His Sussex bedroom stared back at him, and he fought to catch his breath. He no longer lived in London. He was retired and had been for years. Watson had followed him into retirement last year, joined the war effort, then rejoined him less than a month ago. He was safe, whole. There had been no mugging gone wrong. He was fine.

So why was a limping step not coming to stand at his door?

He lunged to his feet, nearly bolting across the room and out into the deserted hall. Why was familiar breathing not carrying from the other bedroom? Did he live here alone? Were the memories a dream and the bridge reality?

The door hit the wall harder than he intended, but a sleep-slurred voice did not curse him from the bed. The bed was empty, covers pulled over the pillow and wrinkle-free as Watson always did as soon as he woke.

And as Holmes had always done in the guest room—before Watson finally retired.

He hurried out to the sitting room, hoping Watson had simply woken early, but that room was empty as well. So were the kitchen and the overlook just in front of the house that they both enjoyed. The cottage was deserted but for him.

He was alone, and he slowly made his way back to that horribly empty bedroom. Doubt and grief warred within him, and he sagged against the door frame as Watson had apparently done in Baker Street so long ago. How could he so clearly remember years of weekend visits and nearly silent phone calls if Watson had died so many years before?

A shape caught his eye, and he moved further into the dimly-lit room. There was a journal on the end table containing an entry dated yesterday, and a half-read novel rested on the wardrobe. Those would not be there if this were merely a guest room, and now he saw more of Watson's belongings scattered about the space. Watson was alive. He had to be.

But where was he?

The beach. Watson could have woken early and gone to walk the beach. He did that sometimes, when he could not return to sleep but no book held his interest. Watson would be at the beach.

He hurried down the path, going as quickly as he dared. He hardly wanted to arrive at the water in a heap, but he needed to find Watson, needed to reassure himself that his friend was here. Unharmed. Home.

A familiar figure stood at the edge of the water, staring into the rising sun, and Holmes breathed a sigh of relief even as he continued forward. Watson was alive. There had been no mugging, no confusion that sent him rushing out of the flat, no head injury that made him fail to recognize his friend. It was a nightmare, not a memory.

"The colors are far brighter than London's, are they not?" he asked as he drew closer.

Watson made no reply, apparently caught up in his thoughts, and Holmes moved to stand next to him. Watson would notice him in a moment, probably pretending to start so he could tell Holmes to "stop sneaking up on me" before adding a pawky remark about Holmes wandering around in his nightclothes.

Watson continued staring at the horizon, however, and now Holmes could hear him mumbling faintly.

"Watson?"

There was no answer. Watson did not even glance over before he turned away, completely ignoring Holmes as he moved up the beach, and Holmes' fear renewed.

"Watson, look at me."

His friend kept moving, walking slowly on the soft sand. His almost stumbling step moved steadily away from the water, but that did not diminish the fear that shot through Holmes.

Was the part about the head injury true after all?

"Watson."

The doctor ignored him, continuing that uneven gait as his breathing grew shallower, and Holmes stayed between his friend and the water as he tried and failed to gain Watson's attention.

Watson' mumbling decreased, but his gaze remained a thousand miles away as his breathing picked up. Only then did Holmes register the sound carrying on the breeze.

Gunfire. A fusillade of artillery sounded beneath the crashing waves. Watson was not injured; he was in the midst of a regression.

Relief shot through Holmes yet again despite Watson still ignoring him. He knew how to handle this, and a regression was not permanent, not like a head injury. Watson would return to him shortly.

He kept pace beside his friend, never touching him but also blocking his access to the ocean. Watson was no more aware of his surroundings than a sleepwalker, and Holmes would not risk his nightmare playing out for real. Watson could not swim.

He started a quiet monologue, using short, simple sentences to describe anything he saw or anything that came to mind. They would provide an anchor, a way for Watson to pull himself back to the present.

"The sunrise was red, purple, and orange. I am sure you would have enjoyed it. Did you come outside to watch?

"Stackhurst mentioned another beekeeper nearby is thinking of selling some hives. I was doing the figures last night, and I think I will be able to put two more hives in the meadow. You should help me with these. I have told you there is no danger.

"Did you notice that bird has been following you? I suppose you have been feeding the pesky things. You probably want to put a bird feeder behind the cottage, do you not? We will not be luring blue jays to the cottage. Or magpies. You will not convince me otherwise.

"Can you hear me, Watson? You gave me quite a fright, you know, finding you unresponsive after...never mind."

Watson stopped walking, staring through a nearby bush.

"Come back, Watson. Whatever you are seeing is in the past. You are safe. You are in Sussex. You are not alone."

Watson suddenly flinched, shying away from Holmes' presence to place his back against a stout tree. Holmes followed slowly, keeping his body language unthreatening as he tried to catch Watson's eyes. The flinch meant Watson was probably snapping out of it, and he needed to come back soon. The hyperventilation that always accompanied these episodes would catch up with him in a few minutes.

"You are in Sussex," he said again. "It is October 1915. The sun just came up a few minutes ago. The cottage is directly behind you. There is a songbird to your right."

He kept talking, noting Watson's gaze more than his own words. His friend was glancing around the area rapidly, probably seeing both memories and reality simultaneously. It always took several minutes for Watson to completely break free of a major regression such as this, and Holmes' attention split. Part of him was talking, providing a monologue for his friend to use as an anchor, while another part wondered off-track why Watson had not asked for help. He had promised to say something should a regression become possible. Had a sleepwalking episode turned into a regression?

He pushed the question aside for the moment as Watson's flitting gaze finally met his own. Watson's breathing grew even faster.

"Are you with me?"

Watson made no answer, and his eyes seemed to glaze as he swayed on his feet.

"Watson!"

He lunged forward, steadying his friend to the leaf-covered ground as Watson groaned and dropped his face into his shaking palms.

"Can you hear me?" Holmes asked as he knelt, trying to see past Watson's fingers to confirm his friend had returned to the present. "You need to slow your breathing."

Watson nodded sharply. He was back but not yet able to speak, and his gaze resumed flicking over their surroundings as one hand buried itself in the leaves. Remembering the list Watson had mentioned years ago, Holmes gently moved his grip from Watson's elbow down to his other hand.

"You are in Sussex," he said again, beginning to tap out a separate message on Watson's palm to provide a tactile anchor as Watson's breathing slowly calmed. "It is just after dawn."

You are at the base of a tree on the other side of the bee meadow.

"The sunrise was orange and red. You probably would have found many more colors than I saw."

How long have you been fighting off a regression?

"I noticed a bird following you. Have you been feeding them?"

Please do not lure blue jays and magpies into the area.

"You are safe. You are home."

You are not alone.


So I'm not completely evil :D

Thanks to those reviewed, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter!