Story beta'd by the awesome BrokenKestral

Twenty minutes later found us slowly walking along the water's edge, Holmes between me and the creek and Mycroft on my other side.

I could feel Holmes' gaze on me, seeing everything about me in that way I used to almost enjoy. Now, however, it just made me try to raise my walls higher. I had shown enough weakness in the last few minutes; if this was real, he certainly did not need to see any more.

I doubt I hid all of it, but he said nothing, and I had nothing to say. My words had died long ago, and even the chance at having him back had not revived them—not yet. I mostly stared at my feet, doing my best not to stumble on the uneven ground despite the way Holmes had taken my arm in his.

Just because I had stopped fighting it did not mean I fully believed this was real; it just meant I had decided to give it one more try, and I stayed alert, now trying to stay here instead of trying to break the hallucination. I had been torn between wanting the hallucinations to stop and wanting him to stay, hallucination or no, and now I had made my choice. I wanted him to stay, hallucination or no, and I did not care what would happen if—when?—this fell apart yet again. Why would I? I could be honest enough with myself to know I would have disappeared into the country in a matter of days. It made no difference to me whether that was today or next week. If I could have one more day with Holmes, I would take it.

I had nothing left to lose.

"Why did you come here?"

Holmes' quiet question broke the silence, and I jerked out of my thoughts to look at him, deciding how I wanted to reply.

"It was more away from London than it was to anywhere," I answered eventually, leaning on him perhaps more firmly than I needed. The touch was an anchor, a way to keep myself here, in this moment.

"Then why did you jump from a moving train?"

I halted in place, forcing him to stop next to me as I stared at him. I vaguely remembered him mentioning something about traveling from France to catch up with me. How would he know that if he had told me the truth?

"How long have you been following me?" I asked quietly, warily.

"The Yard has been following you for over a month," was his prompt—and honest—answer, "but Mycroft replaced their guard with his own about a week ago. He left a trail of telegrams for us after we left France."

I hesitated briefly but nodded, accepting that, and a thought occurred to me.

"How long did it take him to find me again?" I asked, forcing a smirk as I remembered the commotion when I had left my train.

A true smile twitched his mouth, and I tried not to stare, still amazed that Holmes walked next to me. If this was a dream, it was more detailed than all but a few others I had had.

"He caught up as you walked toward the river," Mycroft answered when Holmes made no reply.

I fell silent for a long moment as we continued walking, absorbing that and deciding how I wanted to respond. "I wanted a small town," I finally said shortly, "and saw no reason to wait for a station when engine problems forced the train to a crawl."

He did not answer immediately, and there was another long beat of silence. "You used to hate small towns," he finally noted. "What changed?"

"Too many people know me in London," I said simply, unwilling to voice the more detailed reasons—that cities were more haunted than small towns and, while it made no difference to me if a regression carried me into the next life, I would not force Lestrade to find me like that.

He frowned at the non-answer but let it drop, and silence descended again, broken only by the sounds of the water and the rocks under our feet.

We followed the creek downstream, and I tried to hide how frequently I glanced at him. I desperately hoped this was real, that he was truly walking next to me, but if this was an extremely detailed dream, he would vanish as soon as I let my guard down. As soon as I fell asleep, relaxed, or otherwise let him out of my sight, he would be gone again, just another breath on the wind, and the last pieces of me would go with him.

I knew what would happen next. The hope beginning to spark despite my best efforts clearly showed what that would do to me. I would put it off for as long as possible.

"Where are we going?" Holmes asked after several minutes.

I shrugged. "When I got off the train, I intended to find a job and a place to live in the next town."

"And now?" Holmes asked when I did not continue.

I swallowed and used the excuse of a large rock to lean against him briefly, trying to reassure myself that this was real, that he was no dream.

It didn't work—not fully—but I would go along with it for as long as it lasted.

"Are…you returning to London?" I asked quietly.

"Mrs. Hudson will probably become hysterical on seeing me," he answered wryly. "You will need to help calm her down."

I nearly forced the expected smirk before I realized he had not truly answered me, and I fell silent, watching my feet as I tried to decide if that had been a non-answer indicating he was not going to London or simply his own brand of humor.

"Watson." His hand squeezed my arm, and he continued when I looked up. "You know how much I hate being outside my city. Will you move back to Baker Street?"

"Only if you take the downstairs bedroom," I answered.

Relief shone in his gaze, and he quirked a grin. "Ask one of your shadows if the town has a way to reach the station, Mycroft," he said, his gaze never leaving mine. "We have a train to catch."

Mycroft signaled to one of the men Holmes had noticed following them, and Watson glanced over as the man Holmes faintly remembered being new to Mycroft's guard three years before stepped closer. Surprise flashed through Watson's gaze almost too quickly for Holmes to spot.

"You—"

Watson broke off nearly mid-word, swallowing hard as his expression quickly shuttered again.

Holmes frowned, wondering what was wrong, but Watson said nothing else, merely watching as Riston confirmed that the nearest town had a cart for hire to reach the station. The town was just over the rise, and they continued walking as Riston disappeared again.

"What is it?" Holmes asked before Watson could sink too far into his thoughts.

"He is the one that has been following me," was Watson's answer, his gaze on his feet to avoid eye contact.

Holmes nodded. "What about it?"

"He…probably saved my life," Watson admitted quietly, and Holmes reflexively gripped Watson's arm as he hesitantly continued. "Thrice, I have woken near the river. I did not think about it at the time, but he was only a few feet away from me after the last two. It makes more sense that he broke me out of the memory than that I snapped out of it on my own."

There was more to those events than Watson was voicing, Holmes knew, but he decided not to push the issue. He glanced back instead, both looking toward where Riston had disappeared and conveying his thoughts to Mycroft. He owed Riston more than he could ever pay.

A passing cart cut off further conversation, and they caught a ride the rest of the way into town. Watson fell silent despite Holmes' attempts otherwise, refusing to answer any questions where the stranger could hear, and Holmes eventually gave up. There would be plenty of time to talk on the way back to London.

It was a matter of minutes to arrange for a cart they could use to reach the station, but one would not be free for their use for an hour or so, given that someone would have to ride with them to return the cart. A small restaurant across the street caught Holmes' eye.

"You must be just as hungry as I am," he said, steering his friend toward the building. "Do you even remember the last time you ate?"

Watson hesitated but shook his head, and Holmes smothered a frown as he opened the door. It would do no good to voice his worry, but that had been more than a response to his question. The hesitation also applied the negative to being hungry.

"Then I believe it is my turn to tell you to eat," he answered, allowing a faint smirk to show.

Watson had argued many times over the years that Holmes could not think without fuel, and while Holmes had never anticipated having to say such a thing to Watson, he hoped the reference would elicit at least a small version of the slow grin he had always loved evoking.

Watson made no reply, however, using the excuse of being led to a table in the corner to avoid Holmes' gaze, and the comment Holmes had intended to be amusing led to a tense silence.

Watson immediately claimed the seat with his back to the wall, and Holmes studied his friend, noting the signs that Watson still fought just to stay in the present as his friend leaned back in his chair. Watson had flinched when the cook had dropped a pan in the kitchen, and his gaze continuously flicked between the room in general and Holmes himself. He was still far too quiet, and when he did speak, his voice had lost very little of the emptiness Holmes had noticed by the river. He was entirely too thin and seemed to have little interest in food despite being weak with malnutrition. He ordered the smallest thing on the menu but ate less than half, spending most of the time pushing the food around his plate instead of eating it, and he barely smothered a frown when Mycroft suggested afters. Holmes let everything pass without comment.

A spark had flickered to life in Watson's previously dead gaze, and in that moment, that was all that mattered.

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