A/N: I wrote four versions for this prompt. The one I've gone for is entirely experimental and out of my comfort zone, so I'm a little apprehensive with posting this, but I enjoyed the challenge. ;-) Let us finish with a flourish or a flop, shall we? If you are unfamiliar with the choice of narrative, I hope you will give it a try. Although I definitely went off topic and down a more reflective route. :-p

Prompt 31: From Ennui Enigma New Year's resolutions for the 221B inhabitants.


Revelation


It is not how you expected to spend your new year's evening, yet no one ever said living with Sherlock Holmes would be easy. If anything, it is becoming somewhat destructive, spiralled out of control from the moment you stepped over the threshold of 221B.

When you agreed to take up lodgings, when you shook Holmes's hand, you were never quite prepared for the amount of running that would be required of you. In fact, you did not know at all. You were but a shadow of a man when you struck up this alliance with Holmes, yet now you are more weighted (all for the better) and have flesh enough to support the strengthened muscles. Nevertheless, you have been abusing this renewed health.

In all honesty, you are surprised that your leg has tolerated this much.

But it has, and it continues to do so.

You are unsure which side of the Thames you are running along, but it hardly matters. The immediate surroundings are sparsely lit, as though the lamps themselves are ashamed to illuminate this grimy part of the city. Even the moon has conveniently hidden itself behind a cloud. The murky water is filling your senses and there is a foul taste in your mouth, as though you've been sucking on old pennies. The intelligent part of your mind puts it down to adrenaline. The instinctive part of your mind puts it down to fear, but it doesn't quite ring true. The pounding footsteps behind you are not too dissimilar of darker, war-driven days.

Your assailant is catching up.

Despite all this, your main concern is not for yourself, or the fact that the only weapon you possess is your cane. You lost Holmes to the bowels of the docks some time ago and have not seen him since. You think that the fear you are tasting is a reflection of your worry. It is not the nicest of feelings, makes your throat constricted.

But that may be because you can barely breathe.

You dart away from a muted timber yard and down a narrow street, more of an alleyway, hoping to lose your shadow. The moon chooses that moment to reveal itself and play the dirtiest of tricks, highlights the wall ahead in perfect clarity.

You slow, chest burning, listening to the footsteps of your assailant as he closes in. There is nowhere for you to go.

You turn. You've no desire to be shot from behind, even if that is what happened in your other life. You imagine that tonight you will be tasting wet cobbles, not the bone-dry grains of dirt. It makes your heart pound, causes your fingers to wrap tight around your cane.

The man who has been tailing you for the last ten minutes eyes you defiantly, the revolver clutched in his hand pointing at you.

"Any last words, Doctor?" he says. The gun trembles in his grip. Truth be told, he looks more scared than you, eyes darting from side to side, not quite meeting your gaze. You do not think he has ever shot a man in his life. He looks terribly young.

You say nothing. You did not beg for mercy in Afghanistan and you have no intention of starting now. You are also endeavouring to catch your breath.

"No final wishes?" he prompts, evidently stalling, hesitant to pull the trigger.

"If there were," calls a familiar voice, "they will not be wasted on you."

Sherlock Holmes is standing several feet behind your assailant, a gun raised and levelled at the back of the man's head. He spares a glance in your direction, but that is all. Part of you feels grateful that his gaze does not linger. Your heart is beating in earnest now, the throb of blood sinking down to highlight the pain in your leg.

The man too afraid to shoot knows better than to take his gaze from you, does not turn around. He glares at you as he addresses Holmes, his body shifting to angle towards your friend. "You may have a gun pointed at me, Mr Holmes, but I have the upper hand."

"I think not," says Holmes. He steps forward, the tap of his shoe echoing in the confined space.

"Don't come any closer!" the man cries, head jerking from Holmes to you, his voice sounding like cracked wood, brittle and desperate. "I'll shoot him, I swear!" He jerks his gun at you to emphasise his threat.

Holmes is calm, says with conviction, "No, you will not." He tilts his own gun and fires.

You duck instinctively, even though Holmes aimed deliberately high, but you are not taking any chances. You hear the man's startled cry and the clatter of his gun as it falls.

You wait a moment before you straighten, your movements cautious. Your assailant is still standing in front of you, fingers hanging loose. He looks as every bit relieved and broken as you feel. You realise futilely that you do not even know this stranger's name, were only given fragments of this case, like portions of a stained-glass window. Only Holmes has seen the full picture, which hardly seems fair, considering how much running you have done tonight.

Holmes approaches and picks up the fallen gun. The man does not try to stop him. He does not flinch as Holmes places a hand on his shoulder and whispers something to him. You cannot hear the words.

To your consternation, the stranger turns and walks briskly to the mouth of the alley. He glances from side to side before disappearing from sight, the darkness swallowing him whole.

You stare at Holmes, aghast. "You're letting him go?"

Holmes gives you a reproachful look. There is no doubt a reasoning to this, but you are not sure he will share it with you. You open your mouth to ask regardless, and it is at precisely this moment that your leg decides to give out.

A horrific flash of pain as bright as the tormenting moon, and then you are stumbling backwards, your coat rubbing and snagging on brick as you slide down the wall, cane falling from your grip as you clutch at your leg. For a dizzying moment you think you might black out. You blink away the sudden darkness, try to quell the rising nausea.

Holmes moves to crouch next to you, drops both guns to the ground. His fingers are a tight band around your upper arm as he keeps you upright.

"You're alright," he says, a faint smile on his lips.

You are not sure if this is a question or a statement, merely nod in reply.

"Holmes," you breathe, tiny hitches in your chest making his name splinter. "Where. Where were you?"

"Searching for you," he replies, scanning you from head to toe, no doubt tracking your movements from the past half hour. "Are you well?" A question this time.

"Fine," you reply, and your voice is back to normal, but you are not fine. You are annoyed now. You have spent most of this evening observing and hiding and running, and this was not the first time. You cannot recall the last new year's evening where you were not running for your life. You don't think that you have had that privilege since taking up residence with Holmes, can mark every new year that has passed so far with one of his cases, and none were in your favour. There were none from which you emerged unscathed.

For some reason, you feel strangely cheated, Holmes's level of concern dispiriting. Fine needles of anger skirt beneath your skin, mixing into your blood where the adrenaline is rapidly dissolving. Your leg feels like it is made of lead.

"Watson." He says your name on an exhale, a trace of humour in it, as though he finds your annoyance amusing. He releases his grip on your arm to sit next to you, knees drawn up. He tilts his head back to the wall, gaze drifting skywards. You are too tired to argue with him.

In the distance, you fancy you hear bells, a toll of the midnight hour. Another year is beginning.

As you look at the sky with its large playful moon and smudges of cloud, you think perhaps you should make a resolution to try not to get chased or killed every year, or certainly not on new year's. Perhaps you should take precautions and leave each Christmas, seek a holiday somewhere North, not return until the whiteness of the new year is rubbed and grey. You are not sure you can do this again, feel that your leg will still have this pain a year onwards. You feel damaged, not entirely whole, and a small part of you wants to blame Holmes for feeling this way.

"Watson."

A definite sigh of your name this time. You turn to face Holmes, find him watching you intensely. He has taken his cigarette case from his pocket and has lit one, holds the case out to you.

As you accept the offering, he lowers the glowing tip of his cigarette to yours, intones softly as you lean in, "I would not dwell on it too much, my dear fellow. Resolutions tend to bring about bad feelings and the worse of luck, even with the best of intentions."

You look at him in shock, however this mind-reading capability he possesses should no longer come as a surprise. Holmes always knows what you are thinking.

"Ah," he says, and that is all. He is grinning behind the soft curls of smoke.

You would be extremely offended if you did not know him so well. Instead you shake your head, cannot stop the smile tugging at your lips. In truth, you are inclined to agree with him. As you look at Holmes now, his eyes glinting like steel and amusement held therein, you do not think resolutions will make the slightest bit of difference.

It is not the life you expected, yet you realise with painful clarity that you will do this again, and there will be no regard for your safety. The pain in your leg will always be a mere insignificance. You will follow Holmes into the unknown and risk life and limb, be it a new year's eve or a Christmas morn or a cold afternoon in May of 1891, as this is what Fate has chosen for you.

You will continue to run.


End


A/N II: Alas, my lovely readers and friends, it is done. Despite my unforgivable lateness at completing this challenge, I'm both delighted to have finished and most saddened it has ended. :-) I cannot thank you all enough for taking the time to comment. Your reviews have been most encouraging, greatly appreciated and wonderful to read. Well done too for getting through what has been, on the whole, a brimming teapot of angst!

On another note, I hope to start a new submission with one-shots, scribbles and angsty goodness very soon. :-) This challenge has made me realise how much I enjoy writing and the creative outlet and practice it provides, with or without the cursed writer's block. Wherever this Weary Traveller goes, I will be most excited if I see you along the way.

Until then, my very dear friends. x