Holmes swallowed, gently supporting his limp friend to the ground. Watson had continued ignoring him on the slow walk first down, then back up the riverbank, not even voicing the pawky remark that Holmes' blocking the creek should have engendered. Only when he spotted Mycroft had Watson finally spoken, and Holmes had started on hearing Watson's confused question. Watson's voice was hollow, emptier than any voice Holmes had ever heard and obviously barely used. It was a dead voice, a voice that had given up all hope, all feeling, all reason for living. Holmes hated hearing such a voice come from his friend, and he had barely answered Mycroft's silent questions as he studied the doctor. Something was not as it appeared. Watson should have reacted by now—whether that reaction was punching Holmes in the face or welcoming him with joy. The Watson he knew would not ignore him like this, not and still acknowledge his brother.

Mycroft's comment had interrupted his thoughts just as all the pieces fell into place, and surprise, worry, and fear, among other things, had combined into one stunned word. He had tried again to gain Watson's attention, tried to show him that Mycroft was correct, only to find that Watson's eyes had glazed in the moments Holmes had fallen behind. Holmes had been forced to grab Watson's arm to get a response, but even after snapping out of the ensuing panic, Watson had still tried to pull away, continuing to ignore Holmes and leaning heavily on his cane as he somehow managed to pale further.

Of all the reactions Holmes had imagined over the previous three years, Watson believing him a hallucination, panicking on contact, then fainting into his arms was not one. Perhaps Mycroft had been right. Perhaps it had not been the best idea to leave Watson behind, though Holmes had had little enough choice at the time. What should he have done differently?

Letting his friend use his lap as a pillow, Holmes loosened Watson's collar as Mycroft dug for his flask.

"Does he have something else affecting him besides the obvious?" Holmes asked as he took the flask.

Mycroft hesitated, and Holmes looked up. He had expected a prompt "No."

"Years ago," Mycroft finally answered, "one of my first secretaries was a war veteran. We occasionally found him staring blankly, moving automatically, and unresponsive. He would remain so for five to thirty minutes before finally focusing on whoever spoke to him, though it took longer for him to be able to speak again. The one time I asked him what those were, he called them regressions, saying he relived old battles whenever something triggered a memory."

Holmes glanced back and forth between his brother and his friend. "That is what Watson just had? A regression?"

Mycroft nodded as Holmes carefully dripped a bit of the brandy into Watson's mouth. "He could not have copied Monroe more exactly."

"Did the regressions make your secretary lose consciousness?"

"No," Mycroft rumbled, studying where Watson still lay on the ground. "I imagine that was the exertion combining with malnourishment, as you already deduced."

Holmes frowned, both that Watson would starve himself to the point of collapse and that Watson had yet to wake up.

"Give him a few minutes, Sherlock," Mycroft said after a moment, stepping back to lean against a nearby rock. "Riston had no way of knowing when Watson last ate."

His frown deepened, but Holmes carefully settled onto the riverbank, watching Watson's face for the first sign of consciousness.

I registered the voice first.

"Watson?"

Strange, I thought. That sounded like Holmes. I tried to sink further into sleep, searching for the dream from which the voice had come.

"Open your eyes, Watson."

The voice seemed to pull me out of sleep instead of deeper into dreams, however, and I frowned. While it was nice not to start awake from a nightmare, I always enjoyed dreaming the more pleasant memories with either Holmes or Mary. Why couldn't I sink back into blissful darkness? Anything had to be better than the empty reality.

"Come on, Watson. Open your eyes."

Bits of memory floated to the surface, recalling travel and waking up on the riverbank.

"Watson?"

Memory returned in a rush just as I realized my pillow was moving, and I sat up quickly, fighting to put some distance between myself and the voice talking to me from above my head. Holmes was dead. I should not be hearing his voice next to a creek near the Scotland border. Who was it that was truly talking to me?

I didn't know, and I was not entirely certain I wanted to find out.

"Watson, wait!"

My cane lay on the rocks out of reach, and I pulled myself into a crawl, awkwardly pushing myself away from the hand trying to grab my good shoulder.

"Watson!"

Feet appeared in my path, and I found myself trapped between Mycroft and Holmes. I placed my back against a large rock, unable to go any further. Either I was dreaming, or two ruffians had cornered me as retribution for something Holmes had done, and I raised an arm, reflexively protecting my head as I waited for the blows to fall.

"We will not harm you," Holmes said, frowning.

I watched them, slowly lowering my arm, but neither moved any closer. A dream, then. I had no way to wake myself up, but at least a dream would not leave me injured and bleeding in a ditch. A dream had to end at some point, as well, and I resolved myself to wait it out.

"If I had realized you thought me a hallucination, Watson," Holmes continued, "I would have touched you much sooner."

I let my focus wander, planning what I would do once I broke out of this most recent dream. I was probably asleep on the bank where I had woken shortly after midnight, and I would never be able to restart in the nearby town after this. I decided I would cross the creek and make my way north. Surely some village close by would have an ageing doctor grateful for a second doctor to ease the load. All I had to do was find him.

Holmes continued talking, pointing out that hallucinations could not touch me and trying to use that to convince me that he was real, alive. I ignored him. Too many times, I had seen him, Mary, or both as they tried to convince me that the dream was real, that they were truly there and not dead, and I knew better than to believe him. I always woke up the moment I did, more alone than I had been before, and I had no reason to think this was anything other than a new variation. It would end on its own eventually.

I hated these dreams, and I grew more and more distant the longer he talked. The dream would give way to a memory soon, and I found myself almost welcoming it. Anything to end the too-real vision of my dearest friend standing in front of me, his brother off to one side.

"Doctor—"

Whatever Mycroft started to say faded behind the memory of another day, another year, when a case denouement gone wrong had sent us fleeing to Mycroft's flat. His guards had taken care of the men pursuing us, and Holmes had gotten a surprise lesson in stitching up a wound. I welcomed the memory, fully embracing it because it would end the previous vision. Once it changed, the next dream or hallucination had never picked up exactly where a previous one had left off.

"Watson! Snap out of it, Watson!"

I blinked the memory away and nearly groaned as familiar steel-grey eyes stared into my own. Of course, this day of other firsts would also include the first hallucination that resumed after a break. Irritation shot through me, and I finally broke my own rule to never talk to a hallucination.

"Stop haunting me!" I snapped, ignoring Mycroft for the moment. "I get it. It's my fault you're dead, but if you won't leave me alone, then take me with you!"

"I did not know I was dead," Mycroft rumbled.

Holmes brushed off the comment with a flick of his hand, slowly moving to sit next to me as I scowled at him. A hand hesitantly landed on my shoulder, and I flinched, hating that I had no idea who was touching me.

"I am not dead," he told me quietly, frowning at the way I still flinched away from him. "I…should have told you, found a way for you and Mary to come with me. I see that now, and I am sorry I did not then. I thought I was doing it to keep you safe."

I made no answer, watching him warily, and he studied me, a frown at my hesitance evident on his face.

"You are not dreaming, Watson," he told me. "How do I prove to you I am real?"

I stared, beyond surprised at yet another first. None of the visions had ever included that question—even the ones where I denied their claims and waited to wake up. The various attempts to convince me were what I had started using as confirmation that I was locked in yet another dream or hallucination.

When I combined that with the many other firsts…could this be real?

"Doctor?"

I glanced up. Mycroft still stood to my right, now leaning against another portion of the same large boulder I had placed to my back.

"I am not dead, Doctor, and you never believed I was." He leaned out, tapping my foot with the walking stick in his hand. "You are not hallucinating, nor are you dreaming. Something stopped the mail going through, otherwise he would have returned long ago."

I stared at him for a long moment, absorbing that. Mycroft had left London, and Holmes was truly sitting next to me?

Holmes shifted, and I jerked my gaze back to him, staring in wonder that one I had thought dead for so long sat next to me, waiting for me to find my words.

"Watson?" he finally asked when I remained silent for too long. "Are you about to hit me?"

I swallowed, shaking my head in answer as I fought to speak.

"You—" My voice broke pathetically, betraying the hope I dared not feel, and I cleared my throat before trying again. "You are really here?"

He nodded, gently squeezing the shoulder he still held, and when I didn't wake up, I felt myself smile for the first time in a long, long time.

And there's the end of Part 1. Feedback is always greatly appreciated! :)