Chapter 13. In Which There are Sighs and Rain and All is Well.
Holmes was quiet on the train as it made its way-so slowly, entirely too slowly-towards London, towards the future, towards home. He had hardly said a word to John, instead letting his sharp-eyed focus soften as he looked out the window at the greenery whizzing by. John thought he almost looked wistful, as though he were remembering something John was not privy to.
John, on the other hand, had his eyes drawn over and again to the blank page before him, pencil in hand, and yet he hadn't written a word. Somehow, now that there was time to write, no impending murder to prevent, he and Sherlock had fallen quiet as well, and John's thoughts flitted back and forth from present to future, settling on neither for very long.
The goodbyes that morning had been surprisingly emotional for John. He had not been overly fond of the moor, certainly, but he had become invested in Sir Henry's well-being, and found himself repeating all of his instructions to Dr. Mortimer before he left. Grateful almost beyond words, Henry had entirely forgiven them for using him as bait for the hound, and shook John's hand vigorously when it was time to depart. Esmeralda had been at his side, having taken on the role of nursemaid to Henry, which he seemed inordinately pleased about, and John was certain Holmes would receive a wedding invitation from them soon.
Taking leave of Barrymore had been the hardest. Other than Holmes, of all the people John had met in this present, John had felt the strongest kinship to the stoic butler, whose intelligence and loyalty had kept both Henry and John not just safe but well-cared for throughout the entire ordeal. He would not soon forget the determination in the man's eyes when they had gone together out onto the moor, nor the firm but caring hand that placed a blanket about John's shoulders and propelled him upstairs when he had returned from it. That Barrymore had taken John's hand when he offered it this time, and shaken it warmly, was sign enough to John that their respect was mutual.
And though he was beyond eager to return to his own time, his own Sherlock, John did not look forward to saying goodbye to Holmes. There was so much he could say, and yet it felt a bit redundant-any sentiment he expressed would be repeated and amplified a thousand-fold by the Watson who would return to him should their transfer succeed, and yet John wanted Holmes to know what it had meant to John to have Holmes by his side throughout this adventure.
And yet, his thoughts drifted back to Sherlock, back to imagining what their reunion might entail-and how they could live up to what they had written to each other.
He looked up from the journal in his lap to see Holmes looking back at him, a bittersweet fondness in his eyes, in the curl of his lip, and John gave a sad smile in return. Once again he had the sense that Holmes was reading his mind.
"You've already taken the hardest step, you know," Holmes said, indicating the leather-bound journal with a wave of his finger.
John tilted his head. "Maybe. I don't know how long it would have taken us to say these things otherwise."
"Precisely my point, Watson. There is a power to the written word that goes beyond anything one could say aloud. It has a permanence and an intent behind it. After all, where would any Holmes be without his Watson's shamelessly embellished chronicles of their adventures?" Holmes asked, a small smile at his lips.
John smiled in return and looked down again at the journal on his lap, the pencil between his fingers. Even as their hour of farewell approached, John's fondness for Holmes continued to grow. With a glance at Holmes' perceptive eyes, John thought perhaps it was not necessary to voice it, after all.
Standing before the door at 221 Baker Street, John hardly knew what to feel, emotions shifting and undulating within him like a restless sea. Holmes turned the key in the lock-Mrs. Hudson being out, it seemed-and they stepped inside together. As Holmes climbed the seventeen steps ahead of him, John lingered, his hand trailing along the wooden banister that was both alien and familiar against his fingers.
Once inside the flat, Holmes slowly removed his gloves, his coat. "Have you thought about what to do with the journal?" he asked softly.
John's eyes traveled over the sitting room as he considered Holmes' question, his gaze mapping the topography of Holmes and Watson's life together.
"I think I should leave it here."
He turned to look at Holmes. "It belongs to Watson, after all." Holmes gave a little nod, and looked so much like Sherlock in that moment that John could not help smiling. "Besides. Whether this is time travel or . . ." He shrugged. " . . . something else, I can't help but think if I'm meant to have it, it will find its way to me again."
Holmes returned the smile, and John wondered if that's what his own looked like-affection and sadness twined.
"Ever the romantic."
"It's in the genes," John said. He lifted his eyebrows and gave a shrug. "Maybe."
Holmes gave a laugh so slight that John might have missed it had he not been so close to him, so soft and short was it that it melted into silence as they stood there. The quiet lingered between them, and John could hear his own breathing, could hear the snick-snick-snick of the watch in his waistcoat pocket, marking the seconds.
"Are you ready, Dr. Watson?" Holmes asked, and it was almost a whisper.
John looked up, his eyes shining. "No." He smiled. "And yes."
Alone at the foot of the stairs up to his room, John opened the journal and wrote.
Baker Street. Will be ready in fifteen minutes. You?
The answer came immediately, one word seeping onto the page.
Checking the pocketwatch, John marked the time and went upstairs.
Having had a few days practice, he undressed efficiently, leaving all of the borrowed clothes upon the armchair in the corner, from shoes to cravat to braces. He found his pajama bottoms tucked neatly in a drawer. They had been cleaned and pressed, and the cotton fabric felt warm and soft against his legs as he pulled them on and tied the drawstring.
Still unsure whether sleep had anything to do with the transfer and unwilling to take any chances, John climbed into the bed. He slipped under the duvet and arranged himself, the journal in one hand and the pocketwatch in the other.
Snick. Snick.
It was time. He opened the journal and lifted his pencil to write on its pages for what he hoped was the last time.
It's been amazing, but I, for one, am ready to go home.
He set the pencil down and pushed the journal away, propping it up against a pillow so that he could still see it, but not reach it easily.
Letters formed on the page a moment later, and John could tell from the wording that it was Watson writing now, not Sherlock.
Likewise, Dr. Watson. Let us return to where and when-and with whom-we belong, each to each.
John smiled at the sentiment, a fluttering in his chest at the thought of with whom he belonged. He had imagined their reunion so many times; that it might actually happen in the next few moments seemed unreal, and he felt a zing of anticipation run over his skin. Would Sherlock be waiting in his room? Would he wake John the way Holmes had wakened him, with caresses and a kiss?
Snick. Snick.
He felt the tick of the pocketwatch against his palm like a heartbeat, calming him, slowing his own heart as his thoughts blurred and softened with a drowsy hum.
Snick. Snick.
He closed his eyes and slept.
Snick. Snick.
John opened his eyes immediately, as though the ticking of the pocketwatch had been a klaxon sounding in his ears. It still sat cradled in his palm, but a quick look across the pillows showed that the journal was gone.
He sat up, feeling the familiar quilt underneath his hands as he moved it aside, and he stood up, his feet on the wooden floors.
It was dark, and the rain pelting the bedroom window was the only sound John could discern. He reached for the lamp he hoped was there, and felt the first twinge of relief as his hand found the switch and turned it.
Nothing happened.
He walked carefully to the window, drawing the curtain. The storm outside had darkened the sky, though, if John had to guess, he'd say it was only early evening yet. It seemed to have knocked out the power as well, and John opened the curtain completely. In the low light he scanned the room around him.
No washstand, no wardrobe, no riotous fern.
On the dresser, his wallet, receipts, keys-
His phone.
Relief came over him in a wave, and he shuddered with the force of it, letting out a shaky exhalation. He was back, back in his present, back where and when he belonged-
All his thoughts converged into one. Sherlock.
With singular intent, John threw open the door and pounded down the steps, muscle memory guiding him in the dark. He nearly jumped down to the landing and went running into the darkened sitting room. He skidded to a stop in front of the coffee table.
The weak light outside angled in from the open curtains, the room all slate blue and granite grey, dreamlike and strange. An orange glow surrounded the fireplace, a beacon of warmth in the cold room. Sherlock was sat in his armchair, his very un-Victorian leather and steel armchair. He looked up, the glow from the fire enveloping half his face with golden light, and John thought he'd never seen a sight more beautiful in his life.
"John."
John took three steps and slid his hands into Sherlock's hair.
"Sherlock," he breathed, his fingers sinking into Sherlock's inky curls. Sherlock leaned his head back, seeking to keep eye contact as John loomed over him.
"Are you?" If he had paid attention to his own voice, John would have heard how it cracked and stuttered, might have discerned the ragged emotion there, but he could only repeat his question without thought to how it sounded. "Are you my Sherlock?"
His eyes danced over Sherlock's body, scanning his face first, the widened crystal-blue eyes, the parted, bow-shaped lips. John's eyes dropped to take in Sherlock's clothes-striped pajama bottoms, grey t-shirt inside out, the tartan dressing gown that Mrs. Hudson gave him last Christmas-but it wasn't enough, he had to be sure. His hands moved to grip the lapels of Sherlock's dressing gown, fisting around the fabric and pulling Sherlock up to standing. Sherlock's breath quickened, his eyes darting over John, no doubt observing every detail, and John was almost sure, very nearly sure, but he had to know. He pushed at Sherlock's clothes and began lifting his shirt. Seeming to know what John was looking for, Sherlock grabbed the hem of his shirt and bunched it up, holding it out of the way. Torso exposed, Sherlock stood still as John's hand found its target.
His fingers would know it in the dark, the thin, long line of slightly raised tissue along Sherlock's lower ribs. John had stitched it up himself, in the kitchen, Sherlock whinging the entire time as John carefully sutured his skin back together. Now, as he let his finger slide against the scar, Sherlock's belly pulled in, and John could hear his breathing become rough, heavy. He looked up to see Sherlock watching him with darkened eyes, his gaze full of more emotion than John had ever seen in him before.
John became aware of everything at once-the sounds of the thunderstorm outside their windows, the glint of firelight off the steel frame of the chair, the feel of Sherlock's bare skin beneath his fingers, warm and soft, and Sherlock's voice like molten silver in his ears.
"I am yours."
Sherlock's words acting like a catalyst, John surged up and forward, reaching for Sherlock just as Sherlock reached for him.
Their lips met in a crush, and John whimpered immediately, one hand going to the small of Sherlock's back, the other sliding along his nape and holding him close. Sherlock's mouth opened over his lips, and John followed suit, their kisses messy and fast, both of them making up for lost time. Pulling Sherlock closer, Sherlock's chest pressed against John's own, Sherlock's warmth seeping through the thin cotton of his shirt, and the contact sent a shudder down John's spine. Sherlock groaned in response, the sound rumbling over John's lips since it was impossible to stop kissing. John grasped every sensation tightly, feeling every breath as warm affirmation against his cheek, every touch of Sherlock's fingers like lifelines across his skin.
Sherlock tightened his arms around John, and their kiss deepened. He pulled at John's lips with his own, darted his tongue out to trace John's teeth. It still felt surreal, to be home, to be kissing Sherlock, without one of them turning away, without-
John pulled back abruptly. "Please tell me Mrs. Hudson isn't home."
The shock on Sherlock's face transformed suddenly into understanding. "I sent her to her sister's," he answered, his voice fast and breathy. "She won't be back until after the storm."
"Oh, that's brilliant." John reached up for another quick kiss, a crooked one since he was grinning. "You're brilliant."
Eyes widening at John's praise, Sherlock gave a little smile of his own before desire entered his gaze again. Before John could think, Sherlock was wrapping his arms around John and kissing him again with such force that his momentum made John stumble backwards. John reached out a hand behind to steady himself, knocking over a pile of books from the desk before his arse bumped into its wooden edge. Sherlock nearly fell into him, his body crashing against John's, but the grunt John let out was more pleasure than pain. Sherlock's body pressed warm and solid along his own, so reassuringly tangible, the reality of him everything that John had imagined it would be and more.
Questions tried to invade the cloud of happiness and desire surrounding John's mind, but the physical truth of Sherlock, the way his hands and mouth reached for John, were providing the most important answers.
"Stop thinking," Sherlock growled, maneuvering himself between John's legs.
John laughed against Sherlock's lips. Never in a hundred years did he imagine Sherlock giving him such an order. The laugh seemed to spur Sherlock on, and he moved forward, putting one hand amid the mess upon the desk behind John to steady himself, but the pile of papers shifted beneath his palm and he slipped forward, pressing John back onto the desktop.
"Ah!" John yelped, something with hard edges digging into his lower back. Sherlock scooped John up with one arm, lifting him to sitting, and reached around with his other hand to pull out the offending item.
The damn sudoku cube.
John frowned at it, and Sherlock looked as though he might hurl it through the window for daring to interrupt them.
"Hey." John curled his fingers around the cube, pulling it gently from Sherlock's grasp.
The flash of apprehension in Sherlock's face made John certain a little bit of thinking would be a good idea. He set the cube down on the desk and looked up into Sherlock's eyes, and he could see the fear trying to take hold, as though Sherlock thought if they stopped they might never start again. And John could not let that fear bloom. He smiled softly.
"There's no rush. No Mrs. Hudson. No case. No 'enchanted journal' to whisk me away."
Sherlock remained very still, his eyes riveted to John's.
"We can do whatever we want. For as long as we want. We have time."
Though Sherlock's expression shifted, the tension easing a little along the corners of his eyes, John sensed he still had questions.
"You're not having second thoughts about . . ." Several options of what to say seemed to flicker over Sherlock's face as John watched. "What you wrote?"
"I meant every word," John said, and suddenly part of him wished he still had the blasted journal, because Holmes was right. There was something reassuring and solid about the written word, a tangible declaration one could go to again and again. But since it was back with Holmes now, John would reassure Sherlock in other ways.
"I am having all manner of thoughts, but none of them involve changing my mind about . . ." John looked down at the space between their bodies and then lifted his gaze to Sherlock's lips, his eyes. "About this."
Sherlock's lips pressed together and his gaze darted away. "Good." When he looked back at John, his eyes were shining. "That's . . . good."
Smiling, John pulled Sherlock into his arms, nestling his head into the crook of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's hands seemed unsure of where to go at first, but then it was as if Sherlock finally believed him, and John felt long, wide hands roaming over his back, one settling on his nape, the other trailing down to grip John's arse and press him closer. Content beyond words, John hummed against Sherlock's throat. Sherlock gave a little gasp and seemed to fold in around him.
Ah, thought John. It was as if he'd found a secret place on Sherlock's body, one to claim as his own-the first of many such places, he hoped. He nuzzled up against Sherlock's long, smooth neck, his lips parted and dragging beneath Sherlock's jaw, over his Adam's apple, across to the tender spot just beneath his ear. Sherlock shuddered in his arms, gasping, and John smiled against skin before finally kissing Sherlock there, sucking and nipping along Sherlock's neck until Sherlock grunted and yanked John forward, pulling him into a crushing embrace, their lips coming together in an ardent, demanding kiss.
"Bed?" John asked, once he had the chance.
"Too far," Sherlock said quickly before dipping down to kiss him again.
The next moment John could speak, his voice was a breathy wreck. "Sofa?"
Sherlock mumbled something vaguely assenting against John's lips, and they began an awkward dance over to the sofa, unable to keep their hands or their lips off each other for more than a second at a time.
They managed it, half-falling onto the cushions in a jumble of limbs, but soon enough they were entwined. The flat filled with sounds of sighs and rain as they found each other, bodies and souls right where they belonged.
It poured for the next three days, the rain relentless over London, flooding her streets and sequestering her inhabitants. John Watson didn't mind. He spent his nights and mornings ensconced in Sherlock's bed, Sherlock nearly adhered to him in a way that was both surprising and not surprising at all.
During their waking hours, things were surprisingly normal between them. John had expected a bigger shift in their routine, some sort of sea change, but was relieved that so far Sherlock treated him exactly as he always had. The only addition to their normal behaviors now was that, from time to time, when a touch or a look lingered, they chose to indulge it-and John made good on his word, inviting Sherlock to explore and experiment with him as much as he liked.
It was perhaps too soon to tell how it would continue once they were out in the world, among other people, not holed up in 221b, which was, for once, quiet and utterly private. John would look upon those days as a crucial period, a time of imprinting, both of them learning to trust this new facet of their partnership.
The storm finally broke on the third morning, the sky a flat and even grey. Though no new rain fell, the streets were wet still without sunlight to dry them. John looked down onto the asphalt below and thought of cobblestones.
"Walk?" he asked over his shoulder to Sherlock, who was fussing with toast in the kitchen. Sherlock said nothing, but when John walked over to pull on his jacket, Sherlock was beside him, great coat and scarf wrapped around him like a cloak.
It was early yet, and very few people were out in Regents Park. Only a couple of bleary-eyed dog owners walked their charges along the path by rote, and there was no queue at the coffee cart.
In two minutes they were walking side by side, comfortably silent, coffees in hand. As they strolled down the central path, more people began to appear, though it was hardly crowded. A few dedicated joggers trotted by, a mother frowned at her two toddlers gleefully stomping in puddles. A man and a woman passed, walking slowly and holding hands.
John thought back to Holmes, the easy way he linked arms with John as they had walked down the street, no one looking at them askance or even taking notice, and he had a sudden desire to do so with Sherlock, to be affectionate in public with him without consequence. He wondered if such a thing would ever be possible.
When Sherlock slid his hand out from his pocket and offered his arm to John, the feeling of gratitude at having a friend who could read him so well threatened to overwhelm him. He cleared his throat and slipped his hand through the crook of Sherlock's elbow, and they walked and walked, together, through the park.
On the fourth day, Mrs. Hudson returned. John, of course, had been mid-snog with Sherlock when he heard the door opening, the cabbie helping her in with her bags.
John pulled back a moment. "Are we . . ." John searched for the right words but all he could pull together was, "Are we telling people?"
"Telling people what?" Sherlock said, but then immediately kissed him, unconcerned with John's answer.
"That we're . . ." Again, words failed him.
"Are you sure you're a writer?" Sherlock asked, scrunching up his face at John.
John frowned at him. "Are we telling people that we're together now?"
"We've always been together," Sherlock said, answering John with kisses.
Of course, when Mrs. Hudson came up a short time later with a pile of mail, she squeaked with joy to find Sherlock snuggled up against John on the couch and nearly dropped the armful of envelopes and packages she carried.
Sherlock had been using John's lap as a pillow as John stroked his hair, but now John gave him a push. "Get up, you big cat, let me help Mrs. Hudson."
Sherlock pushed up to sitting with a glare for both of them.
"Oh! No, don't get up, it's fine," Mrs. Hudson twittered, her grin spreading from ear to ear. "I'll just leave these here, shall I? You two stay right where you are." She set the pile of mail down on the low table in front of the sofa and gave a little half-twirl, as though she were unsure what to do next. She waved a hand at them and another little squeak escaped her, and John thought she might cry.
"Are you all right, Mrs. Hudson?"
"Fine! Oh, perfectly fine." She smiled widely and sniffed. "I'll bring up your tea later, dears. I'll call first, shall I? Yes, I'll call first."
"You don't have to call first, Mrs. Hudson; this is your home," John said.
"She might want to," Sherlock warned.
Another squeak.
"A knock is fine. A knock works," John said, realizing Sherlock was probably right if they didn't want to give Mrs. Hudson an eyeful accidentally.
She nodded, over and over, and then she turned and retreated back down the stairs. Even with a story between them, John would swear he could still hear her smiling.
"She's calling everyone she knows, you know," Sherlock said, standing up and yawning. John only nodded as Sherlock wandered off towards the kitchen, and his eyes strayed over to the pile of what looked like a week's worth of mail. One large manila envelope stood out among the rest. It looked strangely familiar to John, so much so that he fished it out to read the front of it.
He lifted it in his hands and his heart nearly stopped.
"Sherlock."
"What?" came the shouted reply.
"What happened with the Henry Knight case, after I . . . left?"
"I gave it to Mycroft. He and Lestrade took care of it. Took them twice as long as it would have taken us, of course."
"And the items Dr. Mortimer left here?"
Sherlock came back, half a biscuit dangling from his mouth. "I gave him those as well, obviously."
John held up the envelope and Sherlock halted mid-step. He pulled the biscuit from his mouth.
It was the same envelope that Dr. Mortimer had brought with her the afternoon she'd hired them, and from the weight of it in John's hands, he was fairly certain what was going to be inside. Sherlock came around as John opened the envelope and emptied its contents onto the table.
Bits of paper, photographs . . . and a small, leather-bound journal.
The yellow sticky note on its cover had Mycroft's handwriting.
Came across this at Baskerville. Thought you both might want it back. After all, one should always have something sensational to read in the train. -M.H.
John's breath left him. "Jesus."
"Bloody Mycroft!" Sherlock tore the yellow note from the cover and crumpled it in his fist. "He read it!"
"That's what you're upset about?" John shouted. He pointed down at the leather-bound book. "Sherlock, it's the journal!"
"Well-spotted, John."
"The journal. The enchanted item that transports people, specifically me, to times other than their own."
Sherlock seemed finally to see John's point. "We can't keep it in the flat."
"We can't let anyone else get a hold of it either," John added.
Sherlock's eyes darted around the room, settling on the ceiling.
They bought a strong box with a combination lock, and took it up the three flights of stairs to the attic, along with the journal and the pocketwatch.
Crouching down in the corner farthest from John's bedroom, behind the old, sheet-covered furniture and dusty boxes, they opened the box. John held up the pocketwatch, still ticking its constant snick-snick, and laid it inside, tucking its chain in along with it.
Sherlock held the journal, as much superstition as precaution. They were fairly certain that only John actually writing on its pages could trigger the transfer of Watsons, but the specific mechanics of the journal were still rather mysterious.
John watched as Sherlock opened the book one last time, turning to the last written page. John's final note was there, composed on the train as they made their way back to London.
My Dear Holmes, I cannot fully express my gratitude at having you by my side these last few days, both before and after you discovered the truth of my identity. To have you with me, your intelligence and warmth, gave me hope and comfort in an impossible situation. I wish you and your Watson all the best. -JW
Sherlock looked up from the words with the smallest of frowns, a look John knew well. He gave a little laugh, and Sherlock smiled, his grin replacing the feigned pout. Looking down again, John saw a new line of text that had been written below his note to Holmes.
"Look, Sherlock."
Received: One John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, safe and sound, moustache intact. Best regards always, Sherlock Holmes.
"Oh, thank God," John breathed. "We should . . ."
"Yes."
"You'll have to do it."
But Sherlock was already ahead of him, pulling out a pen from the breast pocket of his jacket. Black ink seeped onto the page one last time.
Received: One John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, safe and sound, sans moustache. Best regards always, Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock stowed his pen and looked up to John.
"Good." He sniffed, emotions swirling inside him. "That's good."