In London, the weeks had passed in a fog, one drifting into the next with no difference between them. Lost in the grief of Mary's death and the guilt of Holmes', I had not cared whether the sun was up or down, whether I left the house or stayed in bed, or whether my mind lived in past or present. Each day was simply yet another I must face alone.
Coming here, I had briefly hoped something might change, that I might find a reason to get up each morning. I was not quite as alone at the Pole, considering my friendships with Nicolas and Meredith, and while I would be careful not to spend too much time with either, I would take what I could get. By the time I crawled into bed after supper, I had dared to hope that things could be different here, that I might find a purpose, a reason to live again.
The pneumonia changed that.
The next several days passed in a different sort of fog. Aching and exhausted, the deep, painful coughs did not help matters, and a low fever kept chills snaking up and down my spine almost constantly. With the congestion induced vertigo combining with the normal pain of my injuries, I experienced various degrees of misery for I have no idea how long.
Nicolas came and went, depending on his schedule, but Doctor Baldrum usually stayed with me, as did either Meredith, Torsten, or a brother that arrived late that night named Tor. Each provided comfort in their own way, though what I truly preferred was for Doctor Baldrum and both nisse to step out. With only Meredith there, Holmes and Mary frequently appeared, and I found myself watching them for hours, unconcerned that Meredith knew I was hallucinating. She would probably write it off to the fever.
Mary walked slowly across the room, large glass of water in hand and her eyes on Holmes. My friend sprawled sideways in the chair, deep in thought as he puffed his pipe, and as I had done that day, I stayed silent, watching. Mary tolerated our smoking better on some days than others. I had warned Holmes that this was an "others" kind of day, but I would do nothing more than that. He would learn.
If Holmes insisted on smoking in her sitting room, Mary would assume he was on fire and act accordingly.
The glass dumped over Holmes' head, extinguishing the flame as he lurched upright. The unexpected bath surprised him out of his train of thought, and I did not need to hear the silent conversation to recall Mary's unashamed laughter or his irritated grumbling. He eventually claimed the other chair to resume thinking, though I did notice he left his pipe unlit between his teeth. Mary disappeared into the office with a self-satisfied smirk.
"What are they doing now?"
I startled, whipping my head around at the question only to grip the mattress beneath me. I was recovering—slowly—but I still had not quite cleared my head enough to kill the vertigo. A smaller hand on mine provided an anchor until the room quit spinning around me.
"Sorry," she said quietly. One hand offered me some water, and she set the glass on the table when I declined. "I thought you knew I was here."
I lifted one shoulder. I had known she sat nearby, but I had not expected her to speak. Today was the first day I had any sort of voice.
"Wh't's who doin'?"
"Do you really think I don't know a hallucination when I see one?" she returned, proving me wrong. "Your fever is lower today than it has been yet, but you have spent the last thirty minutes watching that chair. Who sits there?"
A sigh would only set me coughing again, but I looked back at Holmes. She could probably guess, anyway.
"Holmes." He readjusted to recline the other direction. "Is't really th't obvious?"
"Not while you were so sick," she replied honestly, "but you must not remember where my head was after the war. It's easier to identify when you've lived it."
"Who'd you see?"
"My brother, usually." A hand on my forehead checked my fever in Doctor Baldrum's absence. "He died just before the call went up for soldiers. I didn't exactly have the greatest reasons for joining the war effort."
Understanding pulled my attention back to her. No wonder she had been so low when we were declared out of danger. "'S th't why you m'de me promise—"
She nodded. "You gave me a reason to carry on, one I wouldn't have found if I had succeeded in one of those battles. It was the only thing I could do to ensure you would have that same chance should you ever need it."
I hummed something like an answer, returning my gaze to where Holmes surreptitiously relit his pipe. Mary would come with another glass of water soon enough.
"Do you still—"
The question cut off, but I knew what she asked.
"Yes 'n no," I admitted quietly, unable to look at her. "I doubt I w'ld ever do 'nything, ev'n wit'out the prom'se, but that doesn't ch'nge th't there's nothin' left for me. Holmes, Mary—" our child, but I could not form the words. I swallowed. "I don't have a reas'n t' go back t' London. It's'not 'ome anymore."
My words were growing thicker, harder to understand through the fatigue pulling me into another exhausted nap, but she seemed to catch my meaning.
"What about here? With us?"
I did not answer immediately, thinking though my gaze never left Holmes. "I don' kno'," I finally muttered. Just as they had in London, memories waited around every corner, and I had barely let myself hope I might belong here when the lung infection I had conquered in January had returned. Every time I tried to start again, something else came along. My motivation only decreased with every failure. What was the point?
She said nothing else, and Tor entered a few minutes later. The harp-like instrument he pulled from his belt produced a tune that sent me into a restless sleep.
He lives in the fear of worry and wait.
"Will someone tell that rabbit ta quit eatin' mah food?!"
Tor let out a snicker, his attention on the bowl in front of him despite the dwarf's complaints. Countryside passed in a blur much too fast to be anything but the train car that creatures of the magical realm used to navigate the western half of Europe. They appeared to be somewhere near the Scotland border.
"You've got it backwards, Dwarf. You're the one eatin' its food. Have somethin' real!"
"Humph." The black-bearded dwarf picked at the nibbled pile of vegetables on his plate. "As if porridge is any better. Doe'n't matter how much butter ye put on that, it's still flavorless."
"'N cel'ry isn't? You forgot yer tastebuds on the continent. How does yer ma put up wit' ye?"
The dwarf's response started a bickering session to rival Torsten's and Doctor Baldrum's, but my eyes focused on the human pacing silently behind them.
Walking the darkness of endless pain.
The dwarf pretended to focus on the book in his hand, but anyone could see he watched the human.
I had no idea why my mind had decided Holmes rode this train, but it was probably another sign of decline. My lucid dreams had always been memories and possibilities, not impossible hallucinations.
"Are ye ever gonna sit down?"
"Are you ever going to stop insulting people?"
The dwarf barked a laugh, seeing a running joke for which I had no reference.
"Answered your own question," Holmes replied, failing to smirk past the worry darkening his eyes. He turned for another lap around the train car. "How far out are we?"
"Ye'll collapse 'fore we get there."
Searching for loved one, searching for friend.
"Tor, would you be able to update me once you arrive?"
The nisse shook his head. "Sorry, laddie. I'll try to pass yer message, though, if I can."
Searching for way to find home again.
"He's yer brother, ain't he, laddie? Just as Torsten is mine."
Holmes merely stared, far too many thoughts swirling through steely grey eyes before all but one disappeared.
Yes.
"Torsten's first note said 'e was real bad, that he couldn't even wake 'im, but the second, th' one that found me at th' Sheffield station, was better. He's still not good, but he's respondin', and that's a start."
Holmes swallowed, hard, either not trying or completely failing to hide the intense worry permeating his expression. I wondered distantly what so concerned him, but my perspective flipped a moment later, sending me to the other side of the car as the image visibly rippled. Worry disappeared in an instant, replaced with utter scorn.
"Good!" he growled. "And good riddance! Why would I want a murderous traitor for a partner?"
A cry of distress filtered from…somewhere, but I paid it no heed, too busy watching Holmes grumble and growl Tor to the other side of the train car.
Me. He referenced me. Scorn made far more sense than concern.
"Promised he would guard me only to leave for a patient. A child could have—"
"End it!"
The image shattered, exploding into a thousand pieces to leave me staring at empty space. I would have liked to know what else he would say, but that was alright. I could guess. Murderer and traitor I had known for years, but he could also have included fool, blind, and deserter. All were true.
"No, they are not. Do something!"
"Watson?"
Holmes stood before a closed door, one hand gently pushing it open. An apprehensive glance noted the broken lock, but he received no answer.
"Watson?"
Silence, and the door opened to reveal disheveled chaos. The house looked like my own, but someone had moved the furniture away from the walls, scattered belongings, and emptied both closets into the hallway. Holmes slowly wandered to the back only to sag against the doorframe, his gaze on my empty bed. The question came out nearly a moan.
"Watson, where are you?"
A tickle rose in my chest, and the urge to cough immediately followed. I swallowed forcefully, then held my breath. I did not want to cough now.
"John!"
"Hello, Mr. Holmes. I thought you were on the continent."
Lestrade's voice drew Holmes back toward the front of the house, and I followed, wishing he would hurry up.
"John, breathe!"
No. That meant coughing, and coughing would jolt me out of this dream. I wanted to know how it ended. Why had my mind decided Holmes was in my house?
Holmes rounded the corner to find Lestrade and Mycroft at the front door. Lestrade stood with his back to Holmes, shaking his head at something Mycroft had asked.
"He is looking for you! That is how it ends. He will be here in a few days, John. Now breathe!"
Hands gripped my shoulders to give me a firm shake, and the pain rippling through the scar made me gasp. My lungs immediately spasmed, leaving me choking and wheezing for what felt like ages. Each time my coughing eased, the next inhale restarted the spasm, and long seconds passed as I fought for air past the contractions rippling up and down my trachea.
I finally managed one sip, then another. When nothing happened, I curled into the pillow, exhausted. If my last illness was any indication, I would experience the periodic spasms for a while, but few episodes were worse than when they pulled me out of a deep sleep. I hated waking up unable to breathe.
"John?"
Nicolas leaned over me, usually merry face wrinkled in concern as I blinked him into focus. "Since when does refusing to breathe constitute an acceptable way of continuing a dream?"
I stared during another—milder—bout of coughing. What dream?
A frown appeared when I made no answer. "Do you remember dreaming?"
I shook my head. Vague recollections of having dreamed flickered through my memory, but even those faded when I tried to chase them. I would have appreciated the extra rest a bit more if I had not experienced that spasm.
Disappointment mixed strangely with relief, but he stood as I gingerly rolled over. Tor gave a faint smile when the motion did not send me into another coughing fit.
"Ye're lookin' a sight better, laddie. How d'ye feel?"
Better, I admitted silently. The congestion had noticeably cleared from both my head and my chest, and I no longer felt feverish, but I saw no reason to try to voice all that. Nicolas, at least, could still read my thoughts, and Tor had probably caught enough of it.
"Tir'd," I replied instead, "but I could prob'ly get out of bed tomorrow."
Nicolas scanned me again, trying to ensure I was not hiding something, but I truly felt fine. He relaxed a bit more when Tor's thermometer proved my fever had broken.
"I believe you are finally past the worst of it," he agreed, again showing a bizarre amount of relief and—was that anticipation? "I have an errand I must run in the morning. Do you want or need anything from Scotland?"
I shook my head. Nothing in the human world held my interest anymore. Even Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had probably moved on by now.
He did not agree, but he decided not to comment. "I should return by early afternoon. Tor and Torsten will be able to reach me if needed."
I waved the timeline away. "Don' hurry. There's a choc'late shop in downtown Thurso Meredith used t' love. Get her somethin'."
He chuckled. "I could get something for you, too."
I shrugged. Lack of interest in food extended to sweets as well. I would do well to finish even half the bowl of soup Meredith would bring in a few hours.
Sadness creased the corners of his eyes. One hand landed on my shoulder, but it traveled to my wrist almost immediately to tab my pulse. I let my eyes close again as he began outlining directions for Tor. Maybe if I could catch up on sleep, I could have some time alone tomorrow. I hadn't heard Holmes or Mary in a while.
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