Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mustbethetruth) wrote2010-09-26 01:26 am
mustbethetruth) wrote2010-09-26 01:26 am
Entry tags:
The Return
so sup again
Jessie wrote a third part. Watson waiting around like a WIFE for Holmes to come back.
But then no one gets any word from Holmes/Sigerson anymore.
WHAT DOES THIS MEAN??????????????????????????????????
hint: it doesn't involve double rainbows
The Return
Holmes wakes up, tasting copper though his throat is dry, so dry, and his head itches, is sweating, and the sheets are scratchy, uncomfortable. His leg hurts, but it’s not the one he hurt on the island, it’s the other one; the faint scars left from Watson’s careful stitches are still intact, he knows that, and really the problem isn’t in his leg.
It hurts to breathe. The gauze is tight around his ribs, and he wants to move, wants to find comfort somewhere, but he knows he shouldn’t. The knife went in too deep. He hadn’t expected Moran to have a knife, hadn’t seen that coming when he knelt over him to ascertain that he was as near death as Holmes had thought.
He wasn’t.
It was a mistake; he knew it as he knelt down, as Moran’s eyes flew open, as his body began to lurch forward, but he had gotten too excited, too ready to be done with this ordeal and fly back to the arms of his husband waiting for him in London, foggy London with its smog and its people and prostitutes and criminals and hapless inspectors and bristly housekeepers with inexpensive lodgings on Baker Street.
Moran, it seems, made a similar mistake when he sunk his knife into Holmes’s flesh and saw the color drain from his face to pool at his side. He left, and Holmes really can’t say it was a foolish move, either; Moran was likely as near death as Holmes was himself, so seeking help was of utmost importance to him at that moment.
But if he had only waited a moment, he would’ve been discovered by a passing monk, just as Holmes was. Perhaps then he would have known that Holmes had survived the fight. As it is, he can only believe—pray—that he did, indeed, leave Holmes to die in a growing pool of blood.
Noticing that he has woken, a monk brings Holmes water, pauses to check his bandages, gives Holmes reassuring pat on the shoulder, and quietly collects his things and leaves again.
It’s quiet here. Holmes likes that. It isn’t like London, not at all, and he finds himself growing hungrier and hungrier for London now that he knows it’s within his reach, but the quiet on this mountain, the peace that follows behind the men here like obedient lapdogs, sniffing after their heels is alluring. It’s a pleasant place to wake up in, wrapped within an inch of his life—literally—in gauze.
It’s also a convenient place for reinvention, and Holmes needs to do a good deal of that.
Sherlock Holmes is dead, once again. Is this the second time? The third? It’s somewhat ridiculous that he can’t tell, can’t keep track of his own deaths. It is, decidedly, the hour for Sigerson’s passing, as any sign that the man still lives must be eradicated so that Moran can live on in his fantasy. London is closer for he has the advantage now, but it is still impossibly far away, for as long as Moran is out there, interested in seeing all of Holmes’s blood spill on the ground, it is not safe to return home.
Home.
He closes his eyes again, leaning his head back against the pillows, taking shallow breaths, holding onto the air that he can. He entertains himself with thoughts of the home that awaits Sherlock Holmes, of comfortable rooms and adventures in the night and a warm, loving embrace from a former soldier. They are not the dreams of this man lying in a bed in a Buddhist monastery; that man has no name, not yet, no history and no family. He is alone.
To the monks, he is Robert.
They don’t ask many questions about where he is from, why he is here, where all the scars that mark his body have come from. They are merely interested in healing in all its various forms—there is, for instance, no cocaine here—and Robert tarries there even after his physical wounds have healed. He stays until the peace that plods along faithfully behind the monks is also a friend to him, though it doesn’t stay quite so loyal, quite so faithful. He stays until it sinks beneath the outer layer of Robert and down to the corpse underneath, to Sherlock Holmes, lying dormant, lying in wait.
There are no telegrams from the mountain. No word from England, no coded messages sent between brothers. There is no more bond between this man, Robert, and London. To strike up another connection would be to light a match where there may be flammable gas in the air. It’s dangerous enough to allow Holmes to seek Moran as much as he can, which isn’t very much at all, not until Robert has finished his time on the mountain.
It’s difficult to think of leaving, once he is there, because there is such a new world opening up before his eyes, such new ways of thinking, of feeling, of handling his black moods, that for a long time the mountain is as much his crutch as the wooden thing he had to use during his physical recuperation. He buries London, buries Moran, and devotes himself to being Robert, to filling out his flesh, to absorbing what the monks have to teach him until the process of healing extends beyond his ribs or his leg and instead permeates beyond the surface and into his blood.
And when it does that, it sinks past Robert and to the man stored beneath.
Once the healing is complete, or nearly, or in progress, Robert disappears. Sigerson’s corpse, rotting near the surface, is buried and sent away, once and for all. There is no longer any question of identity.
No matter how many times he has died, Sherlock Holmes still lives. He is here, he is breathing, he is alive, and just because he must keep this a secret, that does not change the fact that his heart beats with a steadfast purpose: Watson, and home.
When he leaves, finally, his Tibetan retreat, he takes on a new name, a traveling name, and an accent, and he styles his hair differently and slowly buys items for a new wardrobe. This new name is merely an overcoat that he will pull on and off, though for the time being, it is buttoned to the throat. This is a name he chooses not to disguise his true identity, but to enhance it; it’s a game, a challenge. A show of confidence. He doesn’t wear a mask to hide his face; rather he wears a tribal mask meant to enhance, meant to frighten.
Robin Lemieux leaves the Tibetan retreat seeming a new man, when he isn’t at all, not really. The beauty of it is that he is the same man as before, only better.
Sherlock Holmes wears Robin’s clothes as he stands outside a telegram office, considering, wondering.
Behind him, there’s a loud noise that’s almost like gunfire, and even though he knows Moran would never be so sloppy as to make a sound, he turns, and a brief flash of fear shines in his eyes.
He pulls his hat down and steps away, buttoning his coat.
He’s in Morocco when he discovers Moran’s location.
Within the hour, he’s on the boat for Spain, and he is drawing out his money for a train to England. He can taste copper in his mouth again, but this time it isn’t for his own injuries. More than that, however, he can feel his lungs filling with the memory of London, and he nearly exhales fog the entire boat ride. It’s pipe smoke, but he can dream.
And this time, the dreams are his own.
Jessie wrote a third part. Watson waiting around like a WIFE for Holmes to come back.
But then no one gets any word from Holmes/Sigerson anymore.
WHAT DOES THIS MEAN??????????????????????????????????
hint: it doesn't involve double rainbows
Holmes wakes up, tasting copper though his throat is dry, so dry, and his head itches, is sweating, and the sheets are scratchy, uncomfortable. His leg hurts, but it’s not the one he hurt on the island, it’s the other one; the faint scars left from Watson’s careful stitches are still intact, he knows that, and really the problem isn’t in his leg.
It hurts to breathe. The gauze is tight around his ribs, and he wants to move, wants to find comfort somewhere, but he knows he shouldn’t. The knife went in too deep. He hadn’t expected Moran to have a knife, hadn’t seen that coming when he knelt over him to ascertain that he was as near death as Holmes had thought.
He wasn’t.
It was a mistake; he knew it as he knelt down, as Moran’s eyes flew open, as his body began to lurch forward, but he had gotten too excited, too ready to be done with this ordeal and fly back to the arms of his husband waiting for him in London, foggy London with its smog and its people and prostitutes and criminals and hapless inspectors and bristly housekeepers with inexpensive lodgings on Baker Street.
Moran, it seems, made a similar mistake when he sunk his knife into Holmes’s flesh and saw the color drain from his face to pool at his side. He left, and Holmes really can’t say it was a foolish move, either; Moran was likely as near death as Holmes was himself, so seeking help was of utmost importance to him at that moment.
But if he had only waited a moment, he would’ve been discovered by a passing monk, just as Holmes was. Perhaps then he would have known that Holmes had survived the fight. As it is, he can only believe—pray—that he did, indeed, leave Holmes to die in a growing pool of blood.
Noticing that he has woken, a monk brings Holmes water, pauses to check his bandages, gives Holmes reassuring pat on the shoulder, and quietly collects his things and leaves again.
It’s quiet here. Holmes likes that. It isn’t like London, not at all, and he finds himself growing hungrier and hungrier for London now that he knows it’s within his reach, but the quiet on this mountain, the peace that follows behind the men here like obedient lapdogs, sniffing after their heels is alluring. It’s a pleasant place to wake up in, wrapped within an inch of his life—literally—in gauze.
It’s also a convenient place for reinvention, and Holmes needs to do a good deal of that.
Sherlock Holmes is dead, once again. Is this the second time? The third? It’s somewhat ridiculous that he can’t tell, can’t keep track of his own deaths. It is, decidedly, the hour for Sigerson’s passing, as any sign that the man still lives must be eradicated so that Moran can live on in his fantasy. London is closer for he has the advantage now, but it is still impossibly far away, for as long as Moran is out there, interested in seeing all of Holmes’s blood spill on the ground, it is not safe to return home.
Home.
He closes his eyes again, leaning his head back against the pillows, taking shallow breaths, holding onto the air that he can. He entertains himself with thoughts of the home that awaits Sherlock Holmes, of comfortable rooms and adventures in the night and a warm, loving embrace from a former soldier. They are not the dreams of this man lying in a bed in a Buddhist monastery; that man has no name, not yet, no history and no family. He is alone.
To the monks, he is Robert.
They don’t ask many questions about where he is from, why he is here, where all the scars that mark his body have come from. They are merely interested in healing in all its various forms—there is, for instance, no cocaine here—and Robert tarries there even after his physical wounds have healed. He stays until the peace that plods along faithfully behind the monks is also a friend to him, though it doesn’t stay quite so loyal, quite so faithful. He stays until it sinks beneath the outer layer of Robert and down to the corpse underneath, to Sherlock Holmes, lying dormant, lying in wait.
There are no telegrams from the mountain. No word from England, no coded messages sent between brothers. There is no more bond between this man, Robert, and London. To strike up another connection would be to light a match where there may be flammable gas in the air. It’s dangerous enough to allow Holmes to seek Moran as much as he can, which isn’t very much at all, not until Robert has finished his time on the mountain.
It’s difficult to think of leaving, once he is there, because there is such a new world opening up before his eyes, such new ways of thinking, of feeling, of handling his black moods, that for a long time the mountain is as much his crutch as the wooden thing he had to use during his physical recuperation. He buries London, buries Moran, and devotes himself to being Robert, to filling out his flesh, to absorbing what the monks have to teach him until the process of healing extends beyond his ribs or his leg and instead permeates beyond the surface and into his blood.
And when it does that, it sinks past Robert and to the man stored beneath.
Once the healing is complete, or nearly, or in progress, Robert disappears. Sigerson’s corpse, rotting near the surface, is buried and sent away, once and for all. There is no longer any question of identity.
No matter how many times he has died, Sherlock Holmes still lives. He is here, he is breathing, he is alive, and just because he must keep this a secret, that does not change the fact that his heart beats with a steadfast purpose: Watson, and home.
When he leaves, finally, his Tibetan retreat, he takes on a new name, a traveling name, and an accent, and he styles his hair differently and slowly buys items for a new wardrobe. This new name is merely an overcoat that he will pull on and off, though for the time being, it is buttoned to the throat. This is a name he chooses not to disguise his true identity, but to enhance it; it’s a game, a challenge. A show of confidence. He doesn’t wear a mask to hide his face; rather he wears a tribal mask meant to enhance, meant to frighten.
Robin Lemieux leaves the Tibetan retreat seeming a new man, when he isn’t at all, not really. The beauty of it is that he is the same man as before, only better.
Sherlock Holmes wears Robin’s clothes as he stands outside a telegram office, considering, wondering.
Behind him, there’s a loud noise that’s almost like gunfire, and even though he knows Moran would never be so sloppy as to make a sound, he turns, and a brief flash of fear shines in his eyes.
He pulls his hat down and steps away, buttoning his coat.
He’s in Morocco when he discovers Moran’s location.
Within the hour, he’s on the boat for Spain, and he is drawing out his money for a train to England. He can taste copper in his mouth again, but this time it isn’t for his own injuries. More than that, however, he can feel his lungs filling with the memory of London, and he nearly exhales fog the entire boat ride. It’s pipe smoke, but he can dream.
And this time, the dreams are his own.