Author's Note:
A big thanks to my reviewers! Glad my little offering isn't being completely ignored… Now, regarding the story itself: as I said before, things will get worse before they get better, so…
WARNING: Some mature content ahead.
==Chapter 3: Alternative==
When he woke up, he was cold. More to the point, he was practically freezing.
Beth was gone, and—oh, dear Lord, his room. In the darkness, it looked as it had when he'd first moved in, devoid of all personal touches, the comfortable clutter he'd built up over the years absolutely absent. Burglary would have been the first idea to come to mind, but his quick mind prevented that notion from arising.
His mind noted the impressive layer of dust on the furniture, the dirty floor, the cobwebs swaying from the ceiling. It looked as though no one had lived here in a very long time.
The plight of James Morstan sprang to mind, but he needed more data before he'd subscribe to that Rip Van Winkle idea. Very well, then. He rose from bed and entered the sitting room. It looked much the same as the bedroom, devoid of life and devoid of personality, the only light being the golden glow of the streetlamp flooding the floor. There was no sign of Watson, Lestrade, or the kids.
"Holmes."
His heart leapt into his throat at the voice—one that he had not heard in over two years. He whirled around, and he would have sworn that his heart truly skip a beat. "John."
There he stood in the middle of the room, stance proud and erect, ginger blond hair flopping endearingly over his forehead, hazel eyes alert and intense.
John Hamish Watson.
Holmes took a tentative step forward, afraid that this was another dream—he'd dreamt of John before—and that his Boswell would vanish as soon as Holmes reached him. John did not. He watched Holmes with something akin to compassion and even sorrow.
"Watson," Holmes whispered. "You are real?"
John took a step back, his face twisting briefly. "Holmes, you asked Lestrade why she brought you back," he said calmly enough, but Holmes knew his Watson. He saw his friend's heart breaking on the inside. "You believe that you should have stayed dead."
All the guilt flooded back, crushing and nearly choking him. "Shouldn't I have?" he said bitterly. "If everyone dies in the end, what is the use of attempting to save them?"
A fierce light sparked in Watson's eyes, turning them amber in the dim light. "You know the answer to that, Sherlock Holmes," he said severely. "Shame on you for ignoring it."
"I am not—"
"Your greatest flaw was never your arrogance, Holmes, though God knows it led to your ultimate weakness."
Holmes sighed tiredly. "Emotion?" They both knew by now that Holmes was the complete opposite of a brain without a heart: he felt things very deeply. So deeply that he'd had to learn at a young age to suppress his emotions lest they damage him.
"Close." Watson met Holmes's gaze squarely, penetratingly. "Your greatest flaw, Holmes, your greatest weakness… is your inability to forgive yourself. You act as if, because you are so high above the rest of mankind intellectually, you ought therefore to be omniscient. You ought to be able to save everyone, and you can't live with yourself when you don't. Call it 'unintentional arrogance,' if you will."
"Watson, I—"
"No! You let me finish. Even after eighty years of life on this earth, Heaven, and returning to life here, you still seem to think you ought to be invincible. You still seem to think you're God, and, Sherlock Holmes, you are not God."
Holmes could not remember the last time he'd been at a loss for words. Eventually, he moistened his dry mouth and murmured, "But they don't need me here. Not really."
The anger faded from Watson's eyes, leaving them brown and weary. "Oh, Holmes. Very well, then—would you like to see what the world would be like without you?"
Holmes smiled sadly. "I'm certain they'd get along just fine. Lestrade really is a capable detective, you know?"
Something spasmed across Watson's face. "Come with me."
"Let me get my Inverness… Oh." Watson was holding out the cloak and cap. Odd—he hadn't seen the man move to get them… it was as if they'd appeared out of thin air…
The rest of the house appeared as lifeless and empty as the bedroom and sitting room, and Holmes pulled his Inverness tighter around him, chilled at the sight. "Watson, what has happened to this place?"
"You'll deduce it soon enough," Watson promised, stepping out into the frigid night.
Holmes suddenly felt afraid, and hung back in the doorway. "Watson…"
His friend's forehead furrowed in regret. "Holmes, you must do this."
A beat. He stepped out and shut the door behind him. "Where are we going?"
"Where would you go if you were simply stepping out for the enjoyment of it?"
Holmes shrugged. "Regent's Park?"
"Then let's head that way."
Something was subtly different about the city as they made their way to the park. It was nothing that even Holmes could put his metaphorical finger on, but it was there all the same, like the answer to a question that sits right on the edge of memory. They walked in silence, as they had sometimes in the past, in a drastically different era. Holmes noted that his friend did not limp, which was quite unlike his dreams.
As they approached the park, he heard an all-too-familiar sound: wild music and even wilder voices and laughter. But… such a thing on Christmas, in Regent's Park of all places… was unheard of.
And yet, the sight that met his astonished eyes was that of a wild festival. "Watson, what the devil!" He had to avert his gaze to avoid seeing things that should not have been seen outside a bedroom.
He met Watson's sympathetic gaze. "I know, old man," Watson said quietly. "I know."
Holmes was still in shock. "Even in this day and age, I've never seen such a thing in such an old and venerable part of the city! This is supposed to be a civilized nation!"
"It only gets worse, I'm afraid." Watson began to walk away. "Come. There is something you must see."
Holmes trotted after him, following Watson into a more commercial part of town. He gaped at the profusion of brightly-lit advertisements showing off seductive women—far more than he recalled there ever being in New London. Drunks stumbled their way along the sidewalks, and he saw many people smoking cigarettes. His eyes bulged at that. "Watson, smoking was prohibited nationwide decades ago!"
"So were orgies," Watson retorted. "In here." He gestured to a blindingly-neon bar, the sort of seedy establishment Holmes only ever entered—and that, reluctantly—when on a case. Most times, Lestrade won't even come with me…
As he entered, his heart plummeted. Whatever Watson wanted him to see, it was bound to be ugly. This place looked to be more of a brothel than a bar. One bleached blonde approached him, her hips swaying extravagantly… all right, he wasn't blind, but three words sprang to mind: DO NOT WANT. He tried to keep his eyes on her heavily-painted face and away from the clothes that left little to the imagination. Honestly, what is the point of wearing clothes at all if you're revealing that much of your body?
"Hey there, handsome," she murmured, laying one well-manicured hand on his arm. "Come to have a good time?"
"I'm, ah, just looking around, thank you."
She seemed to enjoy his brief floundering for a foundation. "You'll come back," she smiled lazily, and she brushed her fingers across his cheek before sauntering off.
Dear heaven, he despised women like that.
He turned and found Watson sending off his own seductress. The doctor sent him a look that said, honestly, and Holmes had to grin ruefully. Your fault, he mouthed, and Watson scowled. Holmes shook his head and turned to survey the large room. He didn't see anything or anyone actually worth seeing…
"Hey, get your hands off of her!"
He froze. He knew that voice.
"Let her go!"
He pushed through the crowd until he found his quarry: Wiggins throwing a punch at a man, who howled as blood from his nose splattered the nearby table. "Wiggins, no!" shrieked a familiar Cockney voice. It took Holmes five seconds to identify Deidre in her heavy makeup, bizarre hairdo, and revealing clothing. His heart twisted at the sight.
"You're gonna pay for that, boy!" the injured man roared.
"Make me!" Wiggins shouted back, fury blazing in his dark brown eyes.
"Wiggins, stop!" Deidre hissed, gripping his right arm tightly. "Just stop!"
"You're a waitress, Dee, not a… a…"
"Yes, I am! So you get back to your bouncer job and you leave me alone."
"You heard the little lady," the man smirked around a bloody nose.
"What the devil is going on?" The manager finally waded in to the midst of the lurid drama. "Wiggins, get back to your post!"
"Sir, he was comin' on to her and she didn't—"
"Shut up and go!" Deidre exploded at the boy.
Wiggins looked as though someone had just stabbed him and twisted the knife in deeper. "Dee…"
"Wig," she said quietly, "just go." Her large grey eyes pleaded more eloquently than any words ever could.
Wiggins said nothing, just dipped his head and slipped back into the crowd. The manager turned to Deidre, beginning, "Anderson…"
"Won't 'appen again, sir," she said firmly. "And he—" jerk of her head at the offender—"was just leaving."
The man looked startled but swore and stumbled away, clutching his broken nose. The manager considered for a moment, nodded, and left—and with that, the crowd began to break up, returning to their activities. Except for Holmes, who stepped forward and tapped Deidre's shoulder lightly. The redhead whirled, a curse on her lips, but relaxed when she took in Holmes's non-threatening posture. "Yeah, mister?"
There wasn't a trace of recognition in her grey eyes. She doesn't know me. His heart twisted.
"Miss Anderson?"
"Deidre," she said tiredly. "You wanna order, or do you want a different service?" She gave a brave smile and placed her hand invitingly on her hip.
He felt his heart fracture right down the middle. "Aren't you too young for this?" he said gently.
She shook her head, smile fading, posture drooping. "Gotta make a livin' somehow, mister. M' aunt can't support me, an' m' dad threw me outta the 'ouse. This beats livin' in the gutter."
"Deidre, love, you're needed!" called a man's voice.
"Comin'!" she called back. "Look, I gotta go, Mr…"
"Holmes. Edward Holmes."
"Right." She nodded slowly. "See you around." She began to walk off, then stopped and looked over her shoulder. "Hey. Thanks for caring." And then she was gone.
Holmes felt Watson behind him, and rounded on him, feeling angrier than he'd felt in a long time. "What is going on, Watson?" he hissed. "Why are Deidre and Wiggins here, why didn't Deidre know me, and where is Tennyson?"
Watson stood his ground. "I told you already what you would see."
"I was never returned to life?"
"No, you weren't."
"Impossible—you can't change that."
"Not I, Holmes."
Holmes glared at his friend. "Where is Tennyson?" he repeated dangerously.
"I'll show you."
Author's Note:
Okay, I'll bet you weren't expecting Watson 1.0. To be honest, neither was I—I'd originally thought Holmes would be on his own for this little tour. But then the original John H. demanded he have a role in all this, and who was I to refuse him?
And, yes, this was dark. I love Deidre—she's one of my favorite characters—but I could just see this happening to her in a dystopia.
As far as other elements are concerned, all will be explained in time. Please stick around—things will get better, I promise!
Please review!