Holmes
It was supposed to be a ten-minute walk from the hospital to the train station, but it proved to be longer; because Arthur would stop every other minute and look across the snow-carpeted fields as if to reminisce how the green would've looked like beneath the layers of white powder. It wasn't snowing, but they were walking in inches of deep snow alright, and it made their walk even slower. The chill was getting to Holmes's bones, and he was glad that he had brought an extra pair of Wellies for Arthur to wear. They were walking in a single file now, Gwaine leading the way, Arthur in the middle. Holmes walked last, behind Gwaine and Arthur to watch them, to watch Arthur's reaction to freedom; to Gwaine's presence.
He certainly didn't expect Gwaine to cry when he approached Arthur in the ward – but distance and tragedy and friendship could do that to a man, he thought. Gwaine had apologized afterwards, with a smile on his face, wiping his tears absentmindedly with his knuckles, then: 'Wie ich dich vermisst habe, mein Freund.' How I've missed you, my friend. Arthur's first words then made Gwaine laugh uproariously. 'Ihre Designer Bart kitzelte meine Haut.' Your designer beard tickled my skin. Holmes had snorted then. It was good to know that Arthur still had some sense of humour left in him.
When they finally reached the train station, they still had about ten minutes left before the train back to the city would arrive. Arthur let out a loud sigh, and steam escaped his mouth as his rubbed his cold hands together. There was no one on the deserted platform, only them three. Gwaine sat on the bench, leaning forward while Arthur towered over him. "So. When did you arrive on this wretched island?"
"Three days ago."
"How long are you staying?"
"Until next year."
Arthur lifted one eyebrow. Gwaine chuckled. "I plan to celebrate Christmas and Hogmanay here. And then probably a few days after New Year, then I'll return to Austria."
"Where are you staying? Did you come by yourself?"
"Like you, I'll be staying at Holmes'. I insisted on booking a hotel room but he refused, telling me it would be nonsense. And I came alone, ja."
Holmes noticed his name was mentioned, and how Arthur had glanced at him. "The B&B and hotel prices here are ridiculous, especially during this season when tourists are plenty. I wouldn't want him to waste any money on authentic hospitality when I could provide it in my humble home," Holmes protested, making air apostrophes at authentic.
"Provide what in your humble home? Authentic hospitality?" Arthur shot back, amused. "I'd like to see you try, Holmes," he joked. Gwaine laughed. "I've been there for three days, Arthur. He's trying, alright."
"Ah, but is he succeeding?"
Holmes had wanted to say to Arthur, "You and your witty remarks. I'll make sure you eat up your words once we arrive home," but Arthur lifted his arms first in subdued surrender. "Sorry, Holmes. I know I'll be living at your mercy and I couldn't thank you enough for offering me a peaceful, civilised shelter after the disaster that was the psych ward," he told Holmes, his mood solemn. Holmes knew Arthur meant every word. He had no accommodation and would be staying with Holmes as a flatmate until he could find his own flat, but even then Holmes knew that Arthur would end up living with him for a limitless time. That was the unspoken agreement despite what they told other people.
What Holmes told other people.
And now Gwaine was here as a guest; an emergency Christmas and welcome-home gift for Arthur. Three men, who were getting old and older, reunited for memories and sanities' sake. It had been too long.
It was only then that the train began to appear into view in the midst of the fog, slowing down as it neared the platform. As it stopped and opened its doors, Holmes and Gwaine embarked on the train casually. Arthur was still on the platform, unsure to make the giant leap. Holmes thought he saw Arthur gulp, and for once he could actually feel Arthur's anxiety of being in a moving vehicle, despite this being a train carriage and not a car – but with going ahead with this one-way journey meant that he would never come back, or at least hope that he won't have to come back – he would be normal again; he would be Arthur Pendragon, a man, a friend, a person instead of Arthur Pendragon, a mourning husband, a childless father, a psychiatric patient who was depressed and had attempted suicide.
Gwaine held out his hand and smiled.
Arthur took it and made his giant leap.
Arthur let out a loud sigh.
Gwaine
"So what is our next plan?" he asked Holmes once they were seated around the table in the relatively empty carriage save for an old man in front of them and a young lady with a headphone twice the size of her head, busy typing nothing into her Blackberry, unaware that the Arthur, Gwaine and Holmes were even in the carriage. "Yeah, what is your plan to prove the authenticity of your hospitality, Holmes?" Arthur echoed. Holmes bit the sides of his mouth to stop breaking into a smile. If one were to see Arthur now, one wouldn't have known that this man tried to inject barbiturates into himself to die six months ago. Holmes refused to be so optimistic, though. It must be the tablets, he thought. The antidepressants.
"Well, I know this sounds silly but," Holmes began, "what about a trip to Princes Street?"
Arthur looked at Holmes sceptically, then at Gwaine. "You've been here three days and you haven't been to Princes Street?"
"I've been to Princes Street and the Royal Mile," Gwaine explained, "but I suppose I could go there again with you guys."
"The Christmas sale is on and it seemed that he had bought something from every single shop down the entire length of Princes Street and Rose Street. But I digress," Holmes pressed on as Arthur made a face, "I was thinking about going to the Christmas market and the fair."
"Mulled wine and hot chocolate and Ferris wheels and rides," Arthur exclaimed, as Gwaine stared at the display of multicoloured lights, his ears trying to decipher which Christmas carol came from which direction of the fair, his nose trying to pick out the best scent of mulled wine from various different stalls. Really, he should have scoffed at the stall keepers who were trying to pretend to be German (well some of them are, but most of them aren't), and this Christmas market was renowned for it being 'German'. But he was trying to not let that deter the fun he was going to have with the boys tonight. Because Arthur was off alcohol, he tried to stop himself from purchasing them in support of his friend, despite the fact that he was craving the taste of it, even a drop on the tip of his tongue. Nonetheless, he knew it was going to taste vile anyway compared to the authentic ones back home in Austria, so why waste it? He chuckled softly at 'authentic', and cast a glance at Holmes who was downing a cup of hot chocolate. Arthur had chocolate covered apple in one hand and hot chocolate in another, and Gwaine thought, boys.
We're not having middle age crises, we're not. We're just men trying to have fun without women or alcohol. Two things that he usually would miss most. But at this moment, with his friends, he didn't really mind being without them. Nonetheless he had been flirting a bit with the well-endowed woman at the chocolate stall earlier when she found out that he could speak German. Holmes had nudged him with his sharp elbow, that old man, and Gwaine had given the lady – Anne from Bayerisch Gmain – 'Ah, that's already too near to Austria!' the most charming smile before rejoining Arthur, who needed some time away from the crowd.
The screams of the people on the rides above them brought Gwaine back from his reverie, and again his gaze fell upon Arthur, whom despite munching away at his apple with such childlike innocence, was silent. Gwaine wondered what was going through his mind, when Holmes caught his eyes and their minds clicked.
The adrenaline rush. The fear. The screams.
Children and their mothers.
Families.
"Hey, Arthur. Do you want to go home now?" It shouldn't have come out so patronizing, as if Arthur were a fragile child that needed to be protected always. Holmes shot Gwaine a warning look, be careful what you say. But Arthur didn't seem affected. "Not yet. My first night of freedom and you already want to go home?" he winked mischievously. Gwaine felt a knot in his stomach tighten. Holmes shrugged. "What do you want to do now? We've gone round the market several times, our stomachs are full," Holmes reasoned. Our minds still sober, Gwaine thought ruefully...
"Let's go on a ride," Arthur blurted out.
Gwaine hadn't expected that and judging from Holmes's reaction, he hadn't either. Arthur must have read their shocked expressions because he then placated, "I'm not going to go up those dangerous ones, I'm not stupid. I'm talking about the Ferris wheel. I'd like to see the city lights from above."
There wasn't snow or wind up there, which Gwaine was thankful for because he was already freezing the way it was. Otherwise there was something melancholic about three grown-ups being hoisted a hundred feet above ground, watching the busy city doing whatever business it has down below. People were too small, like ants. Such a shame they couldn't see Arthur's Seat or the Crags in the darkness, but from here they could see the Castle illuminated with changing lights – blue, green, then red; then blue again. He really was expecting more colours, so he was a bit disappointed. It was just the three of them in the metal 'cage', and in front of them were a mother and his young son of about 5. The boy was pointing excitedly at everything, but Gwaine noticed that Arthur wasn't looking at them. It was as if he was avoiding them entirely, pretending that they didn't exist. Behind them was a group of four – two pairs of boyfriends and girlfriends – a group of friends on a night out, obviously. They were drunk, judging from the way they butchered 'Twinkle twinkle little star' and the unabashed kissing noises they made between intervals. It was Holmes's turn to pretend that the youngsters were invisible, from the way he rolled his eyes as they began to sang again.
"It's beautiful, isn't it," Holmes said shouted (because really it was hard to speak when you're up in the air and you've got drunkards singing three feet away from you), as they began to descend slowly after the third round. Arthur managed a nod.
When they got off the wheel, Gwaine felt his legs had turned to jelly. It was freezing cold up there, and he swore it was getting colder by the time they got off. "Where do we go now?" he asked no one in particular.
Arthur looked at him, then to Holmes. "Let's go home now."
Arthur
Loneliness was the pain that gnawed in his heart. Loneliness was the other friend he knows he had, despite at least ten acquaintances in the same room he was in. Loneliness was their legacy for him. He may never be able to see her smile her smirk anymore, hear her voice grumble over his decisions, or feel her warm hands closed over his in a comforting attempt. He would only remember her bittersweet taste, her lips over his, her tongue delving into his mouth.
Now he walked towards the unmade bed. And stopped. And breathed in the unmistakable scent he knew so himself in her blankets; he breathed even deeper into the sheets.
Finding gratification. Finding Gwen.
Accepting his loss, accepting his gain.
Accepting her departure.
The dream was too vivid; it felt as if he was still in the London flat where he lived with Gwen and Ailsa, on the first night after they pulled the plug from Gwen. He had been all bandaged up, waiting for his own injuries to heal. Knowing very well that he'd lost them forever, knowing very well that there was one scar that would never heal. Holmes had found him then, in his bed. He hadn't cried. To be honest he couldn't remember what it felt back then. And there was no point remembering.
Holmes had decided to quit his job in search of a chore more rewarding. When Arthur asked him what he wants to do 'after this', Holmes told him he wanted to make brunch.
"No," Arthur shook his head, wondering if Holmes really was dense or innocent he was just avoiding the question. "After after," he said.
Holmes just got out of shower; his hair was still damp but uncombed and already Arthur could see the wild curls that would make Einstein look at Holmes's hair with envy. And now Holmes was tugging on them as he sat at the kitchen counter, waiting for the water to boil to make coffee. "Maybe do a lot of Sudoku puzzles to delay the onset of dementia," he tried to joke but it all came out flat and very Holmes-y and serious. 'Solving puzzles.' Holmes was fiddling with a tuna can, trying to pull the lid open with the tab but it seemed to be jammed. When the water has boiled Holmes inevitably gave up and hobbled to the cabinets instead. "Want coffee?" he asked Arthur, and he nodded.
Arthur reached for the can Holmes left and tried to pull the tab with considerable effort, hurting his phalanxes in the process – but alas he had the strength and finally the lid was open. Holmes raised one eyebrow, probably impressed and continued his dallying with the coffee. "Sugar? Milk?"
"Milk no sugar please," Arthur replied; paused, then added thoughtfully: "You really shouldn't get another cat though, Holmes."
It must have taken a while for his gentle tease to sink in because it took a while before Holmes shoved a steaming mug of coffee to his face with faux fury and said, "You scoundrel."
Gwaine appeared in the kitchen, his million-dollar designer haircut in disarray, yawning. "Guten Morgen, allerseits," he smiled sleepily, his eyes still half-closed. "Surely you mean Guten Tag. It's five past noon," Holmes chided the man who seemed to be suffering from the worst hangover despite drinking not one drop of alcohol last night. Gwaine sat down and pressed his forehead on the table, grumbling incoherently. Holmes cast a glance at Arthur and shrugged.
"I just realized something," Arthur said, causing Gwaine to lift his head; awake and alert. "Tomorrow's Christmas."
"Yes, and your point is?" Holmes interjected.
Arthur frowned. "You haven't got a tree. Gwaine, you've been here three days and you didn't say anything to Holmes about a Christmas tree?"
Gwaine scratched the back of his head. "Oh, I've mentioned it to our dear friend here and he had rolled his eyes at me."
"Don't tell me you deliberately planned to not get a tree at all, Holmes."
"That's why I didn't tell you, Arthur."
"Touché."
Holmes shrugged again, while Gwaine left the kitchen, presumably to use the shower. Arthur didn't even ask why he had decided against a Christmas tree in his flat. It's his flat, after all.
He wanted to tell Holmes that he was still seeing Gwen in his dreams. He kept seeing Gwen and Ailsa; the broken promise of a beautiful family in his dreams and it was painful. And there was an utmost certainty that he would wake up with tears in his eyes; his bed empty and cold, every single night. It was time to move on, he knew it and he had to do it. He had tried.
He had failed.
He remembered the night he took an impromptu train to Edinburgh, to Holmes. That night was different, though. He still dreamt about Gwen, felt her touch ghosting over his skin, but it had been different. And every night after that; his dreams became different. Altered. It felt like someone else's touch.
Someone distant but not forgotten.
So maybe it was taboo that he had decided to resort to suicide. He thought he had gone past the phase of emptiness, and the idea of having another person as Gwen's substitute never crossed his mind. Because he loved Gwen and no other woman had been desirable since Gwen. Even after her death, he had been faithful. Steadfast. Like a bright star.
Until that night.
When Holmes asked him to come to Edinburgh, Arthur reasoned that the old man was just trying to help; so that he would have someone to confide in. Although it was the last thing Arthur would expect from Holmes. What he absolutely didn't expect was also to find Emrys there. Emrys. Holmes's mysterious nephew. Arthur had recognized him; the young lad was there at Gwen and Ailsa's funeral.
It'd felt like ages since Arthur last saw Emrys. The scrawny kid with blue highlights in his hair. The only facts he knew about Emrys were a) his real name was Christopher Holmes, b) he'd lived on the Isle of Mull and c) he didn't go out from the island much because he was the permanent carer of his sick mom. That was fourteen years ago. Emrys was ten and already looking like a potential ASBO.
So when Emrys had approached him at Gwen and Ailsa's funeral, he was taken aback. He was still dressed unsurprisingly in dark attire because it was a funeral, not to mention he's just that sort of person who wears dark attire all the time. The scrawny kid was gone. Holmes was mostly tall and lanky and gangly limbs and it hit him how much he actually looked like Holmes, even if they weren't directly related. The moment Emrys opened his mouth, it became a completely different story. Arthur hadn't been able to catch what Emrys was saying with that thick mix of Scottish-Isle of Mull accent until Holmes intervened.
Half the time he couldn't understand what Emrys was saying. The other half he could only guess. And Emrys wasn't the most talkative of people either, so he had a hard time tuning in. Most of the time Arthur caught him looking at people, brows furrowed; frowning, thinking, reflecting. Quiet intensity, he thought. It oddly reminded her of Holmes, again. Pretty much the younger version, except for Emrys's sharper cheekbones and a side profile that could slice through paper. Arthur couldn't help but wonder if Holmes had a soft spot for the boy despite his 24/7 stoicism, because he was the only family member that Holmes often mentioned. Holmes didn't even talk about his sister much, but he would be willing to talk about Emrys, like he was some faceless ghost.
Emrys had been on the other side of the room with Holmes, as guests flocked around Arthur to offer their condolences. He had nodded mutely at every variation of "Sorry", "Gwen was a great woman" and "I couldn't imagine how tough it must be for you" like any other young widower would. In truth, he had been desperate to get away from it all, writhing within to just leap across the hall and jump off the Forth Road Bridge and swim across the forth or something.
But he'd kept aplomb like any good widow would. Holmes had been staring at him as if he knew what Arthur was really thinking about. It was understandable, because Holmes had known him for years.
Unnervingly, Emrys had given him the same stare. Emrys hadn't met him in years.
That night in Edinburgh, after a strangely silent dinner, Holmes had gone to sleep. "You don't have to do this out of pity," Arthur had told the boy. Emrys had merely blinked at him, shrugged his shoulders and said, "I know." And then he had kissed Arthur like it's definitely not out of pity. Maybe it's a one-off thing. It will never happen again, Arthur told himself.
"When you've lost everything, when you've got nothing else but yourself, in a sense you'd find freedom. I've been there when my mother died. I've tasted freedom. But I don't know how to fill it," he'd heard Emrys say at breakfast the next morning. It had been the same setting – Holmes's kitchen; Arthur had never expected to be flooded with flashbacks of that morning's conversation with Emrys. A mug of hot coffee had appeared before him; he had breathed in the strong caffeine scent and closed his eyes in regret.
"Thank you," Arthur had muttered, his fingers reaching out, fiddling with the handle of the mug. He could sense Emrys staring at him with those curious hawk-like eyes. A part of him had wished that he hadn't barged into Holmes's flat, but the other alternative was locking himself in his London apartment and dying. For Holmes's sake he would stay. When Arthur said 'thank you,' he really meant it. Not just about the coffee. This was about last night.
He opened his eyes and Emrys's piercing blue eyes had stared back at him. "Drink up or the coffee will turn cold," Emrys told him. Emrys was so much younger than Arthur, yet he couldn't mistake the authoritative tone in the boy's voice. Tears began to well up in Arthur's eyes. "Damnit. You don't look at me like that and then cry," Emrys said, closing the gap between them and cradled Arthur's head gently to his chest. Arthur had sobbed like a babe. He couldn't help it. Sobbed harder when Emrys pressed a gentle kiss on the crown of his head while Arthur clutched at the sleeves of his hoodie.
"I'm sorry," he had rasped. "I'm sorry that I'm so messed up."
Emrys had lowered himself to meet Arthur's eyes and pressed their foreheads together. "We're both messed up."
He couldn't look at Holmes when the old man appeared in the kitchen, dazed and confused and shrouded with sleepiness. Not after what happened the night before. Emrys had said nothing else after that. Pretended that nothing had happened.
Emrys had left Edinburgh for Glasgow that afternoon. Said he wanted to visit a friend, although Holmes and Arthur knew he didn't have friends. Arthur had decided to informally admit himself into a psychiatric hospital the day after.
A/N: I don't know what that was. But that was something, I hope, that is quite readable and different from other fics in this genre. So...yeah. Tell me what you think? :)