Disclaimer: Here is my Halloween offering. I usually write in BBC verse, but this plot insisted to be birthed in ACD verse, for obvious reasons. It *is* an AU story, so if a good chunk of it does not comply with actual Doyle canon and/or timeline, or sounds downright OOC, I hope you will forgive me. Also, unbetaed and unbritpicked because I am the worst with deadlines and barely scraped the last sentence in time for tonight. Enjoy!
"You'll be the death of me."
When it rains, it pours. It seemed to be the motto of John Watson's life. No matter how hard he tried, how far he attempted to flee, his bad luck would follow him and put him back into his place – down. Leaving home, studying medicine, enrolling in the army. All to find a place for himself into the world. A corner where he might fit, feel useful, find even – could he dream? – someone to bond with.
Fate let him think he'd earned it all – only to snatch it away with one carefully aimed bullet. Shipped back with all the other broken, useless tools. Once he'd arrived back in his homeland, he'd found himself out of a job, out of money but his small pension, out of friends. He didn't dare to seek back the people he'd met during college. The one thing Watson seemed to still not be entirely out of was his pride. He wouldn't willingly show the man he'd become.
And then, as if he hadn't lost enough, John was reached from the news that he'd lost his older brother, too. Not that they had ever been truly close. Henry had an even worse temper than he did, easy to set aflame and prone to keeping a grudge. The immoderate alcohol consumption had never helped his moods, either. But he was still the only remaining kin he had – their parents long gone – and his death seemed to be the final straw.
The former soldier had to go back to Scotland for the funeral service and all the relative obligations. At least, he knew his brother well enough not to expect any amount of inheritance to better his position. It didn't surprise him to know Henry had drunk all their family's earthly possessions away. If anything, he was pleasantly shocked that whatever remained, once sold, would be just enough to cover his brother's latest debts. A clock would be the entirety of the bequest he received.
He should be grateful for that, he supposed. If he had to pay for them with his own inexistent savings, the doctor would have found himself in an insolvable quandary. And also insolvent, and the sheer cacophony of that might upset him more than the shame of it.
Counting his own small blessing, after the function, John decided to go for a walk. It wasn't like there were people to offer their condolences. Henry had always been very good to alienate his neighbours. The doctor was feeling more empty than sorrowful, and somehow guilty about it. No matter how unpleasant his brother had been, they still shared a blood bond.
Sighing, he let his feet decide the direction. He didn't have urgent errands. As of present, he was entirely free. Master of himself, without obligations or people piling expectations on him. For some men, this would have sounded like heaven. John instead felt deeply adrift. Unmoored.
It was natural, perhaps, that in such a state of mind, he would have left the town behind and slowly, almost dreamily headed to the rather wild landscape around it. Henry had long since lost the means to live in a city and retired to the isolated village where their grandfather had resided.
Watson let the birds' songs and gentle summer wind's sigh fill him, keeping to the less beaten track. Whatever happened – if he suddenly broke down, or started talking to the fox he'd glanced in the bushes – there would be no witnesses.
Which was why he was shocked to hear a soft, wistful and yet clearly complex and overwhelmingly enthralling violin tune in the midst of nowhere. For all his determination to shirk the human society, he found himself hurrying towards the source of the sound. He simply had to meet who could create such beauty, and discover why he wouldn't be, in this autumn evening, charming people at the Royal Albert Hall and acquiring everlasting renown rather than hiding in the Scottish wilderness.
Soon John came across the turbulent and icy river grandfather had warned him against in summers past – notorious for a track of drownings of people of all ages and conditions – and discovered that the heavenly melody came from somewhere upstream.
The blond followed the river, barely breathing, like a man possessed. Finally, in a seclusive clearing, he saw the river spread out in a surprisingly wide lake, water clear like crystal. In the midst of it, on a rock, like the world's most incongruous merman, sat the mysterious violinist. He was properly dressed as any British gentleman, though he was slouching a bit. His eyes were closed, and his head swayed gently, following the melody he was coaxing out of the wood.
The doctor found himself with his feet in the water before the freezing cold shocked him out of his trance. Suddenly remembering he'd never learned to swim – grandfather's frightful warnings part of his reluctance to learn, certainly. He took off his soaked shoes and socks and sat on the shore, letting his feet in the water, kicking up tiny waves. They were already cold, anyway, and he'd decided to go with instinct today.
After a while, the haunting melody lulled, with a last thrill its privileged public would have sworn was interrogative. Smoke grey eyes opened, and a melodious voice – and nonetheless one eliciting a shiver from the depths of the grieving man, like the cold water couldn't manage – rumbled, "Oh, hello."
"Hello. I hope I'm not disturbing you," John replied, hinting at getting up.
"Exactly the opposite, I assure you, doctor. Or do you prefer sir?" the anonymous violinist queried, with a quick, somehow unsettling smile.
"Watson will do. I assume someone told you I was coming to deal with Henry's passing. I have to apologise, but I don't remember you from my past visits. I would have sworn that someone so outstanding would make an impression on me," the shorter man remarked, with an awkward if friendly smile. How had he missed the man during his whole childhood?
The player actually huffs. "I can assure you nobody tattled on you, Watson. As if I'd need them to, honestly," he replied, and then proceeds to verbally skewer the doctor, demonstrating how a simple look at him was enough to know everything about him… if one knew what to look for. He concluded with a, "You don't have to feel bad about not recognising me. I am certain we never met. After all, people who do encounter me never come a second time."
"People are completely idiotic here, then. You are amazingly talented, both in your art and your sheer brilliance. Not to mention… don't take this the wrong way… really nice to look at. Honestly, you're the human being closer to perfection I've ever met. Why wouldn't everyone long for your company?" Watson blurted out, before even thinking whether it was proper or not. Hopefully the grief would work as excuse for him being out of sorts.
His new acquaintance didn't seem to find that too forward. Amusing, rather, if the quick smile fluttering on his lips was any indication. "They have their reasons," he quipped, "You don't know my flaws yet."
"Do you feel like sharing?" Once again, the doctor was talking without thinking, with an almost teasing smile. What the hell was up with him? He felt drugged. He was pretty sure he hadn't been.
The stranger elicited another sweet thrill out of his instrument, then bit back, "If you want to get to know me better, why not come closer? I don't take up much space, and this rock is more comfortable than it looks. We could have a more… pleasant… conversation."
No, no, get your mind straight, Watson. This was not a come hither. Nobody would be insane enough as to proposition a perfect stranger in this century, unless he routinely sold himself, and this man clearly did not. This was… the urge of reasserting life after his loss, and the violinist being really pretty to look at. Certainly. He chuckled. "Sorry, I'd love to, but our tête-à-tête would end even before starting. I've never learned to swim. Bloody shame, I know, but it wasn't a great handicap in Afghanistan. Getting to know you, at the moment is definitely priority over being close, however delightful I'm sure it would be." Oh God. His mouth had entirely disconnected from his brain, hadn't it?
The violin thrilled again, a sweet, charming sound, and then the stranger…purred? surely not... "Are you sure? I bet you could reach me."
Watson laughed again. "Don't tell me you've deduced that gambling is my vice of choice. I've bet my life many, many times, but I always had at least some chance of winning, Mr… actually, I don't know your name. Terribly remiss of me not to ask, I know."
Grey eyes, until then welcoming, almost hooded, went suddenly sharp like a steel blade. "Oh, you've pretended to be oblivious, but you're not, are you? You're the stronger man I've ever known… and playing a game at this very moment. A deadly game. I suppose that for a former soldier, hunting down the local fiends is par for the course. You're good. I'll give you that," the anonymous player spit out, straightening his posture.
"What?" the doctor could only wonder, gaping. When had the world stopped making sense?
"Oh, please. Denseness does not suit you. You're clever, and – as I said – tough. You did your research, didn't you? Pronouncing the name of one of our kind kills us. Which is payback, I suppose, after all the people I caused to drown…I admire that you trained yourself to resist my allure," the violinist snapped, raising to his feet.
"Ok, no, honestly, I don't deserve half of your praise, and I'm kind of hoping you're joking. You, drowning people? Your tune is too sweet to be an agent of evil. Why would you even want to? Did someone hurt you? Is it revenge?" Watson wondered, frowning. "If you want to murder me, though, you'd have a better chance talking me into it than lulling me to my death. I'd probably need very little convincing, at the moment, but now that I met you, I am more interested in getting to know you than in reaching you physically. And I certainly don't want to kill you, not before understanding you. If saying your name is going to do that, I don't want to know it! But you'll have to give me some sort of nickname or pseudonym, or I'll have to come up with one of my own, and you don't want me to do that…Sunshine," he added, with a teasing smile.
"Sunshine?" the… man? Creature? echoed, with an affronted gasp.
"I told you that you don't want me to pick your nickname," the doctor remarked. Whatever was behind this, sheer folly or true supernatural matter, he wanted to get to the bottom of it.
"Holmes. Holmes will do. It means, 'from the river island', after all," the violinist declared, with a smile – one so quick, it felt, for the first time, as a reaction he didn't mean to show.
"Fitting indeed, Holmes," Watson agreed. "That established – can you help me understand?"
"You really want to," Holmes murmured, something like awe in his voice. "Not just…get your hands on me. Because of the melody."
"Of course. You're the most amazing being I've ever met, and even if you speak of murders, you don't strike me as evil…or really, even malevolent. And war honed my ability to sense that," the former army doctor claimed, shrugging as if he was saying something entirely obvious.
"Then how would you judge me?" Holmes inquired, body language relaxing.
"Sad," Watson replied simply.
"You're projecting, Watson. I'm not sad. I've never been sad. I'm just doing what I'm supposed to do – the only thing I know how to do. If anything, I'm bored. Just play, and play, and every time it's the same. People enthralled, wanting, lusting… and then they drown. Every. Single. One. You've been a break from the norm, and I thank you for that. I'm marginally less bored now," the violinist countered, with a glare, but much weaker than the one he used when he thought the man an enemy. Truly, his expression looked closer to a pout that anything else.
"It's not true, you know," the doctor objected, but his voice was warm. "That this is the only thing you know. You have a brilliant mind. You deduced all my career at a glance."
"Oh, I'm sure there is a crying need for people to hear a stranger say what they've done. Honestly, even as parlour trick it would get stale soon," Holmes quipped bitterly.
"Isn't crime fighting just managing to make people face the consequences of what they've done? You need to know who's guilty before jailing them," Watson pointed out, with a smile.
"Me, catching murderers and having them jailed or executed? It doesn't strike you as… ironic?" the musician retorted. His body, though, was unconsciously leaning towards the other man. He was hanging in the balance, figuratively and even physically. He just needed a little push.
Never let it be said that the doctor would not provide an encouragement when one was required. "As I see it, you have a choice. Keep up your current career, which – and I'm quoting – has bored you, even if you won't admit that you regret it. Or come with me and I'll do my best to help you. I'm sure we can easily establish a connection with the police for you. And maybe it will be ironic, or maybe not. As you know, I'm a doctor and an army captain. I'm sure you'd say this was a sort of ironic contradiction, too. But I've kept true to my morals, actually, and ultimately, I hope that my balance is positive. You could start evening up your balance. If you can leave the river, that is."
"We'll have to discover that, won't we?" Holmes replied, with a smile. "Catch that!" he yelled, throwing the violin at his new friend. Years of rugby practice made sure that Watson grabbed it with a grin, as well as the following bow, before laying them out on the grass beside him.
Minutes later, a sodden creature blinked at him from the water. "Help me out?" Holmes asked, with a toothy grin. The doctor agreed, grinning back. Soon there were two grown men… or man-looking beings…laying on the ground and basking in the sun, like idle schoolboys.
"By all rights, I should have gripped you, pulled you into the water and tried to drown you, you know. I am a murderer, and had already confessed as much. Why would you even touch me?" the taller one wondered, awe in his voice.
"Someone had to trust you. Not just because your music messed with their mind. How were you supposed to change if nobody proved to you it was possible?" Watson replied, turning to look at him. "Also, even if you turned on me, I don't have much to lose. I'm a gambler by nature, as I said…and I won this one."
"You did," Holmes acknowledged. "Now get me away from here, Watson. I don't think any of your neighbours would recognise me, it's not like anyone who's seen me could go back and spread my appearance, but I'm bored sick of these surroundings. Besides, I suppose that all the interesting crimes would happen in more densely populated areas."
"Interesting crimes. Of course." The blond laughed, and then cut himself off abruptly. He wasn't supposed to, was he? Certainly not today. It was in horrible taste. But he couldn't help being happy and awed. If his companion was the only legacy his brother left him, he would have to be forever grateful to his sibling.
According to the creature – Holmes' – wishes, they'd moved to London. And as Watson had foreseen, a quick demonstration of his talents had persuaded the police officers to cooperate with him. They'd actually asked why he didn't enter the force, and the now officially consulting detective had mumbled something vague about having eclectic interests and being rather restive. Not having any sort of official identity documents would have been another sincere answer, but what the sleuth admitted was true, too. And after a few cases where the sleuth had been…to say it politely, curt (he wasn't used to dealing with people who weren't fawning over him because of his music) any pressure to join the official police forces waned instantly.
The following years were…blissful, honestly. Yes, of course – sharing a living space with an inhuman creature had its downsides. Holmes was not used to normal interactions, just at having people literally head over heels with him and do anything to please him (catch him, more like, he'd remark with a sniff), up to and including throwing out their very lives. So when for once he wasn't enthralling people, just being logical and 'pointing out the obvious', he didn't understand how lack of manners could irk people. He was literally stating facts, after all.
Also, he did not share many of the human needs, so he wouldn't see anything wrong with entertaining himself with his violin when alone. 'During the night there's less of a chance that someone will overhear and try to break down the door, if he's accidentally enthralled. I don't know how to deal with raving wooers when the river won't take care of them for me," the newly minted consulting detective would complain. This lead to a number of lessons in various styles of fighting. Holmes excelled in each one, nimble and surprisingly strong for his size as he was. How easily bored and curious – like a cat, and just as reckless in his initiatives – the sprite was didn't help a quiet cohabitation either.
For all of this, though, the sheer happiness was overwhelming. Having someone who cared about him, in his own way. Someone he could care for in return, simply, without worrying about the expectations of a normal person, because Holmes had none of these. On top of that, being involved in adventures, saving lives in a different context, and feeling younger and more worthwhile than he had since getting shot. How could he not be grateful and elated for it? That part of Holmes' experimentation ended in discovering which of his tunes was able to keep away the nightmares his flatmate was still plagued with, rather than disrupting his sleep, was just one of the perks of his new friend.
What happened afterwards – the cases the two were involved with, as well as some of his preternatural friend's most fun quirks – is out in print for anyone to know. True, with some tweaking here and there, but then again, there was such a thing as the privacy of their clients. Nobody wanted their anguish to become an entertainment for the masses.
Nobody had to know how much more he needed to edit out of his stories, and still didn't manage to completely erase. Facts – no, not facts, Holmes would get angry at him for suppressing facts, feelings – he denied to himself too. A fascination with his flatmate, friend and Muse that terrified him. One that went too far beyond the friendship that alighted his days. Watson blamed it on Holmes' nature. The sprite (a bit of research had brought the doctor to determining he was a Nix) was supposed to charm people to their deaths. Being so close, and for so long, it was normal that his Boswell's feelings would be… confused. Misdirected. His soul downright enthralled.
The one thing saving Watson from doing something unwise, was only Holmes' utter disinterest in sentiment. The sheer fact that during all his life, the nix had reacted to come-ons with downright murder, was a rather big hint that propositioning his flatmate would be met only with disdain at best. The doctor couldn't help his feelings – and the sleuth couldn't help provoking them. Maybe it was all down to his music…and still, asking him to stop playing forever would be like asking him to cut off a limb, and Watson wouldn't ask that of him.
So the doctor would just ignore his feelings, and let himself be fond of the…creature in the limits of law and properness, even if the rest of their behaviour would sometimes ignore the one and the other. The last thing he wanted was Holmes to turn on him, or be made uncomfortable and choose that a different abode and companion were necessary.
Watson would have sworn that their friendship made Holmes happy, too, until he was faced with the glaring evidence that he must have been wrong. He'd kept a tight rein on his feelings. Been as normal as it could be. He'd married, for God's sake, recognising that Miss Morstan was remarkable woman. One he should have loved, if his soul had been free. Hopefully a bit of distance would help his heart settle.
A bit, of course, because he couldn't stay away entirely from the man, even if maybe he should have. Holmes had integrated himself in human society, he didn't need anyone to shadow him and make excuses for him, in case he behaved inhumanly. In case something didn't quite add up. But Watson couldn't suddenly stop. It was like addiction. So, every now and then, Holmes would come calling and he would follow, on whatever case was on the table.
The doctor had really thought this could go on indefinitely. But apparently everything he'd believed was a lie… no, not even an open lie on Holmes' part. A… misdeduction on his own. Watson had assumed. Capital sin.
And then Reichenbach happened. He hadn't truly believed in Holmes' death, though it was the best explanation for the public. You can't drown a water sprite, can you? No, certainly Holmes had gotten… bored. He kept saying that Moriarty would be the apex of his career. Probably the sleuth figured out that any case he could take after that would be disappointing in comparison, and decided that his stint as consulting detective would be better finished in a blaze of glory.
Still, Watson couldn't help but feel bitter about the bloody letter. Didn't he deserve a warning? A face to face goodbye, at the very least? Was Holmes afraid that his friend would resort to violence in an effort to keep him? Hadn't he proved that he respected his companion and his freedom of choice, in the last decade? Frankly, it was insulting. And yet, that letter was… kind. It was confusing.
The signature was the most puzzling bit of it all. It wasn't just 'Holmes'. It was the name of the doctor's character. True, the nix himself had suggested it – writing it down next to his name after a few attempts from his Boswell to find a decent first name for his genius sleuth. Watson, that day, had gaped at him, looking up… and not spoken it aloud.
It was most probably another alias. But it was odd-sounding enough that it wouldn't surprise Watson if it was indeed the name of a sprite. True, it was probably simply Holmes intruding on his creative process, not the greatest show of trust the man – creature – could offer. But the doctor still didn't mention it, because accidentally destroying him would be a sin too big to bear.
So what did the signature mean? Was it proof that the nix had revealed his own name to him? Or did it imply that the dying one was the 'façade' that Watson had created, and Holmes was going back to his true nature? (If so, why not state it plainly?). Anyway, the one the good doctor would have been ready to sworn – and would forever suspect it was, if partially, his fault – was that he wouldn't see his former flatmate anymore. Perhaps it was for the best. If only he could persuade himself of that…
The consulting detective's return was a shock to his system. What would lead the nix's back to him? Back to London, for the case, yes, that made sense. From what the sprite explained, the Moriarty case was far from finished, and he'd been pursuing it all along. But since Watson had not been allowed any knowledge of the ongoing mission, why wish him at his side for the conclusion?
Not that he could ever refuse his assistance. The biographer fooled himself into believing that the hold Holmes had on his soul was, if not entirely vanished, no more than an ember. Gazing on him, hearing his melodious voice again, it was obvious that he wasn't at all over his fascination.
For a moment, Watson thought they could go back to their routine. Mary was… gone, after all. But that night, sitting in a draughty sitting room, Holmes – after a rather sketchy recounting of his years abroad – focused intense eyes at him, and declared, almost harshly, "I can see that you think everything will just go back to the past. Well, forget that."
The doctor did his best not to allow his face to fall. He'd presumed too much, of course. Holmes might have come back for more cases, but he clearly did not need someone by his side anymore. He worked alone for three long years. He might have called on him to give him closure, or in case Watson somehow learned that Holmes was back in Baker Street, but why would he want him? His thoughts were so anguished that he entirely missed what Holmes was saying. The sounds he'd heard but not really understood, too deep in his worry, seemed not to match with what he expected. "Sorry… can you repeat? I know you hate that, but I seem to have lost the thread of the conversation," he queried, bashful.
Holmes huffed. "I said, Watson, I'm done with catering to your delicate sensibilities and whatever human rules or laws this century concocted. I'm not human, and I don't see why I should be bound to that. You have made me yearn, my dear Watson. You just had to talk to me, to drag me out of my abode and change my whole way of life. Do you realise how momentous this is? The least you can do is put aside some of your morals for me, too. I love you, you exhibit all the signs of loving me, who cares about law!"
"Are you serious?" Watson blurted out, "This is too serious a matter to joke about, Holmes. I thought you didn't like any of that. Love is… well, not the first word I'd associate with you."
"And with good reason, my dear man," the consulting detective agreed, eyes shifting aside, "I've never known it before you, Watson. Oh, I had plenty of its poor relatives – lust and fascination – and my victims would throw the word 'love' at me, too, so I might be excused – I hope – for bundling them together and rejecting them all. I knew I wanted no part of what these people offered, and I was actually glad for the waters who took care of them for me."
He frowned in distaste, before continuing softly, "But you taught me what love was, and all without pressuring me into anything. I could see through you, but you never attempted anything – and it puzzled and frustrated me to no end, because for the first time I wanted. Then I deduced that you attributed your… penchant to my violin playing, and I worried that you might be right. Forcing myself on you was the latest thing I wanted. My long absence was to hunt down Moriarty's associates, yes. But partly, it was to ensure you'd face me with a clear mind and heart. I fully expected you to reject me – attack me, even. But you didn't. You're obviously still attracted to me. Well, that's entirely your own doing. I fail to see why we should keep being blind to that any longer."
The doctor didn't seem able to concoct a reply, looking more and more like someone trapped in an enchantment, when the nix knew very well he hadn't exerted any thrall on him. "Oh, for the love of… something. I'm going to kiss you now, my dearest Watson. You'll have all the time in the world to object or move away. But if you do neither, I'll take that as consent. I'm not keeping you there. You're doing it all by yourself," the sprite announced, before moving to do just what he said.
Watson did not protest – or move a muscle at all. At least until he was already being kissed. Then, he kissed back with gusto and moaned into it. Too soon for both of their tastes, lack of breath forced them to part. "It's really happening. All of today," the doctor panted.
"Of course it is. It should have happened years ago, if you ask me, but I suppose we can make up for lost time," the sleuth quipped, with a seductive smirk.
"I thought it might be another dream," the man confessed, a dazed look in his eyes.
"However flattered I am by the implication of your sentence – and be sure that it is an admission I could say back at you if I hadn't been the one initiating it, I've had my share of dreams since knowing you – I would like you to teach me more than the spiritual side of love. Preferably right now," Holmes boldly declared, raising an inviting eyebrow.
Suffice to say, the good doctor had never been very good at refusing his friend (now more than that)'s requests. When said requests echoed his own aching wish of so many years, obviously, even less so. That night – well, if he hadn't woken up naked in Holmes' bed, Watson would have surely believed to have hallucinated it all. Or maybe that he'd suddenly died, joined is friend in the afterlife and God was far less strict than he'd been led to believe. Surely no such pleasure could have place on Earth.
But it had, there was no denying it. It was a momentous turning point. There was fear, and caution. More so on Watson's side; Holmes would huff and say that they could always flee and relocate to more accepting climates if anyone took offence to their private dealings. There was delight too, however, and love – so much love, from what the doctor had long ago feared a heartless creature, that the moustached man swore he could drown in sheer sentiment. And what a sweet drowning that would be.
Not that they'd turned into maudlin hedonists. They still took cases – enjoyed both the mental puzzles and the breath-taking chases. But there would be no more bullets redecorating their rooms, because there were interesting alternatives to distract Holmes from such endeavours.
Years went by, and it was not perfect happiness – there was no such thing, not even if the sprite had decided to keep his lover in an enthralled (possibly drugged-like) state every day. But it was enough that many a client, or the occasional policeman – clueless about the truth, obviously, for the men's safety – would look at the widower, or more rarely even the self-proclaimed champion of reason, and remark with envy on how blissful they looked.
"Get married they say," an inspector once huffed, during yet another case of familiar tragedy, "find an angel in the house once you get home they say. If anyone has cracked the way to heaven on earth, it looks to be you, doctor."
Of course, Watson shrugged – he had to – murmuring something about being content with one's lot in life. The fact that he could see the murderer's point this time went unsaid, too. It was the wife, who'd clearly been long mistreated, and decided that for her and her future child's sake she couldn't raise him or her in such an abusive household. Explaining that getting married had nothing to do with happiness – love had – would be beyond the officer's ability to comprehend, anyway. Oh God, he was becoming scornful like his beloved, wasn't he? Well, at least he didn't voice such opinions.
They almost didn't notice, happy as they were, but years flew by. It didn't have any noticeable effect on Holmes – not that his partner expected to, supernatural creatures tend to have a lifespan way longer that the humans' few decades – but not even love, or the enchanted violin's music, could stall time from leaving traces on the good doctor.
And then, one day, Watson couldn't help but smile, finding his lover with his nose deep in a fairy tales book. "Are you thinking of finally taking up writing too, my dear? You could certainly write a much more well founded version," he quipped.
"Research," the sleuth replied curtly. "Really though, common people have the weirdest opinion on spirits. If I could have kidnapped you to a timeless land where a century felt to you like a day, and left as much wear on you, I'd have done so ages ago!"
Watson hugged the other tightly. "Thank you for the sentiment, but I don't regret spending my life like this. I only regret I didn't found you much earlier. More than visiting Elphame, I'd wish to have Wells' time machine, to ensure I would meet you in my youth."
"I could have killed you then," the consulting detective remarked, frowning, "…Or maybe not. You're right. I'm certain you've been so very remarkable a man from birth."
"I'm flattered, my dear," the doctor replied, smiling.
"Yes, yes, never mind that. There must be a way to…" Holmes growled, impatient.
"To what, love?" his Boswell cut in, hoping to help.
"To make you immortal!" the sprite burst out, throwing his arms in the air. "I can't lose you," he added, more subduedly
"Oh, my love," Watson murmured, depositing a kiss on his lips. "I'm sorry. But I'm human, and you can't turn me into something I'm not. I'm mortal. Eternity is not for me – not here on Earth, at least. I'd probably go crazy or something before long, and you'd hate having at your side someone you wouldn't recognise."
The nix didn't reply, but he shook his head in fervent denial. He could never hate his other half. Never.
"If you didn't hate me, I'd probably hate myself. Hate what I'd turn into," the good doctor insisted.
"A monster?" Holmes queried, bitter.
"Oh, love, not you – you're what you are, and quite perfect at that. I love you exactly how you are. can you do the same for me, even if I'm not unchanged?" Watson reassured and pleaded at the same time.
"I suspect you'll never stop teaching me about love, and what it means. I'm sorry, Watson. I do love what you are – and you're turning in quite the distinguished gentleman," the sleuth admitted humbly. "But if I am going to lose you, I'm going to lose you as late as possible. We're retiring, my dear Watson."
"What?" the man queried, gaping.
"You've been shot at recently. Criminals are becoming more vicious than usual, and I refuse to lose you prematurely because someone had a decent aim for a change. We'll find somewhere nice and quiet… you can still be a doctor, if you want, there will always be need of that… but no more chasing after murderers and robbers. We'll leave that to Hopkins and his colleagues," Holmes declared in a no nonsense tone.
"You'll go mad without your puzzles," the doctor remarked, smiling.
"I'll go mad without you. I know you joked about it time and again, when an experiment accidentally exploded or things went south, but I refuse to actually be the death of you, my love. I can give anything up but you. I'm afraid I'm quite addicted," the sleuth bit back, with a grin softening the heavy words.
"There's a problem, though. This 'nice and quiet' abode you're envisioning, if it is in a little village like the one you lived near before I met you, will come with very nosy neighbours. Here at least everyone is too busy with their own affairs to worry what we do behind closed doors," Watson pointed out, actually considering the merits of his partner's proposal.
"We'll keep bees. Plenty of bees. I don't know why, but people seem to be so afraid of a little sting. Nobody will dare to get close to our house. And you do like honey," Holmes stated, already envisioning their little slice of heaven.
"I am one of the people who would object to being stung, though," his lover remarked, frowning.
"Don't worry. I have my violin. I'm sure I can convey to the little ones that you are not to be touched. Insects are often sensitive to determinate frequencies, after all," the nix reassured, eyes alight with plans.
"Well, then…who am I to dissuade you, love?" Watson finally caved. They sealed plans for a blissful retirement with a kiss.
Their love nest was everything Holmes had imagined. The bees – hundreds, maybe thousands of them – did indeed keep unwanted visitors away during the warm months, and the dismal weather coupled with their isolated position protected their privacy the rest of the time.
Watson had discovered that the nearest village already had a doctor, and decided it was a sign to dedicate himself full-time to his writing endeavours. He also took up an interest in gardening, because Holmes' bees (which the sprite could indeed charm with his music and direct like a general with the tiniest, most devoted troops ever) would need the most fragrant flowers to produce their honey.
They treasured each moment, and took full advantage of the freedom. Gone were the days when an inspector could come pounding on their door at any time. The consulting detective had people downright beg him not to retire entirely, and still the post would bring some case file by this or that inspector hoping to tempt him back into the fray. Watson looked at him each time, expecting his lover to be wistful – perhaps regret having given up exploiting his greatest talent. Each every time, instead, the sprite would throw the balled paper on the floor, behind his shoulders, and laugh. "How can they think that any crime could draw me away from here, where I have my heart and the liberty to pursue it, love?"
"To be fair, they don't know," the good doctor would point out, smiling.
"Well, if humans in this day and age weren't entirely illogic, they would. Everyone would know it. I'd rent a page on the newspaper to let everybody know how much exactly I love you," Holmes huffed every time.
"You do realise this is awfully romantic of you, do you?" Watson quipped, grinning.
"I didn't think you'd object to that," the nix mumbled, pouting.
"Oh, I don't," the biographer assured, "Come here, you." Such missives usually ended at the very least in languid kisses, which was the very reason Watson stopped his love from writing too scathing refusals that would undoubtedly put an end to these attempts.
They could almost believe that they'd attained heaven. But they were still on earth. A few, scant decades more, and Watson was almost eighty, frailer than he'd like to admit, and aware that he would last no more than another decade, if even that.
Holmes realised it too, and didn't mention it – lesson learned, he wouldn't want his love to become inhuman – but privately, he raged against the unfairness of fate. He'd lived empty centuries in the rocky outcropping at the centre of his lake, bored out of his mind, as he'd say, or – more like – desperately lonely, even before he realised it. And now that he'd found love, he would get less than a measly century with him? How cruel was that? (Punishment for his murders? Why hadn't anyone let him know how to behave?)
And then, one day, fate would not be stopped. They'd taken a stroll along the beach, close to home. It was such a beautiful summer day, and even if nowadays Watson was easily tired, it had been his idea in the first place, and the nix loved to indulge him. And then, in the blink of an eye – damn the inconstant British weather – a sudden cloudburst had caught them, with no hope to find shelter.
Watson had developed a vicious cold that worsened quickly, and caught the mix of terror and guilt in his love's eyes. It wasn't his fault, of course. But nothing would convince Holmes of that. He'd displayed a criminal lack of forethought – a brolly, a stupid brolly would have been enough to save him – and his love was paying the consequences. Illnesses weren't things to scoff at, at his age.
The former sleuth immediately summoned the local doctor, who examined the patient frowned a great deal, sighed, and said he would do his best, but in a tone that implied clearly how it would surprise him if it proved enough to restore the man's health. Holmes – in private, far from the patient – tried bribing, tried even begging, but the only reaction he got was annoyance. The doctor didn't need motivation. He needed a miracle, and refused to offer the distraught 'friend' delusions probably destined to shatter. For all his powers, the nix did not have thaumaturgy, and he never felt more useless.
Of course, the next step for Holmes was finding someone else who believed to be able to heal his beloved. He started researching the field of pulmonology, looking for the most brilliant respiratory physician alive. Certainly, he would be able to heal Watson. He refused to give up.
The sprite was perusing his partner's medical journals, when a wheeze and a look – his Boswell had always been perfectly capable to express himself without words – made him feel as if slapped. Because that look said, "Love, stop that. You're deluding yourself – no, you're distracting yourself, by keeping busy, and I can accept going, but not going alone. With you in the room and still withdrawn in your head."
Something had snapped, then. Holmes continued to bathe, feed, and give whatever drug the doctor prescribed to his partner, as he was already doing. But now, he concentrated less on fighting the illness and more on making Watson happy. He'd read his own stories – their stories – back to him, to help pass the time. He'd play violin for hours, tunes that – if not healing – were soothing, and kept some of the pain at bay. Bless his power to influence the nerves, at least. He'd oh-so-gently cuddle the man. And Watson, now mostly quiet, his voice stolen by the bacteria in his lungs, said with his eyes how grateful he was, how much he loved the nix, and how lucky he felt for having met him all these years ago. (Yesterday. It felt like yesterday.)
Until a day came, when Watson kept slipping in and out of consciousness, a hand holding his lover's, and wondering each time if he's wake up at all. It was time. He wasn't scared. But he wished he didn't have to leave his other half.
Opening his eyes, the old man saw the sprite kneeling at his bedside, eyes staring unblinkingly at him. Holmes whispered, "I have a request, my heart."
"Anything," Watson wheezed. Sure, he couldn't do much at the moment. But he trusted the other not to ask for the impossible (he never had), and there was nothing in his power that he'd willingly deny his love. There had never been, from the first day.
"Say my name," the nix pleaded.
That caused a vicious, raw coughing attack. The man choked, and when he finally got his breath under control, there were tears in his eyes, and not just because of the physical strain. He shook his head. He didn't say, "Never," with his mouth, but his whole body did.
Holmes looked guilty, but undeterred. "Say it," he beseeched again. Encouraged by the lack of an adverse physical reaction – but maybe simply because Watson didn't have the energy for it – he begged, "Don't leave me alone, love. You're going soon, and I… I don't want to be lost."
"Won't be," Watson managed to rasp out.
"Of course I'll be. You are my lodestone, Always have been. Without you… It's odd. I've had you for such a short time, but I can't even imagine what an existence without you would be. You've changed me – for the better, of course, so much so I'll never be grateful enough – but… I can't go back to what I was before. And I don't know how to be this – not without you, my soul. I followed you out of the river. It stands to reason that, once again, you lead the way and I follow," the nix said. One would imagine such a speech would be delivered with a great deal of emotion. And Holmes was certainly feeling it, but his voice was soft, placid. After all, he was merely enunciating facts. "But I can't follow if nobody says my name. I can find a way to, of course – strike a conversation with a stranger and offer them first name privileges. But I don't want to. Say my name, please… John."
The sprite had never used it before. Endearments, so many…nicknames, even. But he'd always said that he didn't want to take something he couldn't reciprocate. He loved his partner's name. But he wouldn't say it, when the other didn't have the same privilege. Now, though, he seemed decided to make up for all the times he'd withheld it. "John, John…please, John, love…John. My John."
And Watson knew his beloved was serious. He would go out and get himself killed by the first human he could find. Well, that wouldn't do. The least he could do was make sure they went together. A weak gesture, and Holmes was once again snuggled against him, still murmuring his name reverently against fevered skin.
With what Watson knew to be his last breath – because his heartbreak would get him if his lungs didn't, he exhaled, "Sherlock…"
At that, with a last, beatific smile, the sprite's physical form dissolved into thin air, and sure enough, the old man's soul abandoned the chains of his body. Their souls found each other, and Watson – John – was young and beautiful and grinning.
"So?" Sherlock asked, alight with happiness, "What's the next adventure?"
"I don't know," John admitted, shrugging. "Let's find out!"