He's dying.
He's denied it for a long time – for too long – desperate to pretend it's not happening. That this is still, somehow, under his control. But it's not. It's not. This, he can't control this. He can't stop it. He can't, he can't do anything.
He'd hoped … it was foolish now, but he'd hoped that he'd have more time. The timing was atrocious. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was a gift of fate, giving him notice now, before he could do anything stupid. Do something stupid, like grabbing Watson with both hands and hauling him down, showing him beyond doubt just what it is Holmes wants from him. Grasps him and keeps him here, drives Mary out of every corner of his heart. Makes Watson over again, makes him Holmes', just in time to make him watch Holmes die. Just in time to kill him alongside, slice apart the illusion that his medicine can be of any use, break him apart and leave him, leave him alone, without even the comfort of a normal life to return to.
He was almost terribly foolish.
Watson is asleep, upstairs, undisturbed by worry for once. Holmes is going to keep it that way. In two weeks, Watson will be gone, will have Mary to hold him together when word of Holmes' death comes, will have a life that isn't twisted around Holmes, isn't wrapped up in trouble and danger and mystery. It's too long, and nowhere near long enough.
He watches his hands tremble in the near dark. He can't still them.
He doesn't know if he'll be able to hide this much longer.
He doesn't know if he can stand to wait that long.
oOo
Two weeks turns out to be wildly optimistic.
By the end of the week, he finds it is easiest to leave the room a few minutes after Watson joins him. Well, maybe not easiest; it's not. It hurts, denying himself even these last few days of Watson's company, knowing that it hurts Watson in return, knowing he thinks that it's because Holmes is angry at him - angry - for leaving, for seeking some happiness of his own. Holmes cannot tell Watson how relieved he is that Watson is taking a chance on having a life, that he hasn't ruined Watson for pleasant company. How could he be angry?
Never mind that he hates the thought of someone else having a claim on Watson. Hates the thought of Watson sharing those smiles, all the nuances and variations, with someone else. Hates the knowledge that someone else will be touching Watson, will be touching him in ways that iHolmes/i never had the opportunity to. Never had the chance to find out if he would even be welcome, and he's no one to blame for that but himself. If he's angry, it's at himself, it's at the world's straightjacket of rules and morality, it's at the callous hand of fate.
But however much it hurts to make his excuses, walk (run) from Watson before he can see the constant shake of Holmes' hands, before Watson can take him apart with a glance and question the blooming marks, the hollows of his eyes, the fever in his mind; question the suspicious absence of poisoned lines marking up Holmes' arm – however hard that is, it still remains easier to make sure that Watson doesn't see. Doesn't question. Doesn't grow concerned, put things off to devote a little too much time to Holmes, at the expense of his own plans. Holmes has to make sure those plans go forward; he speaks congratulations and encouragements through the ashes in his mouth.
Two weeks; one is gone, vanished and Holmes cannot seem to remember anything of it but the stutter in his heartbeat that stilled him for a long moment, too long, long enough for Watson to take his arm. Two weeks, and one remains, and there must be something he can do. Some way he can separate them further.
oOo
He takes on a case that doesn't exist, but Watson doesn't know that. A case that requires him to spend long hours away, searching for the details that will make it all come together, except he's searching for nothing greater than how he can make himself disappear. Watson may have told Holmes there would be no more shared cases, our last case, but that doesn't seem to stop him from glancing up when Holmes heads for the door, starting as though to stand and follow; he checks himself with an effort, teaching himself how to best to break habit. It will be easier when he is at Cavendish Place, Holmes thinks, because there will be nothing to remind him. Holmes will not visit.
Watson thinks he is pushing himself too hard; he can see it in the glances Watson gives him the few moments they end up sharing, despite Holmes' best efforts. Knows that Watson thinks it's in part his fault, that Holmes is trying to force himself to forget that Watson is leaving – five days, and so many things he is used to seeing are gone, packed and bundled up – that Holmes is trying to prove that he doesn't need Watson, that it won't hurt him to have Watson leave – three days, and Watson rummaged through Holmes' wardrobe; later, Holmes stares at it for several long moments, noting the absence of certain items, and he feels like Watson might already be gone.
Watson seems to feel … not sad, although there is a touch of that. Something Holmes can't put his finger on, until he turns his head too fast one evening and catches it, lingering in Watson's eyes. Pity, and he rebels at that. Of all the emotions he might have hoped to wring from Watson, this is what Watson chooses. Pity, and he is suddenly glad that there is only tonight left, that in the morning Watson will call for a baggage cart, will step out of Baker Street for the last time, will leave Holmes without a backward glance.
There will be no more retreating to his room, to a wretched rented room, to somewhere Watson can't watch him shake and bleed and cry and lose hold of his control.
Morning cannot come fast enough.
oOo
Watson is gone, but still, he remains, in the things he has left, in the scent of cheap tobacco, in the shirts he has left in Holmes' wardrobe, and he knows Watson must have left those on purpose, must have relented and replaced them, because Holmes remembers standing staring at the empty spaces.
Still, Watson comes over, makes an effort to maintain their friendship, conversation turning small and awkward, Holmes unwilling to make the effort – no; he's lying, even to himself – terrified to let Watson back into his life. He comes over, and Holmes scrambles for presentable, or at least for nothing worse than his usual, grasps at straws to present the illusion of health and normalcy for a few hours, until he can chase Watson out. Always, he spends the next few hours after Watson gives up wracked with pain, as sharp and blinding in his mind as it is in his body.
It comes and goes, and he didn't expect the uncertainty of it all. Of never knowing when he wakes what kind of day it is going to be, of how many more days he will have, will have to endure this.
He has flipped through option after option for the end; there is something about the uncertainty of simply disappearing that appeals to him. Wouldn't it be better is Watson never had to deal with his death? If he could simply believe that some day Holmes will reappear? Wouldn't that be best?
Holmes tries to ignore the thought that it is not; that is far crueler.
oOo
Moriarty has issued Holmes a challenge, encouraged by Holmes' lack of response in the last few months. He plants a target on Watson, and Holmes has to act, can't let this go.
He moves. Makes his actions speak for him. He visits Watson, for the first time; it is a nice house, he notes absently. He should be more careful; Watson's eyes sharpen, noticing the things he managed to ignore when they were still living together, and Holmes knows he is too thin and too pale and too unsteady to present a picture of health.
Watson lays a hand on his arm, and Holmes – he can't, he can't …
It's foolish, it's reckless, and he can't stop himself. "Come away with me," he says, and Watson must be missing him - Oh, Watson, I'm sorry, I'm sorry - because he smiles, and asks where. "Anywhere," Holmes tells him. "It's all the same to me," because it is. All he needs – all he wants – is a few days, just a few days more, and there's no way it can end well.
Watson asks if he will stay the night, and he wishes, he almost considers for a moment, but no; he's already getting his moments. He can't let himself become greedy.
Watson, he wants to say. Do you think we could have ever … that you could have loved me back, if I'd given you a chance? He wants to know, wants to know before he's gone, and it's burning in him.
He says nothing
oOo
He hadn't quite expected to survive the falls. Had been more than half expecting that those would be his final words, penned to Watson, believed it enough to refrain from making plans, which is beyond unusual for him. This means that now he is at loose ends, and he hesitates a few too many days before he telegrams Mycroft. He hasn't told his brother, but he never believed for an instant that he would need to; luckily, Mycroft is too angry to do anything but shift some money and follow a will that doesn't exist.
He doesn't even know what he will use the money for. The only thing he can't do is the only thing he wants; the appeal of travel has disappeared now that there is no longer somewhere he can call home. Now that there is no longer someone to come back to.
The illness subsides, remains lying deep in his bones and blood, and he never expected any such reprieve; even knowing it is only a moment more, still inevitable, he finds it almost unbearably cruel. That he might have had longer before he left … but maybe it is better that he didn't.
He sits in foreign cities, is warmed by the same sunlight as before, seasoned with a slightly different tang, and reads the papers of London. The cities are beautiful, classic, full of their own charms, but not a one has the proper arrangement of streets, the same pale fog rising from the cobbles, the sounds or sights or tastes of where he wants to be.
The only thing they all have in common is the easy access to which ever drug appeals to him most, without a single disapproving eye upon him.
oOo
For all his esoteric knowledge, he's never spent any real time outside Great Britain for pleasure, excepting rare trips to the continent, for brief, strictly constrained periods; solve the case, insult the local force, return with stories. Watson is far more traveled than he.
It is startling to see the places he has read about, experience first hand some of the experiences he has used merely as examples; it is also startling (though, he has to admit, not entirely unsurprising) to discover the holes in his knowledge, the flaws in his data.
He should feel something more than a vague sense of weariness.
Another thing he discovers while traveling; there are always doctors willing to give him another opinion. Another potential treatment. Another way of saying, "There's nothing we can do." He makes the effort anyway, but it feels hollow, half-hearted, and each time another doctor turns around he is startled by the unfamiliar faces. His vitality is the first causality, leeching out to leave him exhausted by simply rising from bed. He hasn't the energy to keep trying different cures, all with no expectation of success.
Eventually, he stops trying all together.
oOo
Holmes has lasted for far longer than he ever suspected; he thinks sometimes that it is a joke the universe is playing on him. A cruel joke, but he does not think the universe knows any other kind. A year passes, the days blending into colorless, meaningless, endless hours; every day he wakes with a faint feeling of – dread? Surprise? Exhaustion? Something, that keeps him pinned to the bed for long moments before he drags himself up once more. (Only once more? If only once more.)
He has, for the most part, stopped reading the London papers. It is only (another) cruel joke that he picks one up today, and not even today's paper. He skims, mindlessly, letting the type fill his mind with consolidating into words, and feels the distance stretching out before him. These events, these opinions and articles and details hold so little meaning now, have so very little relevance.
He always watches for one name, and when, for the first time, he finds it, his fingers nearly rip the paper.
Mrs. Mary Watson, deceased …
He cannot read further.
John, he thinks. Dear God.
By the end of the day he is on a boat bound for London.
oOo
Cavendish Place is dark, far too early in the evening; Holmes has found it's a habit of Watson's he's unfamiliar with, this retiring early. Perhaps Watson finds it easier to ignore the emptiness of the bed in the dark than the empty chairs in gaslight. He stands across the street, in the shadows, and finds, once again, that the smallest step is the hardest. It is easier to step back, to keep along as he has been, watching Watson.
He's followed Watson as he makes the most half hearted rounds Holmes has ever seen from him; as he stops in the street, stares blankly at the ground until some passerby reminds him of his location; as he takes the longer route to pass Baker Street every day, but he never looks up to the window.
If he had, he might have seen Holmes, staring down at him.
oOo
Holmes watches Watson, watches him falling deeper every day, and cannot find the courage to stop him, to lay a hand on his arm and smile when he turns around. Or maybe it is not that he hasn't the courage, it's that he has too much too put Watson through another round of illness and helplessness and black clothes and funerals.
Except that is no excuse at all; he has already done so.
Mrs. Hudson ends up being the one to force his hand, threatening to send a telegram informing Watson of his return "If you don't get over there and do so yourself, properly," in her own words. He can't let Watson find out from a tersely worded square of paper, so he heads out, frets the entire cab ride and hopes (prays, even though he doesn't know to what) that his body will not betray him.
The housekeeper is new, doesn't recognize him, and there's something bitter building in his gut. He'd only been to Cavendish Place once, twice before he left, and the halls are hostile. He's waved into the study without another word, and Watson glances up from his desk with an air of weary resignation.
Freezes.
His eyes widen, and his mouth drops open as his breath catches; Holmes can't say a word, all his thoughts driven away by how wonderful Watson looks, even now. "Holmes?" Watson breathes, and stands, unsteadily, nearly tipping the chair over.
"Hello, Watson," Holmes says, and god, he's an idiot, what is he saying? Watson walks to him, slowly, like he's afraid Holmes might turn and run at any moment, raises a hand that stops just short of touching Holmes' face.
"Are you-" he starts, breaks off with a choked sound as Holmes presses forward into Watson's cupped hand, slides it up to tangle in Holmes' hair. Watson laughs, a little wildly, something similar to hysteria brightening his eyes. "I don't know whether to hit you or hug you."
"I deserve the beating far more, I think," and he'll take anything as long as Watson keeps touching him. Watson closes his eyes, reaches out and pulls Holmes into a hug that is far too tight, forehead pressed into Holmes' shoulder. Holmes suppresses his wince for the bruises he'll sport tomorrow, and curls his arms back around Watson.
Watson's shaking; Holmes bites his lip and stares up into the ceiling. He doesn't know why he ever thought it was a good idea to leave. "I'm sorry," he says, very quietly, and Watson sighs. "About Mary," he clarifies, and Watson pulls back.
"Only about Mary?" he asks, wary.
Holmes swallows. "About leaving as well. I-" Even now, he can't tell him. Even now, and it will only get worse the longer he waits, but he can't ruin this, he can't, he won't. "About many things."
"I'm glad. I'm so pleased you're back; no, that's hardly the word for it. I'm- Oh, Holmes, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, it's just- I really thought you were gone. I thought-" his voice wavers, falters, shatters. "I thought you were dead, and Holmes, I'd never realized, I'd never thought that I'd rather have gone with you, I-" his words are coming too fast, spilling out like he's unable to stop himself, and each shaky sentence is another blow laid at Holmes' feet. "Of course I miss Mary, I miss her dreadfully, but I lost her years ago, the night I came back to London without you. I had no room left for anything but mourning, Holmes, I'm sorry, I couldn't, I couldn't-"
He can't listen to any more of this; "John," he says, sharply. "John. Don't- don't- I'm sorry, god, I'm-"
Watson stops all his words, leans in and kisses him, warm and desperate, mustache scratching his lip. Holmes opens his mouth into Watson's, slides one hand up to curl over the nape of Watson's neck, and this is what he's missed while he was away, though he'd never known the taste of it before he left.
Watson ends the kiss, whispers against Holmes' lips, still shaking. "I don't care if you can't stand me after this, I don't care anymore, I already know what it's like to lose you and I can't, I can't keep pretending that I want nothing more from you, Holmes, I won't, I've wanted-"
Holmes returns to favor of silencing him, kisses him until neither one can breathe, gasping into each others mouths. "Yes," he hisses, "Oh, please, yes," and he can taste tears on his tongue, and he doesn't even know whose they are.
oOo
There's a moment of uncertainty on both their parts when they manage to work hands past all the layers and buttons to skin, sending shock rippling outward. Watson breathes out a shaky "Holmes…" and Holmes brushes his fingertips across Watson's hip.
"Watson," he says. "I'd be delighted to, to share such an experience with you, but I don't think this it the night for it." Watson stiffens ever so slightly, and Holmes hurries on. "I only mean- it's not as though I don't want to; I just fear I won't be up to it." He quirks his lips. "Exhaustion takes its toll eventually."
Watson looks at him then, really looks at him, and Holmes wishes he hadn't said anything. "Honestly, Holmes, you look dreadful." Watson grins suddenly, a remnant of an earlier self peeking through, and Holmes is struck breathless by it. "I'd almost feel I'd be taking advantage of you. Come on then; we'll simply sleep, and indulge ourselves another day. After all," and he pauses, ducks his head, "now there will be other days."
John, he thinks. Oh, John. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry; I'm going to break your heart all over again. I shouldn't have come back, but he can't feel as sorry for it as he should.
They curl around each other in the bed, Holmes resting his head on Watson's shoulder, his fingers tracing the jagged outline of scarred skin. "Holmes," Watson says, his voice hurried, turning frantic. "What if I wake up and you're not here? What if it isn't real, if I'm just-" He swallows the rest of his words, but Holmes is already fighting back tears.
"I won't go. I promise, I'll still be here. I'm real; this is real, I'm real, I promise you, Watson." I'm sorry.
He still falls asleep before Watson.
oOo
Watson must have succumbed to sleep at some point, because when Holmes wakes the next morning, the first thing he hears is the light snores next to his ear. He smiles.
And then gasps, as he tries to move and pain attacks him. He shudders, moans quietly, quietly, he mustn't wake Watson, ah, god, it hurts… He pants into the early morning light, and he hasn't had a morning as bad as this in ages, not in ages. He should go, shouldn't let Watson see him like this; but he can't. He can't leave Watson to wake alone.
He waits for a lull in the tremors, rolls over so he can muffle his cries into a pillow, and hopes it passes before Watson wakes.
As if he'd ever be that lucky.
He feels Watson stir beside him, and forces himself to relax, forces away the pain as best he can; if he can just fool Watson a little longer, a little longer… Watson murmurs something unintelligible, turns to his side, and opens his eyes. Blinks, stiffens, and lets lose a sigh that is half a sob. "Thank god," he whispers. "You're real. You're here. Oh, Holmes."
"I did promise," he replies, half muffled.
"I know," Watson says. "But I still feared that I'd simply snapped. Not that I'd have minded that, as long as I stayed convinced you were alive." He reaches over, runs a finger down Holmes' spine. Stops. Frowns. "Holmes, what have you been doing? You're covered in bruises. In fact, I don't remember these from last night…"
"Ah," Holmes says. "I… I bruise easily."
Watson stares at him. "No you don't. You never have. What-" He considers the dark marks again, smoothes his hand gently down the slope of one; Holmes can almost hear Watson's mind making connections, seeing the imprint of his own arm. "Holmes! What is wrong with you? This one – this one must be from last night – but I barely touched you! Something's wrong, this isn't at all normal-"
"John."
Watson goes silent. Looks at him with his brow furrowed, worried. "You know about this," he says, slowly. "You know … what 's going on, Holmes?"
Holmes closes his eyes. He hadn't even gotten a day… "I don't know."
"Holmes!"
"I don't. There isn't a term for it. It's just…"
"What happens?"
"Please," Holmes sighs, noiselessly. "Please don't."
Watson regards him for a long, strained moment. "You've seen a doctor then."
Holmes almost laughs at that. "Yes. I've seen- I've seen several doctors."
"They don't know- Are they utter incompetents? Tell me, Holmes. How long has this been going on? What else is wrong? You look so worn; if it's moving this quickly-"
He hadn't wanted to tell Watson this, hadn't wanted him to ever know, but there's no going back now, nothing he can hide anymore. "Do you know why I left?" he asks, and Watson goes very still next to him. He turns his head away from Watson's face, buries his words in linens, but he knows Watson will still hear him.
"I didn't want to make you watch me die."
Watson makes a small sound. "No. Oh, no, Holmes, no, you're not serious, you can't be, no… Why didn't you tell me?"
"I shouldn't have come back, but when I heard about Mary… I'm sorry, Watson. I just," I missed you so much, I was so worried…
I didn't want to die alone, and oh, he's always been selfish.
"Well," Watson says, brittle, broken. "There's got to be something- We'll find something, Holmes, I promi-"
"No! No. Don't, Watson. I don't- I don't want you to look. I've spent- I've spent almost three years looking, and there's nothing, Watson, nothing. It's not going to go away, it's not going to get better, and I just- I just don't want to end up- I just wanted to be with you."
Watson breathes in sharply, and Holmes closes his eyes. Opens them when he feels lips on his back, as Watson falls forward, presses his face into Holmes' back; moans quietly, unhappily when he feels tears begin to roll down his skin, Watson's quaking breaths hot against him. Buries his own head in his hands.
"Holmes. I don't- Please, I can't lose you as well. I- Holmes…"
There's nothing he can say.
oOo
There's a moment when Watson catches sight of himself in the mirror, out of the corner of his eye; sees the unrelenting somber black, and be damned to anyone who might question it. He sees it; turns his head, because he can't stand to see himself, see the image of a man bowed but unbroken. Can't look himself in the eyes, because he knows what he will see there: calm. Blank, quiet, resigned; all lies, all false, because he is broken, is utterly ruined, and this is nothing more than the calm before the storm and he doesn't know how soon it's going to hit him.
There's a moment when he almost looks upon himself, and turns away, but the image remains in his mind, garbed in mourning, and he finds- he finds, quite suddenly, that he cannot go through with it. He cannot descend the steps and take the cab waiting to- to-
He cannot.
So he sits instead, sits in his chair and ignores the empty one and listens to the clocks strike eleven. He knows he's sure to be missed; there will an empty spot among the bearers, and he knows that the inspectors and officers will be turning to each other with raised eyebrows; that Mrs. Hudson will want to have a sharp word with him – or maybe not; that Mycroft will have drawn his own conclusions, and Watson wonders if they will be the correct ones; that Holmes-
Holmes-
Holmes will not be missing him.
oOo
It's half past noon when there's a step behind him. He knows better than to turn, than to hope, but still, he closes his eyes. It's not even the right sound.
Lestrade stands before him; Watson stares up at him, silently. He's dressed to mimic a raven as well, and Watson watches Lestrade's sharp eyes take in everything. He says nothing.
Lestrade clears his throat. "Dr. Watson," he says. "I'm-" stops, tries again. "I'm very-" and then, after a long pause that weighs down the silence like lead, like heartbreak, "I'm so sorry, John."
Watson says nothing; keeps his gaze on Lestrade, and he thinks, from the way Lestrade flinches away from it, that the storm has finally arrived. Lestrade draws a long, weary breath, turns away and drops his coat over the back of the other chair. Makes a variety of noises at the bar cabinet, and returns with two half filled tumblers; passes one to Watson, holds it before him until Watson gives in and raises his hand, cradles the bottom of the glass. Lestrade rests his freed hand briefly on Watson's shoulder, looks into his own glass as though it holds the words he cannot find. Looks up, stares off at something on the far wall, except he's not seeing it at all, caught in memories.
"To Sherlock Holmes," he says, and drinks.
Watson stares into his glass, doesn't see the amber liquid. Sees instead hands that trembled, that shook, sees the look Holmes gave him, the look that said, as eloquent as any words, wait.
It doesn't matter that he's seen the body, that he felt the last breath escape those lungs, saw something dull and flat slide into those eyes. It doesn't matter that Holmes isn't here, that everyone saw him sent to rest in the ground. He wasn't there; it didn't happen, and Holmes is a clever bastard.
His fingers uncurl from their grip on the smooth metal in his lap, and he drinks.
I'll wait¸ he thinks. Don't be as long this time, Sherlock Holmes.