Technically, a 221b times 8, though that word count is so high it's nearly it's own oneshot, lol. Holmes' pov of previous. AU of Counting
He had to force himself to not count the days. He had spent two years fulfilling his own duty; he could hardly begrudge the doctor's willingness to follow.
It was difficult, though. Through the two years he had been gone, his image, the thread he had used to keep himself sane as he did his job, was the hope of finally convincing Watson to move to Sussex. He knew his old friend was growing tired of treating patients, and he had planned another point in the as-yet imagined argument convincing Watson to move nearly every day.
Then the work was done. It was in someone else's hands, and he could return to Sussex, his bees, and nearly decade-old argument of why Watson should move.
Finally, finally, the stubborn doctor had given in, and he had secretly celebrated, doing everything he could to aid in the packing, the moving, the selling of the practice to a younger doctor. His friend was back under the same roof. There would be no more late-night phone calls where the only sounds were the rustling papers of two old friends simply being in the other's presence. There would be no more too-short weekends when the doctor could get away, or the all-too-frequent cancelled plans when an emergency patient had shown up just before the doctor had to leave to catch his train.
Watson was home, and that meant he was, too.
And then Watson had enlisted.
He had tried to talk the doctor out of it, using every argument he could think of, to no use. Watson had made up his mind. The fortnight's notice he had been given had flown far too quickly.
He resorted to counting. Days of sun in a row. Number of bees on the flowers. Number of constellations he could remember from the astronomy lessons long ago. It occupied him, yes, but it didn't fulfill him.
He never admitted it aloud, or even fully to himself, but he knew exactly how many days it had been since Watson had enlisted, had finished packing, had shipped out; he spent more time wondering how many it would be before he came home.
He didn't know whether to hope for an early return—that had its own ramifications—or a long enlistment—he would surely go mad if the war lasted the years Mycroft predicted.
His one consolation was Mycroft's promise: should the worst happen, he would not hear by telegram.
He clung to that. He would not hear the worst news by telegram. If something happened, he would find out from his brother, not from a telegram. Mycroft had access to the casualty lists, and he would call. Mycroft would call.
He soon began to hate the sound of a ringing telephone, but Mycroft was never on the other end. The summer passed slowly, days feeling like weeks as they stretched into months. Some nights, he could hear the sounds of battle drifting on the wind from across the channel, and he wondered where Watson was. Was he there, separated only by the distance of a few miles, though it felt he was half a world away?
He returned to counting, anything to keep his vivid imagination from running away with him. Trees changing early within sight of his bee meadow. Flashes of lighting in one of the season's last few thunderstorms. Birds visiting the feeder Watson had established behind the cottage. He convinced himself Watson would be fine, would return after the war was done, safe and whole.
And then the boy from the village came running down the lane, telegram in hand.
He barely remembered seeing the boy off, and nearly slammed the door in his haste to open the yellow envelope, wondering what it was. So few communicated by telegram anymore, and never with him. Anyone who needed to reach him had access to their own telephone. He never expected its contents.
REGRET TO INFORM YOU STOP JOHN WATSON REPORTED KILLED IN ACTION SEPT 7TH 1915 STOP DEEPEST CONDOLENCES FINAL STOP
Inside, he felt something shatter, and he sank into his nearby armchair, trying to make sense of the paper that trembled before him.
Killed in action.
No. No, it wasn't possible. Watson would be fine. He would come home, safe, whole.
Killed in action.
Please, no.
Killed in action.
The words seemed to mock him. He felt stuck, more and more pieces shattering around him.
He knew he should get up. The curtains were still pulled, and Watson had always hated leaving the sitting room dark. The first thing he did each morning was pull open all the curtains and let light flood the front rooms. He should open them, as he had every day since Watson had enlisted, and he needed to see to his bees, but all he could think through the fog in which he found himself was that he was alone, and Mycroft had broken his promise.
Mycroft had broken his promise. And he was alone.
Alone.
Time passed in a haze. He had no idea when he ate or slept, or even if he did at all. Was it still the same day? Or had the world moved on without him? Was he still in his chair, staring at a telegram he couldn't understand? The words of the telegram played over and over in his mind. He was unable to escape this waking nightmare.
Gone. Dead. Injured. Broken.
He hated his wide vocabulary in that moment, as his vivid imagination took to supplying every synonym of dead intermixed with speculations of how. Had it been quick? Had his friend been alone?
He tried his old trick, tried to count things, but he had seen too many gruesome murder scenes and heard too many of the doctor's nightmares to not be able to piece together a vivid picture of how it might have happened. Victims of previous cases began flickering through his memory, all with Watson's face, and he was powerless to stop them.
A noise infiltrated his thoughts, but he paid it no heed. Was it even real? The telegram consumed him.
Another noise. Pounding? And a voice, but what was it saying? He disregarded it. What did it matter, anyway?
The voice came again, slowly breaking into his absorption, saying something. His name? He didn't know. Words held no meaning. Did any other words even exist, except those from the telegram? Dead. Gone. Killed in action.
Light broke into his awareness, followed by that voice again.
"Holmes!"
Who was speaking to him? What were they saying?
Killed in action. Dead. Gone. Broken.
What did it matter what they said, or if they were even there? All that mattered was that he was alone.
"Holmes, can you hear me?"
The voice was close, in the cottage with him. That wasn't right. He lived alone. He looked up. Someone was kneeling in front of him, someone who looked very familiar.
He started, jumping across the room to get away from this hallucination. He was dead. Watson was dead. So how was he standing in his sitting room?
"Holmes? You're beginning to worry me, Holmes. What's wrong?"
He stared a moment longer, trying to see the telltale signs of a hallucination. Was Watson transparent? Was his voice off, whether staccato or watery? Maybe he shimmered, like a mirage?
"Holmes?"
Nothing. Watson appeared to be standing in front of him, impossibly alive, worried, and talking to him. Darkness began encroaching on his vision.
He opened his eyes without having realized he had closed them. He was on the settee. The face of his dearest friend hovered in front of him.
"Holmes? Can you hear me?" The phantom was back.
Had he taken cocaine, that he would be hallucinating so? He didn't remember taking it. He wasn't entirely sure he had any—he hadn't injected himself in years—but that was the only explanation for how he could be seeing his dead friend in their sitting room.
"You're not hallucinating, Holmes. You received the wrong telegram."
This hallucination could read his thoughts. The others couldn't do that. He turned to look at it, at the image of his dearest friend, before it shimmered and disappeared back to wherever illusions go.
"Holmes?"
He may as well answer, he supposed. He rarely spoke to hallucinations, but, then, Watson wasn't around anymore to chide him for speaking to air.
"Watson."
Was that his voice? He had no idea and found he hadn't the strength to care either. What did it matter?
"Holmes, I'm not dead, and you're not hallucinating. You received the wrong telegram."
The words slowly ordered themselves in his mind, and he gradually understood what they meant.
"Watson?" He pushed himself upright, his eyes never leaving the image of his friend in front of him.
"I'm here, Holmes."
It couldn't be. The telegram had said…but the one in front of him had said... Which one could he believe?
His hand came to rest on a shoulder, a solid shoulder.
He wasn't hallucinating. Watson was here, not dead, not bleeding on some forsaken battlefield.
"Watson." He again barely recognized his own voice, but this time for the opposite reason. Needing to be sure, he used his hand on the other man's shoulder to pull him close. Both arms wrapped around something solid.
He wasn't alone.
He pushed back just as quickly. His friend had come home early from a war zone. He scanned for injuries, quickly noting the awkward position of Watson's—Watson's!—bad shoulder.
"What did you do to your shoulder?"
"You know," came the teasing answer, "for all that you're thin as a whip, you're surprisingly heavy."
What did that have to do with it?
He tried to find the relevance between question and answer as Watson carefully lifted himself to sit awkwardly in his armchair. Watson massaged his bad leg, trying to hide his movements. Something had aggravated his old wounds, but what?
"You cannot seriously think I would let you hit the floor?"
The confusion faded as he remembered the darkness, then the settee. He tried to form an apology, for injuring Watson, for Watson needing to catch him, for fainting, but Watson cut him off, directing him to pull a package from the valise by the door.
He nearly laughed when he saw what was in it, remembering one of their discussions just before Watson had left. He indulged the banter for which he knew Watson had been hoping.
Watson was back where he belonged. He was home. They both were.
Counting was no longer needed, whether days, weeks, stars, or bees.