Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.
Inspired by: "Black and White Town" by The Doves.
May 22nd, 1893
"Soon", translated from Sherlock's sense of time, was thankfully only three days. The plan was executed perfectly. Madeline had played a part in getting John out of the house and securing a good nanny for the littlest Watson, insisting that he come with her to a visit to the bookshop on Baker Street. At first he refused, but after she first flattered and demanded, and then settled for simply pushing him out the door, he bounced morosely beside her in the hansom cab.
"This place has first edition copies of some of the best books. I even found a First Folio of Shakespeare's works!" she gushed, laying it on thickly. However, given how despondent Watson was over his wife's death, he didn't pay any notice to her theatrics. Realizing her words were falling upon deaf ears, she settled back into her seat and reviewed the plan.
"Sherlock, he isn't an imbecile. He will figure out that I'm putting on a ruse," she'd argued the day before, struggling to adjust one of her stockings. After the corset, stockings were her least favorite part of apparel, and these new ones she was wearing were refusing to stay up. Suddenly feeling embarrassed, she pivoted so she could hike up the skirt of her dress discreetly so Holmes couldn't see her troubling with them. It was no matter, anyway; the detective's appraising gaze slid over her, before his attention was turned back to the window and the street below.
"True. But, and this is the sticking point, he most likely will not care. And in any case, I particularly care either. You just need to get him here," Holmes had responded, idly tapping his fingers on the windowsill. Clucking his tongue at her stumbling fingers, he crossed over to her and tugged the offending article up her leg himself. Madeline tried her damndest not to be distracted by the digits brushing over her thigh, and Sherlock continued as if nothing had happened.
"I would bring Watson here myself, were I not deceased," he grunted. "Well, that will be easily rectified in just twenty-four short hours…damn, woman, why on earth do you bother with these things at all?"
"Propriety, my dear Holmes, requires me to," she chuckled, wrenching his hands away. The odd position it put them in (him dropped to one knee and her standing before him, hand-clasped), was smoothly ignored and did not deter her speech. "So after I bring John here on a lark, then what must I do?"
"Lay low," was the answer. "Moran is a tricky man, made even more so because of his forays in the armed and criminal worlds. It would be best if you were to hide until he is hauled off in irons."
"Do you not require assistance at all? I can handle myself."
Holmes rose to his feet, sweeping over her with his eyes almost worriedly. Then he shook his head, peering at her hairline.
"As…commendable as your bravado is, my dear, it is rather misplaced. I assure you, Watson is all the assistance I require. Well, him and Lestrade of course. It would be a shame to capture Moriarty's last partner and not have him formally arrested."
She frowned. "Are you saying I am a liability?"
He shrugged. "More of a pressure point that a villain would be apt to use against me. Were you to be captured, of course."
With that, Holmes sauntered away, dropping himself down on the sofa nearby.
"Pity the poor man who attempts to kidnap you, though," he murmured, a smile twitching up the corner of his lips. "He'd be driven mad by your questions and unwillingness to shut up."
Madeline smirked, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Unless he was already half-mad in the first place."
A finger jabbed the air in her direction.
"Ah, but I never kidnapped you. You, as it turns out, came quite willingly."
Her face flushed as the memory completed itself, and so she fought to keep her thoughts of such things under control. She had a task to perform, and she was determined to do it well. A hand pressed against her forehead; Watson had finally seen something was amiss, and was nervous for her. Madeline furrowed her brow in confusion, and asked him what he was doing.
"Doctorial duties. You're certainly not running a fever, thank goodness. Was worried for a minute there," he muttered, attempting to smile. It, however, did not reach his sad blue eyes. "So what else has your blood all riled up?"
Blinking, she cast a glance out at the street sign they'd passed, sighing wistfully.
"Memories," she whispered, pinching herself for her choice of words. John squirmed slightly in his seat, resembling his young son in that respect. Now she'd made the situation totally uncomfortable. "I'm sorry."
"No need to apologize," the doctor tried to convince her, thumping his cane against the floor of the cab. Luckily, they pulled up in front of the bookshop at that moment, and with awkward smiles the duo descended from the hansom. For awhile they stood at the door, staring across the street, Watson contemplating all the times he'd spent with his dead friend, Madeline smirking inwardly. Oh, if he only knew what was going to happen in just a few short hours…
"Shall we?" she cut through the silence, gesturing grandly at the doorway. John humored her with a grin, sweeping his arm out and propping the panel open. Immediately she flitted inside, ducking into the darkest shadows. Her part of the bargain was over. It was up to Sherlock to complete the reunion.
"Oi, welcome to the shop, my good man!"
And speak of the devil, there he was. Risking a quick look around the bookcase, Madeline snickered at the sleuth's getup. He'd donned a bushy grey beard with a matching wig, an old bowler hat and a suit padded to make him appear larger in girth. Sleeve protectors were stretched up past his elbows and a set of bifocals were perched upon a false, pointed nose. Biting down on her own wrist to smother the giggles, she missed John's response, but gathered by Holmes' flying hands, he was about to direct him to the back study.
Choosing to pull an old chair into the back corner and thumb through a beaten-up copy of "The Count of Monte Cristo", she became so engrossed in her pastime that a great jarring thump was the only thing that could pull her out. Yelping, the tome flew from her hands and bounced across the floor. Jumping out of her seat, she jogged towards the back study with fear panging in her heart.
Just before she could knock on the study door, it was jerked open, revealing a distraught-looking Holmes and a pale Watson passed out on the ground.
"That…is not what I expected him to do," Sherlock gasped, breezing past her to get some water. "Prop him up for me, would you?"
Thoroughly surprised, she complied quickly, heaving up John's shoulders and letting him rest against her. The layers of her dress made it nearly impossible to sit, so she settled for kneeling against the hard wood and waiting. Holmes eventually came back, bearing both water and a small tumbler of brandy. Without wasting another moment, the detective splashed the cold water onto his friend's face, and as he came to, dribbled the liquor down his throat.
Coughing and spluttering, Watson blinked a few times before rubbing his eyes hard. The action did not erase the concerned sleuth hovering beside him.
"Holmes…you're…you're alive?" he wondered, his voice cracking. Forcing himself to sit up fully, he then realized Madeline was there. "And you knew?"
"I barely knew," she confessed, trying to wave away his accusatory look. "I only knew long enough for me to get you here to see him."
Which was almost the truth; it was close enough that it was all Watson needed to know. The news that she'd known that Holmes was alive for four months, and that the two had been engaging in a relationship without anyone's knowledge, was a secret they both decided they couldn't share.
The doctor squinted suspiciously, and then turned a glare onto his old friend.
"You'd better explain, Holmes. I've been through hell these past few months, so the story better be damn good."
It was rare for John to swear so much; it was only when he was well and truly agitated that he let his tongue slip. Readily acquiescing, Holmes spilled forth the lurid tale of his escape once more, and Madeline could listen to it as more of an enjoyable tale this time around, rather than as a lengthy explanation for a necessary pummeling of the heart. At first, Watson found it unbelievable. He'd reviewed the scene, saw two sets of footprints going up, and none coming back. There was the letter on the wall, the missing bodies…but to have the man in the flesh contradicted everything. Coldly and precisely Holmes explained the deception, expounded on his travels across the world, and how he intended to cut the loose ends of Moriarty's unraveled gang off.
"…That was a good story," Watson breathed after a few moments of quiet, massaging his temples. "Holmes, this is insane. To go to great lengths to achieve your goal is nothing new for you, but to pretend to be dead? To leave everything behind, and fool your friends?"
"I had to. If I hadn't have died, you wouldn't have lived," Sherlock said, leaning against the far wall. "For the sake of you, your wife and your son, I couldn't come back. Not until it was safe enough."
Madeline found it sweet, in a strange way, that he would not say that he'd considered never coming back. Wanting to protect his friend from his own foibles was endearing.
"Well, there's one less to worry about," Watson answered bitterly, crossing his arms. "Mary…died."
Holmes simply nodded, wincing against the pain he could see in his friend's face. The doctor's shoulders slumped forward, and started shaking again with repressed grief.
"She's dead, Holmes…what am I…what am I going to do?" he whimpered, drawing his knees up to his chest. Madeline curled an arm around his shoulders, kneeling beside him again, and met Sherlock's look of alarm with a pair of raised eyebrows. This was no time to remark on the downward spiral John was going down. He just needed to say something, anything, to help him out.
"You can help me," Holmes told him, crouching down. "I won't pretend I didn't know of her passing, as I don't make it a rule to lie to my friends. But I do know that Mary wouldn't want you to be like this. She'd want you to press on, whatever it took. So please…brother…help me destroy this criminal. Honor her memory by being strong, and continuing living."
Watson slowly raised his head, a few held-in tears glittering in his eyes. The blue irises became ice-cold, and he took the hand that Holmes had extended earlier. Pulling him up on his feet, the sleuth soon found himself shaking his friend's hand warmly and a smile spread across his lips. Nothing was spoken, but both charged out the door, leaving Madeline in the dust.
Laughing, she seated herself at the desk, and began counting down.
"Three…two…one."
Holmes burst back in, Watson in tow, both of them looking confused.
"Woman, do you know where my-"
Silently she opened the drawer on the right-hand side and retrieved two revolvers. Pushing them across the desk's surface, she could only watch in fascination as both men looked like two boys in a candy shop. Palming their weapons, they straightened their jackets and ran out again, John tipping his head in farewell at her.
She smiled brightly; the boys were back in their element once again. It had been far too long.
xXxXxXx
Moran certainly made his role as a criminal known when he tried to "kill" Sherlock Holmes, and his idiocy was proven when the real detective jumped out of the shadows and tackled him after shooting the dummy he'd set up hours before in the window. Mrs. Hudson was going into conniptions over both the return of her bohemian tenant and the shootout in front of her own house, but with a self-prescribed sleeping pill she was dozing her fury off on the sitting room sofa.
Lestrade was, amusedly, ecstatic for Holmes' return, saying as much when he and Clarky carted the gang member out ("Those morons down at the Yard are no help at all!"). Once the hubbub had dissipated, Madeline locked up shop across the street and traversed over to 221B, nearly crying with joy at stepping over the threshold and knowing Sherlock was home.
Following the sound of hushed voices, she ascended the stairs with ease, remembering back to when she'd hobbled up them with a crutch and her arm looped over someone else's shoulders. It was hard to believe that it was only two years ago since the accident. But she wouldn't dwell on it, not while it was time to celebrate Holmes' true return home.
He and the doctor were seated in his rooms, two chairs pulled up to an end table. Fire crackled in the hearth, casting a soft light onto the room. A tea tray was set up before them, and the pair was chatting amiably as though no time had passed. And given that the room was still in the same state it was in over a year ago (with a little less dust, Madeline noticed, indicating that Mrs. Hudson had tried to do some cleaning), it could be that it never had. Well, except for the tacked-up sheet over the broken window glass, that is. The door was wide open, and so she walked in without preamble, seating herself at the table and joining them for tea.
"It's good to see you two in one piece," she said, pulling Watson into a quick hug and giving Holmes a pat on the shoulder after that.
"Yes, yes. Colonel Moran was stubborn and very difficult to apprehend, but we managed," the detective murmured nonchalantly. A strange-looking gun was in his grip, and he caught the lady staring at it as she was pouring her tea. "How clever, for him to convert this old rifle into an airgun, and try to use it to murder me."
He proceeded to explain intricacies of the weapon, pointing out where and how Moran had converted it, and then he discharged it straight across the room into the wall. The r on the VR had just received an extra curl on its extending leg. The trio just looked at the smoking hole for a moment, and then went back to conversing about the adventure. Watson, being the more colorful storyteller, was the primary speaker, and he had a rapt audience. With amusement, Sherlock noted how dilated Madeline's pupils were becoming as the story progressed. She crowed and gasped at the appropriate moments, as well as expressing worry for their safety, but even he could see she was excited by the danger. It was an adventure, one that pleased her sense greatly.
The good doctor glanced at the clock across the room, and yawned, "As thrilling as it was to be back in action…and as good as it is to see you alive, Holmes, I have to be going. William will already be abed for three hours now, and so I must get home myself."
Sherlock frowned, but nodded him away. "Quite right, old boy. Can't have the child suddenly waking and deciding to destroy the house."
Madeline snorted. "Given his namesake, I wouldn't be surprised if he would do so, even at his age."
Both the men grinned at that, and Watson held out his hand expectantly towards her. Confused for a second, she then remembered that she was supposed to pretend that she had no reason to stay late either. However, once she shot a sideways glance at Holmes, eager and back in the place he truly belonged, she was determined to change the tack of her proposed course.
Bidding Holmes good-bye, she placed her hand into the crook of Watson's elbow and let him walk her halfway down the stairwell. Abruptly she stopped, looked longingly back towards the rooms, and then back into John's confounded face.
"You go on home, Doctor. I'll be fine…I need to speak to Holmes, alone," she said softly, letting her hand drop to her side. Watson's lips twitched, but he held back a grin. Instead, he leaned forward and hugged her hard.
"Very well. Tell him the truth now, no use hiding it any longer," he told her, thinking that she would finally confess her feelings for the long-lost detective. She was grateful that he couldn't see her massive grin at that moment; it took all her strength not to laugh.
"No use," she replied, tiptoeing back upstairs and leaving the doctor to his departure. A sort while later the front door opened and closed, the lock sliding into place. Arriving back at Sherlock's door, she leaned against the frame and watched as he ghosted a hand over his belongings. For a few moments he lingered by his chemistry table, dusting off a few of the test tubes with his jacket, and then he moved onto the stacks of papers and letters left over since before he'd left. It delighted him to see that absolutely nothing about his rooms had changed, that even a year and a half later it would still be the perfect blend of organized chaos.
"Staying, then?" he queried, not even having to glance over his shoulder to know she was there. A few quick steps and her arms constricted around his waist, confirming that he was indeed not alone.
"For awhile," she whispered, her chin resting on his shoulder. As they both stared down at the glass tubes, glittering in the weak light from the fireplace, she heard him sigh almost inaudibly. It was a breath of content. "Welcome home, Mr. Holmes."
Smirking at how absurd the statement sounded, he did nothing but nod towards the wall.
"Ah, that's why you've stayed: you truly want to give me a warm homecoming," he pronounced, turning around in her grip to face her. Her green eyes glowed in the low light, flashing with something akin to urgency. He knew that look all too well now, how it could spark a fever within him that would make his skin burn and freeze at the same time with…anticipation.
"Unless you're opposed to it," she quipped, pressing up against him. Automatically his arms acted of their own accord and held her there, not wanting her to let up. Her eyebrows jumped up at the stirrings of his body, and she smiled devilishly. "Which you clearly are not against it at all. In fact, if I were to hazard a theory, I would say-"
Rolling his eyes at her attempts to mimic his behavior, he cut her off effectively with a deep kiss, with her responding in kind. This was a splendid welcome, being back in his old rooms, back to his life, with one person he knew could never leave him willingly. Nothing could ruin this situation.
xXxXxXx
Approximately five minutes away from Cavendish Place, Watson discovered that somehow he'd left his cane behind at the Baker Street residence. In all the time since he'd gotten his God-awful injury, he'd only mislaid his cane a grand total of five times, and three of those instances had been Holmes' doing. Hastily he tapped the side of the cab, begging the driver's pardon but instructing him to turn around and go back. The man grumbled, but with the promise of extra money for his trouble, he accepted his fate and maneuvered the carriage back the way they'd come.
Fifteen minutes went by, with Watson stewing over his mistake. How could he have possibly forgotten? Perhaps being in the company of a friend thought to be dead, in the one place that had any remnants of feeling like a home, was too much for him. With him being half-supported by Madeline down the stairs earlier, he'd given no thought to it. Even getting in the cab went smoothly. It was only when he was wondering why his right hand felt so light and free that he noticed it was gone.
"We're here, sir," the cabbie announced gruffly, reining in the horses. No sense putting anymore thought into it, he reasoned with himself, and so he shuffled down from his perch inside, cringing as the pressure on his leg increased.
"Can't believe I was stupid enough to do that," the doctor grunted, pulling out his key and swiftly unlocking the door. "One part of my life turns around, and then I go and do something ridiculous."
Step, wince, step, wince, through the door and over to the sideboard where he pulled out a candle and holder. Striking a match, he gave himself the overly-needed light for the black entryway. Step, wince, step, wince. Soon enough he made it to the darkened stairs, and he knew how horribly excruciating it was going to be going up. Clinging tightly to the railing, his candle dipped precariously with each labored movement.
Suddenly, something crashed above him, and Holmes' well-known muffled snort of pain floated into his ears. Watson groaned; what could have the sleuth possibly done to himself in such a short amount of time?
"A number of things," he answered himself out loud, and so he attempted to step lively, in the vain hope of coming to his friend's rescue once again. Finally he made it up to Holmes' domicile, with the door ajar and the light semi-blocked by shadows. Pushing the wooden panel away, he started, "Holmes, now what have…"
The words died on his tongue, as astonishment fully slammed his brain. No, his eyes had to be betraying him, there was no way he was seeing what he was seeing.
But they weren't. His two closest friends were on the floor, bodies entwined. Madeline was, indeed, stripped of her dress, bum roll, corset and stockings, left only in a petticoat and chemise. Her hair was shaken loose from its pins, creating a perfect frame around her mortified face. And she was straddling Holmes, his shirt and jacket gone, but thankfully with his trousers still on. The detective was resting on his elbows, but sat up immediately when he'd heard Watson's voice, the look on his face deliberately blank.
The doctor could do nothing but stammer. "What…I can't…argh!"
"Oh God," Madeline gasped, wrapping her arms around herself and praying that nothing was visible.
John's hand shot out, gathering up the cane he'd left propped by the doorway, and he covered his eyes with the other before clattering loudly down the flight of steps and out to his waiting cab. Holmes rested on one of his elbows again, and he let out a sound like snorting horse.
"Welcome home indeed," he muttered.
Author's note: …And Watson's brain just exploded. Just like yours probably did. :-P
Sorry, but that part just wrote itself, I couldn't help it. And I'm sorry for being late! With a four-hundred person camp in at work, I've just been exhausted after all the garbage tossing and room cleaning. And since I'm going away for the weekend, I might be late again next week, so sorry again! I'm just a chronic apologizer! Please review this, thanks for reading, and I'll be seeing you again soon!
PS: "A Very Potter Sequel"…is BRILLIANT! Go watch it on Youtube if you haven't seen it yet!