Sherlock opened his eyes to find himself in a warm study. It wasn't unlike something he would have imagined any affluent author of his day would have in their home, and that supported Holmes' theory that the Author was from a time period similar to his. He looked around, seeing there were framed newspapers all over the walls. He realized he was still holding the dagger, and he sheathed it as he looked approached to read them. 'Sherlock Holmes Finds Vital Clue to Prove 'Hammer Killer' Suspect Innocent!' one proclaimed. He racked his brain, trying to remember when he'd ever dealt with a so-called 'Hammer Killer.'
'Sherlock Holmes Catches West End Killer' another proclaimed, and all the rest were similar. They all were praising Sherlock Holmes for something. 'Sherlock Holmes Does it Again!' was the one he got close enough to read. 'John 'Sherlock' Frederick Holmes, the widely known and beloved author of the books featuring the master detective with the same name as his creator, has once more proven that it is he, not his fictional creation, who is the true master sleuth,' the first line read.
What did that mean? We he named after his creator? Was the author also a private consulting detective?
"My wife," said someone from behind him, and Holmes spun around in surprise to see that a man had come into the room while he was reading the paper. The man was seated in a wheelchair and though he didn't look terribly old, he was clearly a haggard representation of the man he had once been in his youth. He had the same square, strong jaw and dapper moustache that Watson had, and he had Holmes' own gray eyes. Had he been standing, he would have been tall like Holmes, too, but his shoulders were broad like Watson's. This had to be him, Holmes knew immediately. This had to be the Author.
"Sorry," Holmes murmured. "I…"
"My wife insists that someday the grandchildren might want to read them: the papers, I mean. She collected and framed them all herself. I've always thought it seems a bit odd that I have them all over my wall and they're all about me. Seems like something a braggart would do. But Beatrice is usually right, you see, and I am sure it will prove to be true this time as well. I suppose one day they will be cherished by my grandchildren. It's only natural that we are, all of us, curious about those who came before us. And I suppose you more than most, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, can relate to the feeling of wondering where you came from. Hmm?"
Holmes swallowed hard. "I suppose," he said softly, "I come from you?"
The man nodded. "I suppose so. I didn't know, Mr. Holmes, you must believe that. When I created you, I had no idea you really existed somewhere. But I have a theory that it may not be as we assume. I don't think in my heart that I actually created you. You don't come from me. I don't have that power."
Holmes stared at him dumbly, unable to quite process whatever he was on about.
"After all, you do come from somewhere," the man continued casually. "There are hundreds of generations all leading up to you. I didn't imagine that. And when you are gone your world will go on in ways I've never dreamed of. My theory is that you were always meant to exist, that somehow your story came to me instead of my story creating you. I have no evidence for this theory except that it seems to make sense and I do not like the thought that I am responsible for someone else's life."
Holmes swallowed hard again, unable to find his words. Nevertheless, a lifetime of perfecting the science of deduction paid off. He deduced that his author was on his own intellectual level, if perhaps slightly below it, and he had the medical skills of Watson. He was a doctor, but hadn't been practicing for a long time. His wife loved him, he was wealthy, and he was also dying. Most importantly, however, he was a good man, and had spent a lifetime doing good.
"I… who is Watson?" he asked, and his tongue felt thick in his mouth. That wasn't even the question he'd wanted to ask. He wanted to say, 'why'd you hurt Watson?' He'd wanted to demand he write a story where Watson lived, but for some reason he'd lost whatever fight was in him when he'd started on his journey.
"Watson was my mother," the man said. "Her family name was Watson; she was the last of her line, and she taught me how the end of things can come without sadness. She inspired me to write."
Holmes nodded. "But we… Watson and I… we are both you?"
The man cocked his head to the side, his eyes twinkling thoughtfully. "I suppose so. But it is more like you made me Sherlock Holmes instead of the other way around. You see, I was nothing but John Holmes until I wrote your stories. I was just one more writer in a sea of many. And I wasn't unhappy, mind you: I had a thriving medical practice, a beautiful wife, and I was getting published here and there. Then, one day I thought up a new story, a detective story. I wanted to have fun with it, and so I made it not only a detective story, but also a Western and a romance. And do you know what? I sent in the wrong draft to my publisher! I've never told anyone that, they think I named you Sherlock Holmes because of my ego, because I thought I was a genius. But what they don't know is that in all my first drafts, the main character is named Sherlock Holmes. I do that for the simple reason I don't like naming a character until after they have a personality, until I know their story. Your name, sir, was going to be different. So was Watson's. But I turned in the wrong draft, the one with your original names, and here you are. Sherlock Holmes. Just like me."
Holmes nodded dumbly.
"I think it supports my theory that you were always meant to be, that I don't actually control anything. But as I say, that is just a theory."
"How did you know I was coming?" asked Holmes, the obvious question finally occurring to him. "How do you know who I am?"
"A sorcerer came and told me," the Author said with a small smile, "but don't worry about whether that will have an effect on you and how I write your stories; the magic he used to make me understand will wear off once you are gone. But for now, I am glad to know you."
"And I you," Holmes said, and he knew he meant it. He liked this John just like he liked his own John. He noticed how tired the Author looked, then, as he slowly reached to grab the wheels of his chair, and so Holmes freed his arm from its sling in order to move behind the man and push his wheelchair wherever he needed to go.
"The desk, if you don't mind. But you needn't help me just because I'm your author. You're clearly not well yourself."
"I'm helping you," Holmes said, "because I'm a good person, and you look tired. And as for me, I'm doing perfectly well compared to Watson."
"I hope you don't think that's my fault. I haven't written for you in some time, and I certainly didn't do that."
"No," Holmes said. "I am convinced it what happened really was an accident. Nevertheless, I came here to ensure that this accident won't kill Watson. It's not his time. I just know it's not. It can't be, he can't die like this."
"He shouldn't," John said, "If your reality follows my stories, then I know you'll be around for longer. I don't want to say more, I'm sure you understand. When you get to be like me, actually at the end of your life, the less you want to know the future."
"I'm sorry," Holmes said. "Are you sure you're, well, dying?"
"I'm afraid so. And I tried to kill you, too, you know."
"You did?"
"Oh, yes. When the first attack of the disease came, I thought I was going to die. And so, I dictated your final story to my wife. Actually, it was more like I told her what I wanted and she wrote it for me. I wanted to be the one who told the story of your death, you see. That way, after I was gone no one else could. And so, I killed you. I sent you plunging off the edge of the Reichenbach Falls in one final blaze of glory."
"Then why am I alive?"
"Because I lived. And when it came out that I was back in relatively steady health, it didn't take long for the public to start clamoring for me to given them more Sherlock Holmes stories. I tried to write stories from before you died, but I was tired of having you dead. So I wrote you back, I wrote it so you'd never died at all. And I brought you back to London and I've had you go on solving crimes ever since. I wonder if I did kill you and brought you back and you just don't know it, or if you never died, if you were always destined to live and so you never died at all."
"In my memory," Holmes said with a small shrug, "I never fell at all. I climbed out. Did you... never mind, actually. I don't want to know everything." He'd already scanned the bookshelves in the room, however, and he'd already seen a title called "The Final Adventure of Sherlock Holmes." He had a feeling he already knew the answer to his question.
"It is very wise of you not to want to know," the Author said with a smile.
"So, you were just John Holmes," Holmes encouraged him to continue, "until you published my story. And then…" he gestured around him to the framed newspapers, "you became Sherlock Holmes, too?"
"Yes," John said. "I, too, became Sherlock Holmes. I started getting letters, see. I think part of it was due to the name mix-up; the public confused the author for the hero. I got hundreds of letters every year, all addressed to you. Or sometimes me. Sometimes, I wasn't able to tell who the letter was meant for, the real Sherlock Holmes or the character. Some of them were simple requests for advice, and I answered them as best I could. And others, well, some of them were very serious. For the serious ones, I had to decide how to respond. Most of them I couldn't help with personally and had to pass on to the local constabulary. But, I answered enough to get a reputation of my own. After the newspapers caught wind of how I was helping people, they started dogging my every move which resulted in hundreds more letters."
"I know how that is," Holmes said with a small smile. "Thankfully, I have a Watson. He helps me toss out the unimportant ones."
"And my wife helps me; I was not alone in this. Nevertheless, it was getting to be a bit of a problem. I like helping people, you see, and I'm like you: I can use the art of deduction to help solve crimes. But I was also trying to be a doctor and a writer at the same time. And, most importantly, I was trying to be a good husband and a good father. I wanted to be with my family. So, I tried something new. I made a new author."
"What do you mean?"
"Really, it started when I killed you. The public outcry from your death was intense, but it was tampered by the knowledge that I, the author, was dying. When it became more intense, I made a new story called 'The Origins of Sherlock Holmes.' Really, my wife wrote it and simply had it published under my name. She's just as much responsible for it as I am. We made up a different author, a man who was a doctor like me and wrote the stories and tried to kill Sherlock Holmes on purpose. It was just a satire, just made to show how overwhelming being the creator of something so popular could be. And it worked, Mr. Holmes. The public became more sympathetic to my cause… but it came back to bite me in a different way. Suddenly I wasn't just John Holmes. I wasn't just Sherlock Holmes the great detective. I was Sherlock Holmes, the national hero, and suddenly everyone cared. That's where we are now. I'm still a national hero, but that doesn't change the fact I'll be gone soon."
"And you're certain?"
"Yes. But don't worry, it's contagious. As a matter of face, it's not even a disease that exists in your world. I know because I almost give it to Watson, but then I decided I liked the idea of it not existing in your stories at all."
"Good," Holmes snapped stroppily. "You've done enough to harm Watson."
"Ah, yes, my apologies. I didn't know he was alive, else I would have given him a happier backstory than my mother's. As I said, she was the last of her line, and so I made him the last of his."
"And you made him get shot in Afghanistan," Holmes accused.
"Nothing worse than my own leg wound, I assure you. I know I can't walk now, but that's not due to being shot, it's due to the disease. And as I said, I didn't know he was real Mr. Holmes. I don't enjoy inflicting harm on any fellow creature."
Holmes frowned. "Watson was shot in the shoulder, too," he reminded him.
The author frowned. "Was he? I don't think I did that. Wait a minute…" John groaned, covering his eyes with his hand for a moment. "That stupid first draft," he murmured. "I forgot that was in the first draft, the one that got published. You're right, of course you are. I'd simply completely forgotten. The draft with your real names, that's the one where I shot him in the leg."
Holmes frowned, but he couldn't blame the man. He hadn't known he was actually harming Watson with the slip-up, and maybe it was as he had theorized: maybe he really didn't control their lives at all.
"Sorry," Holmes apologized to him. "I'm just… worried about him right now."
"I understand. But as I said, it should be all well. Nevertheless, I shall make myself a note right now to write up a story that I've been contemplating for you."
"What were our original names?" Holmes asked out of sheer curiosity.
"You were Sherrinford instead of Sherlock, Sherrinford Hope."
Holmes snickered in a very undignified way.
John cracked a smile, too. "Yes, well, at the time I did think it was a good name for a detective. But I'm honestly glad Sherlock Holmes stuck. And Watson's name! There's one I shall never reveal to the public! Not my best, I fear."
"What was it?"
"Oh, see for yourself," John sighed. He reached into a drawer in his desk and pulled out a bundle of papers. "There. That's what supposed to be the final draft of what became 'A Study in Scarlet.' I've been meaning to burn the thing, actually."
Holmes took it eagerly, scanning the first line. "A Study In Scarlet," it declared. "Part One. (Being a reprint from the reminiscences of Ormond Sacker, M.D., late of the Army Medical Department.)" Holmes snickered again. Ormond! Well, at least they both had unusual names to begin with.
"I wonder," said the author with a smile, "if somewhere out there Sherrinford and Ormond exist, just like you and Watson do. All that I've been allowed to know has also made me wonder if there isn't a world in between ours, Sherlock Holmes. If all stories may come true, maybe my author from the satire story came true, too. Maybe there a whole world where my made-up author really did write the stories. If so, I'm sorry I made him hate them so much. I really don't mind writing for you, Sherlock Holmes. I just have other stories that also demand my attention."
"Did you write professor Challenger's stories?"
"I did. And if you ever meet him don't tell him so, but you're by far my favorite stories to write."
Holmes grinned slightly. "I..."
"Father? Father are you here? I… oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know you had a visitor."
John smiled. "James! I didn't hear you come in. I'll be with you in a moment, this is an old friend of mine."
"Of course. Pleasure to meet you, sir," said the young man, bowing slightly before retreating.
"It looks like you did a good job regardless of your illness or your fame," Holmes complimented him.
"I like to think so. I have two more like him, and one girl who is the spitting image of her mother. I like to think I've done well with them all. At least I know that when it is time to go that I will be leaving four good people all ready to be greater than I ever was. It's their mother I hate leaving. I promised Beatrice a lifetime of love and I've given her everything I've had to give, I just didn't know I wouldn't have more time to give it in."
"John!" Holmes heard a voice call. "John? You didn't tell me you were having a visitor. When did he come in?"
"My wife," John said to Holmes. "He's just passing through," he told the woman who entered. Holmes swallowed hard as she entered; she looked like Mary Watson might have had she lived to grow old.
"Would you like anything?" she asked, but Holmes caught the look she gave her husband: she was silently demanding him not to strain himself. And from the look he gave her back, Holmes knew the author would have done anything she asked of him. The dynamic reminded him of Watson and Mary, and he wondered if more than his own self was based on the Author's own life.
"He was actually just leaving," John said. "Unless… there was anything else?"
"I don't think so," Holmes said softly. "I… thank you." He handed back the papers he was holding, but not before scanning down to see that the author had been telling the truth about Watson's injury. He had, in this final draft, only been shot in the leg.
"Of course, my friend. It's been a pleasure," said John.
"It's been a pleasure," Holmes repeated.
Mrs. Beatrice Holmes had already left them to their privacy, and Sherlock Holmes felt a strange emotion settle in his chest. He stepped to the author. "I doubt we'll ever meet again in our lifetimes, and I know you have said that the magic won't allow you to remember me, but I will never forget you." He knelt down on one knee like a knight before his sovereign, and he grasped the man's knee as if begging for mercy. "When I came here, I was prepared to hate you, but now I realize I could never. I could never hate you any more than I could hate Watson. We are one, you and I and Watson, and whatever the future holds, I know our destinies are somehow intertwined. I will see you again, it just won't look like what we think it will." He closed his eyes, and laid his forehead on his hands where they rested on the author's knee.
He grew strangely faint, as if he'd been walking for a long time without water. When the spell passed and he looked up, he found was kneeling in front of a large stone. He raised himself slowly to his feet and watched as in front of him, four young people played a game of cricket in the early morning light. Holmes saw one hit the ball so hard that it shattered a window of the manor behind them.
He turned away, the world spinning slowly around him, and he was outside of a courtyard that looked like it belonged to a university. In the courtyard, a man and a woman stood talking in the moonlight, both dressed in university robes. As Holmes watched, they embraced like they were young and in love and couldn't care less if anyone saw them.
He turned again. Night turned into morning, and Holmes saw a very small man sitting on a bench outside of his home blowing smoke rings while somewhere in the distance someone was coming. These were stories, he realized, and they were beyond him, beyond his time. He was travelling backwards. Holmes turned once more, and he was back in London.
And there was Watson! Watson the way he'd been once: the way Holmes remembered him anytime he cared to remember the day they met. Watson had been younger, then, but not quite so healthy-looking: he was still weak and thin and his skin was slightly yellowed from the fever he'd endured. Holmes watched him as he exited Saint Bart's, paused, and glanced upwards towards the windows of the labs on the upper floor. His face gave away nothing at first, but then the corner of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly.
Holmes knew Watson and he had just met, that Watson was thinking about him and their meeting, was thinking about what it was going to be like to live with him as roommates. And he was feeling good about it. He had to be, else why smile like that?
It made Holmes strangely glad, all this. When he'd learned that he was fictional, he'd been worried that Watson wasn't really his friend, that he was only fond of him because he was supposed to be, because he didn't have a choice. But now Holmes knew that they were one, crafted from the same mold. They practically shared pieces of the same soul. No matter what, he and Watson were friends. Real friends, practically brothers, and they'd always be. They were always meant to find each other, Mike Stamford or no. They would have found each other even if it hadn't been written for them.
He turned one more time and found himself on Baker Street. He walked towards home automatically, wondering if he was actually, finally, home. He wondered how Watson was. He had no doubt after his meeting with the author that he'd find his friend alive, but that didn't mean he wasn't worried about him. Was he awake? In pain? How long had it even been since he had left? Was Watson worried about him?
He should have been wondering if Mrs. Hudson was worried about him instead, because the moment he opened the door she was shrieking. He distinctly heard her say something about three days as she alternated between yelling at him and sobbing. Had it really been that long? It didn't feel like anytime at all had passed. She was pushing at his chest, still yelling nonsensically, and he wrapped his arms around her, resting her head against his chest as she sobbed.
"What happened to you?" she sobbed after he'd held her for a moment and she'd stopped struggling. "We thought we'd lost you. And poor Watson kept crying for you and I couldn't tell him where you were! I hate you sometimes. I hate you! Why didn't you tell us where you were? At least you sent your friend, but we wanted you! Where did you go? And what…" she pulled away from him, looking down at his side. "What the hell is that? You left us to go get a sword?"
Holmes stared at her for a moment. She'd never lost her temper so badly that she'd sworn at him before. He must have really given her a fright. He looked down, too, when he realized she was staring at something on his side "Oh. Right. I forgot I still had that," he murmured, pushing the dagger backwards and covering it with his hand. "Mrs. Hudson, what do you mean I sent my friend?"
She reached up and felt his forehead with her hand. "Are you well? Don't you remember?"
"Mrs. Hudson, please. I'm fine. But I didn't send anyone. Now please, I must see Watson." He headed up the stairs. "Is he awake?"
"Yes, Mr. Holmes. Your other friend is with him. But I must warn you, he's not…"
Holmes paused in the doorway, staring at the sight that met him in his living room. "Oh," he breathed. "That friend."
In front of him, Ebeneezer Scrooge was sitting on his couch and Watson was leaning against his side as the old man helped him drink some water.
"Oh," Holmes breathed again. He had forgotten that he'd even told Scrooge his troubles. Apparently, Scrooge had not and had taken it upon himself to help. It wouldn't have been hard to find his residence, any fool knew where he lived in 221B Baker Street.
Scrooge turned and smiled widely. "Mr. Holmes! We're so glad you've returned."
Weakly, Watson turned to look, too. He looked horrible, but at least he was awake.
"Your friend," Mrs. Hudson murmured, "he thinks he's Ebeneezer Scrooge. He's not all there, if you know what I mean."
Holmes went to Watson quickly, ignoring Scrooge and taking his place by Watson's side.
"Watson…"
"You," Watson said tiredly, "You're finally back. Thank God. Are you hurt."
"No. Not badly, Watson. Don't worry about me."
"Good," Watson sighed tiredly. "Because you... you have a lot of explaining to do."