head and catches Watson's hand, so he can kiss the palm. "Especially if you wish to persist in writing them down. You must take some ownership if you become the author of our cases."

He brings Watson's hand closer to his mouth and flicks his tongue out to taste the pad of each finger. He's glad that Watson will keep his surgeon job, and he realizes that maybe it has something to do -- again -- with uniforms. Not that Watson would wear one of course, but Watson's sort of a Yarder, and there's something embarrassingly appealing about that.