Hello poppets! Thanks for all the reviews, favs, and follows! Makes me so happy! Here's the second-to-last act and basically an end to your guessing. Remember, if you have any questions, please PM me. Or review. Reviews are good. Interestingly, if you lot are looking for background music, reading this chapter while listening to Meg & Dia's 'Monster' on repeat makes it way more intense.
Act 4
"We do not have to visit a madhouse to find a disordered mind; our planet is the mental institution of the universe." -Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Sherlock was still shivering when the stairs stopped. He was underground about 10 feet, not very far from the surface at all. The walls were made of dirt, crumbling stuff. It was completely dark. Sherlock took a step forward and tripped on a silver torch.
He stumbled forward, smacking his head against the opposite wall (so narrow!) and the flashlight skidded away to his left. Rubbing his head a bit, he dropped to his hands and knees, palming at the ground until he retrieved the torch. He switched it on.
Flashing the beam about, he could see the stairs emptied into a small entranceway and split off into two passageways: one to the right and the other to the left. So underneath Watsonville was a maze. Interesting.
Sherlock could still hear the rain outside, pattering, drowning on. He could go back and get supplies. He could wait until morning. He hadn't eaten in days and neglected to bring any tea. Equally, this passage might close up at any point with him inside of it or, worse, outside of it.
Sherlock clutched at his jumper once and then took the passage to the left.
Sherlock walked in the darkness, his small torch lighting up the narrow way. It was warm down here, almost as warm as the hottest of Watsonville days and he stopped shivering within minutes. After a few more minutes, the passage opened up to a small chamber, widening out until continuing onwards. Sherlock shined the flashlight around.
It was full of bones. Orderly stacked, thigh bones around skulls, each skull bearing a small tag with a name, a date of birth, relationship to a John Hamish Watson, and date and cause of death.
This isn't a maze, Sherlock realized, but a set of catacombs. A twisting tomb. He walked onwards and the trail of bones continued.
Sherlock didn't read them all. He didn't really want to. Some of the ones had been killed directly by this John: a sniper bullet or a planted bomb or what have you. Others had died in hospitals, patients with untreatable conditions, people not seen fast enough, the mentally disturbed who had taken their own lives. Still others seemed unrelated: family members of the other dead whose demise John deemed connected with his own deeds. A few were Watson family members.
His John. Watsonville. Dr. John Hamish Watson. All three were blending together. Perhaps Watsonville was John's hometown, perhaps he was in charge of it, had founded and built it. Perhaps, now that the city was finished, he had become a traveler or worked in some obscure corner of Lestradeville where Sherlock had not been or had deemed too boring to notice. But why would he lie to Sherlock? When would John have been this doctor solider?
Sherlock kept walking.
The path widened more, routes splitting off and leading elsewhere. Sherlock scratched on the walls to keep track of his passage, letting a hand stay on the wall at all times so to make sure he didn't lose himself. He walked for an hour or more before he heard the first howl.
And then he heard another and another and another. There was a wolf under Watsonville? The howls got closer. Sherlock heard a growl and snuffling. He broke into a run, trying to keep his hand on the wall, darting down the passages. He heard a bark, seemingly ten feet behind him and the heavy footfalls of an enormous canine. Sherlock ran faster, faster, faster until he was suddenly falling, the ground dropping away and him drowning in a slightly viscous solution. He clamped his mouth shut, his skin prickling with the cold as he flailed. He kicked his legs and arms about until he broke the surface, taking a gasp of air. The dog whined pitifully, sad to be denied its dinner, and Sherlock raised the torch out of the water and looked back to see it pace the bank.
It really was a huge beast, with glowing yellow eyes and pinned back ears, pawing at the ground with giant feet the size of bicycle tires. It bared large, sharp teeth at Sherlock, snorting through huge nostrils, and gave a high-pitched yowl before skulking away.
Sherlock swam away from the wolf's bank. How far did the pool go? He shone the flashlight at whatever he was swimming in and saw another embankment approximately 100 meters ahead. It also identified the liquid as red and, by slipping some into his mouth, Sherlock confirmed that it was blood. Sherlock was swimming in other people's life-force.
Sherlock wondered why John did this to himself, keeping something like this here in the heart of his city. John was a good man, wasn't he? Hadn't Sherlock told him so? Maybe not explicitly, but with actions? By tucking him in every night like mothers' did. By wanting to be around him. By telling him stories of other cities and of himself. By hugging him, not letting him go, telling him to stay? Those were ways Mummy had shown her love for Sherlock. That was how Sherlock had known he was loved, that he was good, that he was worthwhile. Perhaps, like Sherlock, John's mother had died and all those ways had stopped and John had forgotten them. Good thing Sherlock had remembered.
At least, that's what Sherlock said when he pulled himself out of the pool of blood and shook out droplets of crimson from his clothing.
He decided that was enough for the night. By his watch it was nearly sunrise and the catacombs were certainly getting warmer, though Sherlock didn't know if that was due to the above sun or some part of the puzzle of the place. He decided to sleep here, near the blood pool and therefore away from the dog. He hoped it had been the pool of blood that had turned the dog away from chasing him and not what was on the other side of it. As long as it did not have too silent of feet, then Sherlock could easily roll back into the blood. So Sherlock settled down, enjoying the dry warmth of the cave and letting himself and his clothes dry while he recited different types and individual characteristics of wrist-watches to himself. Once he was sufficiently not wet, he wrapped himself in his coat. The last thing he saw before shutting off the torch was the beginnings of a rose bush breaking through the ground.
When Sherlock woke the darkness confused him for a minute before he remembered where he was. He clicked on the torch, thanking whatever company was responsible for its batteries. Sherlock shone the light around, checking the blood pool was the same and that no one had joined him while he slept.
A citizen walked out of the catacomb wall. Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin. Well, that was interesting.
The citizen looked like any other, though it was holding a breakfast tray of tea, a glass of orange juice, and toast (liberally spread with butter). A slightly apologetic smile grew on its face when Sherlock touched it to test solidity. It was, in fact, solid as was the food it was carrying. Minding the growing rose bush, it sat down next to Sherlock and put the food tray on his lap. Pointing at the food to Sherlock, it indicated that Sherlock was supposed to eat. Sherlock did.
That done, Sherlock got up to continue his journey. The citizen took the empty tray, disappeared through the wall as if this was an everyday occurrence, and then walked back through to follow beside Sherlock. It smiled a little to itself.
Sherlock asked what on earth the citizen thought it was doing.
The citizen said it was following Sherlock.
Sherlock asked why.
The citizen said because it could and wanted to. Watsonville wanted it to.
Sherlock wondered how a city could want something.
The citizen was a smart ass and said how did anything want anything. It just did.
Moriarty's shout that the cities aren't real echoed in Sherlock's brain.
The catacomb was eerily quiet. It made Sherlock think something was lying in wait. The citizen was humming happily next to him. Sherlock wished it would be quiet or at least make useful noises. Sherlock wondered how much it knew. Without looking at its face, he quietly asked if the citizen knew where John was.
The citizen stopped walking and humming. The pleasant mood it exuded seemed to deflate. Sherlock's eyes widened as the citizen actually spoke. John is here. Whenever you're in Watsonville, John is here.
Sherlock's head whipped around to look the citizen up and down. There was nothing special about it, just a downturned mouth and sloped shoulders. Sherlock said he did not see John so John was not here.
The citizen smiled sadly. He's here, Sherlock. Why don't you believe me?
Sherlock was angry that the citizen was being so difficult. Why are you lying? Sherlock asked. If he's here then show him to me!
The citizen pointed down the tunnel. You're making excellent progress. I guess we should continue the story, the monsters. We won't stop until you find him, I promise. No more giving up. The citizen placed a hand on Sherlock's arm, squeezed it reassuringly. You're impossible, you know that?
The citizen's image wavered and then disappeared. Sherlock barely had time to contemplate this strange behavior before he heard a roaring from up ahead. JOHN! HARRIET! COME HERE TO GET YOUR PUNISHMENT. I'LL TEACH YOU TO SASS. TEACH YOU TO ACT LIKE A MAN!
Sherlock shone the torch around the corner. He turned to find a huge, slobbering man, a brown beer bottle in one hand and a belt in another. He was almost cartoonish with his yellow eyes. His dirty blonde hair was matted, dirt rimmed all his fingernails. He saw Sherlock and stumbled forward, grabbling at him. Sherlock darted away, switching off the torch to bathe them in dark.
Where are you? Show yourself, you piece of shit! No hidin'! He stumbled about, cracking his belt like a whip. Sherlock pressed himself to the side of tunnel, barely breathing. I know you're 'ere!
The man started punching the wall at random. I know you're 'ere, I know you're 'ere! I KNOW YOU'RE 'ERE! The man blundered some more, his breathing growing ragged. When he was close, Sherlock stuck his foot out and the man tripped, falling and sprawling on the floor. The man spit. You're not worth it, you filthy little kids.
Sherlock wondered if he should slip past the drunkard or confront him. Sherlock's curiosity got the better of him and he crouched down, feeling his way up to the drunk's face. The smell of alcohol filled his nose. He switched on the torch.
The man had an arm over his face. Leave me alone. Shove off!
Sherlock tugged the belt and bottle out of his unprotesting hands. What is your connection to Watsonville?
I am Watsonville! the man bellowed, his arm flying away from his face. Sherlock startled away because the drunk's face was no longer unfamiliar. It was John's. He was crying.
John! Sherlock threw his arms around the man, filing away the drunk's outburst for later analysis. He held John tightly. Sherlock noticed the clothes he wore were too big for him. Had John not been eating either?
John's voice was surprised. You can see me?
Have you been looking for me for ages again? I've been looking. I never forgot you.
You're an absolute prat, you know that? John said affectionately. Now, Sherlock, listen to me. Where are we? What does it look like?
Sherlock sat up, peering at John's face. Are you blind? Has someone done something to you? I'll kill them. I'll destroy-
No, no, Sherlock, nothing like that. Just answer the questions.
We're in the catacombs under Watsonville. It's dark except for the torch. You were previously a drunk man. Is Watsonville your hometown? Do control it? Is this why the pub is boarded up because drunkenness is frightening to you?
Being drunk isn't frightening. The history of alcoholism in my family is frightening. I don't want to become that. It scares me that Harry is becoming that and she bloody won't let me help.
Harry is your sister. You spoke of her the first time we met.
Yes. God, I've missed you being this coherent.
Sherlock's confusion must have showed on his face. You're speaking like Moriarty. He said I hadn't been lucid in years.
John's eyes widened. He placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's face and spoke slowly and carefully, pronouncing each word. Sherlock, Moriarty is right. The cities aren't real. I'm real. Your surroundings are not. Think about it. Question it.
Sherlock bristled. How is that possible? All I've known is the cities. It is the world.
I'm afraid not. Remember, Sherlock: you've got to remember! Before the cities, you lived in London and you were a consulting detective. Moriarty kidnapped you and then your mind-
No! Sherlock pulled his head away. He pressed his heels of his hands to his eyes. No! I am a traveler! I travel to different cities! In between is desert. Before that I lived in Holmesville with my mother in the garden.
John scrambled up, taking hold of Sherlock's arms, trying to pull them away from his face. No, Sherlock, no, you've reinterpreted past memories to fit. Please don't relapse. Please, love, please don't do this. It's alright, let go, no one here is going to hurt you.
John's hands on his arm suddenly weakened. Sherlock, confused, put his hands down in time to see John begin to flicker. No! he shouted, lunging forward to try to grab him. Don't go!
But Sherlock landed in the dirt. All that was left of John were his clothes. Sherlock pounded a fist against the ground. Damn it! Damn it to hell!
Against his will, a sob escaped. His left hand clutched at his jumper. He stood, shaking a little. John wasn't here and the only way to go was forward. Sherlock continued. He thought about how he was waiting for death. John often made him forget that.
At some point, the citizen returned with food. Sherlock wasn't sure it was the same one since same-city citizens were relatively indistinguishable. It offered him tea. Maybe I was a little harsh, wasn't I? it said. I apologize.
You? What did you do?
The citizen fidgeted a bit. Showed you the alcoholic. Told you everything wasn't real. You weren't ready to hear that.
John said he was real.
He is.
Are you controlling what I see?
The citizen tilted its head. Yes, in a manner of speaking.
You're just a citizen. What makes you so important?
All the citizens are important. They are people or manifestations of them. I can't figure out what makes them a manifestation or a person. The drunk, for instance. He was a manifestation of John's fear of ending up like his father: a violent alcoholic who takes his self-hate out on his children.
What are you? A manifestation or a person?
A person.
Who?
The citizen smiled. I don't want to push you too much just now. Let's just leave it at that. Why...Why don't you sleep now, Sherlock? It's been a long day and you're still a bit weak from not eating. Finish your dinner, by the way.
All the observations and information were jumbled about in Sherlock's head. The manifestation-drunk saying he was Watsonville, the citizen saying it controlled Watsonville but also took orders from it, Watsonville being connected to John, again someone saying the cities weren't real, that Sherlock's reality was false. The citizens weren't all people. Some manifested fear or, Sherlock imagined, other emotional phenomenon. Was the world going mad? Was Sherlock? Sherlock acted like a detective in Lestradeville and John had called him a consulting detective. Whatever that was.
Sherlock slumped against the side of a wall, letting himself slide down to the floor. The citizen handed him food item after food item and Sherlock just shoved it into his mouth, uncaring. He was soon drifting off. The citizen reached over and turned off the torch. I'll keep watch, Sherlock. Good night.
Sherlock's last thought was whether he could trust anyone, even John.
When Sherlock woke up, the citizen was still there, though it had obviously left at some point since it had a new tray of food. Good morning, it said.
Is it morning? I can't tell down here. Sherlock said.
The citizen frowned. It's 9am on the dot. You're a very exact sleeper.
Are you observing my sleep patterns? Do you sleep?
I sleep, just not while you're awake.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. Why?
I just like to be there when you wake up.
Scared I'll 'relapse?'
The citizen frowned. Honestly yes.
The citizen put the food tray on Sherlock's lap. Why don't you eat breakfast, Sherlock? You'll feel better and then we can continue the story.
Is John at the end of the story?
For both our sakes, let's hope so.
Are you looking for him too? If so, John was certainly a wanted man. His presence had turned Sherlock and all of Sherlock's acquaintances into tizzies.
The citizen tilted its head. No. I know where he is. But you've got to get to him yourself. Now less questions and more eating breakfast please.
Sherlock grumbled about Watsonville's general obsession with making him eat whilst eating the admittedly good breakfast. The pieces of toast were accompanied by two salted fried eggs.
When he finished, the citizen collected his tray, pointed him onwards, and disappeared through the wall without a word.
Not as friendly as last time, are you? Sherlock walked. It was growing increasingly hot and stuffy. Sherlock was forced to take off his coat, draping it over his arm. After a while he noticed his fingers were swelling with dehydration. He called to the citizen to give him water, but nothing happened. Sherlock began to get slightly dizzy. The catacombs opened up into a wide chamber, Sherlock unable to see the ceiling with his torch. He huffed, running a hand through his sweaty hair. Hello?
Something scuffled to his left. Citizen?
It was a nice thought, but the citizen didn't scuffle. Suddenly, a shot rang out. Sherlock switched off the torch and took off, zig-zagging to the right, one hand against the wall and another in front of his face to make sure he didn't smack into anything. The shot turned into a machine gun fire, rat-ta-tating at Sherlock's heels. They made little sparks in the dark, making Sherlock see little white spots ahead of him. He ran, not caring his direction, just wanting to find a hiding place, any hiding place. The cities aren't real. I'm real, Your surroundings are not, John had said.
Sherlock was panting with the effort of running. If his surroundings weren't real than someone was manipulating them. The citizen? Himself? John? Since he couldn't control John or the citizen, Sherlock concentrated. He would change his own surroundings. He closed his eyes and concentrated hard, bitting his lips. Change, change, change! Stop shooting. Your gun has run out.
Sherlock felt incredibly dizzy. The world seemed to pitch forward and back, whiplashing Sherlock and causing him to stumble down and let go of the wall. The room seemed to lighten a bit: a city at night instead of the complete darkness of underground. Impossibly, fog was rolling in, dropping the temperature and making Sherlock's skin prickle with familiarity. The ground turned smooth and hard: concrete and asphalt. The gunfire stopped.
Sherlock regained his footing and set off at a run, hoping to find the room's edge in the dark. He pounded onward and realized that someone was chasing him, matching his footsteps. Sherlock ducked as something flew through the air at him, missing the top of his head by inches. Sherlock's breath was ragged, panting, filling his ears. He sprinted for what seemed like block after block, his assailant not coming any closer but still so audibly there.
Huffing and puffing, Sherlock had to stop. Gulping for air, he stood, angling himself sideways to his pursuer so as to present the smallest target. Who are you? Why are you chasing me? he called.
There was a silence until: I want you.
Sherlock barely had time to process this before some shadow flashed in glowing fog-dark grabbing him by the neck from behind, choking his airways. Sherlock collapsed downward, jutting out his hip hoping to dislodge the attacker, but instead it pulled him all the way forward and downward on the floor. Sherlock's head seemed to crack against the asphalt.
Seeing stars, he felt the torch torn from his hand and a weight settle on his legs, vises let go of his throat to grip his forearms, some weird creature leaning over him. I want you and your blood all over me.
Sherlock lay perfectly still. Why?
What do you mean why? Because you're beautiful and you're going to whether you want to or not! I have the power! All of it!
Suddenly the creature disappeared with a wisp of fog. The room lightened more. Sherlock sat up, shaken but unharmed. Something was shifting out there, flickers of something, shouts and voices blending together in cacophony.
Sherlock saw films play out against the fog. John was in them. John was leading a military squad into a firefight, John was shooting and killing everyone, John was saving all his friends when they were shot, John was bathing in blood, stacking the bones into a throne. John was commander, John was dictator, John was controlling the whole country. Dissents were executed, beautiful women were fawning over John, John was fucking every single one of them. John's body was fit with defined muscles, John was gorging himself and still fit, John was bringing people back from the dead. The camera panned out and revealed John's country, which was a lot like Moriarty City, but with cleaner streets.
Ah, John feels powerless sometimes. He wishes for power. Sherlock said this revelation aloud. The film stuttered and stopped. Hello?
Sherlock walked on, still lost. He heard a crying in the dark. He walked towards it until he saw a dark shape against the white, something slumping against the wall. It was almost daylight, bright as a very foggy morning. Why are you crying?
The thing against the wall just sniffled. Leave me alone.
Sherlock stepped closer. Against the wall was John in a military field outfit. He was clutching a dead man to him, the man's eyes glassy and a bullet through his brain. But Sherlock paid him little attention because blood was pouring out of John, out of his shoulder. He rushed forward, pressing his hands against the wound to staunch the blood flow. John! John, what's wrong?
I couldn't save him, I couldn't, I couldn't.
John, never mind the dead man. Don't pity the dead, John. Pity the poor souls who are living. The ones who are still waiting. John, tell me what to do. John, you're bleeding!
I can never save them. The whole squad died. Harry's going to die and I can't. And you're going to disappear.
I'm not disappearing, John. Tell me how to save you!
Hopeless, hopeless. John was paling, his eyelids ashy gray as he closed him. I want to die. There's no point to my life. No one. If I died this minute no one would even fucking mourn, only be surprised.
John, if you die on me I will be seriously cross.
You're mad: if I die, you won't care. You'll get a new doctor.
That made Sherlock blanched. Explain.
The dying John laughed. You're absolutely mental! Your mind created this wonderful, wonderful delusion. So brilliant. The best case I've ever had.
Sherlock decided to play along. What is my delusion?
When you were a detective, you had this mind palace in order to remember everything. You were a brilliant detective: first class. Really a class of your own actually. You were in the papers. I read about you in the papers.
What happened? The back of Sherlock's neck was prickling. All that John was saying seemed familiar, like he knew it already. He knew how this story ended.
You were on a case with that Detective Inspector Gregson and then inexplicably disappeared. You were gone almost two years. Most had given you up for dead.
But I'm not dead.
One morning you were dropped off at the police station. Literally. The police woke up to you packaged on their doorstep. The papers had a field day. A letter was attached to you, explaining that you were suffering from an unbreakable delusion. The detectives figured out that Jim Moriarty, that one bloke you were always ranting about, the Napoleon of Crime, had captured you. He tortured you and to survive you went into your mind palace. But you went too far, Sherlock. Much too far. I suppose it's because no one saved you, made him stop. He broke you, Sherlock. I suppose he was happy at first, but realized he couldn't get you back.
John's breathing was deepening, his voice going softer. Sherlock just stared at him, transfixed by the story.
Moriarty probably had a crack at fixing you, but someone like him is much better at destruction. On his note on you when he dropped you off his last words were "Fix him." What kind of an arrogant arse-hole does that? Thank God after his slip-up-when he kidnapped you from the hospital-Mycroft found him and shot him in the brain himself. Your brother is pretty impressive actually, if a bit of a sod. John weakly grinned, crinkling his eyes open at Sherlock. It's alright, Sherlock. He raised a hand to cup Sherlock's face, stroking his cheek with his thumb. It's alright.
Sherlock lifted one hand from John's shoulder, placing it over John's hand, keeping him there. He trembled as he turned his nose into John's palm and nuzzled. He shut his eyes and spoke, "You didn't answer the question, John. What is my delusion?"
"Are you ready for that?"
"Yes. I assume you're my doctor and understand what it is."
"Instead of people, you see cities. Lestradeville is Dr. Greg Lestrade. He's head of the mental hospital. Andersonville and Donovanville are your frankly incompetent nurses, Anderson and Donovan."
"And you are Watsonville."
"Yes."
"What about the others? Adler and Baskerville? Hooperville?"
"Dr. Molly Hooper is a GP you visited when you were first returned. Dr. Irene Adler is another specialist doctor like me. Henry Baskerville was a patient. You helped cure him. You're absolutely wonderful. You lay your deductions out like a map, as different city edifices. It's fascinating."
"The citizen is also you. This is all you."
"Yes." John sounded excited now. Color was returning to his cheeks, the military uniform was melting away to reveal a doctor's white coat, the dead body disappearing. "Yes, Sherlock. Let go of the palace. Come back."
Sherlock breathed into John's palm. In a small voice he said, "You're real though? I don't have to give up you."
"I'm real, Sherlock."
"And you won't leave? When I'm better you won't go?"
Sherlock gripped John's hand and turned his face to see John's reaction. John wasn't bleeding anymore and Sherlock's hands were clean. It was just a memory, then. John's worst memory from when he was in the war in Afghanistan. "I'll be here, Sherlock."
"How long have I been like this?" The world was getting lighter, a sterile, white light emanating. Sherlock smelled antiseptic.
John's smile faltered. "Nearly a decade."
Sherlock closed his eyes. The world was shifting, his body position no longer crouched but lying down on scratchy sheets. John's hand was still there though, still against Sherlock's cheek.
"I'm sorry." The world seemed to be spinning, twisting and turning and aligning in some shape. Sherlock felt lighter and heavier all at once. The temperature was approximately 75 degrees. The stifling coldness of the fog was gone.
"It's not your fault."
The world was still and quiet.
Sherlock opened his eyes. He was in a plain hospital room, the air conditioning buzzing and a monitor beeping with his heart. An IV was stuck in his arm, feeding him some sugary solution. The world seemed very flat as if pressed against his eyes. He blinked a few times. His vision turned three dimensional again. "John?" His voice was scratchy.
"I'm here," he said. Sherlock turned his head and saw that John was sitting next to him in a green chair, still holding his hand. "Where are you, Sherlock?
"Hospital, London. If I've been known to be out for a decade, it's 2021."
John breathed, smiling out of wonder. "Who are you? Who am I?"
"I'm Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective to Scotland Yard. And the occasional unaffiliated client. I have a website and live on Montague Street in London, England, United Kingdom, Europe, Earth, Milky Way Galaxy if you must know. My brother is Mycroft Holmes. My mother and father are dead, years and years ago." His eyes seemed to go out of focus for a moment and the vision before him faded dangerously. He thought he smelled Holmesville. He sought out John's face and felt the real world returning. "You are Dr. John Hamish Watson, M.D. You were a medical doctor for the the Royal Army. But you barely got out on the field when you were shot in the shoulder and left unable to perform surgery. You went back to school and studied abnormal psychology and became quiet renowned. Mycroft probably sought you out for my case. You...you...I..."
Sherlock kissed John's palm. "I love you. Quite a lot, actually. You were my favorite city." Sherlock saw John give a wry smile and Sherlock matched it. "Are you in trouble with Lestrade for it?"
"No. Mycroft wanted you cured no matter the cost or ethics. He's got everyone off our backs." There was a pause.
"Amazing."
"Am I amazing?"
"You just pulled yourself out of a nine year and 8 months long delusion. A delusion so perfect and detailed you were cognizant of the world and totally out of it. Of course you're amazing. It's even more amazing to get to talk to you, the real you."
Sherlock tried to sit up and was dizzy. "Whoa, whoa, calm down, Sherlock. It's alright. There's no rush. You could relapse still. Take it easy." With his free hand, John gently pushed him back down, stroking his cheek before retreating the hand.
"I could relapse?" He didn't want to go back there. He wanted to stay and talk with John.
"Yes, most likely. But you've also broken it. You know there's two worlds now: the one of your mind and the cities and the one that's here. It should be easier to find your way back, if you get lost."
Sherlock put John's hand over his face, letting it rest against his nose. John had to stand to accommodate the position. Sherlock breathed John's scent in, memorizing it in the real world. "What happens now, then?"
"We monitor you, we make sure you're not relapsing and have all your life and motor skills in tact and then you are released. I'm sure Mycroft has something planned after that." John said dryly. "He always does."
Sherlock let go of John's hand. "What happens to you?"
"I'll be with you every step of the way. Once you're released, I get other, less intense cases. In the meantime, I'm on you twenty-four hours and when I'm not immediately at your bedside I'm probably thinking about you anyway." John chuckled. He smoothed Sherlock's hair from his forehead. "Are you tired? How are you feeling?"
Sherlock sat up, ignoring the dizziness and bracing himself on the sides of his bed. "Come with me."
"Come with you where?"
"When I'm released. Come with me." Sherlock studied John's face, seeing all the emotions flick across. Surprise, analysis, caution. "You can keep your doctoral position, but come live with me."
John's eyes widened. He looked away. "I don't know if Mycroft would allow..."
"To hell with Mycroft!" Sherlock said. "All those things you said, all those things you did in the cities, that was real wasn't it? This is real."
Sherlock grabbed John and kissed him, tasted him. John seemed to stiffen, decide something, and then melt into it, putting a knee on the bed to follow Sherlock against his bed frame when Sherlock leaned back. He put his hands on Sherlock's head, tangling into his curls. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist, attempting to pull him closer. He had been gone too long. He had been asleep too long. He was dizzy, the room seemed to be spinning.
John broke away and licked his lips. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."
Sherlock moved to John's neck and John seemed to stifle a groan. "Jesus, Sherlock. You don't so much as look properly at someone for years and now. God."
Sherlock pulled back and looked at John. His flushed face and dirty blonde hair. The blue of his eyes: the color of Watsonville's sky. "Does this mean you'll come with me? Stay?"
John groaned and fell against Sherlock, talking into his shoulder. "I don't know if you'll want me by the time you're ready to go. Where are you now, Sherlock?"
"Still in London and still I want you to come with me."
"Patients often form attachments to their doctors and-"
"John, shut up."
Sherlock tugged at him and John conceded to fully get on the bed. "I want you. I'll always want you. After you disappeared, I never forgot you. I always remembered and wanted...wanted you to be there."
John just moved to kiss Sherlock again and Sherlock fingered his way up John's spine.
Next chapter is an epilogue of sorts. I'll also post a timeline of events as a separate chapter.