A Dream
I turned another page and wondered, how it had got to this. Holmes had been gone for, what, two weeks and three days (not that I was counting), and here I sat reading Conan Doyle. I had just been running my fingers along the bookshelves for entertainment, when my gaze was caught by a title. "The Empty House". I felt my lips curl into a smile, and before I knew it, I was sitting with my legs crossed, reading some mentally limited person's inadequate portrayal of my husband. Not that I missed him. At all. I enjoyed a little time away from him.
I was very moved by Watson's response to Holmes' return, but couldn't help despise him a bit for not figuring it out, that Holmes was the old bookseller. He had looked straight into Holmes' eyes and still couldn't see behind the disguise. I would recognize those eyes if I saw them in a polar bears furry face. My head started tilting. I hadn't had much sleep lately, always trying to come up with stuff to do so I would not surrender my mind to the pathetic sensation of being cut in half. Next thing I knew, I was in the land of dreams, the book still fresh in my mind.
I was Watson.
I was myself.
I was devastated, wrecked, depressed, lonely and abandoned by my best friend. Or my loved husband, I couldn't be sure. In dreams, you can sometimes be two persons in one. I had bumped into an old bookseller earlier, and now I was home again in my own, empty house, when I to my immense surprise saw that same crooked bookseller walk in the door and start talking complete nonsense. Then, suddenly, within a blurred moment, it was Holmes standing there. With everything that was Holmes, down to his long feet and slim hands, stretching out catch me, before I hit the floor. Except that I didn't pass out, like Watson had. I now stopped feeling like an odd fusion between him and myself, I was now completely Russell. I just sat down and stared blankly into the air. "Are you okay? I am sorry, I know I have an absolutely unforgivable sense of drama". He tried a wry smile. The familiar voice did not help my state of numbness. I was in shock, torn between hitting him, hard, for abandoning me for three years, sincerely believing he was dead, and flinging my arms around him, because he had come back. To avoid deciding between the two options, my mind had closed down. Holmes scurried out of the room, no doubt to get some water or something. My body came to life, and I went for a walk. I used all my skills and all the sinister short cuts and gloomy alleys, I knew. Still, Holmes might have caught up with me, had he followed me.
I came back a lot later that night, and Holmes was sitting in my (or Watson's?) sitting room, shrouded in a cloud of bluish smoke. He stood abruptly up as soon as I entered, but I hurried past him and refused to meet his gaze. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his shoulders sink. "Russell, I really am truly sorry. I'm indescribably happy to see you again. It was necessary, but it was... horrible." He meant every word. It mollified me a tiny bit, so I let him try to get some food in me. I still felt numb, not quite sure how to respond to anything he did or said. I had no strength of mind to protest (and really, not much reason) when he drew me a bath. But I couldn't pull myself together to get out of my clothes. Holmes saw my helpless expression and came to the rescue. One would have to be very cold not to be softened by the way his hands trembled, as he touched, what no doubt he had been aching to touch for years. He scrubbed my back gently and soaped my hair. I found myself yearning for every stroke, but at the same time, I was burning with hot fury, because he dared to just come back and touch me as if the past three years hadn't happened. My face was expressionless, and my body was paralysed, but on the inside, my desperate longing and gratitude were fighting vigorously against my furiousness and detest every time he touched me. I didn't now what I wanted, but a little time to sort my thoughts would fall on a dry spot.
When we lay in bed, Holmes tried again to start a conversation and hug me to his chest. "I have missed you, Russ", he murmured with feeling. That was too much. I couldn't stand his affectionate words and caresses. I struggled like a wild cat to free myself from his embrace, and he gained some scratches from his efforts. He let me go, but refused to give up. He began striking my back all the way down my spine and from my neck again with soft, gentle fingers. I got chills, but it was hard to tell, whether they were positive or negative. I shook his hand off, and he sighed. He then moved a bit closer, spread the hair to two wisps to each side of my neck and placed a sensitive, warm kiss on the back of my neck and turned to give me some space. The heat from his lips spread slowly through my body, loosing the tight, cold, unfeeling knot. Something inside me broke and tears started seeping desperately from my eyes, as I hadn't done since the Reichenbach-incident. Instantly, Holmes was along my back again, holding me tight, hushing me and caressing my hair, kissing my eye-lids. "Why..." I began sobbingly, but it didn't matter. Now he was back. With infinite softness, he wiped the tears from my cheekbones, but that only made me weep with more intensity. I clung to him intensely as I had done so many times in my dreams, and it almost felt like just another fantasy, but this time, he was really there, however improbable. God, I had missed him.
I woke up, tears still oozing slowly from my eyes.
Someone had put me to bed, and with a warm, happy lump in my stomach, I turned around to smile at Holmes' now-occupied side of the bed.