Holmes hit the small town's platform almost before the train stopped moving, quickly spotting the telegraph office and hurrying towards it. A quick word with the clerk landed an envelope in his hand, and he barely noticed Mycroft catch up as he ripped open the telegram.

"Follow the river," was all it said.

He nearly cursed, impatiently wishing the telegram contained more detail. Follow the river. What would he find by the river? Was Watson simply enjoying the quiet, or was he—?

Unable to finish the thought, he shoved the telegram into Mycroft's hand and sprinted toward the water, the rising sun at his back. Mycroft would follow as he was able, but Holmes had to reach Watson.

The river ran through a shallow ditch a hundred yards from the small platform where they had disembarked the special, and he nearly leaped down the steep bank to reach the water's edge. Continuously scanning both banks, he hurried downstream, desperately hoping he was not too late. Had Watson decided to disappear into the country? Perhaps to avoid Lestrade finding him? He could not imagine Watson ever reaching the point of giving up, but if he had, his friend would not force Lestrade to find him like that.

A few hundred yards turned into a mile. Then two. He was fit enough for the run, but he was beginning to feel the effects when he spotted a prone form further down the bank.

No. No!

The terror that shot through him granted him a second wind, and he lengthened his stride, frantically trying to reach his friend. Watson lay propped against a rock, facing the sunrise now to Holmes' right, and at first glance, he did not appear to be moving.

Holmes' breath caught in his throat. He was too late. He had failed.

Then Watson inhaled deeply, apparently just waking, and Holmes' breath returned in a rush. He had not thought his friend one to sleep on the banks of a river several hours' ride from London, but at least he was alive. Holmes had not failed. He had arrived in time.

It would not do to surprise Watson too suddenly, and he slowed his frantic pace. He would call out when he got closer.

Watson sighed as Holmes strode forward, gingerly stretching before pulling himself off the ground, and the worry that Holmes had banished when Watson woke quickly revived, growing and changing from a fear that he would arrive too late to a fear that he was already too late, no matter that Watson still drew breath. Distance and the terrain had hidden just how thin his friend was. Watson was even thinner than he had been when they first met, when he was still recovering from injury and illness. He obviously had not been eating.

"Fine day for a walk," Holmes called in greeting as Watson gained his feet, "though I am rather surprised to find you sleeping beside a stream just south of Scotland."

What else could he say? "You look dreadful, old chap. When did you last eat?" That would never do. Better to pretend that all was normal, that they were two old friends unexpectedly meeting far from home. That was true enough, he supposed, and Watson would be able to dictate where the conversation went from there.

He was not sure what he expected in response to such a greeting, but Watson's utter lack of reaction was not it. Instead of turning towards Holmes' voice, the returned greeting changing to utter surprise as he recognized Holmes, he merely gripped his cane and stared at the ground, blinking hard and completely ignoring his friend's presence. After barely a moment, he turned away as if Holmes had not spoken, following the river downstream with a heavily limping shuffle.

Holmes frowned but let it pass. Perhaps Watson was not yet awake enough to speak; that had happened a few times over the years, when he woke early after patients left him exhausted. He was certainly exhausted now, as evidenced by his haggard expression and the dark bags beneath his eyes.

Watson would speak when he was ready, Holmes decided—probably when he looked at Holmes for the first time—and Holmes fell into step beside him, waiting for Watson to glance over.

But then he did glance over, only to keep walking as the barest hint of a frown appeared on his face. Holmes tried to deduce his friend's thoughts, but for the first time since meeting the doctor over a decade before, Holmes had no idea what Watson was thinking. Watson's expression was nearly a blank slate, devoid of all but a small fraction of his usual tells, and Holmes had no idea what to do. Should he speak again, or should he wait for Watson to acknowledge him?

He decided to wait, and for several long minutes, the only sounds between them were the crunching of rocks underfoot. Watson kept walking, glancing over occasionally but saying nothing. Eventually, Holmes realized they would reach town before Watson acknowledged him, and he broke the silence.

"I know you have seen me."

Watson started at his voice, almost as if he had not expected Holmes to speak at all, and Holmes nearly huffed in frustration. His dearest friend, who he hadn't seen in three years, ignored him from two feet away. Of course he was going to speak. Why would Watson expect otherwise?

He tried again, voicing a comment that should have at least provoked a smirk, but Watson continued ignoring him, so Holmes kept talking, saying whatever came to mind in a bid to get a response. Even screaming at him to go away would be better than ignoring his presence completely, and he eventually changed from nearly rambling his thoughts and observations to describing the last few days, then the last three years. If Watson was too angry with him for disappearing to acknowledge his existence, he would at least do so knowing everything that had happened.

It had been years since I had last watched the sunrise, and I watched in wonder as the sky turned from black to dark blue before lighting with multiple colors. For a few short minutes, I was able to ignore the ghost still pacing the opposite bank, enjoying the multitude of colors painting the eastern sky.

Reality came crashing in all too quickly, however, and I breathed a sigh as the colors faded. As much as I would rather spend the day at the water, I should probably see about a house and a job in town, and I pulled myself to my feet, ignoring the way my head spun with the movement. It would pass shortly.

As my vision cleared and the roaring in my ears subsided, both the ghost and his armchair vanished from the other bank, and a presence appeared beside me. I paid it no heed. I had yet to start talking to my hallucinations, and I would never be able to restart here if the locals found me talking to air. He would disappear again soon enough, perhaps going back to pacing the opposite bank.

My old friend walked beside me in silence for several minutes, always staying between me and the water, and I wondered how long he was going to walk with me. He rarely stayed for more than a few minutes.

"I know you have seen me," he finally announced, several minutes after the normal five- or ten-minute stretch that usually limited his closer appearances.

I started, barely regaining my balance before I landed on the ground. He had never spoken before, and even the regressions had not captured his voice so accurately. It pained me to hear him, to hear the dear friend I would never truly see again, and I said nothing as I fought to stay in the present.

"I actually thought you might hit me by this point," he continued when I made no answer.

I did not react, not even bothering to roll my eyes. Why would I hit a hallucination? What good would it do? My fist would just go right through him. He wasn't actually there, and I knew better to let him convince me he was. I had stopped falling for that dream a long time ago. Why would I fall for the waking version?

"I was sorry to hear about Mary," he told me, and I did not need to look up to know that the muted sympathy I remembered as his preferred method of condolence had appeared in his gaze. All the more-detailed dreams had it. "The mail was delayed, or I would have returned for the funeral."

I continued walking, wondering why a previously silent hallucination now insisted on rambling in my ear. If I had wanted to listen to someone talk, I could have waited for Lestrade to get my note before leaving.

"You led us on quite a chase the last two days, trying to catch up after your untimely travel plans. What happened to the stations being there for a reason?"

The barest hint of a frown made it to my expression. I wished he would stop talking. I was well used to seeing him walking next to me, but to hear his voice so accurately was nearly tortuous. It would not be long before the memories I held at bay took over.

"You know, Watson, for someone who always insisted I could not go without fuel, you are looking a bit thin. You might eat a bit more, old chap."

I stopped walking with a sigh, leaning heavily on my cane as I clenched the other fist. I would never be able to concentrate on my surroundings in town with my mind tying together so many memories. I would end up either turned out of town or on my way to Bedlam if I tried. Plus, if I entered a regression on the way, I would keep walking toward town until I either arrived, blinked out of the memory, or fell into the creek. If he was going to continue talking as he walked next to me, I would at least need to remove one hazard from my surroundings. The bank to my left was currently too high to climb, but the opposite bank was more gradual. I turned my gaze from the rocks in front of me toward the water, wondering if it was shallow enough for me to easily cross.

He immediately got in my way. "Ignore me all you want," he said, "but you are much mistaken if you think I will let you near the water."

If Holmes were really standing in front of me, such a suggestive comment would have resulted in a heavily sarcastic reply no matter my current mood, but I was far too empty to show a reaction where none was needed. I ignored both his words and his presence.

Deciding the creek was probably too deep, I retraced my steps back upstream as I looked for a place to climb the bank, and the voice resumed rambling in my ear, talking about a tail, France, engaging a special, and several other things. It had been many months since my imagination had created any story at all, and another mood might have seen me attentively copying the story down, planning how best to turn it into a publishable narrative.

As it was, however, I just wanted it to leave me alone. I had no interest in writing and hadn't in months, and even if I did keep track of the tale, I had left pen and paper back in London.

The voice was rambling something about telegrams when I reached the spot where I had spent the night, and another familiar figure came out of the trees. I allowed a confused frown.

"Mycroft?" I said, faintly noticing the hallucination next to me give a start at my voice. "What are you doing here?"

Mycroft's gaze looked past me, and I sighed, feeling like an idiot. Of course. Mycroft never left London. He was not here any more than Holmes was here, though why I had started hallucinating Holmes' brother I had no idea. I just hoped they did not start arguing over my head.

I turned away as they stared at each other. I would give it a few hours before trying to reach town again, but my old injuries had stiffened overnight, turning my normal short stride into a limping shuffle. I would need a softer place to sit than the one I had used the previous evening.

"I came with Sherlock," Mycroft answered my question a moment later, walking on my right while Holmes studied me intently from his place between me and the water.

Having already realized that, I made no answer, refusing to talk to a hallucination. If I could fall asleep on the bank again, would they be gone when I woke?

"You are not hallucinating, Doctor."

"What?" Holmes froze mid-step as a smirk tried to reach my mouth. Even so many years after last seeing them interact, I still remembered how, while Holmes was always several steps ahead of everyone else, Mycroft usually stayed a step or two in front of even my friend. If I had truly been in their company, Mycroft's comment would have dissolved into a discussion about Mycroft speaking Holmes' thoughts aloud, with Mycroft returning that Holmes ought to be accustomed to it after so many years, and, anyway, Holmes needed an idea of what he did to the Yarders on an almost daily basis. Their arguing had always reminded me more of the playful bickering Harry and I had exchanged than any true disagreement—despite their claims of finding the other infuriating—and watching them talk had always amused me.

A memory came to mind, and in an instant, I stood again in the Stranger's Room of the Diogenes, watching them deduce passersby and trying to follow their logic. I had never managed to deduce more than some basics on my own, but practice had eventually allowed me to trace some of their deductions, once pointed out. I had spent hours listening to Holmes deduce the crowds that conveniently passed our window, slowly putting the pieces together to, if not deduce it myself, at least know how he had deduced it. I had been getting better before—

A hand gripped my arm, painfully snapping me out of the memory, and I started again—this time violently. None of the other hallucinations had ever touched me, and I desperately tried to pull away, fighting to break free of whoever had sneaked up on me. I needed to run, get away, find somewhere safe—

"Watson! Stop fighting me!"

The snapped command broke me out of my panic, and I quit struggling, breathing heavily as I leaned away from the hand still gripping my arm. My head spun again from the exertion, and I leaned heavily on my cane instead of relying on the hand to hold me upright. I knew it could not be my friend standing in front of me, a frown of worry etching his face, but I could not bring myself to care who it was. I cared only about getting away.

"Watson."

I said nothing, scanning my surroundings as I planned my escape. The bank was still too high to climb, so I would have to follow the water. The closest town was downstream, I decided. I doubted I would be able to outrun whoever my mind had decided was Holmes, but I would not go down without a fight.

"Watson, look at me." I did not move, still leaning away from the hand gripping me and waiting for my head to quit spinning so I could break free, and Holmes moved in front of my gaze. "I am not dead," he said clearly, "and you are not hallucinating."

"I should have gone after him sooner, Doctor," Mycroft rumbled behind me. "I told him months ago to come home, but the messages did not make it through."

I knew better than to believe the words. Holmes had died three years ago. There was no way he could be standing in front of me, and I looked around him as I tried to pull my arm free, hoping to leave behind both whoever was truly gripping me and the ghost using their form.

My attempt to break free failed pathetically, but before I could try again, the world turned on its end. The vertigo I had been ignoring strengthened, and darkness encroached on my vision. I had no time to fight it, no time to even try to stay awake. Simultaneous cries of alarm reached my ears, and I knew no more.

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