"Commander, should we execute the prisoners?" The question came from a sergeant whose eyes were darting around and whose right hand kept clenching every few seconds.
"No," Watson said. He was standing facing the window, and below him he could hear the voices of his men.
"Sir, if the rebels…"
"We are not like them," Watson snapped. "We will not stoop to their level. We will defend this prison and we will not allow the rebels to overtake us. Is that understood?"
"Sir!" the sergeant saluted.
Watson closed his eyes very briefly, alone for just a moment. He was all-too aware that the rebels outnumbered them, and they were gaining ground fast. The prison would, likely, soon fall, and if the rebels came in and freed the prisoners it would be chaos. His men wouldn't stand a chance, but Watson wouldn't allow all prisoners to be slaughtered by their guards while they sat in their cells defenseless. Were the worst to happen and the prisoners to be freed then, of course, they would defend themselves, but that would be a different scenario. Watson would not allow his men to become murderers or war criminals, especially not when it seemed that they would, all of them, soon stand before their God for judgement.
Watson opened his eyes and took a deep breath. Today would be a good day to die, and he would try to have a noble death. Around him, gunfire raged, and he flinched as a bullet shattered more glass, embedding itself in the far wall of his newly gained office. The office was so newly gained, in fact, that its previous occupant hadn't yet been moved from the spot on the floor where he'd died less than an hour before. Watson stepped over him as another sergeant entered.
"Sir, they've breached the North entrance. Our troops have fallen back to…"
Then, the rebels were on them, two of them that must have broken through the line.
One pushed the sergeant away as Watson raised his gun at the other. He almost fired, but then he was alone with the two rebels, both of their guns aimed at his chest. They had locked the door from the inside and he was alone with them. He raised his chin, studying them. They hadn't fired a shot yet and so neither did he. If there was a chance to negotiate then he'd take that. The two were dressed in the all black uniform rebels preferred, including their faces covered in black cloth. One was exceptionally tall and seemed to be in charge while his companion was shorter and slighter.
"Call for a cease fire!" the tall one demanded.
Watson gazed at them steadily, waiting for them to kill him.
"Call for a cease fire!" the tall man cried again. "Our people are dying out there! Please, we are not on opposite sides here! We are all English! We all want the same things!"
Watson still didn't answer, but he did hesitate. Outside, the sergeant pounded on the steel door, trying to get in.
"Damn you!" the tall man cried. "Let me see here…"
Watson didn't know how the other man figured it out, but it took him a few moments of searching the office to figure out their codes.
"Waterloo!" he cried as he found a yellow flag and raised it out the office window. That was the signal for a ceasefire and somehow this rebel must have known it.
Watson lunged at him to stop him, not sure what kind of trick this was, but the man pistol whipped him across the head, which felled him. When he came back to himself, the gun was still in his face but the gunfire all around him had stopped.
"I'm sorry about that," the man said, "but our goal was to make the fighting stop as quickly as possible. We had to get in, but I mean what I said: we are not on opposite sides here."
"We may both be English, but we are not the same," Watson growled.
"We are." The man pulled off his black mask, allowing Watson to see his face. "We are both good and loyal Englishmen. I just so happen to know something you don't. The queen is alive."
Watson shook his head, but that just made his head throb and he closed his eyes briefly.
"Help me get him up," the tall man said, and Watson felt the two rebels lift him onto a chair.
"Here," the leader said, and he gave Watson a piece of paper. "Proof that our sovereign Victoria lives. It is the new prime minister's lies that have convinced us otherwise. He's been grabbing power, and its nearly worked. We, who you call rebels, are the ones who know the truth, and our goal is to spread it and take back our country before it's too late and Victoria really has been killed."
Watson read the letter before him. "I don't know what to believe," he admitted softly. "How could this be true?"
"You are a loyal soldier," the man said. "I know how you feel. But you have seen how radically the government changed when the new prime minister came in. The aggressive foreign policies, the alliance with Germany, and, of course, hiding away our queen from some vague threat and then reporting her death. When, in fact, the only threat to her was from him. We are here to convince you, not kill you. Why else do you think we asked to come negotiate? We fought our way in because we had to, but a ceasefire was always our goal. We have not freed the prisoners, we have not slaughtered your men. If you walk outside you will see your men and mine working to help the injured, working like brothers. Because that's what we are."
"Very well," Watson said, "let's say I believe you. What do you want from us? Why fight us at all?"
"Because we're vulnerable," the man replied. "The Prime Minister won't say so, but we're in a civil war and the rest of the world knows it. France is ready to invade, and the only reason they haven't is because…"
"Britannia rules the waves," the two men both said together.
"We need you on our side to reinstate the monarchy and parliament and expose the prime minister as the traitor he is. If we tarry too long, we risk Victoria being actually killed and invasion from foreign powers. I was especially hoping to convince you and get you on our side, Colonel Watson."
"You know who I am?"
"I do. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and it is my business to know what others don't know. I know your heroism in the battle of London brought you to the notice of the prime minister and that he personally gave you your promotion and sent you here to be second in command. I was hoping to find you."
"Why?"
"Because he knows you. You, John Watson, are the key to getting close to Moriarty."
"I think you overestimate the influence I may have. Prime Minister Moriarty decorated me along with several others, and I doubt he remembers it. And I was no hero; all I did was defend the hospital I happened to be in from gunfire and I worked to get the injured to safety. I never meant to get a promotion from it. I wasn't even active in the military at the time; I was a civilian. I promise you, I've never wanted to be anything besides a doctor."
"I think you're wrong," Holmes said, not specifying which part he was disagreeing with. "Will you help us?"
"I… perhaps. What are you wanting me to do? I won't do anything to harm England."
Holmes hesitated.
"You want me to kill him," Watson said with a frown.
"No. We want to capture him. But if we can't…"
"I get it," Watson snapped. He picked up the letter from queen Victoria and studied it again, closing his eyes briefly. "I don't want to be on the wrong side of this," he murmured. "I'm no traitor."
"I know you're not," Sherlock Holmes said. "Neither am I. Neither are any of us. We all were deceived by Moriarty, and now that he's taken full control of the government we need to take back England before it's too late.."
"And how did you come to know this is the truth?" Watson asked, holding up the letter.
"Because my brother was among the government officials targeted by Moriarty and is in hiding with Queen Victoria and the royal family. He sent me this and sent me to convince our brothers of the truth. With God as my witness, I am telling you the truth."
"Enough, I am convinced. I will help your cause if I can." Watson's words were soft, but his jaw was set and Holmes was certain he meant it.
"Good," Holmes said with a sharp nod. "I believe you. Here." He unclipped his own holster and placed his pistol into it, holding it out to Watson.
The doctor took it slowly. He held it, and Sherlock Holmes stood defenseless before him, the other rebel leaning against the wall and not reaching for their gun. Holmes waited patiently, giving Watson a good long time to decide whether to kill him or not. Finally, Watson clipped the holster to his own belt. He reciprocated, picking his own pistol up from where it had fallen during the altercation and silently offering it to the other man. Holmes took it, letting it dangle between them for a moment, but then secreted it inside his jacket. It was as good a peace treaty as any other could have been.
"Our time is limited, and we must go," Homes said. "You and I will go alone, so as not to raise suspicion, but my troops will not be far behind. Come, I'll continue to brief you on the way."
Watson stood and stumbled, the world tilting around him oddly. The other rebel in the room, the shorter one who had neither spoken nor taken his mask off, caught him. Something was off about this man, Watson knew it even as he thanked him. The other didn't respond, just handed him over to Holmes who helped steady him until he had regained his feet.
"You're in charge," Holmes told the other man, and then he led Watson out of the office.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at them. Watson's men reached for their guns slowly, ready to begin the fight again at his word.
"We have reached a truce," Watson declared, "The rebels are not here to kill us or free the prisoners. I am traveling with Sherlock Holmes to London to attend peace talks. Higgins, you're in charge. Work with their number two, he's in the office. You'll receive new orders soon. Until then, the rebels are our countrymen and should not be treated as prisoners."
"Sir!"
Despite the anxiety that was still palpable in the air, the look on everyone's face was relieved. No one wanted to kill their brothers, and looking around none of them were acting like enemies regardless of whether they wore the all black of the rebels or the red of the army.
"Will your people tell them the truth?" Watson asked Holmes once they were outside.
"Yes, but slowly. It doesn't do any good to seem like crazy conspirators. The letter will go around and convince your troops to join mine. Or, I suppose, mine will join your ranks as the case may be. Here, allow me to help you up."
With Holmes' help, Watson mounted a gelding and took the reins in hand. Holmes mounted another, and the two set off. While the situation was so volatile, trains had stopped running regularly and only carried soldiers. For that reason, Holmes and Watosn would be riding to London on horseback.
"Were you injured in the Battle of London?" Holmes asked after they'd gone a bit away.
"No. It happened before I came back," Watson answered, and explained how he'd been injured in Afghanistan and had been sent to London to convalesce, which was why he'd been there when the battle had broken out. So now, though he was supposed to be recovering, he was fighting once again.
"And I suppose the blow I just dealt you didn't help," Holmes said, cringing apologetically. "Will you be alright riding until nightfall?"
"I'll have to be," Watson said with a tight frown. "As you say, time is short."
"Here," Sherlock Holmes said, holding out a canteen.
"Thanks," Watson replied, taking a drink and then wetting a cloth and holding it up to the knock on his head.
"Perhaps it will lend credibility to your story that you've just come from battle."
"I have just come from battle," Watson pointed out.
"Touche. But the outcome was not quite what Moriarty was hoping for."
"No. But, in a way, it was the result I was hoping for. I became a doctor to help people, and I became an army doctor to save lives. I never thought I'd kill a man unless it was strictly self defense, especially not another Englishman. I would have never thought I'd fire on men on English soil."
"Nor did I," Holmes said. "And I certainly didn't want to attack the prison, you know. But Colonel Richmond wouldn't listen and we needed to get through. I suppose we all do things we regret, especially in war-time."
"Yes," Watson murmured sadly. "We do."
They rode in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. It was getting dark when Holmes pulled his horse to a stop.
"I've been insensitive," he declared. "We've been riding for hours and I'm sure you haven't eaten much today. My apologies, doctor. I myself need less sustenance than most men and I'm afraid I often forget others are not like me. Come, right ahead through that copse of trees is the home of one of our sympathizers which now lies temporarily empty. We're far enough away from the railroad tracks and from the cities that I doubt we'll be knocked up out here, and even if the army does come, it shouldn't be too hard to bluff our way out of it. You are a colonel, after all. I'm sure they'll believe you."
In the dim light, Holmes couldn't see how pale Watson was, but he could see the look on his face. He dismounted as Watson struggled to, and stepped over just in time to catch the doctor before he fell.
"Sorry," Watson got out, his voice cracking.
"I'll tend to the horses, you stay here," he said, helping Watson down to sit on the porch. When he came back, Watson watched as Holmes deftly picked the lock to let them in. Then, with both of their saddlebags still slung over one shoulder, Holmes helped Watson inside.
"You sure you're not a rebel?" Watson asked as Holmes looked through the larder for food. "Where did you learn that?"
"Hmm? What are you referring to? The lockpicking?"
"Yes."
"Believe it or don't as you like, but I wasn't always leading a troop of so-called rebels. In my life before Moriarty, I was a consulting detective."
"A consulting detective? What sort of a profession is that?"
"One of my very own," Holmes said, and explained what he meant as he brought over some bread, sausage and cheese. He sat on the floor in front of the couch Watson was reclining on, his own food in hand. Watson listened in silence, only occasionally asking a clarifying question.
"How did I end up here?" Watson sighed more to himself than to Holmes after Holmes had finished his explanation and they sat in silence for some minutes. "This morning I was certain I was going to die defending the prison. Now, I'm convinced the queen is alive and I am helping a rebel to kidnap or kill the prime minister. Maybe I've finally cracked."
"Maybe," Holmes admitted, "But if you have, please do refrain from losing it completely until after the mission is over."
Watson huffed a laugh. "Very well," he murmured. "I will try."
"So who are you? Now that you know who I am, I mean," Holmes asked, and seemed genuinely curious.
"Me? I'm no one, not really," Watson answered him with a small, sad shrug. "I'm not even much of a doctor anymore, not like this."
"Oh. Where will you go when this is over?"
"I probably won't be alive," Watson pointed out, "but in the event that I am, I have no idea. I was living out of a hotel trying to get better when all of the sudden war came to me instead."
"What side of the war is your family on?" Holmes asked gently.
"I have none, at least none in England, and I highly suspect that if I still did then they would fall on whichever side they thought would profit them the most."
"Oh."
"Sorry," they both said at once, and each chuckled awkwardly before sitting in silence once more.
"When you meet Moriarty tomorrow," Holmes said, "I will be nearby. If he sees through our ruse, I will do what I can to protect you. And I warn you that it is likely that he will see through our ruse, doctor. He is an incredibly shrewd man, and intelligent enough to fool a nation. As I say, I will try to help you. If it is up to me you will not be dead by the end of this, but I cannot make any guarantees."
"Of course not," Watson said. "Nevertheless, I thank you."
Watson's voice was weak and tired, and Holmes rose to find a blanket. By the time he got back, the doctor was asleep, and Holmes covered him gently as he wondered if he was doing the right thing by bringing him along.
Holmes sat on the floor where he had been, leaning his head back against the cushion and closing his eyes. He brought his hands up to his lips as he thought, steepling them in the position he liked to take while he was thinking. Mycroft, he was sure, was about to be very, very mad at him.
"Doctor… Watson, isn't it? A pleasure to see you again. Please, sit down. You look like you've been put through it. I'm sorry to see that the rebels got you, but happy to see you alive. I remember you, doctor. Please, sit."
"Sir," Watson said with a quick salute. "Thank you, sir," he said as he sat. "I have, as you say, been through it, sir, but no more than any of the others. Colonel Richmond has sent me to London with a message for you, sir."
"Proceed."
"Sir, we've subdued the rebels throughout the town of Dartmoor, but some have feld into hiding on the moors. We also have some inside intelligence about the information they are spreading to the civilians, sir."
"And what would that be?"
"They say the queen is alive, sir, and that she is rallying the troops to take back the government from you, sir."
"If only our dear Victoria really did still live," Moriarty said. "Certainly no one believes them."
"That was also part of the message, sir, and why Colonel Richmond sent me. Some of them do, and the rebel's numbers are only growing, even in hiding. Do we know the source of these rumors?"
Watson hadn't thought he'd given himself away, but in the next moment Moriarty's gun was resting on the desk, pointed directly at him.
"What a shame," the odious man drawled. "I really thought you were an ally, Colonel Watson. I had my eye on your career, you know. You could have risen through the ranks and become powerful and respected. When I saw Sherlock Holmes' pistol on your belt I even hoped that meant you had taken it off of his cold, dead body and done me a favor by killing him. Now I see you've defected to his side. Like I said, it's a shame. Tell me, Doctor, what is their plan? Do it now and I might kill you quickly instead of what I have planned for a traitor like you."
Watson raised his chin. "Is she alive?" he asked, all pretense of respect gone.
"She won't be," Moriarty growled, "when I find her. And Mycroft Holmes and Sherlock Holmes and all of the others will be crushed under my heel. Despite your attempts here, I will crush them. England is mine to control."
"Never," Watson growled. "You fooled us in the beginning, but no more. You must have always known your sham would fall apart."
"No! I am the future of England! All the nations will be under my command!"
"You're insane!"
There was a sound that seemed like an explosion, but Watson knew from experience that it wasn't. It was the sound of several guns going off at once, and he was all-too aware that none of them were his. Watson had been around gunfire enough that he knew he should drop, should find cover, but something was wrong. He was already on the ground, letting the fighting happen around him. He knew he should be staying vigilant, should be looking for the injured, but he somehow couldn't focus.
That was when the pain hit him. He knew he'd been shot, but he somehow was lethargic about it, mostly wondering vaguely why this time felt so different than the last time he'd been struck by a bullet. He could feel hot blood seeping through his fingers, and knew he was clutching his wound. That wasn't really what he should be doing, but he couldn't find the strength for anything else.
He closed his eyes and could see blood surging across his eyelids, hear each bullet that was whizzing above him, taste smoke. He felt his consciousness fading, dragged from him like a fish caught on a line. His mind was stalled, and he could only hope that whichever afterlife he ended up in, he would be allowed to know what happened to his beloved England.
"Why him?"
The voice Watson heard was loud and annoyed and annoying and Watson wished it would stop.
"I told you to travel South, Sherlock, and bring the letter to General Howe. And you went to Dartmoor to convince a doctor who is practically a civilian? What were you thinking?"
"Oh, bug off, Mycroft. It worked, didn't it? I… had a good feeling about him. I saw him, you know, in the battle of London. He doesn't think he did anything heroic, but I saw how he brought the injured army men and rebels alike to safety. Risking his own, might I add. I said to myself, 'Here is a man who would help me save England.' When I learned he'd met Moriarty and had been promoted by him personally, I knew I wanted him on our side."
"You're lucky, Sherlock. Had you failed, I would have never forgiven you. And if Moriarty had killed me, I would have gotten my revenge if I had to haunt you to do so."
"Don't be ridiculous. If Moriarty had gotten to you, the chance I would have still been alive when he did would be slim to none. I… look, he's coming around. Doctor? Can you hear me?"
Watson had been hearing the conversation vaguely, as if underwater, the words not clear. He did hear those, though, and so he tried to respond. He felt sluggish and weak, however, in a way he could only recall being under the influence of morphine. It was a hard process to wake. Slowly, he remembered what had happened. He didn't recall everything, but he remembered learning that he was on the wrong side of the war. He struggled in earnest to wake up then; he needed to know what had happened. He felt someone's hand on his shoulder near his collarbone, not pushing him but keeping him down.
"Be at ease," the person said. "Don't try to rise. It is over now, and there is nothing more you need to do."
Watson blinked his eyes open and struggled to focus. "It's you," he slurred, trying but unable to connect the face and voice to a name.
"Yes. It's me. Perhaps not the friend you were hoping for but hopefully not too disappointing. I did save your life, after all. And that's not to make you feel an obligation to me, mind you, but to point out quite the opposite. I now find myself having quite the obligation to you. I am invested in making sure you stay alive now that I've had to do so much to keep you that way. It doesn't quite make sense."
"I am a doctor," Watson said weakly. "I know what you mean."
The other man nodded seriously, helping him sit up partially, and plying him with water. He waited patiently as Watson struggled to drink, seemingly not caring about the mess they made. When Watson had drunk, a man standing behind the first cleared his throat which made the first man roll his eyes. "Doctor Watson, meet my brother, Mycroft Holmes."
"Sir Watson," said Mycroft, "it is my pleasure."
"You…" Watson said slowly, "we were protecting you?"
"Yes," Mycroft said. "I suppose it's fair to say you were fighting to protect me, though I was only one of many who Moriarty sought to destroy. Because of Sherlock here, though, I'm sure mine was the name he brought up when telling you of the situation."
"Sherlock," Watson said slowly, eyeing the first man. "That's you."
"That's me," Holmes affirmed. "Don't you remember?"
"Somewhat," Watson murmured.
"That is understandable," Mycroft said. "You have been insensible for a long time. Sherlock has come to visit you often, and he reports that you've not been fully lucid until now I'm glad to see you alive."
"How long?" Watson asked.
"Nearly a month," Sherlock answered.
Watson closed his eyes tiredly, upset to hear that. The first time he'd been shot it had been very much the same, an infection causing him fever and delirium for a long time. He'd then lingered unwell for a couple months after that, typhoid robbing him of his strength, appetite, and even his sanity at times. Then, he'd been shipped back to London to recover and had found himself caught in the middle of a civil war. Now here he was, back at the beginning.
"This is not Peshawar," Sherlock Holmes said, seemingly reading his mind with ease. "You're in hospital, in a room to yourself, not crowded in with a hundred others. And the water is clean. Well, as clean as can be."
"Soon you'll be home," Mycroft assured him.
"And I think you'll find you're something of a hero, Doctor Watson," came a voice from the doorway.
All three turned sharply and Watson attempted to rise. The movement made his head spin which made him miss nearly all of what queen Victoria was saying. He could feel Sherlock Holmes' hand on his shoulder, though, and looked up at him when she was gone.
"I know," Sherlock said. "It was a shock to me, too."
"What?"
"Mycroft didn't tell me I was being knighted because he knew I'd decline it. Obviously, the reason you weren't told is because you weren't lucid at the time. Both of us missed the ceremony, but, as she said, you're a bit of a hero now."
"What?" Watson asked, still confused.
"You have been knighted," Mycroft told him. "And are invited to dine with the queen when you are well so she can thank you personally for your service to England. There was a time when even I began to lose hope we could take back our government from Moriarty, but our queen never did. As long as there were Englishmen, she knew the truth would come out and England would never fall to Moriarty."
"Where is he?" Watson asked weakly.
"You mean Moriarty? He's gone," Sherlock said. "He was injured and knew he was beaten, and leaped out the window to his death. Tried to take me with him, too, but I saved myself by catching onto the ledge and climbed back up. Good thing for you I did, doctor. If you'll remember, I promised to protect you if I could, and I looked for you while everyone else was focusing on the other injured. By the time I got to you it was nearly too late. I thought you were going to die, and I'm glad you didn't. As Mycroft said, I've been here checking up on you because I didn't know who else to tell."
"There's no one," Watson said sadly, his words a bit slurred. He wanted to rest.
"Don't," Sherlock said, seemingly reading his mind. "You need to wait for the doctor. They're stretched a bit thin with all the wounded from the war, but I'm sure someone will be here soon."
As if on cue, a doctor entered.
"I'll be back tomorrow," Sherlock promised.
Watson nodded, vaguely wondering why he cared, and happy that he did. It was good not to be alone.
Sherlock Holmes was as good as his word, visiting Watson every day until he was released. Sometimes they both talked, and sometimes Holmes chatted about anything and everything while Watson half-dozed. His company was welcome, especially considering the treatment Watson had received the first time he'd been shot. There had been no comfort then, no friends to sit and cheer him. Holmes had even taken it upon himself to find a place to stay for both of them as roommates when Watson got released, an act which Watson was grateful for. He hadn't known what his plans for the future were, and it would be easier to live with a friend. And Sherlock Holmes, despite his oddities, was quickly becoming a friend.
Holmes was there, naturally, when Watson was given clearance to leave from the doctor, and a woman was there accompanying Holmes when he came to help Watson walk out and go home.
"Mary Morstan, meet Doctor Watson," Holmes introduced them outside of the hospital. "Doctor Watson, Ms. Mary Morstan. Ms. Morstan is an old friend who has graciously volunteered to help me help you get settled. I've found a comfortable suite of rooms for us at a reasonable price. We are knights, after all, and the landlady is happy to rent to us."
Watson nodded in response to Holmes' words, but his gaze was fixed on Mary. There was something about her, some spark in her eyes, some kind of recognition… he turned away, leaned against the wall, and retched violently onto the floor.
He'd seen her before. He'd seen her eyes. They were the same eyes that had looked back at him from behind a black rebel's mask in the prison. This woman had been at the battle, had been Holmes' second in command. Watson had been prepared to shoot her when she'd entered the office.
"We did what we had to," she said softly. "And we had to do it with who we had."
Watson said nothing, his eyes squeezed shut. It had been bad enough he'd killed his own countrymen, but now he would forever wonder if one of the masked, faceless "rebels" he's shot and killed had been a woman just trying to help preserve her country. What if he had killed Mary Morstan that day? He had come close to it. He wasn't sure if could stand to live with himself if he had. He never wanted to kill anything ever again, not even a rat or a fly or anything else he hated. He never wanted to be anything besides a doctor again, not even a knight. He never wanted to do anything but save lives.
He realized he must have been mumbling his thoughts aloud, because the next thing he knew he was sitting down and Holmes and Mary were on either side of him.
"You've saved plenty," Holmes mumbled, clearly uncomfortable.
"How many were killed?" Watson asked, his voice weak and defeated even to his own ears. "How many women?"
Holmes and Mary exchanged a look.
"There was no one inexperienced with weaponry," Mary replied guardedly, "and we all knew the risks. I was an officer's daughter in India, you see, and I can handle myself. That's why Mister, er, I mean, Sir Holmes chose me to help him. He knew I knew that I knew what I was doing. There weren't… many of us killed. Not all things considered."
Watson took a deep breath, steadying himself. Perhaps it really was best that he didn't know everything. "I want to go home," be murmured, "But I don't even know where that is."
"Neither do I," Holmes said softly. "Not really."
"Neither do I," Mary admitted with a small shrug.
"But I do know something," Holmes said confidently.
"What's that?" asked Watson when he didn't elaborate.
"The next step. You, John Watson, need to keep getting better, because we've got an appointment at Buckingham Palace that can't be ignored."
John Watson was wearing an army uniform, and the medals on his chest felt foreign to him. The rank of Colonel was also foreign to him, as he'd gone straight from being an assistant surgeon to practically in command of the medical corps. Then, he'd been in charge of defending the prison and then had become a rebel. It had all happened so fast.
Too fast, in fact, for Watson's liking. He'd insisted that since his sudden, rapid promotion through the ranks had been given to him by Moriarty personally, likely as a ploy to gain and keep his loyalty and thus the loyalty of any troops under him, that it should be stripped from him as illegitimate, but no one had listened. He was, as he'd been warned, a bit of a hero, and everyone but him seemed to think the rank and knighthood he'd been given were justified. Now, especially after the honor of dining with the queen, it seemed as if the invitations to this Lord's or that Dame's parties never ceased.
Nevertheless, though he didn't think he'd earned it, his new status did give him some confidence. And he needed some confidence at the moment. He swallowed hard, stepping away from the party and out onto the balcony.
Mary turned, smiling at him. She looked stunning, her gorgeous blue dress a far cry from the black dregs of the rebels, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of her.
"I came out here to be alone for a moment," she said.
"Oh. I…" he stammered.
"But the only thing I like more than being alone is being alone with you. Please, stay for a moment."
He finally relaxed, then, and smiled back. "I came out here hoping to find you alone for a moment. I don't feel like I belong here." He inclined his head back towards the party where lords and ladies and knights and dames all milled about celebrating. "I don't feel like I belong to most places anymore, but I do feel like I belong when I'm with you."
She reached out to him. Or perhaps he reached out to her. Or, most likely, they reached for each other at once, their hands finding each other as if by instinct. He brought their clasped hands up to lips and kissed her wrist. He felt his heart skip several beats as he lowered their hands, but he didn't let go. Instead, he grasped her hand in both of his.
"I want you to be my new home," he breathed, hoping his sincerity would show on his face.
"And I want you to be mine," she answered, stepping close to him.
They came together in an embrace, not caring that anyone from the party could be watching them through the windows.
"I love you," Watson sighed breathlessly when they parted. "Marry me. Please, Mary, say you will."
She giggled, feeling giddy like a schoolgirl. "Yes, John. Yes, of course I'll marry you."
They embraced once more, and it was impossible to determine who was clutching the other tighter.
Finally, they parted, each smiling like an idiot.
Then, reality set in, and each made a confession to clear the air. "Do you know what Sherlock Holmes did for me?" Mary asked at the same time Watson said, "I'm not really a Colonel."
They each laughed, smiling at each other. "Sorry," they both said, again doing it at the same time.
"Yes," Watson affirmed after another laugh. "Holmes told me about the treasure hunt."
Mary nodded, almost sadly. "I'm a rich woman, I'm afraid. It's a life I'm new to, and I don't really feel like a lady."
"That's alright. I'm a knight. It's a life I'm new to, and I don't really feel like a gentleman."
"I was a rebel."
"And I almost killed you."
"Yes," Mary said, smiling ruefully. "You did, didn't you? I suppose if that fact can't break us up nothing else can, but what else do you have to confess?"
"I love you."
"I love you."
They embraced again, until Watson let out a little exclamation and jumped back.
"John?"
"I forgot," he murmured, fumbling in his pocket. "Sorry, I… well, it's not much…" he pulled a ring out of his pocket.
She touched his face. "I love it."
He smiled, taking her hand in his and putting the plain gold band on her finger. Then, he leaned down, and she tilted her head up… and that, of course, was the moment Sherlock Holmes came out looking for them.
"Watson? Are you out here? Mary? I've got… ah!"
They both turned to see him retreating. Mary giggled and rested her head on her fiance's chest as Watson's face flushed red with embarrassment.
"I suppose we should go see what he wants," Watson mumbled, clearly upset.
"Not until we finish our business here," Mary protested.
Watson wasn't sure if he gave back some witty reply or not, because the next thing he knew he was finally kissing her and she was all he could think about. He could have lived in that moment for a lifetime, and it felt like he could see into his future. This. This was the future, and even though he would never forget the past, he could look forward to a future with the rebel he had once failed to kill.
When they finally parted, he held her for a long moment as rational thought finally came back to him. He sighed deeply.
"We should go back," he murmured. "People will talk."
"I am sure," Mary said. "They're talking already. You're going to have to make an honest woman out of me after thsi" she teased.
"There is a notary and a priest here," Watson said. "Let's do it tonight."
"I'll settle for an announcement," she replied. "Let's tell Sir Holmes first."
"Holmes! He needed us for something!"
Mary nodded. "Let's go find him."
They found him at their table, three glasses of an expensive wine in front of him. Wordlessly, he passed them out and the three of them held them up.
"To you," Holmes murmured. "Congratulations."
They drank, and then settled into their seats, John and Mary close together, their hands clasped beneath the table.
"Be my man of honor?" Watson asked Holmes.
Holmes, who had been taking another sip of wine, choked a bit. "M-me?" he stammered.
"Yes, of course, Holmes. You're the best friend I've got."
Holmes watched him for a moment, his hand slightly twitching the only sign he was nervous. It was as if he was gauging whether Watson was pulling one over on him or not. Watson watched him back steadily, his face open and honest. Finally, Holmes smiled.
"Yes," he said. "Of course I will."
"Wonderful!" Watson exclaimed, unable to contain his joy. "I wasn't looking forward to this party, but now it has become the perfect night."
"Well," Holmes amended, "except for Major Kline."
"Why?" Mary asked. "What is upsetting Major Kline? Is he alright?"
"No," Holmes replied bluntly. "He's dead."
"Dead?" the couple exclaimed at once.
"Yes. His body is in the wine cellar and our host wants us to investigate. That's why I was looking for you. I didn't mean to walk in on your moment. Stella Jenner saw you from the window, by the way, so expect the entire city to know the news by tomorrow morning."
"What are we sitting around here for?" Mary asked. "Let's go."
"But don't you want to… I don't know, dance or something?" Holmes asked.
Watson shrugged. "We already danced. And we will again, later. Duty calls."
"You're not going to hate me because I interrupted your night?"
"No, of course not," Mary said. "This is what we do together, the three of us. We solve cases. We help people. Even tonight. Let's go see the body."
Holmes grinned. "I'll lead you there."
"Holmes," Watson said slowly, swirling what was left of his wine in his glass before he stood, "did you get this very nice wine before or after… you know what? Never mind."
"I was down there anyway," Holmes said with a small shrug. "No use in wasting a trip."
Mary laughed, and Watson smiled. If this, solving cases with Sherlock Holmes and Mary, was also part of his future, then things really were looking up.
Disclaimer: This story was written for fun. It is not intended to be a commentary on current world events and should not be taken as such. Further, the genre of this story is alternate history; it is intended to be read as entertainment, not as historically accurate or even as a historical possibility. Thank you for understanding.
Thank you for reading my story. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed.