Title: The Guardian
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Gladstone, Bad Guy, and OC…sort of
Rating: K+
Word Count: (not enough)
Warnings: AU, magic, alchemy, semi-coherent explanations, some intense moments
Summary: Watson is a Guardian. Holmes is his charge. Together they overcome many dangers in this world, but the one thing that could destroy him resides in both their hearts and the undeniable pull between them.
A/N: Absolutely no editing occurred during the course of writing this. Due to complications in the RL and a major writer's block I had to write this baby in a straight eight hour block today, so plenty of the developing story got cut out and gutted, leaving you with the raw pile of epic scenes cobbled together by my stress-induced mind. What should have been a 25,000+ story was reduced to this, so the execution of this fic is questionable at best.
The alchemy references may be recognizable to people who have watched FMA, but it's definitely not even close to mandatory knowledge. Oh and I stole the idea of Bob from the Dresden Files. A splicing of movie and book-verse.
My hair is insanely scraggly due to the amount of times I've run my hands through them to make this deadline. Cheers, please enjoy, hope it makes sense…
It had been necessary. The results if they had not intervened would have been disastrous. The lives of a few hundred miners, the lost of them good and honest men, hung in the balance. If the two of them had chose not to act when they had enough cause to do so, it would have been the equivalent of signing the death warrants of everyone who worked in that mine. They needed evidence, cold, hard evidence that would link Franklin Alastor to the intentionally unsafe work conditions and bribery of the inspector assigned to the site and Holmes and Watson had to be the ones to do it because they alone could penetrate into the corrupt heart of the aristocracy, a group whom no professional Yarder would ever dare accuse.
It had been necessary. They would agree on that point much later, but at that moment, standing with only the open air of an indeterminable drop down the face of the mountain at their backs with their only means of escape blocked by the very man they sought to bring to justice and his hulking giant of a manservant.
Lord Alastor was an older man with neatly trimmed facial hair that melded seamlessly with his sideburns and very tall, like a plant that has elongated itself towards the light when left in darkness for too long, but he cut a terribly imposing figure, standing before the skylight they had desperately scrambled through just moments before.
Holmes' eyes darted with a calculating gaze towards the scraggly mountain pathway to his right. It was little more than a ledge, but there was a chance that if they could reach it…
However before his very eyes, in an instant, the ground seemed to liquefy, the minerals, dirt, and rock all commingling in a frenzied mass before it reformed into a jagged wall to cover the only viable escape route. Holmes turned disbelieving eyes towards Lord Alastor, whose hand was laid flat against the cliff face, hundreds of miniature strands of lightning threading from his fingertips and into the rocks surrounding them.
"I've waited centuries for my plans to come into fruition," Alastor snarled. "It will take more than a mere detective and his doctor to ruin it!"
"Holmes," Watson whispered desperately in his ear, his quietly penetrating voice laying counterpoint to Alastor's psychotic rambles, "do you trust me with you life?"
"You know I do."
"Please," Watson whispered urgently, "there's no time. You must say it."
Alastor ripped his hand from the wall, trailing lightning bolts in its wake and placed it instead on the shoulder of his manservant, who began to change almost instantly. The transformation was so subtle, Holmes wondered how he could not have noticed before. The hunched posture, massive arms and broadened torso. Entirely absent was the intelligent spark of a truly sentient being and in its place was the stark wildness of an animal, though it remained vaguely man-shaped. It made sounds that could have been human if they didn't sound so tortured, so wrong. It barreled towards them, teeth protruding oddly from its badly formed jaws.
For the first time in his life, Holmes froze, mind unable to process the unthinkable, the grotesque parody which had been substituted for reality.
But there was one thing, one anchor that kept him firmly tethered to this world in the form of a pair of familiar, pale blue eyes that stared into his own.
"Holmes."
The words formed independent of his frozen brain. "I trust you, Watson, in all things, in all ways."
Watson grasped his upper arm. "Don't look."
But he did look because there is a substantial lag (in terms of microseconds) between auditorily receiving an order, mentally processing that order, consciously deciding to follow the same order, and the manifestation of that decision to take place accordingly within his body. And so he saw. For less than a millisecond between the sensation of his body being driven towards the larger body of mass by way of gravity as his feet were dragged off the edge of the cliff, he saw how the color blue was truly meant to appear, every shade of it, brighter and better than anything he had ever seen. He saw light in its purest form, unwavering, enduring, so whole it was an entity unto itself. More amazing, he saw his friend wreathed in that light, his eyes taking on that oceanic blue. He saw it all and it burned, burned beyond the extent of his eyes and he was forced to close them even though it continued to tingle prickle deep inside his nervous system.
At the same time he was aware of an emptiness that pressed into his ears and mouth, against his skin, around him and against him. In that infinitesimal pause between breaths, he hung in that dense emptiness until he was whirling back into the familiar, which was made almost unfamiliar in comparison to what he had just experienced. He recognized the pattern of the carpeting beneath his hands, could feel the rough fibers scratching along his palms. He had seen this carpeting a million times before, had paced across it, spilt chemicals and papers alike all over it until Mrs. Hudson threatened to evict him.
"Holmes?"
Very slowly, in case the worst had happened and his body had been reattached with only moderate success, Holmes raised his head to look at his long-time friend and flatmate, who stood fully erect by the Holmes' chemistry table.
"Are you alright?" Watson questioned, concern evident on his expressive face, which looked wrong somehow, like he was only recognizing it from a very distant memory.
Holmes merely shook his head and grunted as he used his armchair and side table as handholds in order to lever himself into a standing position. His success was met with a sudden spell of dizziness and he was forced to put a hand across his brow to steady himself.
Watson instinctively took a step towards him as if to rush to his side, but Holmes, knowing what the other man intended to do, took a deliberate step back, away from his friend's offer of aid.
"Watson, I need you to explain what happened and you are not going to lie or else whatever faith I have bestowed on you for our long years of association will be forfeit and I will treat you like the stranger you are threatening to become."
Watson's visibly flinched, warily drawing his leg back as the two men descended into a tense silence. Watson stared at his shoes, wearing an expression that indicated that no matter how carefully he chose his next words, none of them would be met with a favorable outcome.
When Watson met Holmes' gaze once more, it was with no small measure of resignation. "I am a Guardian, Holmes. More specifically, I am your guardian. Entrusted to me is the task to protect and aid you until such a time that you can no longer function in the capacity to fulfill your specific purpose, a purpose which has been deemed a positive force in the universe and therefore an investment worthy of guardianship." At this juncture, Watson's expression hardened somewhat, willing Holmes to understand. "There are things that before this moment, far surpassed your scope of understanding. Lord Alastor is one of those things, an exceptionally powerful and dangerous one in fact. I felt I had no choice to reveal my true nature in turn and bring you safely to Baker Street."
Holmes drew a ragged breath. "How?"
"I transported us here. My limitations in regards to inhabiting space is somewhat more lax than your own."
"And who sent you? God? Am I to believe that He exists as well?" Holmes snarled, his mind practically flailing about to grasp something within his ability to understand.
"Just as a grasshopper cannot contemplate beyond its knowledge that it can chirp, I am unaware of how I came to be. I only do as I was meant to."
"And our friendship?" Holmes queried, voice low and carefully made to sound dispassionate. "Is it nothing more than what you were meant to be, what you were made to be?"
Watson paled. "It isn't like that."
"No? A dog for instance, will love its master regardless of who that person may be simply because it is in its nature."
"I existed before I met you, Holmes. I was not made to be anything," Watson explained desperately. "If I had to be something, your friend, your doctor, your confidante, I had to become those things."
"But what is an action worth without intent?" Holmes spat, "If you were not assigned to me, would you be here at all? Could you truly be my friend as John Watson if John Watson hadn't existed at all?"
"Does my past or the nature of my existence make our friendship any less true?" Watson asked, unable to mask the intense agony of his entreaty.
"When something it is based on a lie, it does," Holmes insisted coldly.
Watson clutched at his hair, willing himself to find some way to convince him. "I was in Afghanistan, I swear this to you. And if an uncanny amount of soldiers under my care reached a much better prognosis than expected or if a few men saw something in their last moments on this earth that would have convinced them that dying was not so terrible after all, what of it? Does it matter that I have been in hundreds—thousands of other wars and places, seen things you could not begin to comprehend? I am here now, is that not what matters?"
Holmes turned away from his—from Watson's obvious pain. Despite his words, he could not help but remember countless nighttime vigils with Watson being the only thing which tethered him to the waking world, of hundreds of 'good mornings' and 'how are you, dear fellow', and of shared dinners and aid, honor, and valor when he least expected it. He could not erase them from his memory, no more than he could part with his left arm.
He turned towards the fire and reluctantly took up his pipe and tobacco. "Leave me. Allow me some time to think on it."
"Holmes, please."
"Go," Holmes said, though a little more kindly. "You have never known me to come to a decision unfairly or with undue cruelty, Watson." He glanced over at the man he had called his friend for nearly a decade and flashed him the barest hint of a smile. "Trust me."
Watson looked like he wasn't sure if he should be further distressed by Holmes' choice of words or reassured, but he moved to exit the room—his limp all but disappearing—and hesitated for only an instant before heading towards the stairs leading up to his garret room rather than the stairs leading down to the front door.
Holmes did not stop him. He smoked, throughout the day and well into the night as it was quite more than a three-pipe problem.
~*~
The next morning found Holmes sprawled out upon the bearskin rug, left entirely boneless from all the smoke he inhaled, his fingertips pressed against each other atop his chest. Watson entered the sitting room and again, with that same uncharacteristic hesitation, paused somewhat before taking a seat upon the large cushion that had been displaced by the sofa and deposited unceremoniously upon the floor, folding his legs lotus style and fidgeting slightly with his trouser cuff while he waited for Holmes' decision.
Holmes would not be so forthcoming.
"Explain to me what it was that Lord Alastor was able to do and that creature that accompanied him disguised as his manservant."
"I suspect Lord Alastor is an alchemist and his manservant, a chimera," Watson replied, exuding a calmness despite his roiling nerves.
"Alchemist? Those fabled chemists able to perform miraculous transmutations of metals and basic elements before the modern scientific age took place?"
Watson nodded.
"And a chimera, an alchemist's creation of a being formed between the splicing of two existing animals. What did Alastor use?"
"A human and a bear, I think."
Holmes frowned. "Is that possible? Ah," Holmes caught himself with a rueful shake of his head, "that was an unforgivably poor choice of wording. Of course it was possible, we saw it after all. What I meant to say was, is that usual?"
Watson shook his head. "No, which is why I concluded Lord Alastor was too dangerous of an opponent to risk continuing to conceal myself from you. Transmuting living beings, especially humans, is a particularly ghastly endeavor. It would take both a ruthless and extremely powerful alchemist to accomplish creating a living, much less working, subject."
"The mines. I had looked into Lord Alastor's background as well as his finances and they were both decidedly pockmarked. Could he have used alchemy to transmute the basic minerals there to generate silver in order to make his fortune?"
Watson blinked, obviously not having considered such a thing. "It is very possible, Holmes."
"He may be able to perform things I have no hope in understanding, but I still understand crime…and men," Holmes said, falling into his usual habit of musing aloud.
"You could understand it in time, Holmes. You have the capacity. I can do very little of it myself, apart from those things I can naturally perform, but I know of a teacher, if you would allow me…" Watson replied softly, his tone asking the obvious question where his words did not quite reach.
Holmes finally turned to face Watson, the back of his head scraping over the bear's no longer in use ear, grey eyes meeting blue. "Will you show me?"
Watson knew instantly what he was referring to. "I daresay you have already seen it."
"This time I am asking. It will be by choice."
"I will not be able to show it to you any longer than you had already witnessed," Watson warned. "My true form doesn't belong to this plane of existence and your eyes were only meant to perceive the things within the realm it was made into. If I were to show you any longer than a few seconds, I fear I may damage you in some way."
Holmes nodded thoughtfully. "I assume this request isn't morally repugnant or offensive to you."
"No, I would have been more surprised if you hadn't asked. Curiosity is a strong trait in most humans, you more so than others. It is a part of what makes you such an interesting companion."
Watson stood and offered Holmes his hand to help him to his feet. Holmes had undoubtedly picked up on the subtle distancing Watson was using in his speech, but took his hand anyways and soon the two men were standing before each other in the middle of the sitting room.
Holmes stepped back and gave an almost impatient gesture to carry on. Watson closed his eyes and sighed, his entire body becoming still and when he opened his eyes, Holmes caught sight of the same precise and penetrating blue he had seen yesterday. The light had returned also, more substantial than that of the day streaming through the sitting room windows. It crested around Watson in waves, his features becoming obscured, though his presence somehow becoming sharper and Holmes knew that though he may not be seeing something divine, it was hallowed nonetheless.
The moment Holmes' eyes began to itch, the image withdrew into Watson himself and now that Holmes had glimpsed Watson's true form, he could see how Watson's lingering desert tan almost resembled a faint glow, like how a light looks behind a paper lantern and that his body was free from the little strains he had always seen there, expected to be there when he thought his friend as human as he, but now that he knew, he could not be fooled. Watson was much more than he seemed, but as he stood bravely beneath Holmes' continued scrutiny, he was still to his core, the John Watson Holmes had always known.
"No wings?" Holmes quipped, smiling fully to allow Watson to know the true intent of his words.
Watson returned his smile in kind, relief suffused throughout his entire being. "I told you, Holmes. If there is a Heaven, I have never seen it. I existed somewhere else entirely."
"Oh?" Holmes said, curiosity peaked. "What was is like there?"
"It was," Watson's eyes became listless for a moment, "…boring."
He broke off and stared out window, watching the carriages bustle up and down the street and Charles—Billy's cousin—selling newspapers on the corner. Holmes wondered a little at Watson's response, but allowed him a few moments to reflect privately on whatever he was evidently recollecting.
"What are we to do about Lord Alastor? I am reluctant to allow him to continue to run amuck, especially now I know to what degree he can wreak havoc among the populace. Where he got a man at all to create a chimera concerns me greatly," Holmes said pointedly after several minutes.
Watson emerged from his reverie with a deeply furrowed brow. "Now that you know the truth and can be further informed on the facts concerning these matters as well as taught to defend yourself against such magicks and with the aid of my full range of abilities, I think it will be possible to stop Lord Alastor."
"You mentioned a teacher. Will you be…transporting off to some distant land to fetch him or her?"
Watson's mustache twitched in amusement. "Actually, he's been residing in an old tobacco tin in my trunk since I moved into Baker Street. However, I will need something from St. Bart's before the two of you can make each other's acquaintance." Watson eyed him a little warily. "You're taking this all rather well, I must say."
Holmes chuckled despite himself. "Better than yesterday, you mean."
"I suppose."
"You know my views on the improbable, Watson," he hedged slightly because he didn't want to give voice to the truth of the matter. That there was a madman who had the occult powers of alchemy had been startling and had forced him to very quickly reassess what he knew about the world, but never since he had met Watson had he ever had cause to doubt his friendship with the man. And whereas the world could change in a thousand ways which would shock Holmes no more than the sun rising, he had never expected the enduring bond between the two of them could ever be changed in the slightest. Yesterday's events had threatened that worldly balance and Holmes had suitably panicked.
If Watson had picked up on Holmes' thoughts he gave no indication as he wandered over to the sideboard where Holmes had left his pocket watch and returned with it cradled loosely in his palm. "Alchemy is simply a more complex working of the same principles, so it would not hurt to learn the basics of magic. Here," he handed Holmes the watch, "every sorcerer's first manifestation is always light. It will be easier to focus on a separate object. Watch."
Watson placed a finger on the lid of the watch, staring hard before exhaling deeply. When he did, the watch grew warm in Holmes' hand and the lid suddenly snapped open to reveal a cheery sunlight billowing out from within. When Watson removed his finger, the light abruptly vanished.
"No words?" Holmes inquired, his mind whirling for some sort of explanation.
"The important part is believing it will work. The words are only an aid. You can say anything, but you have to believe the watch will light. You can do this, Holmes. I know you can."
It was simply too much, too fast and Holmes stared hopelessly at the all too ordinary pocket watch held in his hand. He didn't really believe it would work, but Watson believed he could do it and Holmes had always placed the utmost faith in Watson.
Therefore, it was hardly surprising when he finally did manage to get the watch to light after a faint murmur, it radiated in a soft, crystalline blue Holmes had discovered yesterday
Watson congratulated him with a knowing smile. "The great Sherlock Holmes conquers yet another area of expertise. What was that language you spoke? Latin?"
Holmes grunted, trying and failing to get the watch to light through will alone.
"It was glow spelt backwards."
~*~
Later that evening, Watson returned from his shift at St. Bart's carrying a box under one arm. Holmes eyed it interestedly, even more so when Watson withdrew a bleached white skull from it and affixed the lid back onto the box so he could set the skull on top of it.
"This is what you needed from St. Bart's? Do you intend to bring my teacher back from the grave?"
"I don't have that particular power."
"Can an alchemist revive the dead?"
"Anything is possible, Holmes, but there are some lines that are not meant to be cross. Now be patient and try and be polite, I suspect your new tutor will not be very happy about the fact."
Watson dug around in his pockets, checking his trousers before moving to his jacket and waistcoat and it was so absurdly mundane, Holmes wondered for a moment if he had simply dreamt the past thirty-eight hours. Such notions were instantly arrested when Watson drew out a block of amber which encased a single proximal bone from the phalanges of what Holmes deduced was a man's left index finger.
Touching the piece of amber on the frontal portion of the skull above the orbital ridges, Watson announced in a clear, authoritative voice, "Hrothbert of Bainbridge, I summon thee."
The amber glowed a dull orange originating from the bone, which quickly transferred into the skull, twin orange lights flaring up into the empty eye sockets. The skull rose a fraction from where it rested atop the box, floating slightly and twitching from side to side, giving Holmes the distinct impression it was surveying the room in some manner.
"Guardian," a silky voice erupted, the jaw unhinging in order to follow the cadence of the words, "I was hoping you had lost me years ago. What could you possibly want of me?"
"I have found you a student," Watson said, gesturing towards Holmes.
The cultured tones that had emanated from the skull dissolved instantly into a long, drawn out moan. "God of gods, a greater torture could not possibly be bestowed on me. If you knew anything of mercy, Guardian, you would cast me into the abyss."
"Now, now, Bob, you are being quite dramatic about this. How long since you have last been summoned?"
"Three centuries ago," answered the skull, perfectly tailored British accent coming out in a light baritone.
"Aren't you glad to be aware again?"
"Not when the price is so high," the skull replied sullenly.
Watson rolled his eyes and turned back to Holmes, who was torn between curiosity and mild disgust at watching the clacking and weaving of the previously inanimate object, which had once housed a living subject.
"Holmes, this is Hrothbert, Bob for short. An eon or so ago, he was a man who was cursed to spend an eternity archiving all magical and alchemic knowledge as he so selfishly did in life. He cannot take on any physical form, affect the world, nor even sense it when not fulfilling the one mandate of his existence, which is—"
"To teach whoever has the misfortune to find me. No matter how dim-witted or imbecilic that person may be," Bob bemoaned dramatically,
"He is granted infinite knowledge and in return he must impart said knowledge to anyone who asks to be taught," Watson clarified cheerily.
Bob snorted, which was quite a feat considering he had no nose.
"So Holmes, are you willing to learn?" Watson asked, holding out the piece of amber in invitation.
"I would hardly deem his circumstances to be much of a curse," Holmes pointed out, taking the artifact from his friend, twirling it between his own fingers.
"Have you ever attempted to teach a hopeless drunk how to transform water into wine?" Bob deadpanned.
"No, but Holmes had on one occasion tried explaining the various properties of saltpeter to Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard," Watson replied thoughtfully.
"A police officer?" the skull queried. "A worthy endeavor. Police reports are certainly not what they should be and yet I receive an outpouring of them day by day. I mind as well extrapolate what is going on in the world from the patterns on a teacup."
"If you have any interest in crime, I can certainly oblige you, but first you must disclose to me whatever knowledge you have currently. Rest assured it will not go to waste for I," Holmes said, the glint of the hunt alight in his eyes, "am no imbecile."
Nearly two weeks later…
"Are you entirely without sense? Are you trying to reform matter or turn a walnut inside out?"
Holmes gritted his teeth as he completed the meticulous array of runes along the outer line of his transmutation circle. "I corrected the resolve at the end of the fourth and second asset. What could possibly be wrong now?"
"Oh, I don't know. Did you use wizard's fire to seal the connecting components or normal fire?" Bob clacked about irately.
"Normal fire." Holmes looked over to the skull which was hovering slightly above the top right corner of the dining table. "Why should that matter? After I have summoned the flame, it exists through non-magical means, burning oxygen and releasing energy like any normal flame."
"But it isn't brought through the normal channels of existence. When you use magic, you are essentially reaching into a power that is separate, but coincides with this realm, which can undo or catalyze reactions that naturally occur in this world. When you light fires you are creating a connecting link between that separate realm of power and this one, so yes, it bloody well does matter!" Bob fumed, skull vibrating in clear frustration upon the table.
Distantly, Holmes registered the front door open and the tread of familiar steps ascending the stairs and crossing the landing until Watson entered the sitting room, his arms laden with half a dozen books of varying age, all with symbols Holmes now recognized instantly as alchemic formulas.
"I just retrieved these from Hrothbert's hidden archives in Madrid," he announced, dropping the books onto the settee and going to the sideboard to pour himself a hefty glass of Tokay.
"Why do you even bother entering the front door when you could merely transport in the middle of the sitting room?" Holmes asked with no little amount of asperity, his good humour having been thwarted after several hours of intense study and repeating failure.
Watson shrugged. "I am used to it, I suppose."
Holmes grumbled and went about erasing the diagrams he had traced in chalk along his chemistry table and went to start again, while Bob took the opportunity to complain to his only other available subject.
"I cannot be expected to teach in these conditions. How am I expected to monitor his progress when I cannot even see what he is doing?"
"He distracts me when he is residing on the same surface I am working on," Holmes said in reply to Watson's questioning brow. "He is distracting pretty much anywhere, but at least if he is away from my immediate workspace I don't have to constantly keep picking him up to move him out of the way or show him my progress."
Watson took a sip from his glass and moved over towards Holmes' chemical table, looking back and forth between Holmes' diagrams and where Bob rested on the dining table.
"You know," Watson said slowly, "I may just have the perfect solution for this."
Two days later and Baker Street now housed one long-suffering landlady, a cursed spirit that communicated via talking skull, an immortal Guardian, the world's only private consulting detective as well as amateur alchemist, and one stout and hardy bulldog by the name of Gladstone.
"Bob, whenever Holmes is doing experiments that require monitoring, you can temporarily inhabit Gladstone and make use of his various faculties in order to guide Holmes' progress," Watson said, rubbing the dog affectionately about the wrinkled neck and ears.
Holmes frowned in consideration. "Are you sure it will do no damage to the animal?" he asked (because frankly he had a few experiments of his own he would like to try once all this alchemy business was resolved).
"To the animal!" Bob spluttered. "What about me? You are resigning to spend time in stubby legged creature with barely enough brains to relieve itself out of doors?!"
"Actually, I don't think Gladstone is housetrained yet," Watson replied glibly.
"As if I didn't suffer enough indignities," Bob groused.
And so it was that whenever Holmes attempted any new alchemic research, Bob would leave his skull, dimming the orange lights and transferring over to Gladstone, who would then mill around Holmes, sniffing around the various components he had laid out and slobbering about in an effort to speak through the malformed overbite of the tenacious canine.
Watson thought it was amusing until Holmes started feeding low doses of various poisons to Gladstone whenever Bob inhabited him.
They fought several times over the matter. Bob was furious. Gladstone didn't seem to mind.
~*~
Soon enough Holmes was drawn away from his alchemic studies in order to take up a case. Things were going smoothly enough until Holmes discovered the killer was slicing open his victims with an enchanted blade. Holmes had nearly come to gaining personal experience with the knife's unique effects until Watson had stepped in, receiving only a minor wound along his forearm where Holmes probably lost his entire arm, while Holmes was able to violently subdue the errant knife wielder.
He had been a little enthusiastic in putting the criminal down, but he had at least had the presence of mind to ask where he had gotten the knife (since the man had a fairly decent background and mundane existence that did not preclude to somehow connecting him with supernatural entities) and discovered that the man was hired by no other than Lord Alastor.
Holmes did not have long to dwell on it when he discovered Watson wasn't healing as he ought to, continuing to bleed all throughout their ride to Baker Street and beyond. It was hardly far from life threatening, especially to an immortal, but something like that should have healed in an instant, a power Watson had demonstrated to Holmes on request only a few days previous.
"I don't understand it," Holmes muttered, bunching up Watson's sleeve to survey the damage. "I saw you heal yourself from much worse."
"The enchantment Lord Alastor put on the blade must have been particularly potent and the knife itself very old. Don't worry about it, old chap. In fact, go and fetch a vial and bring it here will you?"
"What for?" Holmes asked, retrieving the requested item.
Watson took it and held the vial close to the cleanly sliced flesh along his forearm, collecting the tiny drops of blood until the vial was more than half full, pinching his skin to collect the very last drop and handed it back to Holmes.
"Blood is a very powerful alchemic component. You may wish to use it for one of your experiments someday."
Holmes stared dubiously at the small vial of liquid crimson. "Thank you for the consideration, but it seems slightly morbid, so you will forgive me if I do not make use of it."
"Suit yourself, I offer it freely," Watson answered candidly, pressing his thumb over his wound. "Were you hurt at all during the struggled."
Holmes held up his wrist. "Thompson crushed it beneath his knee at some point. It will bruise by the morning, but it is nothing serious."
"Let me attend to it. I can relieve some of the trauma in the burst capillaries to reduce swelling."
"Watson, what other powers do you possess? I know you can heal, teleport, and withstand against non-magic weaponry," Holmes listed, recalling his experiment from a few days ago where Watson had allowed Holmes to shoot him to see the effects.
"Not much more. Most of my powers are consistent with the fact I can inhabit a separate plane of existence. The healing however, is nothing more than being able to speed up your body's natural abilities. I could not heal you any more than your body could on its own, it is just at an accelerated pace. I have many limitations of that nature. I cannot create on my own, not music or the intuitive leaps you are able to achieve."
"You write," Holmes pointed out.
"Yes and only record what has already happened, not create an original story," Watson corrected. "Innovation has always been the providence of mortals. So you see Holmes, I have always been as dim as you accused me of being."
"I have said nothing of the sort," Holmes insisted.
"Holmes, the situation with Lord Alastor…"
"Yes, I fear he has taken an interest in me and from now on we must take a more proactive role in bringing him down."
Watson smiled. "Wherever you go, Holmes. I will follow."
~*~
Holmes added the last flourish to the sigil he had inscribed along the back of his hand and palm, checking for correctness in the text that was laid out before him one last time before he executed his experiment. Rising very carefully to his feet so as not to make a sound, he extended his hand out towards where Watson was seated, back turned towards Holmes, where he was writing at his desk. As if sensing something was amiss, Watson chose that precise moment to turn around.
"Holmes, what on earth—?"
"John Hamish Watson, Guardian Protector, I bind thee to me," Holmes barked, thrusting his hand towards Watson and activating the spell with an effort of will.
In the blink of the eye, Watson vanished, his pen dropping to the floor and rolling beneath the seat. Holmes crowed in triumph, feeling the minute pressure in the back of his mind where he was maintaining the binding. He released it just as quickly and Watson reappeared in the middle of the sitting room, looking dazed.
"Watson, congratulate me, dear fellow, on my glorious success. Do you know what this could mean for future investigations? I can hide you until the last possible moment, send you out for reconnaissance without being seen. The spell had seem treacherously difficult at first, but when I—Watson, are you alright?" Holmes asked, suddenly noticing for the first time that Watson was shaking from head to foot, sweat erupting along his brow.
Watson didn't answer. He seemed frozen, eyes wide and unseeing, unable to move.
"Watson?" Holmes repeated, taking a tentative step towards his friend.
"Don't touch me!" Watson ordered sharply. "For God's sake, don't you dare touch me."
Holmes recoiled slightly and watched as Watson, with a supreme effort, brought his hand to his face, breaths now coming in ragged gasps.
"Watson, what did I—?"
"I will be in my room. Don't disturb me," Watson interrupted and vanished once again and it took Holmes a moment t realize he had just teleported himself to his upstairs bedroom.
Holmes' concern grew tenfold. Watson never acted anything but human in his presence. That he would drop the façade now…
"What have I done?" Holmes whispered to himself.
When he opened the door to Watson's room, Watson was laying atop his covers, facing away from the door.
"Watson…?" Holmes ventured, waiting to be either invited inside or swiftly ejaculated from the room.
"Whatever is in my capacity to serve you, Holmes, I will do it in an instant. I will use any and all of my abilities if you would just ask. I promise to do anything you ask of me in future if only you would refrain from attempting such a thing again," Watson said, face pressed hard against the pillow.
"No, a true friend would not ask anything that you were not already willing to give. I am truly very sorry, Watson. Will you tell me what it was like?" Holmes swallowed. "Help me understand, Watson, so I know what it is that I have done to you and why I should not do it again."
"You sent me…somewhere. It felt like drowning," Watson answered shakily, "like I was always one agonizing breath away from dying, but never reaching it. I was in limbo, stuck between death and inexistence. That is what happens when you bind me."
"I'm sorry," Holmes repeated.
They lapsed into silence and Holmes eventually turned to leave, but Watson called him back and asked him to stay, so he did and when Watson was asleep he crept back downstairs and ran his fingers distractedly over Bob's summoning bone.
"Why would he give me a book with the knowledge to hurt him like that?" he wondered idly.
"Remember, my pupil," Bob murmured, his tone absent of its usual snarkiness, "it is not knowledge itself that is evil, only what you use it for. Magic and alchemy carry very high rewards and even greater consequences. Apologies and tears are not the end of your sins. You bear them painfully, forever."
Coming from a spirit cursed for eternity, Holmes took his mentor's advice to heart and set aside the book until such a time he felt he could open it again and not feel a need to be sick.
~*~
This time, it really was a mistake, a trap and it was all Holmes' fault. He had followed the clues exactly, too precisely and now, Lord Alastor had captured him.
"And so we meet again, Sherlock Holmes," Alastor sneered. "You were very smart, tracking through my mining enterprise. You had all the clues, but reached the wrong conclusions. It was never silver that I wanted just like it wasn't really you who I was after. Now, call him."
The pieces fell into place with shattering results and Holmes stared at his captor with naked fear in his eyes. "You wanted Watson."
"Very good, you are as smart as everyone claims."
"But why?"
"Because my name is not Franklin Alastor. My name is Michael Sendivogius and after four centuries of finding ways to cheat death, I am ready to get what I am rightfully due."
"Sendivogius, the chemist and doctor?" Holmes questioned in disbelief.
The alchemist laughed. "Dear me, I'd forgotten that people still remember me by that name. Yes, I was a pioneer in chemistry, discovering that air was not a single substance and identifying oxygen a hundred and seventy years before Scheele and Priestley."
"A great mind wasted by insanity."
"Ambition, Mr. Holmes, not insanity. Why cure only one person when you can cure a thousand, why even cure when you can stop someone from dying altogether? Why shouldn't mankind be allowed to live forever? And for that, I needed the Philosopher's Stone. Alexander Seton was the only other alchemist to have the secret to creating the stone. I rescued him from execution in the Elector of Saxony's castle in exchange for that secret. When he gave me but a portion of black transmutation powder, I betrayed him and married his widow to discover the secret. It turned out that Seton only gave me a portion of black powder because he had no more to give. I found that the black powder, the main ingredient to creating the Philosopher's Sone, was actually made up of hundreds, thousands of human lives, every grain representing a harvested mortal life. Get enough of it and it will condense into red powder, the raw form of a Philosopher's Stone. All this time, I've been trying to buy myself time until I could find a way to harvest enough lives to make a stone and then you came along, thwarting my efforts to use those miners who would have been trapped in the very depths of that mountain, a horrible accident perhaps, but instead you delivered something to me that was much more precious because there is one other way to make red powder without human sacrifices. All you need is one willing immortal and luckily, yours is devoted to not seeing you dead, so call him Mr. Holmes, or I will kill you."
Holmes remained silent.
Sendivogius placed his hand along Holmes' brow. "Do you know what's it's like for a man's brain to literally boil in his own blood, Mr. Holmes?"
"Stop." Watson appeared beside him, grim faced, but resolute.
"Watson, no!"
"I willingly forfeit myself to you Sendivogius, in exchange for Holmes' life."
"Done." Sendivogius snapped his fingers, alighting the pre-drawn sigil that ran along his hand, which were frighteningly familiar to Holmes.
"Goodbye Holmes."
Sendivogius extended his hand. "Guardian, I bind thee to my will."
And he was gone and Holmes was bundled up in a carriage and sent back to Baker Street.
Bob appeared in Gladstone, sitting atop of Holmes' shoes as Holmes related what had happened.
"I don't understand it! Why would he have forfeited his life for me when Sendivogius could incur much more damage by creating a Stone!" Holmes pounded the arms of his chair in frustration.
"I have had my suspicions for some time now, but I do not think Watson was truthful in telling you he was your Guardian."
"How so?"
"From what I understand it, true Guardians inhabit a higher plane from which they can alter small workings of fate in the favor of their charges. They exist in an expanded notion of time. Think, for instance, that if time is a river and you exist as a pebble, Guardians exist as a piece of string, able to know and perceive much further, enabling them to anticipate and predict various outcomes. Watson however, chooses to actually interact with you."
"He told me that place was boring," Holmes commented idly.
"He said that?" Bob questioned.
"Yes, what of it?"
"I know something of Watson's past. Over a millennia ago, Watson was sent by the powers that be to aid a hero in his quest. That hero ended up saving the world and in return was granted immortality for his deeds. Watson and he were friends and spent many years together, but the hero grew restless with the unchanging grace of immortality and requested to be turned back into a mortal. However, the hero was given a single boon, the assurance that he would be reborn on Earth again. So when the hero finally died, Watson left the immortal realm and came on Earth to search for his friend. He has been wandering as long as I have known him and I have been here long enough to have witnessed when Rome conquered this land called Britannia. I have never known him when he was not searching, until he met you."
"Me?" Holmes breathed.
"And as far as I know, the only other person who used to say that about the immortal realm was his friend from long ago."
Deductions ran rampant in his mind, but one thought remained clear in his mind.
He had to save Watson.
~*~
The battle was long and hard fought. Holmes was able to surprise Sendivogius by having Bob inhabit his chimera and promptly commit suicide while he fought with the alchemist. One thing about magic, if used too much it becomes a crutch rather than an asset. Not only that, but Holmes already had a fully formed stone of his own, made from the red powder he had discovered residing in the small vial Watson had freely given him. Sendivogius didn't stand a chance. Holmes was able to break the binding because long ago, in a different life, Holmes had bound Watson to his soul to ensure they would meet again, which is why Holmes was able to create a binding that one day when he shouldn't have been able to.
But by that time Holmes was too late. Watson was fading, weakened by the intricate spellwork wrought on him.
"Bob, told me the truth," Holmes said, willing himself not to acknowledge that his friend was dying before his very eyes.
"I'm sorry. I have been exceedingly selfish. If I had done my job properly, you would have been much better for it," Watson replied weakly.
"I rather doubt that dear fellow. I need a friend infinitely more than a guardian."
"I'm glad." Tears glistened in Watson's eyes. "I've missed you old friend."
The tears were beautiful to behold because they contained in equal measure, pure sorrow as well as pure joy.
"Somehow…I believe I have missed you too, only I didn't recognize what was gone until you came into me life."
"Farewell Holmes."
Watson had revealed his true form the first time to save Holmes' life, the second time because Holmes had asked, and third because it was his last.
~*~
Holmes returned to Baker Street alone and when he arrived, Mrs. Hudson berated him about the rent and how he should really consider taking up digs with someone. Apparently she had put an advertisement in the papers. Holmes searched all over the house, but there was no sign of his friend anywhere.
There were medical texts in an old trunk in the garret room, but sometimes Holmes thought that he had inherited them from somewhere, but that didn't feel right. Sometimes he couldn't remember where they came from.
Then on Friday a visitor came by to answer Mrs. Hudson's advertisement. He was a skinny fellow with a dark tan, recently come back from Afghanistan and although Holmes' heart jumped into his throat to see him, no such recognition lit in the other's eyes.
Sadly, but still with a little hope, Holmes showed him around the flat.
In magic and in alchemy, you carry your sins forever.
But sometimes in life, you receive a small amount of providence.
Holmes witnessed it when Watson ran his fingers accidentally along Holmes' pocket watch when he leaned and for a moment froze, his eyes seeking Holmes' in an instant…
And smiled.
A/N: The reason for the terrible rush job at the end was because i was on a time limit and had to wrap-up to make the deadline for Challenge 010 (write an original AU) at the LJ-community, Watsons_Woes. IF YOU ARE A MEMBER THERE AND YOU ENJOYED THIS PIECE, PLEASE VOTE FOR ME. *clears throat* If you had trouble understanding anything or have any questions feel free to ask and i'll answer it via PM. I hope at the very least this was an enjoyable concept (if not executed with my usual skill).