"You are not allowed to scare me like this. You need to wake up."
Worried remorse pierced the darkness with a suddenness that denied my original theory, and I failed to stifle a flinch. That did not sound like a dream.
"Watson?"
Or a hallucination.
"Watson, can you hear me?"
No. No, it had to be. Hallucination. Dream. something. Holmes was dead. I had killed him, abandoned him to die at the top of a waterfall three years ago. I did not hear him next to me.
Long fingers squeezed mine, however, two digging into the pulse point in my wrist. He felt real, and he had certainly looked real, for those few seconds that I had seen him instead of Sigerson. Could he be real?
"Open your eyes, Watson. I owe you so many apologies."
No. Not possible. The hallucinations I had entertained for years had simply grown stronger in Mary's absence. I must be imagining his voice over Sigerson's. Opening my eyes would find Mycroft's operative looking askance at a collapsing messenger.
"Watson?"
Except another blink found me flat on my back, my friend apparently between me and the decrepit motel's peeling ceiling. The clear concern in that gaze finally allowed the faintest sliver of hope. I doubted a dream would resume after a break. Perhaps he was real.
Not that it mattered. After what I had done at the falls, I knew better than to think he might want me around, and unsteady movements pushed me upright, then closer to the wall. He could not want me near him, should not even want me in his rooms though he must have recognized me at the door. I needed to leave before he decided to voice just what he thought about me leaving him to die. Deserved or not, I could not bear that right now.
"Are you injured?"
No. I shook my head, clenching my fists to conceal their trembling. I had simply gone too long without a meal. The shaking would merge with more irritating symptoms eventually, but I could not bring myself to care. I could find a street vendor soon enough.
Though I apparently could not refrain from staring. Amazement repeatedly drew my gaze back to my old friend—to the stubble on his chin, to the ragged clothes with more patches than fabric, to the new scars on his face, neck, and hands. To the fatigue lining his face. A worn suit blocked the wall to declare him solid, living, reality, but he did not need to read my every thought. I finally compromised by locking my attention on his jacket. None of the hallucinations had put a tear in the hem.
"When was the funeral?"
Yesterday. The reference sent another shot of pain through my chest, but I made no reply, quickly moving out of reach when Holmes made to shift closer. He could not want to touch me, could not want me near him. No one wanted a traitor.
"Why are you afraid of me?"
"Not." I could never be afraid of him. He should know that, but the hurt lining the question forced me to reply. Another inch ensured I did not crowd him. "Glad—"
Cold water. Blowing spray. The sheer agony of knowing my friend gone at my hand.
I swallowed, desperately trying to avoid a regression in Holmes' motel washroom. I had hidden enough of those on the train.
"Glad you're—"
What? The question sneered its whispered point to make the phrase falter again. Alright? Alive? In exile for three years? I could not say any of that. Not when my actions had placed him here. I should never have left him that day.
"Sorry," I finally murmured instead, eyes on the ground to avoid seeing the hatred undoubtedly replacing concern. "Just—" Promise me you'll be careful. Thank Mycroft for letting me see you once more. Tell me you don't hate me. "Sorry. I'll go now."
One hand on the wall let me reach my feet, but turning found Holmes squarely in front of the door. Lines traced his mouth to hint either confusion or hurt.
"Why?"
Why what?
I had no idea, nor would I ask. I counted myself fortunate to know he still lived. I would not force him to spend a second longer with me than necessary. Hesitant movements tried to reach the knob without touching him.
He edged into my path but left another route open. "Why do you want to leave?"
Because I could not stay here. Would not stay where I was not wanted, could not risk putting him in danger. Everyone I loved died. I would not squander Holmes' second chance. My hand brushed metal only to be quickly swatted away.
Abruptly, and in a manner that also deepened his frown. I retreated several feet in wary silence. Why had he done that?
To get me out of reach perhaps? He noticeably relaxed when I leaned against the opposite wall.
"Are you going to answer me?"
Only because he clearly wanted me to—and because he blocked the exit. "Safer."
"Safer for whom?"
Him, of course. Who else? However he had escaped at the falls, I would not risk a second round ending differently. My presence brought death to anyone nearby.
"Watson?"
Though why he wanted me to voice such obvious facts, I could not fathom. A surprised glance found only honest curiosity.
"You."
Which quickly changed to astonishment. "How am I safer alone?"
"Without me." His confusion lingered despite the blatancy infusing the correction. How could he not have realized this? "Not safer alone. Safer without me. Quit blocking the door." Let me leave before my presence somehow guides Moran directly to you.
"No." He heard the addition as easily as the order, but two long strides laid a hand on my shoulder, firm despite my reflexive flinch. The sorrow lining his forehead announced he had finally deduced what I had known for years. "You are not at fault for what happened in Switzerland."
Of course I was. I had abandoned him at the top of a waterfall when I knew Moriarty hunted him. I had deserted him, left him to die. His death—exile—his loss was my fault.
"No." He shook just hard enough to gain my attention. "I planned that, Watson. I wrote the note, and I paid that boy a shilling to lead you away. I could not let Moriarty reach you, so I faced him alone, intending to meet you at the canyon mouth on your return. Stop blaming yourself for my actions."
That I had caused. That horrible day had simply capped a long, painful year. I still did not know what had made Holmes avoid me, but if he had written that note rather than Moriarty, then whatever I had done had also lost his trust. He had sent me away, used the opportunity to distance himself from me permanently.
Or semi-permanently. While Mycroft had evidently sent me without warning, I also had not recognized my friend until he spoke. He should have let me leave without revealing himself. I was a burden, a risk that would only get him injured or killed. Better for me to stay away.
"Stop. Right there." His grip tightened, keen eyes ensuring I looked at him—and saw the remorse he could not voice. "I left to protect you, not because of you, and I only did so because I saw no other choice at the time. If Mycroft had not sent you here today, his next telegram would have put me on the first train. I would have come for the funeral if the news had reached me in time."
Why? So he could see for himself that my actions had left me completely alone?
No. He would not do that, would not put himself in danger to gloat. Why else might he have come to London?
I did not know, nor did it matter. He had not come, and he had not expected—wanted—me to find him in France. Why would he not let me leave? Had I already put him in danger simply by delivering Mycroft's message?
"Go on, Watson. See to your patient. I shall meet you in Rosenlaui this evening."
Unlikely. Mycroft would not have sent me if a simple missive would risk his brother.
"Certainly not! But it has the hotel mark upon it…"
"Why will you not listen to me?"
Frustration joined a sharp tug to make me refocus. Briefly. When had he moved closer?
"Can you not hear me?"
Holmes' Alpine-stock leaned against the rocks, but frantic searching found no sign of my friend. "Holmes!"
"Watson?"
"Holmes, where are you?!" Stumbling steps tripped over every rock. One hand against the cliff kept me upright to continue running. "Holmes, answer me!"
Gentle nudges turned me slightly to the left, then sat me on a low wall.
"HOLMES!"
Silence but for an icy spray. Holmes was dead. I had left him, abandoned him to die.
I had killed my dearest friend.
"Watson, look at me." Pressure on my hands slowly returned my thoughts to the present, and three rapid blinks gradually found Holmes kneeling in front of me, worry clear in his gaze. "Can you hear me?"
Yes. I could hear him. I could not yet speak, however, as usual. A glance found me still in the washroom, now sitting on the edge of the tub.
"What was that?"
Just a memory. A regression, no different than the ones I had experienced after Holmes' death. Mary's loss had simply renewed the visions. Perhaps the next would include her.
But not here. A deep breath grounded me, for the moment, then bracing my cane against the floor tried to reach my feet. The sooner I left, the sooner I could decide where I wanted to go next.
Except Holmes refused. The hand on my shoulder kept me firmly on the tub as my stick bounced off the floor several feet away.
"Did you hear anything I said?"
No. I never heard anything of reality while locked in a memory, but he did not wait for the inconvenient cough to let me say as much.
"Join me." Surprise halted my attempt to stand—and made him frown. "Stay with me," he insisted. "Mycroft has already lined up another safe house, and we will find Moran faster together than I can alone."
Stay…with him? Bewilderment rendered me silent. That made no sense. Why would he want me to stay with him? Especially knowing that I would only put him in danger?
"You will not." Long fingers squeezed my shoulder. "What happened to side to side and back to back?"
I had betrayed him. Reneged on my word and abandoned him to die. He should not want me around.
"And yet I repeatedly ask you to join me." Keen eyes studied me, easily reading every thought I needed to learn how to hide. "You did not desert me, Watson. I sent you away to protect you. You were Moriarty's primary target, not me. He focused on you from the beginning. Stop blaming yourself for my actions and come with me."
Silence answered him. I wanted that. I wanted it more than I had wanted anything this last, horrible week. Could I accept?
"…flip from thrice weekly visits to avoiding me outright without explanation."
No. No, I could not do that again, and I forced the longing away to slowly shake my head. He had avoided me for a year then disappeared for three. For four years, he had not wanted me. Whatever had prompted such an offer, he could not have changed his mind in half an hour.
Two hands lightly cupped my own. "What about that do you find so hard to believe?"
Everything. Running a message for Mycroft did not gain trust or renew the friendship I had shattered. Even if I did stay, Holmes would only disappear again before long.
Remorse drew deep lines beside his eyes. "I will not. Join me, Watson. Please. We can wander across Europe until Moran makes a mistake. The trip will be safer with two."
Probably, but only if the second was not me. A day's journey by train did not make me any less a traitor.
"You are not. What do—" Shifting his weight somehow sparked a strange understanding—and changed what he had intended to say. "How many times did you try to find me at Baker Street that last year?"
How he did that, I would never understand, but I merely shrugged. Going from three or more visits per week to a silent flat and ignored messages had proven an adequate gauge of his opinion. I had eventually stopped trying. Why bother when he clearly wanted nothing to do with me?
"Because I was on a case." Fleeting pressure on my fingers drew my attention back to him. "I did not avoid you, Watson. I started chasing Moriarty nearly five years ago. I left you out of it first because I did not think it would go anywhere, then because it quickly grew too dangerous. Even Mycroft kept his distance for several months."
And yet he had become Holmes' contact, while I had been left to mourn his loss. He knew I preferred facing the danger head on rather than letting him fight it alone. Such a decision could only mean he did not want me there. He would rather leave me behind, guilty of his death, than let me come with him and help.
Murderer!
"Watson." Knuckles whitened on mine, pinching hard enough to shove the memory aside. Something akin to fear lit his eyes and completely destroyed his usual reticence. "I could not ask you to choose between me and Mary," he continued bluntly, "nor would I chance Moriarty targeting either of you when I could not help. I made the best plan I could with the information I had." One hand released me to reference our surroundings. "A plan that has now changed. We can track Moran together, explore Europe in the process, and eventually return to London to pick Mrs. Hudson's lock and surprise the Irregulars at work. Join me, Watson. Please."
Please. Join me, Watson. Please…
No. No, that made no sense. He could not desire my presence. No one wanted a traitor, and I had undoubtedly, undeniably, irrevocably betrayed him.
Except I saw neither of the tells that would announce his words a lie. He flatly refused to loosen his death grip on my hand, and I had never heard him speak with even a fraction of the emotion lacing every word of that plea. His offer might be genuine.
Or it might not be, but if nothing else, the arrangement would get me further away from London before I disappeared into the countryside, not to mention provide a few new memories for the ghosts to recreate. Cautious agreement sparked the widest smile I had seen in ages.
On both Holmes and Mary, though I desperately hoped my friend had not noticed me glance at her. He did not need to know that my dead wife remained silent listener to my every conversation.
If he had, he did not comment. One hand carefully steadied me upright, and the burst of sympathy for so many minutes seated on a porcelain rim could not touch the evident pleasure lighting his eyes. He looped my arm through his rather than pass me my cane.
"The motel sent a large meal only a few minutes before you knocked. Help yourself. You should have plenty of time to eat before we must leave for the station."
I probably should, if only to prevent a problem later, but even the first twinge of hunger in nearly a week could not pull my attention away from him. He moved around the room as if packing, then claimed a seat at the desk to study me over a journal. The window cast his shadow. The chair dented beneath him. Pages turned with the crackle of thin paper. He was real.
And he wanted me with him, at least for the moment. I would take every day he allowed.
And so ends this AU. Hope you enjoyed, and don't forget to drop your thoughts below :)
And thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter! :D