Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by David Hoselton, David Titcher, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Harry Houdini, and various publishers including, but not limited to, FOX, Global TV, and ITV. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Author's note: The idea for this story came to me just after the news of the show's cancelation broke, and I sat down and wrote the majority of this first chapter. A lot of Harry's reactions and behavior here are how I felt upon hearing the news, and this is how I got a lot of my frustrations out. I hope you enjoy!

Atlantis
Chapter 1 – Ehrich

Harry didn't know where else to go. Doyle had retired to his stateroom rather early as per his doctor's orders to rest as much as possible. Harry hated to disturb him, but he needed Doyle. He needed Doyle now more than ever.

Harry made his way through the narrow, winding halls of the ship, feeling vaguely like he was drunk, even though he hadn't had a drop of alcohol that evening. He was suddenly wishing he had, because maybe at least then he could blame what he had seen on his own inebriation.

Still, Harry found himself weaving back and forth through the corridors. He kept putting his hands up against the walls to steady himself, making quite a few loud banging sounds against them. Some of the poor people who were in their rooms probably thought there was some sort of fight going on outside.

But no, it was only the great Harry Houdini, drunk on nothing at all except the thought that he was going mad.

When Harry finally reached Doyle's door, he lurched against it almost painfully. Was it Harry's imagination, or was the ship tossing and turning more than usual that evening? But Harry knew it wasn't that. He hadn't felt at all unsteady on his feet until after he'd seen his dead mother yet again and then looked down at the note in his shaking hand.

IF YOU CAN READ THIS
YOU ARE NOT DREAMING

But he had to have been dreaming, because there was no other explanation. Except the fact that at long last, he was finally going insane. Just as he had feared. Just as he had told Doyle in the Indian village.

Harry raised his fist to begin pounding on Doyle's door, but then he stopped, his hand frozen above his head. Doyle would only use this to try and further convince Harry that there was an afterlife. Did Harry really want to go through that? Doyle keeping him up until all hours, telling Harry why everything he believed he was wrong.

But Doyle was his best friend. That was something Harry had very much realized after the other man had been shot. After it felt like the world had fallen out from underneath him. Harry couldn't remember ever being so terrified than when he thought Doyle might not survive. Harry knew then just how much Doyle meant to him, and Harry couldn't imagine going to anyone else with this. He just wanted his best friend, even if Doyle might be an insufferable ass about it all.

Harry finally descended his fist upon the door, pounding against it over and over again. It vaguely occurred to Harry that he might give Doyle a heart attack in the process along with rousing him from his sleep, but Harry couldn't quite control himself. Even after Harry heard some faint noises from behind the door, indicating that Doyle was coming, he still didn't stop knocking. Harry kept right on pummeling the door with his fist, almost as if it was the door's fault that Harry was going crazy.

A few moments later, the door finally opened, leaving Harry to stagger heavily into the room. Harry took several hurried steps across the floor, trying to find his balance. He finally settled on throwing himself at the bed, reaching out his hands and catching himself on the mattress. Harry fell to the side almost gracefully, getting himself into a sitting position. Instead of looking at Doyle, however, Harry only buried his head in his hands.

"Have you been drinking?" Doyle asked carefully, concernedly, closing the door behind him.

Harry could feel the other man's eyes on him, searching, suspicious. Harry shook his head without even looking up. "I'm losing my mind," Harry said in between sobs. He finally looked up at Doyle, his eyes wide and desperate.

There was Doyle, dressed in his ridiculous nightshirt and leaning on his cane. If Harry was in the right frame of mind, he would have made some smartass comment about how that cane really complimented the nightshirt. As it was, Harry had other things on his mind than thinking up insults. Which meant that he was really messed up.

"What?" Doyle asked, taking a few limping steps towards him. "What's happened?"

Harry didn't know how to say it. Here he was, face to face with the only person on the face of the earth he would want to share this part of himself with, and he couldn't form the words. They were completely lost on him.

"Wait…" Doyle said slowly, halting his progress across the room. "You didn't…?" Doyle began to ask, but then he stopped. Realization dawned on his face, and he knew. Harry knew he knew. Doyle wasn't his best friend for nothing.

Harry nodded once, twice. "I was sitting up on deck," Harry said around a gulp for air. "Then I realized that someone sat down in the deck chair next to me. I…I turned my head to see who it was and…" Harry broke off, still not able to form the words.

Doyle blinked at him, then he asked slowly, cautiously, "You saw her, didn't you?"

"Don't even say it," Harry snapped, but then he immediately regretted it.

He didn't know why he was getting angry at Doyle. He didn't mean to. After all, Doyle was the only person he had in the universe he could talk to about this, and the last thing he wanted to do was push Doyle away over it. But this was what Harry had been doing since he met the man – trying to push him away. It was what he did to all new acquaintances. It was Harry's defense mechanism to keep people from getting too close, and yet, here Doyle was, still by his side. Harry supposed that was why he liked Doyle so much; the man didn't ever give up on Harry, no matter how much Harry might act like a pain in the ass.

"I didn't," Doyle said quietly. He paused for several seconds before taking a few more shambling steps towards Houdini. "I just…I was asking if that's what happened."

Harry gave one single nod again. "I saw her." He knew he didn't even have to specify who 'her' was.

"Are…are you sure you didn't fall asleep?" Doyle tried, asking the most obvious question in the world. "Perhaps you were dreaming."

Harry almost felt like crying. This was probably Doyle's dream come true – to use this opportunity to try and prove his own misguided beliefs in the afterlife, in ghosts, in all sorts of ridiculous things. But yet, like the friend he was, Doyle was trying his best to help Harry find a reasonable explanation for this. When Harry was down, Doyle didn't kick him, like so many people probably would have; he was helping him, and Harry couldn't love him any more for that.

Harry shook his head miserably. His hand still shaking, he reached into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. He withdrew the note, the test to see whether or not he was dreaming. Harry opened it up, displaying it for Doyle to see.

"I read this," Harry said, looking back up to Doyle again, his eyes desperate. "It was the first thing I did."

He was almost waiting for Doyle to come up with some logical explanation to prove that he wasn't going crazy. But that thought was even crazier. That wasn't what Doyle did. Doyle was always the very first one to subscribe to unexplainable things. This wasn't Sherlock Holmes standing before him here. That thought caused Harry to snort in amusement.

This only made Doyle raise an eyebrow at him in concern.

"Please tell me I'm not going insane," Harry pleaded.

Doyle opened his mouth to reply, but then seemed to think better of his response. He used both hands to lean on his cane before shuffling over to Harry. Doyle took a moment to settle himself on the mattress next to Harry, letting out a heavy breath at the exertion. After setting his cane down on the floor, Doyle turned to Harry and finally said, "You're not going insane."

"I didn't see her ghost either!" Harry snapped before Doyle could so much as allude to the supernatural.

Unperturbed by Harry's sudden outburst, Doyle calmly replied, "I didn't say you did."

"Although you would love that, wouldn't you?" Harry asked, his voice softer than it had been.

"I'm just trying to help you figure this out," Doyle said. Then he tried, "Are you sure we can't read in our dreams?" He reached out for the note which Harry still held in his hands. He grasped the piece of paper in between his thumb and index finger, but he didn't pull it out of Harry's grasp. "Just because this Austrian doctor says we can't, it doesn't mean he's right."

"I mean, I don't think we can," Harry said, squinting in thought. "I had a dream when we were in LaPier. I tried to read the note then and couldn't. It was just a blur."

"Could just be the power of suggestion," Doyle said.

This caused Harry to frown down at the note in their grasp. He knew Doyle wanted nothing more than to tell him that this was definitive proof of the supernatural, but he wasn't, and it confused Harry a little.

"Why are you doing this?" Harry asked. When he looked back up at Doyle he clarified, "Why are you trying to help me come up with a rational explanation for this? Because I know what you really want to tell me."

"Because you're my friend," Doyle replied immediately. "When you come banging down my door when it's nearly midnight, almost falling down out of concern for your mental health, I'm not going to feed you a bunch of things you don't want to hear. I reckon that's not what you need right now, is it? You need someone to hear you out."

"So the next time you get on one of your supernatural kicks, I'm to pretend like I think I'm losing my mind again," Harry teased, nodding. "Got it."

"I'm trying to be serious here," Doyle said tiredly. "Do you want my help figuring this out or not?"

"Yes," Harry said, and he was aware of just how desperate he probably sounded. He knew that when the topic of the supernatural came up, it was not a good time to try and press Doyle's buttons. Especially when Doyle was blatantly ignoring all of his beliefs to try and help Harry, but Harry just couldn't censor himself sometimes. This, more than ever, was the time when Harry really needed control his instincts. "I do," Harry said. He stared at Doyle for a long time before he admitted, "I wouldn't have come to you otherwise."

"So as I was saying," Doyle said, immediately getting back to the topic at hand, "how do we know for sure that we can't read in dreams? Because an Austrian doctor said so? How do we know he's right? How do we know everyone's dreams aren't completely different? What he may or may not be able to do in his dreams may not apply to everyone."

"But I told you," Harry said, giving the note a small shake, "I had a dream where I couldn't read this. Seems pretty convincing if you ask me."

"Again," Doyle said, "that doesn't mean anything. Like I said, it could simply be the power of suggestion. Isn't that something you're big on?"

Harry couldn't reply. Besides, he really didn't need to. They were both well aware of where Harry stood on the matter, and he knew he didn't need to repeat himself. It occurred to Harry just how well Doyle knew him, and that was something Harry hadn't had for a long time. Not from a friend at least. From his mother, yes, but it had been years since he'd had a friend that knew him this well. How on earth had Harry gotten so lucky to have found a friend like Doyle without even trying?

And Doyle wasn't even rubbing it in his face that this was definitive proof of the supernatural. That was what really got to Harry. He could almost see the restraint Doyle was exercising here, doing his best not to make Harry feel any worse than he already did. Doyle was respecting him and trying his best to come to a conclusion that was right for Harry. Not one that suited Doyle himself, but one that Harry could live with. Every bone in Doyle's body was probably disagreeing with that, but…Doyle was being his friend. Harry didn't think he could ever properly express to the man how much that meant to him.

"I don't know if you'd necessarily be reading this anyway," Doyle mused, still staring down at the note in Harry's hands.

"What?" Harry asked. He had been so lost in his thoughts, he had almost jumped when Doyle spoke his next words.

"You already know what this says," Doyle said, reaching out to grasp a corner of the piece of paper again. "You may not necessarily be reading it, but you may be remembering what it says."

"I don't quite follow." Harry's mind was swimming with everything that had happened, and he couldn't understand where Doyle was going with this.

"I'm not convinced you weren't sleeping up on deck just now," Doyle said. "You said you tried to read the note, and you did. But what if you didn't actually read it? What if you were simply remembering what it looked like and what it said?" Doyle immediately glanced to the desk across the room where he still had his writing supplies set out from starting his new Holmes book. "I have an idea."

Harry still didn't quite know what Doyle meant, but he watched the other man pick his cane up from the floor. Normally, Harry would have told him to stay put, to let him get whatever was needed, but Harry stayed quiet. He kept staring down at the note in his hands, wondering if he truly was going crazy or not. Sometimes, Harry realized, he needed to let people take care of him.

Doyle slowly made his way across the room to the desk, leaning over to pick up his fountain pen from where he had left it on the blotting pad. He dipped it into the ink well, scribbling something on a piece of paper. When he straightened up, Doyle turned to look at Harry again, taking his time to fold the paper neatly in between his fingers. After a moment, Doyle hobbled back over to Harry, holding this new note out for the younger man.

Harry took it, a questioning look on his face. When he began to open it, Doyle stopped him, closing his the fingers of one hand over Harry's.

"Don't read it now," Doyle said. "You don't know what it says, so there's no possible way your memory of it can influence you in a dream. If you see her again and you're not sure whether you're dreaming or not, try to read my note. If you can't, then we'll know. It's the Doyle test." Doyle plucked the old note out of Harry's other hand, crumbling it up in his fist and setting it down on the bedside table.

This caused Harry to smile, but then he asked, "What if I still can't?" He then carefully placed Doyle's new note in his jacket pocket. "Then we'll know that I was fully conscious tonight when I saw her."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Once again, Doyle slowly lowered himself to the mattress next to Harry, letting out a heavy breath when his weight was off his feet again. Laying his cane down on the floor, Doyle turned to Harry once more and said, "First things first. We find out if you really can't read in your dreams. Then we'll figure out what to do."

Sighing heavily, Harry leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. He buried his head in one hand and said, "I still can't believe you're doing this. You probably want to laugh at me so hard right now for trying to find some logical explanation for this."

"I would never do that," Doyle said. He reached out a hand, gently laying it on Harry's shoulder. When Harry made no move to shake it off, Doyle squeezed the other man's shoulder. "We may not always see eye to eye, but I told you, you're my friend. Friends don't do that sort of thing to each other when one of them is so upset. I'm going to help you figure this out. If that means disproving so many of my theories, then so be it. That's not important right now. What's important is helping you get to the bottom of this." He paused before adding, "If the situations were reversed, I hope you'd be doing the same and not using this to tease me mercilessly."

Harry looked back over his shoulder, a small smirk playing at his lips. "I'd probably think about it."

"But would you?" Doyle asked seriously. "Would you really tease me if I was this distraught about something?"

Harry bit at his bottom lip before shaking his head vehemently. "I could never do that to you, Doc."

"Nor could I," Doyle replied. "You're not alone in this. You chose to confide this in me, even when I doubted you ever would. The last thing I would want is for you to feel like you've made a mistake in doing so. I want you to be able to trust me, Harry." Silence fell between them for several moments before Doyle very quietly added, "Ehrich."

Harry blinked over his shoulder at Doyle. Doyle could see him swallowing, like he was trying to work up the courage to form words. Finally, Harry asked, "Why did you call me that?"

Doyle shrugged. "I don't know," he said slowly, trying to gage Harry's reaction. "It just felt right."

Harry smiled, but it was something in between happiness and pain. "It's okay. It's nice to hear sometimes. Harry is a character, a persona. So many people love him, but…they don't know who he really is. Most of them don't care to learn who he is underneath all of that bravado and brashness."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Doyle said, "but most of the time, you don't let most people see that side of him. That's part of the function of all of that bravado and brashness, isn't it?"

Harry straightened up so that he could look Doyle more directly in the eye. Doyle's hand fell away from Harry's back now, but their shoulders were touching. They were impossibly close, closer than Harry could remember them ever being before, but neither one of them made any effort to change that.

"Part of it," Harry whispered. "It's also there, I think, to see who cares enough to dig through all of that. Not a lot of people do."

"I didn't think I cared to at first," Doyle said just as quietly. "You were such an insufferable ass. Still are, actually."

He let out a soft breath of laughter which Harry felt brush across his cheek. It occurred to Harry that at least one of them should be embarrassed by this recent turn of events, but still, neither of them moved or tried to change the subject. And Harry didn't want them to.

"So what's keeping you from running in the other direction out of frustration?" Harry asked, finding his eyes inexplicably drawn to Doyle's mouth, to the way his moustache played about his lips.

"I don't know," Doyle said absently, seemingly as distracted as Harry. His eyes went upwards, towards Harry's dark curls. "You…intrigue me. For reasons that I can't even begin to figure out."

"I intrigue a lot of people," Harry said proudly. "Doesn't mean any of them want to get to know me once they find out what an insufferable ass I really am."

"But you're not," Doyle said. He made a sudden movement with his hand, lifting it up from the mattress. Harry almost thought Doyle meant to lay it on his shoulder again, but then Doyle withdrew it. He brought it closer to his chest, then settled in down on his lap, almost like he couldn't figure out what to do with it. "Underneath all of that," Doyle finally continued, "you really do care about people. You just said so yourself that Harry is a character. But Ehrich…he's quite capable of developing feelings for people, despite Harry's best efforts to the contrary."

"And do you know how many people on this earth are currently aware of that fact?" Harry asked. Then he found his eyelids slowly drooping, like he was sleepy, but he wasn't. In fact, he was suddenly very much awake. Doyle shook his head and Harry answered, "Two. One of which is in this room with me right now."

Harry suddenly leaned forward, closing his eyes the rest of the way and pressing his lips against Doyle's. Harry felt Doyle take a sharp intake of breath out of surprise, but he didn't bother to break the kiss. Doyle's hands then came up to grasp at Harry's wrists. Harry took this as a sign that his actions were welcome and tried to deepen the kiss, but then Doyle suddenly broke it.

"Harry," Doyle said, pulling away and breathing heavily. "You're in shock."

Harry froze, his breath coming in hard gasps as well. He stared at Doyle, as if not quite believing what he had just done. Then all at once, he tore his wrists out of Doyle's grasp and stood up from the bed. He paced across the floor, running a hand through his unruly curls. Fixing his eyes at some point on the floor and placing his hands on his hips, he said, "I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm doing."

Silence met his ears for several seconds. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to imagine just what sorts of thoughts were running through Doyle's mind at the moment. What Doyle must think of him. What Harry thought of himself.

When the seconds stretched out and Doyle still said nothing, Harry said, "I apologize. That was uncalled for."

Harry waited, wishing and hoping that Doyle would tell him that it was all right, that the gesture hadn't been unwelcome, that he was just surprised. When still nothing came, Harry muttered, "It won't happen again. I promise."

Without waiting for any further response, Harry quickly closed the distance to the door and wrenched it open.

"Harry!" came Doyle's voice behind him, but Harry didn't stop.

Doyle was suddenly calling him by his stage name again, and Harry didn't know why that bothered him at that moment, but it did. If Doyle had really wanted to stop him, he would have called him Ehrich. Not Harry.

Not Harry.

The only good thing about Doyle's current injuries was that Harry would be long gone, lost in the twisting halls of the ship, before Doyle ever even got up from the bed.

To be continued…