Author's note: I loved The Abominable Bride. It's so great to see Sherlock back at what it does best – Holmes and Watson working on cases together, even if it was just a hallucination. If you want to talk about it, send me a PM because I have a lot of feels. A lot.
Anyway, I wanted my "John Watson – Consulting Criminal" series to explore the Victorian angle too, so expect that. I tried to make 1890s!John and present!John sound different, yet the same, if that makes any sense.
Enjoy!
No matter how many times he will hear those words, he will always cherish them.
The game is afoot.
Being Sherlock Holmes' Boswell has been and continues to be tremendously entertaining, notwithstanding that he happens to neglect his web (as Holmes called it when he told him about "Moriarty" a few months ago, his voice trembling with hatred and disgust, and the delight Watson felt cannot be described) now and then.
It is an... occupational hazard, so to speak, he decides, recalling the older Holmes brother using the expression and the consulting detective indignantly replying, "Where did you come upon that?"
Sometimes, he almost regrets that Mary called off their engagement. It would have given him an excuse to leave Holmes' side. However, she was right; she proved to be cleverer than Holmes in one certain point; she felt what he was, who he was.
He knows she works as a detective herself, knows she now and then gets called to the Diogenes Club. It will never be a problem, not for him and not for Holmes, he will make sure of that.
She would have been perfect proof of his humanity, of the very quality that his readers believe Holmes lacks. It was one of his better ideas to turn him into an automaton for the Strand Magazine, to paint a picture of a cold man who only cares for his cases and his own entertainment. It makes Watson seem better in comparison, when truly people should wonder why someone perfectly normal runs after the consulting detective constantly.
He has succeeded in making him a statue, a brain. No matter what happens, should he decide to tell Holmes who he is after all (and the temptation grows stronger every day) no one would believe it.
He knows he has won the game he set out to play eleven years ago. He has known for a long time. But why should he stop playing when he still has fun? He remembers his life before; the boredom, the stagnation. Chronicling his and Holmes' adventures is an endlessly joyful task.
They have not had a case for a week, and it is starting to annoy his friend; but thankfully Lady Carmichael drops in. He is disappointed in her case; he knows murderers. He knows their expression. And he knows Lady Carmichael is going to kill her husband. It is very commonplace.
There is a certain beauty to the execution of her plan, however. Lord Carmichael has a rather... compromising past in America; once Watson wondered if he should exploit it, but since the man settled down to a life of petty tyranny, he lost all interest.
Using the orange pips is a nice touch of his wife. And Holmes is, of course, immensely fascinated.
Therefore they have to catch the Abominable Bride.
It occupied them a few days some time ago, Emilia Ricoletti's murder of her husband, and the most interesting thing about that was her determination to die to prove a point. Other than that –
Watson has never understood the prejudices against women. They can pull a trigger or put a dagger into someone's chest as well as any man. Holmes would probably deduce a whole group of woman, ready to strike, simply because for him, a case has to be complicated; this is of course madness; but Emilia Ricoletti had a few determined friends, that is all. And now Lady Carmichael is using the story.
As a story teller, he is well aware how she is doing it as well; but he lets Sherlock come to his own conclusion. And so they wait only to have Lady Carmichael kill her husband after all.
She is a good actress, John learns; better than many he has seen on stage; and it is easy, amidst her theatrics, to let Holmes know that Moriarty is back.
He let him drift in the background for the last few years, when he realized that he would have to choose between being Holmes' boswell and the spider in its web. So much that his friend seems to think he is gone for good.
He is wrong.
If the case were more interesting, perhaps Watson would make another choice; but, as it is (and soon enough, Lady Carmichael is arrested; Holmes may be blind in some respects, but not even a good actress can fool him forever) he decides it is time for another duel.
Mr. Brooke naturally has nothing against reprising his role. He has lived quite comfortably on the money Watson gave him; certainly his address is not a bad one for someone who was working in a dingy theatre in the east end before he was discovered by Watson.
The most difficult thing about it is frankly leaving Holmes' side long enough for Brooke to sneak in; but thankfully Sherlock decides to take his beloved seven percent solution, so that he is occupied for a few short hours.
Watson wishes he could watch Brook and Holmes, but sadly there is no way. He is familiar with the work of Monsieur Le Prince and has occasionally wondered whether eventually, his invention will be used to watch others from a distance; yet such conjectures can lead to nothing and he is forced to rely on Brooke's report.
Fortunately, he is a well enough narrator.
Holmes seems to be very excited about his enemy's return.
So, Watson decides to do him a favour.
Holmes should finally know who his enemy is.
A simple case will not do. He will not subject Holmes to the same old routine of running after a criminal, only to reveal himself.
No, it has to be a great case. Their greatest case.
And that is when he decides to attempt to kill Holmes. He doesn't fear that his men will succeed; Sherlock Holmes will not let just anyone kill him.
It comes as he foresaw, and he and Holmes flee. As he has not yet chosen a place for their scene, he allows Holmes to lead him where he wants until he finds the perfect location.
And he does.
The Reichenbach Falls, the terrible gulf, the water relentlessly pouring down for eternity; there is no other place he can tell Holmes the truth.
He is somewhat sorry that he will have to kill Brooke; but he has to prove his point; and Moriarty will no longer need a face, not when Holmes knows. Knows he has beaten him. Knows he will always beat him, every time.
The stage is set. When the boy comes with the message for him, he leaves and circles back.
Brooke is in place, threatening Holmes; and to Watson's delight, he is writing a letter to him. He will read it later and savour the moment.
Not now, however.
"There's two of you?"
He told Brooke he could leave after he arrives, and leave he will.
"There's always two of us. Read the Strand Magazine."
"Impeccable timing as always, Watson."
It is not often that he sees Holmes relieved. He smiles to himself.
"I am always glad to help, Holmes."
He shoves Brooke over the cliff. Holmes seems somewhat surprised, but he doesn't need an audience. This is between him and Holmes.
"He was a good actor."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, he did what he was told. It wasn't easy to find someone to play Moriarty, Holmes. I went through great lengths for you. You should be flattered."
"What – what do you mean?"
Holmes is standing very still, to his relief. It would be a waste if Holmes fell to his death after all, if only because of his astonishment at the truth.
"It means you have been living with Moriarty for eleven years. He is your Boswell."
He watches Holmes reject, rethink and finally accept the truth; and it is fascinating to see it happen in only a few seconds.
The water is swirling under them.
Holmes swallows, looks away, before turning back to him.
"A pleasure to finally meet you, Mister Moriarty."
"Doctor, please. Moriarty was just a cover after all. Mr. Brooke did a wonderful job, however; you cannot ignore that."
"No. I concede that he was an admirable foe."
Watson nods, waiting patiently for Holmes' decision.
It is somewhat... predictable.
Holmes attacks him, and if Watson didn't know him well enough to recognize his baritsu moves, he might be plunged into the depths after all; but instead, he manages to roll over and pin him to the wet stone wall. Holmes stops struggling immediately. He knows the pressure on his wind pipe.
If Watson wished, he would be dead.
But he doesn't. He doesn't want the game to end.
And so, he takes a deep breath.
"Holmes, I think I should mourn you for a while. You are to come back, obviously..."
He might as well allow him a little bit of freedom.
Just for a while.
John knows what Sherlock has gone through when he opens his eyes. He is a bit disappointed that Sherlock's first reaction to being called back was taking an overdose. Possible suicide – just possible because Sherlock has not forgotten his threats – is such an easy way out, and the consulting detective and John deserve better.
Sherlock was apparently buried deep in his mind palace, and John played the role he knows he plays in John's life: the most important ones. He would be touched, if he could be.
He is very interested in what Sherlock tells him (reluctantly, after John makes clear that he has to) of his hallucination.
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in Victorian times. It sounds utterly fascinating.
No phones. No email. It would be a whole new challenge to build his empire. And it sounds delightful.
That said, he wouldn't want to change what he and Sherlock have in any time period. It would be such a waste of his dear little consulting detective.
He takes care of him, like Mycroft asked him to (and wasn't that surprising, he might have to look up Big Brother's medical history) and relishes in the subtle flinches when he touches him Sherlock can't withhold in his weakened condition. Normally, he tries not to let John know how much he despises the life he is forced to lead, although the consulting criminal is well aware of it.
It is quite refreshing, to be honest.
But still – there is one game that is more entertaining than any other: the one he will always gladly play because there, frankly, is nothing else left for him to play.
"So, Sherlock" he asks when his flatmate is recovered and Lestrade has come by to check on him, "What are we going to do about Moriarty?"
He would think that Sherlock has given up as he frowns. He cannot be honest, not with Greg there; and of course he should play happy, but John supposes it's too much to ask after his almost overdose.
And Greg certainly doesn't seem fazed. Then again, he is fussing over him in a way John probably would be, if their relationship was like they make the public believe. He wonders if Sherlock knows just how good a friend he has in the DI. Greg certainly thinks nothing of his silence now, content to wait.
John has never asked him if he has witnessed Sherlock high before. Probably. He should ask him.
But not now. Now, he has to check that Sherlock is still playing. He hopes he hasn't given up. What would be the point of anything then? He has to have his plaything. And Sherlock is his favourite plaything, the best he has ever had.
So he carefully observes Sherlock as he sighs and starts explaining – mainly to Greg, but still – why he thinks Moriarty is dead after all. Wishful thinking, my friend.
Sherlock looks... crushed, he decides. He doesn't like it.
But –
Right there –
Right there – there is still the glimmer of desperation in his eyes that tells him Sherlock is still fighting. Resignation is deadly. Desperation is not.
New games are on.
He can't wait.