Safe. Finally.
The lock clicked behind him, nearly hidden beneath Holmes' sigh of relief. He fought the urge to sag against the door. This had been one of the more difficult moves, considering how many miles the terrain had forced him to walk, but the small motel revealed no sign of a tail and no indication of danger. Mycroft would receive his telegram soon enough.
And Holmes could lower his guard for at least a couple of hours. Drawn curtains hid his presence from curious passersby before he closed himself in the room furthest from the entrance. A moment unlocked the window and checked for traps or signs of tampering, then he stretched out atop the covers, unable to resist a few seconds on a real mattress. Did he want food first? Or rest?
Food. Comfort kept him flat on his back despite his growling stomach, however. Only one night in the last seven had found a bed. He would sleep well tonight.
And better on a full stomach. He allowed a slow count of sixty before pulling himself upright, but small fingers knocked as he reached his feet. A cautious peek found only a telegram boy.
"Sigerson?" A nod produced a yellow envelope, no doubt heavily encoded. "Reply to last 'gram," he added in heavily accented English. "Mark 'hurry.'"
The boy rushed away before Holmes could remember the French word for "thank you," and he closed the door, breaking the telegraph office's seal on the way toward the bedroom. Plain English sparked a surprise that halted him not three steps down the hall.
"Bonson coming with message. Stay inside. MH."
A message. Traveling via "Bonson." Something about the name sounded familiar. When had he met a "Bonson"?
The memory refused to form. Several seconds finally set the question aside for later. Had Mycroft hidden anything else in the few words?
Apparently not, but nor could Holmes leave in search of food. Vague concern stored the note in a pocket to scan the hall. He preferred to save the emergency rations in his bag for a true emergency rather than a coming missive. Could he send someone else to the motel kitchen?
There. The man from the front desk had understood English well enough. A conversation with more gestures than full sentences finally sent him to the front of the motel, several pennies richer, and Holmes retreated behind his closed door once more. He would have a meal shortly.
And the wait would give him time to rest. The first hour after reaching a new location often provided his only chance to slow down, and attentive listening kept him awake though he let his mind drift. From Watson, to travels, Moran, this small town, and back to Watson, silent minutes checked for anything that needed doing, debated ways to pass the time between chasing leads, and wondered what occupied his friend this week. Too many days had passed since he had last been able to receive mail—and even longer since Mycroft had sent anything. Perhaps the address confirmation would prompt another packet of letters, magazines, and news from home. Mycroft knew he clung to anything mentioning Watson.
And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. And London, but mostly Watson. Broken screams still echoed in his nightmares, years later. He would do anything to end his exile and return to his friend.
He could not, however. Not with Moran running free. He would not risk his friend for a few minutes' visit, and a deep breath shoved the homesickness away to focus on the present. What needed doing in the first day of a new safe house?
Food, of course. Income. He should probably scout the town, then listen to the local goings-on at the nearest pub. That would ensure Moran had not followed him here, and a job would help integrate him with the residents. What kind of job best suited his search?
Any that afforded local news, he decided. Some towns had needed typesetters. Some, barkeeps. One had allowed him to help research coal tar derivatives. That had proven interesting in itself, but a chance encounter had forced him to flee in less than a week. Perhaps he would check the nearest lab for any openings.
Or the library. That worked, too, for all that any library held far too many memories of Watson. He spent entirely too much time expecting to find his friend around the next shelf, but libraries catered to the entire population. Such a job would expose him to a wide variety of gossip—accurate and otherwise. Sometimes, the rumors revealed more pertinent information than did the true news.
He could start all of that in a few hours, after Bonson arrived. Did he have anything that needed attention this minute?
No. He could enjoy this wonderfully soft mattress without shame. Nearly an hour passed in comfortable silence before another knock carried through his door.
"Kitchen!"
Stomach growling an order to hurry, he lurched off the bed to find the same steward standing in the hall, a heavily laden tray in hand. Dishes clinked the table at Holmes' gesture.
"Merci."
The man nodded an acknowledgement, thankfully understanding despite Holmes' own thick accent. Another moment retrieved the empty tray.
"Bon appétit. You need else?"
"No," he replied, offering the man another coin for the delivery. "Merci."
With the door closed—and locked—once more, Holmes eagerly uncovered the various plates. Two different meats, three unidentifiable vegetables, something that looked like pasta, and a small cake-like dessert filled his narrow table. The sheer number of dishes more than made up for France's tiny portions, and several minutes passed in flavorful contentedness. Over a week had slipped away with nothing more than scraps to keep him moving. He had missed feeling full.
Though he should probably save some for Bonson. Any messenger would have taken the first train out and possibly skipped meals trying to catch up with him, and the thought set aside some of each dish. Wherever Bonson went next, he would not go hungry.
He had to arrive first, however. Silence still reigned when Holmes pushed away from the table. What else could he do while he waited?
His journals, perhaps. Updating his notes would occupy at least a few minutes, and plates shoved to the table's other end to let him spread paper, pen, and ink over the wooden surface. Where had he left off?
The day before leaving. A few sentences sufficed to explain why he had fled the last location, then another page outlined his journey, the people he had encountered, and his constant search for Moran. While he did not believe the tiger hunter had seen him, he had noted more than one sign of the man's passing. This safe house could provide another lead to finally corner Moran for good.
Maybe. He refused to get his hopes up. Especially in notes that Mycroft would eventually read. A quarter of an hour served to finish with that journal, but a low cough preceded a hesitant knock before he could retrieve the next one. Caution slung his packed bag over one shoulder even as he cracked the door against the chain.
Bonson.
His breath caught at the sight of a simple but familiar disguise, and even nearly slamming the door to unlock it fully did not change just who waited in the hall. Watson stood not two feet away, pale skin almost ghostly against the stark black highlighting deep lines in his face. Hollow eyes stared through Holmes without an ounce of recognition.
"Sigerson?"
No. No, but Holmes could not say as much where someone may hear. Did not dare try to speak when the words could just as easily come out in his own voice rather than Sigerson's. Only one thing could bring Watson to Holmes' door dressed in black, and he nearly dragged his friend closer, ignoring the offered missive to throw both locks and lead Watson toward the sole windowless room.
"Here."
Where Watson tried again to hand him that envelope. He would have preferred to simply abandon his disguise and greet his friend, but something warned to take this slowly. A wide stance carefully remained between Watson and the exit as one finger broke Mycroft's seal.
"Mary is dead, and the doctor has no intention of returning home. Safe house for two in Belgium. You know the shack."
The loss that had sparked at the crepe solidified to a hard lump in his chest. He hid the emotion in the note even as a single step to the side prevented Watson from reaching the door. While Mary's death certainly meant an end to Holmes' inability to contact his friend, that alone would not have made Mycroft hurry the process by sending Watson to France. Something else factored into the decision.
Such as the empty mourning trying to divert Watson from his goal. Message delivered, he obviously wanted to leave, but a distraction Holmes could not see repeatedly made him falter. A flinch met total silence. A frown addressed an empty wall. A limping step avoided nothing.
Holmes' concern steadily grew. Careful movements slipped the note into a pocket and dropped his bag to the floor. Only with his hands free did he dare speak.
"Watson."
His friend froze, then just as quickly ducked his head. Holmes barely caught the way Watson's eyes lost focus.
"Watson, my name is not Sigerson."
No reaction. One hand hesitantly wrapped around Watson's arm. Fine tremors bled through the dark fabric.
"If I had known about Mary, you would not have had to find me in France."
Still nothing. A deep breath became a hoarse cough, then Watson twisted his arm in another bid for the door. Holmes merely confirmed his grip. Sorrow easily read every bit of the pained grief aging his friend far beyond his years.
"Watson, look at me."
No.
His friend ignored him, still trying to leave in a manner that announced how little he trusted what he heard. Watson had either seen or dreamed this situation before. Probably more than once. The simple deduction only deepened Holmes' sorrow.
"I am not letting you leave, Watson. Not like this. Look at me."
No.
His friend refused yet again, but he also stopped struggling. Knuckles whitened on his cane as he hid his face.
"Moriarty's lieutenant aimed his air gun at you the moment you rounded the final bend. I could not reveal myself then without putting you in danger, and anything later would only have led him to you, Mary, and Mrs. Hudson."
Not possible.
Watson's disbelief permeated his posture, rendering every thought almost as easy to read as Holmes remembered. He did not need to see Watson's face to know that his friend stubbornly refused to believe this anything more than a strange dream. One hand started removing his disguise though he never loosened his hold on Watson's arm.
"Three adults are too many to hide, Watson, and Moran hunts me. He would do anything to find me, including kidnap you or Mary to lure me within reach. I could only send you home and disappear. We expected a few weeks. Maybe a month, not three years."
No. You're dead.
Another tug tried to free his arm, but Holmes' worry strengthened at how weak that attempt had been. Something more than grief—and that disturbing cough—affected his friend. The last of the makeup wiped away before he squeezed just hard enough to gain Watson's attention.
"I am not dead. Look at me."
No.
Holmes merely waited. Watson clearly did not want to trust this only for it to fall apart yet again, but long seconds finally—grudgingly—pulled Watson's gaze off his feet. Haunted eyes met Holmes'.
And immediately darkened behind a tsunami of emotions. Shock, surprise, hesitant joy, regret, sorrow, grief, shame, and many others Holmes had no chance to name cascaded through Watson's expression, all replaced an instant later with rending guilt. A different sort of worry bloomed when even that dissipated behind a blank wall.
"Watson?"
Silence. Still, hollow silence. Emptiness stared more through him than at him, and Watson's face slowly drained of color.
"Watson, answer me."
No reaction. Watson swayed once, then his eyes lost any hint of focus. His knees buckled the next moment.
"Watson!"
Nothing. Watson's full weight slammed into Holmes' grip to leave him momentarily dangling, and he remained limp as Holmes carefully lowered him to the floor. A glance subconsciously confirmed the door locked even as Holmes checked for injuries. Had Moran somehow found Watson during the trip here?
Unlikely. That had resembled shock more than an injury, further proving just how badly the last three years had affected his friend. Rapid pulse, pale skin, and fine tremors announced a disinterest in food since Mary's death, and dark shadows beneath his eyes revealed a lack of sleep probably equally long. Holmes would have to thank Mycroft for putting Watson on the first train.
"Holmes!"
Later, though. Firm concentration refused to let his mind return to years-old screams, and time slowed to a crawl as he searched for anything that could have made his friend collapse.
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