It wasn't, actually, quite everything that collapsed around Sherlock Holmes as he walked home with his friend Watson, it only seemed that way. In reality it was only the building they walked beside that collapsed, but that was enough to make it seem like the whole world was collapsing, especially when there was such a loud bang and then it all came down.
Holmes was blinded for a moment as the world flashed white and then came back tainted red. He vaguely saw Watson in front of him; his friend's eyes were closed and there was blood on his face and somehow they were both on the ground. There must have been blood on his face, too, Holmes realized. That must be why the world was tinted red, it must be in his eyes. He reached his hand out to Watson, and his arm felt very heavy. His fingers touched Watson's cheek, and when he looked where he touched it was all red, and he didn't know if he'd made Watson's cheek bloody or if Watson's blood had come off on his hand. Then, he wondered why he was wondering about it and if it mattered. He stretched his fingers up to wipe blood away from Watson's closed eyes and wondered vaguely if that mattered either, but then the world went totally black around around him and it didn't matter at all.
Sherlock Holmes woke a long time later to his arm in a sling and the worst headache of his life. He was cocooned in his bed in Baker Street, and that made him relax just a little; he didn't quite remember what had happened, but he knew he'd been with Watson. Since he was in Baker Street and not a hospital, that meant Watson was likely fine, that he was nearby. The only time Holmes ever woken in hospital was when Watson was injured, too, and couldn't take care of him. But what had happened? And where was Watson now? Usually Watson would be with him. He wasn't encouraged when Mrs. Hudson entered instead of his friend.
"Watson…" he rasped.
She gasped, startled to see him awake, and her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, dear," she murmured, and came to his side quickly. There were tears in her eyes and she laid her hand on his cheek. "Oh, dear," she murmured again. "How are you, my dear? What can I get you? Water? Here."
He accepted it gratefully. "Watson," he rasped again when he had gathered the strength.
She frowned, tears returning to the corners of her eyes. "You'll see him soon enough," she murmured.
"What happened? How long?" he asked.
"It was just an accident," she said. "A boiler exploded inside a building, and you just so happened to be walking outside when it collapsed. You and the good doctor were hit with debris, I'm afraid. You were knocked out for twelve hours now. I'm so glad you're finally awake."
"Mrs. Hudson, where is Watson? How is he? Please, I must know."
"He is here, he's alive," the good lady said gently. "He's not awake yet, though, Mr. Holmes. I..." she swallowed hard. "He's in the living room so the doctor can keep a closer eye on him. Both of you were brought here because there were so many others that needed to go to hospital and the officers who arrived at the scene knew who you were. They had you brought here to make room for the others in hospital."
Holmes struggled to get up. "How is he? Take me to him. I…" he collapsed back against the pillows, his head pounding. When he could finally focus again he found Doctor Burke was with him.
"Watson? How is he? Please, doctor."
Burke gave him a sad smile as he continued to check him over. "Of all the things you two had been through, who would have ever thought you'd be taken out by a simple accident? John is… not well, Mr. Holmes. And neither are you."
"An accident," Holmes sighed.
"Yes, just an accident. You are both lucky to be alive."
"You mean Watson will live?" Holmes asked hopefully.
"I don't know," Burke answered honestly, and he had Holmes drink something nauseous as he continued to talk. "John is tough, Mr. Holmes. If anyone can bounce back, he can. I practically raised that man, I know he's strong."
"So do I," said Holmes softly, but inside he was thinking one thing: what if it wasn't an accident? Was this something the Author had done on purpose? Was this his way of killing Watson? Would Watson die? No, it couldn't be. He wouldn't allow it. He once again struggled to get up, and this time he did so with Burke's help. His head was still pounding and he was finally aware of the pain he knew he should have been feeling already in his arm, but he had more important things to worry about. He wasn't going to let anything happen to Watson, wasn't going to let him die. He didn't care if it was the Author's doing or not, this wasn't going to be the end.
Burke helped him to the living room and he found Watson stretched out on the couch, his face bruised and bandaged and his arm in a sling just like Holmes' arm was. He was covered in a blanket, but Holmes could see that the bruising extended down his neck.
"He was closer to the building," Burke said softly. "He caught the worst of it, and he hasn't woken yet. There was a rather large piece of debris that impacted his side and ruptured part of his large intestine. I've done what I can, but I'm worried about infection. He's already feverish, and despite my best efforts… I want to tell you he's going to be fine, Mr. Holmes, but I don't know for certain. And about your own wound, I'm not quite as worried about it, but you'll have some nasty swelling in your shoulder, I'm afraid. I'll keep my eye on it."
Holmes took a painful seat by the couch, reaching out to feel Watson's forehead. It was hot, but not worryingly so yet just as Burke had said. He peeked under the bandage and saw there was a large gash on Watson's forehead.
"You don't look much better," Burke informed him.
Holmes glanced in a mirror and saw he had a large lump near his right temple. He reached up to touch it and hissed in pain as that made a fresh wave of agony wash through him, but he did his best to push that away, too. He didn't need to be dwelling on his own pain when Watson needed him more.
"Watson," he whispered. "Wake up. Please." He didn't care that Burke was still there; Watson trusted Burke and therefore so did Holmes. Watson had been apprenticed to Burke from the time he was a schoolboy until he went to the University of London and got his formal training. He was the only doctor Watson trusted, and Holmes was glad he was there.
"You need to rest, Mr. Holmes," Burke said softly.
"No," Holmes murmured. "I need to go."
"Go? Where do you want to go?"
"To make sure this was an accident," Holmes murmured, his voice low.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. I will rest, thank you, doctor. Show me how to help him?"
Burke shook his head. "I'm here every day, Mr. Holmes, and when I am not then your good Mrs. Hudson is with him. You needn't strain yourself…"
"You have no idea," Holmes snapped at him, "the lengths Watson has gone to in order to aide me when I am ill."
"I do know," Burke said softly. "Who else do you think he would ever consult with about something so personal and important as, well, some of your own medical issues? Who else would he ever confide in about your cocaine habit?"
Holmes cringed at the doctor's blunt statement, but he knew it was true. "What did you tell him?" he asked in a whisper.
"That you don't deserve him," Burke said, "and that addiction is just that: addiction. I told him he can't save you, that you've got to be the one to break the habit for good."
"I know," Holmes said. "He's told me that as well. Please, if you know all this, then you'll know that I owe him so much more than merely this. Show me how I can help him. Please."
Burke sighed. "Very well, but you must promise not to exert yourself."
"Very well," Holmes agreed.
Burke showed him the wound on Watson's side and how to protect and clean it to stave off infection. It was a long, nasty wound that looked serious, but Burke still refused to tell Holmes if he thought Watson would live. Holmes took that as a bad sign.
Mrs. Hudson reappeared and bullied Holmes into his regular chair and into eating. Though it was his non-dominant arm that was injured, she spoon fed him like a toddler, and he was secretly glad of it because he was simply too tired to even try and manage dinner with one hand and yet did know he needed to eat. Not only was he starving, he needed to go. Soon. In twelve hours, he decided. if not sooner.
Because in twelve hours, that would mean Watson had been unconscious for a full day. If Watson was unconscious for more than a full day, well, that meant nothing good at all. No one who laid insensible for more than a week ever woke up themselves again, not in Holmes' experience. They would either linger for a long time and then die without ever really coming back to themselves, or live the rest of their lives needing to be cared for. As a child, one of his great-grandfathers had fallen off of a bridge during a thunderstorm, and after waking four days later he'd never done anything again but sit in his chair staring out the window. He'd never regained his mind.
Last week, Holmes would have swallowed his pride and resigned himself to the possibility. If Watson was going to linger and then die, then Holmes would make his last days comfortable. And if he was going to live the rest of his life not in his own mind and needing to be cared for, then Holmes would have hired a nurse, put a chair by the window, and bought the softest blankets he could find. He would have provided Watson with anything he needed.
But this was not last week, and now he had another option. He was going to go find someone who could reverse this, someone who could save Watson. He was going to find the Author.
He was going to find him, and he was going to insist he write a new story, a story where Watson was safe and whole and in his own mind. He would force him if he needed to. He was still willing to do anything for Watson, the stakes were just higher now. He figured that he had roughly forty-eight hours until the damage to Watson may become irreversible. At most, he had six days, one hundred and forty-four hours. If, after that, Watson remained unconscious, he was either a dead man or would never be the same.
Hopefully, Watson would wake soon, would wake even before Holmes could complete his quest and beg for his life from the Author. Holmes hoped he would, hoped with all his heart, but wasn't about to take that chance. And so he ate, he rallied his strength, he made a plan. And when it had been twenty-four hours since the accident and Watson hadn't gotten better, he stole away from Baker Street when Mrs. Hudson had her back turned. He left a note apologizing to her as well as enough money to pay Burke as well as hire a nurse if she needed to. Burke, he doubted, would accept payment for treating Watson, but Holmes would pay for his own treatment.
His body still ached, but he had a plan. He knew if he wanted to find the Author, then he needed to find Merlin. To find Merlin, he needed to find Challenger again, and he was certain he could do that, as Challenger had been mentioned to him that he was giving a series of guest lectures to young archaeology students at the university of London. Holmes' knew where guest lecturers usually stayed. Even if Challenger wasn't there, it shouldn't be too hard to find him.
Holmes didn't allow himself to dwell on the fact that he was about to break all the promises he'd just made to Challenger not to abuse his new knowledge. He didn't care, he wasn't going to let Watson die like this. Killed by some boiler exploding and a building collapsing completely on accident? It couldn't be. This couldn't be the end.
Would the Author kill Watson like that? On one hand, it seemed like something an author would do: kill a character they didn't like in between stories so they didn't have to bother with an explanation in the stories themselves. But, if it was as Holmes' suspected and Watson was the Author's narrator for the stories, then he couldn't possibly kill him, could he? He wouldn't dare harm Watson; he needed Watson.
Or did he? He'd hurt Watson before: he'd sent him to Afghanistan to be shot just so he would come home injured and so depressed he'd be willing to share rooms with an obnoxious consulting detective. Maybe he was planning some new phase to the stories, maybe he was going to introduce a new narrator. The thought of that made Holmes' blood run cold. He didn't want a new friend! He wanted Watson! But if that was in the cards, if there really was a new narrator coming, would he have a choice to be friends or not? What if it was someone he only liked in small doses like Stanley Hopkins? The thought of that made him shudder: Hopkins was too much of a hero-worshiper. Hopkins would adore the chance to replace Watson at Baker Street, but it would drive Holmes mad. Unless, of course, the Author fundamentally changed part of who he was to make them get along. Could he do that? Holmes decided to push that thought away to focus on making sure that no one ever had to replace Watson because Watson would not die, not for a very long time yet. Not until it was his time.
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, isn't it?"
The voice shook him from his inner turmoil.
"You don't look so good, my friend." It was Scrooge, and he was looking at Holmes with some concern.
"I'm not well," Holmes admitted. For some reason, he couldn't lie to Scrooge. "My friend, the one I told you about. He's deathly ill."
Scrooge's face fell and he placed his hand on Holmes' arm in genuine concern. "And you're not well, either," he said softly. "Why don't you come with me? You can rest, and I can do whatever task it is you are bent upon. Why are you out here?"
Holmes shook his head, ignoring the way that made it pound even more. "There's something I need to do. But I thank you."
"Isn't there anything I can do?"
"No," Holmes replied. "Just go home. I… thank you, Mr. Scrooge. Thank you." He left the kind old man then, unable to squash his guilt this time. He was supposed to be keeping an eye on Scrooge, and he'd just let him go without a second thought. It couldn't be helped, though, his Watson came first.
It was, as he had suspected, not too hard to find Challenger again. Especially seeing as how Challenger was expecting him and was waiting for him when he arrived.
"You're a magic user now," Challenger said in response to Holmes' incredulous look. "Did you think we're not aware of each other? I felt it the moment you decided to try and break all the rules I've only just told you. Go home, Mr. Holmes. There's nothing you can do."
"Take me to him," Holmes said. "Let Merlin decide that."
"He already has. You're not special, Mr. Holmes, you're not about to make a journey no one else has ever made."
"Watch me," Holmes growled.
"Go home," Challenger said again. "You're injured, you'd never make it even if you weren't."
"Help me," Holmes replied. "This isn't right, you know it's not. This isn't part of any story."
"I do know, the accident was in all the paper this morning. You were mentioned. It really was an accident, Mr. Holmes. And if this is the end, then that's it. We will all die. All worlds will end."
Holmes turned away from him, then. He didn't have time for this and he didn't want to think about what Challenger had said for too long. If he thought about it, he knew he'd realize Challenger was likely right. He wasn't ready to consider that yet.
"Mr. Holmes!" Challenger called, but Holmes ignored him.
A couple hours and a train ride he slept though later and he was by the sea standing on the rocks, his headache pounding in rhythm with the surf. He shut his eyes, wondering if he really had the courage to go through with this; it was his plan of last resort. He almost turned away, but then he remembered that his last conversation with his friend had been an argument, that if Watson died now then he'd be dying thinking that their friendship was somehow damaged and that he didn't trust him as much as he once did. Holmes was unwilling to let that happen. He did trust Watson, he just needed to prove once more that he did. He needed longer with his friend; it couldn't be Watson's time to go yet. He thought of his friend, and he jumped into the sea.
He sank down quickly, his exhaustion and wounded shoulder not allowing him to swim for long. His brain screamed for air, his last thought being that he'd thrown his life away for nothing and that he certainly couldn't help Watson now... and then he came up sputtering onto warm, soft, white sand unlike any he'd ever seen.
"That is because this island is magic," said a rich voice from above him. "It is a peaceful haven for those who sleep here."
"I knew it," Holmes breathed. He staggered to his feet. "I'm here because I can't die, aren't I? There are more stories. There has to be." He looked up into the eyes of an old man who had a long gray beard and was wearing a ridiculous looking purple robe tied with a silver cord. He looked like he was wearing a nightgown to wander around the beach, but Holmes couldn't be amused because the man was so... important. That was the first word that sprang to mind. This man, Merlin, he was the kind of man who would always know more than he was willing to tell. Holmes knew that straight away.
"No," Merlin said, and began walking. Holmes hurried to keep in step with his long, almost floating stride. "You are here because Mr. Challenger is impulsive and does not always understand the things he thinks he does. What he told you is true, Mr. Holmes. You are not special, you are not more important than your fellow men. But just because no one has ever made such a journey as you are planning does not mean it can never be done."
"I can go? You'll show me the way?" Holmes asked hopefully.
"I didn't say that," said Merlin.
"But surely…"
"I meant that Professor Challenger was wrong. There is a way. Whether or not it is a quest you can or will undertake remains to be seen. What you did, Sherlock Holmes, when you jumped into the water not knowing whether you would come up again, that is the kind of courage my King would have admired."
"I did it for my friend," Holmes said. "I know this can't be the end for him."
Merlin nodded. "You do well to look out for him, for we must all look out for our comrades in arms. My King would have approved. But that doesn't mean you are worthy, Mr. Holmes."
"Worthy? Worthy of the journey?"
"Worthy of the mountain."
"You mean…" Holmes said, swallowing hard.
"Come," said Merlin.
Holmes followed him, his shoulder and head still aching a bit. He walked behind the sorcerer, wondering and worrying about Watson and not noticing when Merlin disappeared until it was too late. He panicked for a moment, wondering if he'd somehow already lost whatever test he was being placed under, but he quickly refused to believe that could be true. This was the test, it had to be. He had to find his own way.
He forged on ahead as quickly as he could until he reached the base of the mountain. He scanned for an entrance, but didn't see one. He'd already been worried that he'd have to climb the mountain, but he was determined to make it. The only thing in front of the mountain he could see to help him on his ascent was, perhaps predictably, a sword half-stuck in a stone because this was King Arthur's island.
He stepped up to the sword and gave it a firm yank, wondering vaguely if he would even be able to carry it. Swords were heavy and he didn't know if he felt strong enough in his present condition. With any luck the thing was magic and it wouldn't be that bad. The sword budged slightly under his pull.
"Please," he murmured, somehow recognizing this was important. "Please. It's not for me." He thought of Watson, thought of Watson dying abandoned and alone and thinking Holmes didn't love him anymore. He gave another yank and the sword slid free. And with it, an opening in the mountain slid open. Holmes breathed a sigh of relief.
He made his way through the opening, sword still in hand, and it slid shut behind him. Somehow, he could see although he knew there was no light coming in. He passed hundreds of stone beds etched into the walls of the mountain where hundreds of heroes all lay motionless and still and gray with death but somehow didn't seem dead. In fact, they all seemed as if they were getting younger. It was like they could, any moment, wake up and begin walking.
Holmes passed a beautiful young man who had the most beautiful young woman he'd ever seen tucked close by his side. There was a lyre on the ground below them and Holmes had an idea that he should know these two.
"Orpheus and Eurydice," Merlin said, startling Holmes with his sudden appearance. Holmes remembered, then.
"He tried to go to hell to save her," he said. "He could have brought her back, but he turned around and she was taken from him back to the underworld."
Merlin nodded. "We cannot save those we love from death."
Holmes' face fell. "I… but here they are. So there must be something to the desire. It can't be all bad."
"No."
Merlin walked on, and Holmes followed, recognizing another pair of lovers from mythology. It was Cupid and Psyche, also lying side by side, one the god of love's large wings folded over them and his sheath of arrows lying on the ground beside him. Close by lay other figures from mythology including Prometheus, the Titan of foresight who was said to have created humans and brought them fire.
"I thought he was being eternally punished by the gods," Holmes said.
Merlin shrugged. "All stories end sometime," he said. "All worlds end. But not all characters in those stories end up here. Prometheus was worthy. Zeus, the god who condemned him, was not. That doesn't mean Zeus will never have his own judgement day, but he's not waiting for it here."
"How did you learn this? These myths were from long before King Arthur would even be born?"
"This island exists outside your ideas of time," Merlin replied. "It connects all worlds. I have all the time I need. I have spent centuries spending a single day in ancient Greece learning their stories, finding their heroes, speaking their language. And I have spent time in your London, and I have seen to the London that will come beyond you. I can't know how I was given this task. I can't know why. I only do it as well as I can, and I trust. And it will, Sherlock Holmes, all make sense in the end."
Holmes contemplated that in silence as they passed more heroes. Holmes looked on in fascination as he passed characters from the great stories of the past. Beowulf and Sir Gawain were there just like Challenger had said, and so was Holmes' favorite storybook hero from when he was a schoolboy: Redcrosse, the knight who often failed but kept persevering as he sought truth in The Faerie Queen. Una and Britomart from the same story lay close by.
And, just as Challenger said, the heroes came from all corners of earth, from all stories, and Holmes wished he knew every single one, every single story. He'd never cared about fiction before, never cared about stories, but now he wished he could read in every language. How was he to know all stories were real?
Then, as they continued their ascent up the mountain, they passed empty beds. At first, there were only a few empty beds interspersed with the heroes, but then they passed hundreds of them.
"Some of them," Merlin explained without Holmes needing to ask, "are the spaces that would have gone to heroes for their actions in their own stories, but they lost them; they failed to act virtuously. As Challenger will."
"Challenger will fail?"
"Unless he makes a different choice than that which I have foreseen. I have warned him, but I do not not think he will listen to me and be mindful of his actions when the time comes. It is part of his story, although it will be his choice no matter what is written for him."
"I don't understand."
"There will come a point for Professor Challenger when he decides which lives he thinks are worth saving. In the moment, it will be his choice. He will learn soon afterwards that he isn't, really, capable of deciding life and death, but his choice will still help determine his worthiness. We will see what choice he makes."
"And can you see Watson's future? Is that why I'm here?"
"No," Merlin said. "I have seen nothing regarding your friend. Would you like me to?"
"Yes!" Holmes replied quickly.
"Even it shows you he is already dead? Or that his future is bleak?"
"His future isn't bleak," said Holmes with certainty. "He is the greatest man I've ever met. If anyone from any world belongs here it is him."
"The only person from any world who belongs here is my king," said Merlin a bit testily.
And then they reached the top where the final bed rested, and when Holmes saw King Arthur, he had to agree. He didn't know how long he took, just taking in the king's splendor, but by the time he took in the rest of his surroundings Merlin had already finished whatever it was he was doing to see Watson's fate.
"Your friend is lying still," he told Holmes. "He has friends with him."
"Is he awake?" Holmes asked.
"No," Merlin said. "And I can see nothing of his future. But he's not gone yet, his mind still works. And, in his unconscious mind, he knows you, Sherlock Holmes, are not with him."
Holmes cringed, wishing Merlin hadn't told him that. "It will be worth it," he said, "if I can save him."
"I cannot guarantee that you will," Merlin said, "but you can try."
"I can?" Holmes breathed in disbelief. Even after travelling all this way he had doubted that Merlin would let him see the Author.
"You can," repeated Merlin. "If you are sure you are brave enough."
Holmes swallowed hard. "I am not. But I will be for Watson's sake."
Merlin nodded again and waved his hand toward a stone table that contained a pitcher of water, a ram's horn, and a dagger. "If you want to go," he said, "put the sword down on the table, take up the dagger, and draw it from its sheath. But be warned: you, also, will have to make choices, Mr. Holmes. You, too, could fail. If you do, then you may never return to this place, not even if you were worthy once. I cannot even guarantee you will make it back to your own home. And be aware that the journey will not be anything like you think it will."
"What do you mean?" Holmes asked.
"It is time to choose."
Holmes didn't hesitate; he knew what his choice had to be. He dropped the sword on the table and picked up the dagger, tying it onto his belt. He shivered involuntarily, dread for his own fate washing over him. He pushed it away, thinking of Watson dying without him to help himself be brave. He took a deep breath, screwed his eyes shut, and drew the dagger.