A/N: This one got away from me a little … my bad, lol. Any inaccuracies are my own.

Prompt 10: From Ennui Enigma – Holmes gives his younger self a bit of advice.

Rumination

You are ensconced in Baker Street, pipe in hand and legs stretched out before you, ankles crossed neatly. There is smoke snaking from between your teeth, trailing slowly upwards; items surrounding you are faded at the edges, these odd fuzzy-things that do not belong.

And there is something else that does not belong. Someone, to be precise.

There is a boy whom resembles you, sat in the armchair opposite.

Rather, he is you, twenty or more years your junior, and you do not question the absurdity of this because there is much to discuss, to prepare and warn yourself about. He is looking at you expectantly, as if awaiting your guidance, elbows resting on skinny knees as he leans forward. You do not wish to lose the opportunity, so you dive in deep.

You do not brandy words, tell him calmly, "Your parents will die young," because he looks to be only a year younger than when your parents left this world. You need not go into details, so you leave it there. He may even know, you decide. There is a look of sadness passing over his face.

You tell him, "Mycroft will be given guardianship," pause, and add, "You will not like that." Your younger self scowls, lip curling in bitter acknowledgement. As small comfort, you say, "Hide his journal in the tree by the lane, the one with a V-shape in its bark. There is a hole ten feet up." Your mouth quirks in a smile. "He is frightened of heights."

You tell him, "You will solve the mystery of Professor Worthington's disappearance when you are twelve. Look for the scratches beneath his desk. Note the smear of chalk on the doorframe. These indications will lead you to Charles Barnsley."

You tell him, "You will attend college and choose science as your main field of study." With a tight smile, you say, "It is what you excel at, after all."

You tell him, "You will move to London in 1876." Displeasure creeps into your tone. "Do not prevail upon Mycroft for money. He shall never let you forget it."

You tell him, "College associates will bring cases to your door. You will solve them for a fee that is far too cheap, so perhaps consider raising your prices to ensure you do not fall behind on rent. It is not worth the interest. Furthermore, the landlady has a sharp tongue and sharper right hand."

You tell him, "There will be no friends to speak of for some time." Something akin to sorrow passes across your younger self's face. You do not dwell on it. You remind yourself that you were fine, the lie skirting your mind like tiny stones along a riverbed. "You will have your work to occupy your time. You will meet a great many people. Inspector Lestrade will become a close acquaintance."

A wry smile touches your lips and you add, almost proudly, "The Inspector will arrest you four times between 1879 and 1886. Only one will be justified. It was the oil burner, if you are curious."

You tell him, "The violin will need new strings intermittently. Do not take it to Mason's. He will pawn it."

You tell him, "You will move here in 1880." You wave your hand vaguely about the room. "You will take lodgings with an ex-army doctor and he will accompany you on a majority of your cases." More firmly, you stress, "Do not allow him to assist in the Duporte affair ... it does not favour well for either of you, and he will not speak to you for six days."

You tell him, "You will not die by a criminal's hand," but that is most definitely a lie, so you say ruefully, "No. I suppose I cannot answer that beyond today."

The youth in the chair opposite is looking at you like you are solely made up of lies, gaze cautious and slightly accusing. He is leaning back in the chair with his arms folded, subjecting you to a familiar scrutiny.

You lift a finger, the faintest tremor running through. "I can tell you, however, that you will be shot at numerous times. It is something short of miraculous that you'll survive them all. You will be stabbed once, a knitting needle through the palm." Here you open your hand to show the small white ring, dead centre. "Never let Lady Penelope's left hand out of your sight." You scratch at the loose threads on the arm of your chair, wondering if to continue, but you do anyway. "An attempt to hang you will be the closest you come to death, thus far. This. This is." You falter and swallow, the noise loud to your own ears. Suddenly, you are back in that farmhouse, with its smell of musty rafters and damp hay, coarse rope against your windpipe, the clean snapping sound of Watson's wrist as he fought off Carter in his efforts to reach you.

You blink rapidly. The room slams back into solidity, the floorboards rebuilding beneath your feet. You can breathe again, as before. You find the words. "This here. It will not compare."

Eyes as wide as hollow wells are staring at you now, and you briefly consider if you have gone too far with that one.

You attempt to offer reassurance. "You will be saved." Your head tilts toward the door; you can hear a familiar tread upon the stair. "You will always be saved, where circumstances allow."

You cease talking, and then Watson enters the room.

He does not notice your other self but sees you sitting there. As you meet his gaze his eyes fall to the white material poking from your shirt sleeve, to where it is knotted tightly above your elbow. His face slowly darkens, storm clouds rolling in like those beyond the window, and you are curious if he is mad because it is his handkerchief you have taken to use as a tourniquet. A scoffing sound jumps out of your throat, almost a laugh, because you know that's preposterous. Watson has many handkerchiefs and will not mourn the loss of this one.

And your thoughts are never concrete during these times; you cannot be trusted to make a conclusive assessment of Watson's feelings.

You look back to find your younger self has gone. You are not surprised.

"Watson will not remain angry," you wanted to tell him.

You are back in the present now, raw-edged and pulse racing as the doctor strides across the room and reaches for your wrist, counts your heartbeat with a deep crease between his brows. You are sorely tempted to put your thumb to his forehead and rub the skin smooth, rub away the worry, a swift tide encasing sandy shores and pulling back to reveal everything unblemished and golden and new.

You want to tell yourself to come back, to tell him this affliction will soon pass. You want to tell him that the man holding tight to your wrist will eventually be the cure.

End