If any fanfiction story of mine deserves a preface, this one most certainly does.

First of all , this is different from all my other Holmes stories because this one is blatantly Christian. Yes, I do not use the word 'blatantly' lightly. If you are not a Christian, you have to know that Christians are weird. Perhaps you knew that already. Anyways, I'm warning you now, because a lot of what we believe is strange, and it's not going to make sense at first. It's radical at its core. And this story contains elements of that.

Secondly, this story was written for a Watson's Woes challenge -- Challenge 008, to be precise. I asked for an extension. And procrastinated on that.

Consequently, I finished writing this story at 11:55 pm before posting it at midnight.

Since them, I have corrected only one mistake, but have left it mostly as it is. Take it or leave it. This is as piece of my soul, as it flowed out through my fingertips one Monday night between 9:30 and 11:55 pm.

Perhaps I will rewrite it someday. Who knows.

Please forgive the parts that are out of character. The ending especially. But I hope you long-time Holmesians will enjoy the beginning. I am quite proud of the first half of this story, after all.


"It attacks the mind," Dr. Fenbain said, holding up the vial of dull red liquid so that we could see it clearly. "Primarily the areas that control memory and logic."

He did not have to explain further. The proud, distinct jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles on his neck bulged out. But the grey eyes… the hardness and purpose I had grown so used to seeing seemed to have dissolved completely. Lost. As if his soul was adrift upon some cloudy see, where the grey sky mingled with the grey water, and all was bleak.

"A half hour," he mumbled. "Give us a half hour, please."

Dr. Fenbain nodded. "I am not inhuman. I will give you that, at least. But only a half hour, you understand. I can spare you no longer. If I make too many allowances, then there will be no use in robbing you of your sanity, because my game will be up anyway. I do hope you understand."

"Perfectly," Holmes said, his voice like the touch of a streetlamp on the coldest night in December.

Dr. Fenbain nodded once more and left the room, closing the door behind him.

The one lamp at the far end of the room cast a faint, eerie glow that seemed to have exhausted most of its strength by the time it reached us. We sat together in silence for a few minutes, but we were both painfully aware of the half-hour passing, and we had so many things that had to be said.

"This is the end, then, for me," Holmes murmured. A rueful smile came to his lips… lingered there as the thought permeated his mind. The lamplight at that angle made his eyes seem to have their own light, so that I saw them clearly. So large, no longer hiding anything. Afraid.

I didn't think I had ever seen anything more unutterably tragic.

Tears stung my eyes, and as the lines blurred I saw not what was, but what had been. I remembered.

Sitting in front of a warm fire at Baker Street, on one of those nights when it seems that all of life is spread before you, and you can see everything with an object eye, without fear. Holmes looking at me over the glass of port in his hand and inquiring what is on my mind (since for once he cannot read it for himself). I ask him if he believes there is a God, because at a time like this my mind is open, and I am not quite in a mood to decide for myself, to pick a position and hold to it.

He looked reflectively into the liquid, which glows like some elixir of life by the firelight. His expression is almost careless, but I am not fooled, for I know that inside his head the wheels are turning.

"I believe there is," he says at last. "Logic demands it. The very existence of the world around us presents us with a puzzle that it cannot explain in itself." He waves his hand to indicate the entire breadth of creation, for he, like I, is on top of the world and can see it all in his mind's eye.

I tilt my head and stare into the dancing flames, considering his words. And sitting there, perfectly comfortable and remote from everything dark or pressing, I think his answer is a good one.

But now, now the distance has vanished. Now we had come to the edge. Now we saw everything from a different angle, not from the top down but from the lowest level. Distinctions were gone. Pride was gone. Nothing was invincible. We were mortals, nothing on the broad expanse of history. Perhaps we had names that would be remembered for a little while, but what was that? The stories didn't matter anymore. What was the fame? It was only the adoration of other humans like us, other small breaths of matter that would soon be soulless dust again.

Now I found myself desperately hoping that Holmes was right.

He did not fear death. He never had. And it seemed that he had not feared for his mind, after spending years toying with a drug that forever threatened to dull his mental faculties. But he had been driven to this moment, where it was certain that he would indeed lose everything, and he that never feared was now afraid.

We were both afraid.

It isn't supposed to be this way, a voice in the back of my mind cried. Fear is not natural. The human heart was not made to feel this way.

And yet there was nothing else but fear, for this was the end. It had surrounded us, swallowed us whole, left us caught between a wall and the gaping pit at our feet.

"Perhaps they will let you go, Watson. It's my mind they want, after all."

I shook my head. "No. I know too much. They will do something else to me."

"Of course." He sighed wearily, with finality. "I wonder if I'll know that I've gone insane. Or perhaps I won't. But where will I be, then? I won't be dead."

To hear him musing aloud like this… it was so vulnerable a thing for him to do, proving to me that this was indeed real. I wanted to say something to comfort him. But I was just as lost as he was.

He drew in his breath with alarming sharpness, and it came out again between his teeth in a groan that others would have called a cry of animalistic terror. But I knew him better. That sound was the most human thing he ever uttered – his soul's scream of despair.

"I am a mind, Watson!" he whispered desperately, his voice trembling. "I am a mind!" His voice ended there, but I heard him continuing in my mind, because I knew what those words meant: they cannot put and end to me so easily! How can they? It should not be possible – there must be something stopping them, somehow.

I could say nothing, because I did not know. My heart asked the same question, demanding that the bright flame of a man sitting beside me could not be so easily extinguished. But even though I had no words, and even though I couldn't see him clearly, I scooted closer to him and put my arm around his shoulders. He did not shrug me away. He didn't move at all, actually.

I closed my eyes, feeling like a man in deep water who has given up fighting to stay above the surface. Despair covered my head, and the last beams of sunlight from the above world faded until they had disappeared altogether. Only one last soul cry, one last plea.

If there's any way, let it be all right.

It will be all right.

The thought slipped in so quietly that at first I was fooled and thought it was my own. But it was not, for as I searched my mind to find its source, I came up empty-handed.

It will be all right.

No really, you can't be right. There's no way it can be.

Reality is higher and deeper than you can imagine. This is not the end. Do not fear. It will be all right.

I didn't think I could believe it. And yet somehow, in that moment, the fear was gone. Chased utterly away, so suddenly that I found myself actually looking for it, wondering where it had gone.

"Holmes," I said. "It will be all right."

He stiffened, and turned slowly to look at me. "What?"

"It will be all right, Holmes."

He blinked and stared at the ground. "How?" he demanded.

"I don't know," I replied, my breath beginning to come faster, wondering if I was on the verge of hysterics – and yet that inexplicable peace was still there. "It just will."

He looked at me penetratingly, searching my face to see if I really thought that, if he could dare to believe it was true. He must have been convinced, for his jaw set again, but this time the emotion behind it was not despair.

"All… right," he said slowly. "If you say so… it will."

Only a few moments passed before the handle of the door turned. Dr. Fenbain walked in, the vial in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

"The time is through," he said. He set the glass down on a table in one corner of the room, unscrewed the cap, and poured three drops of the poison into it. He swirled it twice, deliberately. Then he crossed back over to us and held the glass out to Holmes.

"Drink," he said.

Holmes looked up at him – a long look, one with so many meanings in it that I could not begin to read them. Then he snatched the glass impulsively, glanced at its contents for one sickening moment, and then lifted it to his lips and drained it two gulps. I watched as the muscles in his neck convulsed, propelling the liquid down his throat, held by the sight even though a desperately wanted to turn away. That act seemed more gruesome, more grotesque to me than all the bodies I had seen mangled in the war.

But I was glad I didn't turn away. He set the glass down on the floor, firmly, as if taking comfort in placing it exactly where he intended to. And then he looked up at me.

So many emotions… too many for a man who for so long had kept them all hidden. Too many to be saved for just the last moment. His lips could not express all of them. But his eyes tried. They tried valiantly.

"Well, Fenbain," he said at last, turning his face away from me and looking up at our oppressor. "What should I expect?"

"It works like a sedative at first," Fenbain said matter-of-factly. "You should find yourself unconscious within a few minutes. You may or may not wake up. If you do, you may not be aware of the fact. We have tested this only limitedly, as I'm sure you understand."

"Of course." Holmes lowered his head. "You may go now."

Fenbain didn't seem to question Holmes' order. He left without a word.

We didn't speak. We didn't seem to be able to. I just watched as Holmes drifted into a final sleep, slowly but surely.

Within five minutes, he was gone.

Without knowing why I found myself awake, my tears now dried upon my cheek, and the lamp having gone out long ago. But the moonlight shown through the windows, and for some reason they were open, allowing a fresh country breeze to blow through. The white curtains billowed like ghosts.

I looked around me, bewildered by the sense of alertness I felt racing through my veins and the wild feeling stirring in my heart – almost gladness, only I knew that it couldn't possibly be that, because I remembered all that had happened. What, then, was this?

I am here.

Again the voice within my mind, only louder, deeper, stronger than before. And there was such an oddly sweet air about it, something so distinct that it could not be myself.

I am here. Do you trust me?

"Yes," I said aloud, not because I was entirely sure of it, but because it seemed to be the only thing to say.

Get up and open the door.

I stared in bewilderment, only there was no way to stare at the voice, so I stared at the fluttering curtains instead. "No," I said. "It's locked."

Get up and open the door.

I shook my head, knowing that the attempt would end in failure, but still I staggered to my feet, crossed the room in the moonlight, and placed my hand on the doorknob.

It turned so easily that the door had swung open a few inches before I fully realized what had happened. I gaped at it for a moment, but I was in no mood to linger. This impossible opportunity, whether it be a dream or not, could not be missed.

I slung Holmes' dead weight over my good shoulder, finding him to be lighter than I expected, and made my way through the door and out into the hall. The wood floor did not creak beneath my feet, like I had expected it to. I walked down the hall, through the house, to the back door.

I undid the bolt with one hand and turned the handle.

And went out into the moonlit countryside.

I found myself shaking, and trying to keep from laughing, and running across fields without bothering with whether this was a dream or not. But no, it was real! It was real! The ground beneath my feet was firm, Holmes head bumped softly against my back, and each breath felt cold and clear and perfect.

I don't know how much ground I covered in that blessedly real existence. Enough. I stopped at the far edge of a stand of trees and eased Holmes to the ground, looking at his face in the moonlight, oddly serene. My heart slowed to a halt, and wept because he would not be able to share with me in this last grand escape, even if he did wake up.

But we had escaped. And I still didn't believe the how, but the possibility that kept growing in my mind was too great to be ignored.

I sat down and leaned against a tree trunk, realizing for the first time in perhaps hours how tired I was. And yet I couldn't go to sleep, not after what had happened. I clung to consciousness, albeit imperfectly, drifting in and out of this world until I heard a noise that brought me back to myself.

My eyes snapped open and darted over to where Holmes lay.

He was stirring.

In an instant I was at his side, my hand on his cheek, turning his head toward me so that I could look into his face. I ventured to say his name, even though he might not remember that it was his. The least I could do was try.

His eyes slid open slowly, looked at me uncomprehendingly, and then slid closed again.

My heart plummeted into the lowest part of me.

But then suddenly his eyes were open again, and he was looking at me, searching my face, reaching up a hand to touch my hair. "Watson. Watson?"

"Holmes, yes!"

He stared at me. "I… I am… here?"

"Yes, you are," I said. "We are both here, and we've escaped."

He closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath. "It is real. And I… He was real."

"And you're not insane," I said. Then I stopped, backed up. "He?"

"The voice," he said, his words coming out faster and faster. He tried to sit up, and I grabbed his shoulders and helped him up. "Watson, the poison did work. It would have worked. I confess I lost myself there, for a while."

"You did?" My mind did not seem to be able to keep up with what he was saying.

"Yes," he said, reaching up to grip my good shoulder so tightly that I thought he would cut off the circulation. "I tried to fight it but it was no use, it was too strong for me. And then He told me to let go."

"The voice?" Realization was beginning to flood through me. I wasn't looking at Holmes' face any more, but off across the moonlight fields…

"Yes. He said it would be all right if I would trust Him. I had to let go of the logic. And Watson… I still existed. And He was there." He chuckled softly and put his head in his hand. "I know I'm babbling like a lunatic."

"No, go on."

He laughed again. "I'm sure when it's morning and we're back in Baker Street all of this will seem so silly, and I'll be able to tell myself that it never happened. No, Watson!" He gripped my shoulder again and forced me to look at him. "Always remind me that this happened. Never let me get away with convincing myself otherwise. Swear."

"I swear."

"Good." He sighed. "He brought me back, you know. He took my mind away so that I could see what it was like without it. And then, He gave it back to me."

I shook my head in amazement. "Holmes, I really don't know what to say."

He looked at me pointedly. "Watson, they say that the Divine is cruel." He waved his hand to indicate humanity, as if he could see them all spread out before him. "But He can't be. Not with what we've seen. Just, perhaps, but more than that."

"What?"

He hesitated. "The thing you call Love, Watson, although I think you ought to set yourself to the task of finding a better word, because it's so much more than that." He shook his head slowly. "And there was no fear, not where He was. Because the Love drove away the fear."

I found myself trembling. "And it was all right."

"And… it… was… all right," he repeated. He smiled at me, a rare smile, seeming to reflect off itself into the moonlight. "Perfectly all right."