The cart took us to Carlisle, where Mycroft insisted on engaging a special instead of waiting for the next train, and I settled into a seat as we pulled away from the station. Of all the things I had been expecting to do today, returning to London in Holmes' company was not one of them, and I ignored my discomfort at eating so much as I tried to hide that I stared at where he sat across from me, almost afraid to blink. How long could a dream last? When could I be sure that this was real, that he wouldn't disappear as soon as I let my guard down?
"What is it?" he finally asked after several minutes.
I smothered a start at his question, realizing I had not hidden my gaze as I thought I had, and just as quickly frowned. What did I want to ask?
Many questions came to mind, from what had happened in Switzerland to how he had come to be so far north of London and everything in between, and I hesitated before picking the earliest one. We may as well start at the beginning, as Holmes had told so many of his clients over the years.
"How did you survive the fall?"
Confusion crossed Holmes' gaze, and he leaned forward in his seat.
"Did you hear anything I told you as we walked by the river?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it, allowing my own confusion to show. What did that have to do with my question?
Holmes launched into the same story he had told me while walking between me and the water, when I had been ignoring him as a hallucination, and this time I listened, using the story to push all other thoughts aside. A more detailed rendition than the quick description he had given by the water, hours passed as he walked me through everything from what had really happened at the falls to the long journey from France, following a trail of telegrams leading to a creek bed miles from the Scotland border. We neared the London station when he finally finished.
I made no answer for a long moment, absorbing everything he had told me. His story had been detailed—much more detailed than I would have expected, coming from him—and I had only one question.
"Why did you not tell me the truth? I would not have given you away."
His gaze softened. "I know that," he answered quickly, then hesitated. "Moriarty…told Moran to target you if I survived," he finally answered, stumbling slightly over the words as his reddening ears gave away his discomfort. "I could not protect you with you living away from Baker Street, and…I could not ask you to choose between Mary and me. If you had known I was alive, Moran would have captured Mary to get you, and captured you to get me. The only way I could ensure he left you both alone was to make you believe I was dead."
"We would have come with you," I protested. "You knew that."
"You would have had to leave everything behind and put Mary in danger to go into hiding with me." He shook his head. "I could not ask you to do that."
"So you faked your death instead," I replied, more bitterly than I intended as the walls I had carefully cultivated over the last few months lowered slightly, "leaving me with a burden of guilt for causing it. You know Mary's childhood enough to know she would have thrived, and I think I would rather have had the danger." At least in battle, I do not feel half-dead.
Guilt flashed through his eyes as he read the unspoken sentence in mine, and he glanced down as we pulled into the station.
"Holmes?" I said, breaking the momentary silence. He looked back up at me. "Don't leave me behind again." Don't leave me alone again.
He nodded agreement, the understanding in his eyes confirming he had heard what I did not say, but the train came to a stop before he could decide on a response.
.
…leaving me with a burden of guilt for causing it.
Holmes had barely smothered a wince at those words, and they rang through his mind as he helped Watson to his feet. He had known Watson would take his death hard, but the bitterness, the emptiness that rang through those words almost physically hurt him to hear. The simple fact that Watson had admitted to the three instances he had nearly made it to the river showed how far Watson had fallen in the months since Mary's death, and Holmes had noticed the way Watson had stared during Holmes' story. Not only was he still fighting to stay in the present, but he still thought this might be another dream.
Holmes would not be able to leave him alone for a moment.
With Holmes accommodating Watson's much slower pace, Mycroft exited the train several steps ahead of them, and a familiar voice rang out as Holmes reached the platform.
"Mr. Holmes!"
Mycroft glanced up from the telegrams one of his guards had handed him as Lestrade hurried across the platform, apparently oblivious to where Holmes steadied Watson on the steps from the train car. Holmes allowed a twitched grin, glad to see that at least one thing had stayed the same over the last three years.
"Did you find him?" Lestrade asked, nearly breathless.
Mycroft gestured toward them, and Holmes saw the barest hint of a smirk appear on Watson's face.
"They convinced me to stay in London."
Lestrade spun on hearing Watson's quiet comment, and the unmitigated relief that appeared in the inspector's gaze announced how closely his fears had matched the ones that had plagued Holmes over the long journey from France. Lestrade had clearly not expected Watson to return, and he opened his mouth to respond when his gaze landed on Holmes.
Pure shock replaced the relief, and he froze, staring at Holmes for a long moment before he paled. Holmes frowned, gesturing Mycroft to move closer.
"Are you going to faint?" Watson asked, voicing the question Holmes would not.
Lestrade swallowed, and his color returned as he shook his head. A smile slowly appeared.
"It took you long enough to return, Mr. Holmes," he finally said. "I told you not to get lost."
Holmes smothered a smirk, but a thought crossed Lestrade's face before Holmes could reply. Lestrade's grin widened, and Watson's smirk changed into more of a small grin.
"Gregson owes you money now, doesn't he?"
"Yes, he does," was the cheerful answer, "and he won't know whether he hates it or loves it."
Amusement coursed through him only to quickly fade under another question. Why had Watson fallen so far if Lestrade thought Holmes might be alive?
"You made a bet that I had not died?" he confirmed.
Lestrade huffed a laugh. "You would not fall off a waterfall. It's not dramatic enough."
Holmes' smirk broke free, and Lestrade continued, still grinning, still staring at Holmes in amazement. "We made the bet when the news was still rumor. I forgot about it shortly after, and Gregson probably did, too."
Holmes nodded. That explained it. Lestrade was just taking advantage of a bet made in jest.
Watson broke the ensuing silence. "I suppose I will have to tell my agent I am back in London," Watson said wryly. "I did not even make it to the border."
Lestrade tore his gaze from Holmes to look at Watson. "If you had waited for me to get your message instead of sending it as the train left the station," he pointed out, again displaying the worry that had washed over him on receiving that telegram, "you might not have made it out of town at all, but there is no need to contact your agent."
Watson raised an eyebrow, silently asking why not.
"I did not make it to the office before Mr. Holmes telegrammed me that he was trying to catch up to you," he answered with a shrug. "Your agent doesn't know you left."
Watson seemed to relax, and Holmes wondered why he did not want to speak to his agent, but Mycroft spoke up before he could decide how to ask.
"I need to get back to Whitehall," he announced, the telegrams he had been perusing now safely stored in a pocket. "Apparently, nobody does any work when I am not there, and several matters have been backing up for days."
Holmes smirked at the old grumble. Mycroft had been complaining for years that no one did anything without him.
"I will stop by tomorrow," Holmes confirmed in farewell.
Mycroft's gaze flicked to Watson in clear warning, and Holmes nodded acknowledgement. He would not leave Watson alone, even to complete the paperwork needed to tie up the few things he had done for his brother over the last few years and return to life.
"Mycroft?"
Watson's voice stopped Mycroft's turn to leave, and he glanced at where the doctor still leaned rather heavily on Holmes' arm.
"Thank you," Watson said simply.
The double meaning behind those words nearly slammed into Holmes, and he studied his friend.
Part of it was an honest thanks—for everything from blocking the sale of his practice to bringing Holmes back before something irreversible happened. It was the gratitude Watson had never been afraid to voice, the inherent politeness that had always been a part of him, and hearing it after so many years brought a sense of homecoming.
The other part of it, however, was a 'just in case.' "Just in case this is a dream," it said, "I want to thank you while I can, because I will not see you again, and thanking you in a dream is better than not thanking you at all.'
Mycroft had caught the double meaning as well, but he said nothing, not even glancing at Holmes as he nodded an acknowledgement before turning to leave. There was no need for eye contact to convey such a warning.
Part of it was not an expression of gratitude. It was a farewell.
"What is it?" Watson asked.
Holmes blinked, realizing he was staring as he tried to deduce how much of the words were honest thanks.
"To Baker Street?" he asked instead of answering, refusing to announce how much that farewell terrified him.
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