Set during The Final Problem.

Our escape to the continent could have been a beautiful, happy holiday. It should have been a beautiful, happy holiday, and I will never forgive the man responsible for spoiling it. The snow-topped Alps enhancing the bright blue sky and blending with the clouds, rising from rolling green expanses were darkened by Holmes' fearful face. Every group of travelers, no matter their age or clothing, was cause for a stop and scrutinize. Noises ranging from unusual bird whistles to tumbling rocks froze his feet and sent his eyes searching for the cause. He had never in his life been a nervous man, and it broke my heart.

"Holmes," I said gently, only to find I couldn't even lay a hand on his shoulder without causing him to jump and tense. "I'm sure we'll be fine. We haven't been caught for days. We're far from London and have used aliases everywhere we went."

He sighed. "If it were any other criminal, Watson, I would think that would be enough." Those exhausted eyes haunted me. We had been on the run for a week, and were forced to leave just after Holmes had come back from two months in France. Were our positions reversed, I should have been terribly homesick. I took Holmes' arm and guided him back toward our lodgings.

Holmes stopped. "Where are you going?"

"You need some food and a proper rest. I do observe, even if you give me no credit for doing so, and I can attest that you ate very little at breakfast."

I expected Holmes to say that he couldn't or wouldn't eat while working, that his faculties needed to devoted to thinking, but instead he simply shook his head. "I can't eat anything right now."

Dear God. I had treated dying, limbless soldiers who did not sound so miserable. All the more reason to insist on some healing. I tugged on Holmes' arm. "You must return with me. Please."

Holmes sighed again. "All right, but only for a short time. We cannot stay in one place for too long." And so we continued back down the mountain to the inn. The charming landscape could have been taken from a child's picture book, and I looked forward to observing the sunset. I vowed to myself that when this was all over, we would come back to enjoy ourselves. The prettiest parks and countryside in London could not compare. Were it not for the fact that he I cannot speak more than a few words in German, I would consider retiring there. Then again, I thought with a smile, Holmes can pick up languages easily. He could be my translator, as he so often is in matters of crime.

Upon reaching our hotel, we slipped in quietly to avoid the innkeeper and other guests, all of whom were speaking German and none of whom appeared to be a greasy-haired professor, much to our relief. We had rented a small room with one bed, as a larger two-bed would have been what Moriarty expected us to rent.

I pulled back the sheets, which had been made up earlier by the staff. "Please, permit yourself a few hours of sleep."

"In the middle of the day?"

"You said yourself it is better we move at night. Besides, who would suspect us of sleeping at this hour?" I attempted a cheerful tone, but the effect was lost on Holmes. He only seemed to grow more dismal.

Between glances to the concealed window, he said, "It is highly likely that Moriarty has tracked our location to Switzerland by now. I need to be on the lookout. Much as I would like to, Watson, this is not the time for sleep. Rest, perhaps, but not sleep."

Gently, I held his hand and pulled him down to the bed. Before I could think about what I was doing, I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him close. His surprise mirrored mine. I can't say what made me act in such a way, only that I had never seen him so worried and despondent before.

"Is your stomach hurting?" I asked, hoping he would give me an honest answer.

He hesitated before saying, "My chest too."

"I thought as much." His hair was softer than I would have imagined. We must have appeared quite the sight tangled up on our sides, and I was grateful for the locked door and window, both of which were barricaded with furniture just in case. The small size of the room had become cozy rather than inconvenient. "All of this stress is taking a horrible toll on your body. I beg you take a few hours to relax."

Holmes said nothing, and that right there said much. Any other time he would have been protesting my frets and waving away my worries. He pushed his forehead into my chest. "I can't."

I started to argue otherwise, then realized—he was shaking. Just barely, and I never would have noticed had we not been so close, but he was. The thought alone brought tears to my eyes. Seeing Holmes frightened was akin to a child seeing its father cry. Yet at the same time, he seemed like a child to me as well. I tightened my hold on him and set my hands to work relaxing him. One caressed his hair, and the other traveled up and down his back. Gaining courage, I slipped the latter under his shirt. His eyes opened and I whispered, "Is this okay?"

"Mm," was all he said, and I took it as affirmation. A few moments of this seemed to do the trick. His trembles subsided and his breathing lengthened. Though for some reason, he still resisted sleep. His head would dip forward and then jerk back as he forced himself awake.

"Holmes, please," I begged. "Let yourself sleep. You'll feel much better."

"I can't."

"Listen to me." I pulled back just enough to hold eye contact. "I'm here. You're safe with me. Three years in Afghanistan and six years of solving crimes with you has afforded me plenty of experience in keeping watch. Trust me." When he didn't reply, I held his face in my hands. "I will make sure nothing happens to you. If anyone wanted to get to you, they'd have to kill me first."

Holmes blinked hard and I had an uneasy feeling I had just given voice to one of his worst fears. "We'll be all right, Holmes," I insisted. "Please, if you love me, go to sleep."

He closed his eyes. "On the condition that you will wake me in two hours?"

Two hours was not nearly enough, but I agreed to get him to cooperate. He burrowed into my embrace, I resumed my soothing ministrations, and in a moment he was sound asleep. I whispered repetitions of what I had said earlier, that I would protect him and keep him safe.

The sunset passed by unobserved, and day turned to night. I remained vigilant with my revolver at the ready, but no one troubled us. The length of Holmes' sleep relieved me, though it alarmed him when he finally stirred and woke up.

"What time is it?"

"Well, it's too dark to see my watch, but I'd say—"

"Watson! I instructed you to wake me after two hours."

I snorted. "Yes, well, you'll have to forgive me for putting doctor's orders before yours. Especially since your eyes are not nearly so crazed and bloodshot now."

Normally his glare would have unnerved and hurt me, but now I could feel nothing from it, except perhaps contrariness. The more he resisted taking care of himself, the more I wanted to force him to. Not to mention that in our present situation, there was little he could do to punish me for it. Thinking this, a devilish idea occurred to me.

"I will do as you say now, so long as you do me one more favor."

"What?" His voice was clipped and short.

I pointed to the bedpost. "Reach up and grab that for me." Naturally he was puzzled. "Please." He did as I asked and when his fingers had curled around the post, I made my move.

"I don't see what—Watson!" I wouldn't have thought Sherlock Holmes capable of yelping and squealing, but that is exactly what he did as I tickled his now-exposed armpits. The laughter that was forced from him was more beautiful than any song he had ever played.

It didn't take him long to slap my hands away, and at that point I said, "I do apologize. But I have missed your smile and laugh so much."

He sat up and locked eyes with the door, and I knew he was worrying we had been overheard. When a moment passed and he relaxed slightly, I yanked him down and tried to tickle him again.

"S-stop it!" he said between chuckles. I couldn't help myself. I was addicted to that music and wanted to hear it over and over. He put up a fight, but I have always been the stronger and he had been neglecting his health as usual. I soon had him curled up and shaking with laughter.

My heart felt full to bursting. Never had I met someone I was willing to do so much for. The most striking woman I had ever seen could not spark a light in me the way he did. I propped myself up on my elbow and watched him laugh. He had turned his back to me and was hiding his reddened face in a pillow, struggling for breath.

"As you can see, I love your laugh so much that I am prepared to make you furious with me to hear it," I teased. To my surprise, he was still laughing. He buried his face further into the pillow, shoulders heaving rapidly. I raised an eyebrow. "Didn't think my tickling was that funny."

When he showed no sign of stopping, I became concerned he was venturing into hysterics. I closed the distance between us, turned his face, and gasped.

Holmes wasn't hiding his laughter. He was hiding his tears.

"Oh my dear Holmes, I'm so sorry!" I said with a cracked voice. "I didn't mean to upset you. Please forgive me, I—"

"No." Holmes shook his head and rolled over so he was lying on his back. His eyes were so full it hurt to look at them. "You didn't…it…" He struggled to speak.

I cupped his tearstained cheek. "What is it?"

He shut his eyes, squeezing out more tears. "I don't want to die."

"What?"

"I don't want to die," he sobbed, folding an arm over his face. "I thought I was ready to, to accept death if it meant I could beat him, but now, now…"

I wiped away a tear of my own. "Now that the possibility is real, it's become more frightening. I understand, I felt far more courage off the battlefield than on it."

Holmes breathed heavily, trying to bring his emotions back under control. "When you and I were out enjoying the world's beauty, and the time we've spent in here—I want more of that." He sniffed. "I want us to keep doing that for years, but we can't because he's going to kill me." Holmes sobbed again. "He's going to kill me. He may kill you too, and it's all my fault for bringing you here."

"No no no, don't you even think that." I gathered him in my arms and lent him my shoulder. He clutched my sleeve. "It is my honor, privilege, and choice to be here with you. I will do everything in my power to ensure he cannot make one more attempt on your life, and if I die by your side, that is all right with me."

Holmes hugged me hard. In my ear, he whispered, "Six years isn't long enough, Watson. Thirty-three years isn't long enough."

"No, it isn't," I agreed. "But we don't know what will happen, so let's not assume the worst until we must, all right?"

"All right," Holmes reluctantly agreed, not sounding convinced. He smiled regretfully. "It's perverse. All my life I felt I had been waiting for the day when I could leave this dull existence and die a worthy death for a worthy cause, and now that the time has come, I no longer want to." He put his head to my heart. "I want more time with my conductor of love."

"Love?" I hoped he couldn't hear the increase of my heart. "I thought you said I was your conductor of light."

He smiled, his eyes beginning to dry. "I'd say that as of today, you are both. You've shown me what it means to truly love someone."

That nearly made me sob myself, and Holmes quickly changed the subject. "Your shoulder looks like it could use a stretch, dear fellow. You don't want to exhaust it."

"Yes, I shall—you devil!" He had tricked me into stretching my arms just as I had him, and now I was facing retribution. For the next few minutes, we tumbled and took turns tickling each other.

If these were going to be our last days together, that was all the more reason to enjoy them.

There is one aspect to this tale that Watson was not aware of and therefore could not detail in his account. As he and Holmes were reconciling in the safety of their room, a suspicious man with an angry face entered the inn after darkness fell. His sharp eyes, barely visible behind his greasy hair, seared into every corner of the inn. The dining quarters, the front desk, the outside tables, the toilets. All the while his thoughts were, Where is Holmes? He has given me the slip one too many times. Damn, not in here. Not here. Nor here. Or here. Or here.

Finally he came to a closed door at the end of a hall. Behind it, there was laughter and a bed creaking. It sounded like something close to love making, which disgusted the man enough to send him on his way.

Well, I know one thing, he thought with a snarl. Wherever else Holmes might be, he sure as hell isn't in there.