Prompt: Cut Out the Poetry, Watson. Or don't. . Write a Watsonian poem (haiku, limerick, sonnet, doggerel or other form) or use a line from Vincent Starrett's 221b [ /poem/8599039-221b-by-Vincent-Starrett] as inspiration for your work today.

I chose Starrett's poem, specifically the second half of the second line.

Part of my Magical Creatures AU

"When all evidence suggests that waiting for the solstice would result in the death of the supplicant."

I read the words yet again, engraving them into my mind just as Nicolas' magic had seemingly engraved them into my amulet. Miniscule to fit on the gem yet somehow easily legible, I struggled to accept the decision placed before me.

And that I must tell Holmes lay before me.

A burst of pain. An emergency message. Darkness.

I was old. I knew that and so did Holmes, but this had announced just how old.

Could we do this? Would Holmes want to do this? Or would he prefer to take our chances here, in the cottage he had made his home and which we had shared for only a handful of years? We had discussed this possibility ages ago, but then it had been an idea to contemplate when it became applicable. Not a choice to make within days.

Days. I could have years, but I could have only days. We had no way of knowing. I knew how much Holmes loved this cottage, though. I doubted he would want to leave it.

We simply had to decide whether staying was worth the risk.

"A warning. You know that. This could—"

The door slammed to snap me out of my thoughts, and I set the amulet on the cushion beside me as footsteps detoured to the kitchen to set several items on the counter.

"Watson, are you home?"

"Sitting room," I called back. I would not get up. Not yet. Better for him to hear the news than deduce what had happened the moment I stood. He rounded the kitchen once—probably putting stuff away—then followed my voice.

"How was your trip?"

"Productive." A small carrysack bounced off the floor in the hall, but he retrieved his pipe before lowering himself into the other chair. "Mycroft and I have the paperwork in order, and both he and Lestrade know which documents become valid at each point."

"Does Lestrade know what he can tell Mycroft?"

He nodded sharply. "Mycroft has an inkling as well, but I refused to tell him more until he found something on his own. I have no doubt my brother is currently following the logic. I expect a telegram in a day or two."

Just as I had done with Holmes, I remembered, though he had needed far more than "a day or two" to tell me what a lizard, a rabbit, and a canary had in common. Good. That was what we had planned. I would simply have to…move the timeline up a bit.

"What are you reluctant to tell me?"

Concentrated effort prevented me from startling at the question, and I abruptly realized I had been frowning through the floor a few feet in front of my chair. A glance found concern building in Holmes' gaze. His pipe landed on the nearby table to direct his full attention on me.

"Watson?"

The low query did nothing to hide the flurry of data, deductions, and inferences he sped through in moments, though I doubted he found the right inference. I would see worry, not curiosity, if he had.

"We…" The sentence trailed off. I swallowed and rephrased. "It's time to…make the choice."

Nothing, for a long moment, then blank confusion became a shot of fear, followed an instant later by stark worry. Keen eyes scanned me from head to toe before he managed a question.

"What happened?"

"I had a heart attack," I admitted quietly. "A mild one, the day you left. I messaged Nicolas, who alerted one of the nearby doctors. Torsten happened to be in the area and stayed with me until a couple of hours ago."

"You—" The budding question broke behind another shot of fear, then his eye twitched in a stifled flinch. "Are you—?"

"Alright for the moment?" I finished. "Yes, though I will need to rest for a few more days. But Holmes—you need to know that I am some twenty years older than my father was."

And fate had not granted him a warning. He had died instantly, with my mother following in the resulting accident. Holmes knew this, had learned this piece of my history when my uncle had tried to hire us to find my mother, and my frequent medical lessons over the years ensured he needed no further hinting related to the urgency of this choice. Long seconds passed in silence as he stared at me, clearly struggling to prevent the many "what-ifs" running through his mind from showing in his expression. I could not blame him. I had spent the last several days fighting those same what-ifs.

"Why did you not send for me?"

"Holmes, what is Torsten?"

"A nisse," he answered immediately. "But what—" He frowned. "The telegraph office is not magical?"

"No, and I could not leave the settee until today. I certainly cannot make the walk into town yet, but thankfully both grocer and butcher are magical, as is the library." Otherwise I would have run out of food days ago.

The beginnings of a grimace confirmed I did not need to voice the second part. We had not given enough thought to what one of us would need if something happened when we were alone. If Holmes decided he did not wish to leave his home yet, I, at least, would put more contingency plans into place. Stackhurst's absence meant only Torsten had prevented this from turning fatal, and Holmes may not have been able to ask Nicolas for help. We had never tested the only other method I knew to send a message to the Pole.

"When will you be able to travel?"

To travel? Had he—

"Two, maybe three days, but Holmes, don't rush into this. This choice cannot be undone."

A sharp gesture disregarded my warning well before I finished speaking. "Do you really believe I would want to stay? We had this discussion years ago."

Yes, we had, but—

"This is your home," I acknowledged, "and it has been your home for much longer than it has been mine. Also for quite a bit shorter than we thought it would be. I understand if you want to stay here longer. You have your bees, and the oceanfront, and that monograph you've been writing about the rabbits, and a hundred other things. Living at the Pole will be quite a bit different—"

"Better than not living at all!" Snapped reprimand confirmed the fearful worry still dripping from his tone. "I thought we covered this years ago, too. I could not—" The assertion cut off as his ears reddened. He shifted in his seat, trying and failing to voice his thoughts before he finally picked a different route. "To be there," he quoted shortly. "I told you that right after the coup case. Change places at the falls and the result is the same. We are leaving. As soon as you can travel."

I could not survive your death any more than you could mine.

The words rang through my mind once more, echoed in years of pointed actions and indirect conversations. Holmes had worked for over a decade to convince me that he wanted me around instead of merely tolerating my presence, and even when I started to believe him, he had continued working to be sure I could not forget. He had followed when I tried to leave, chided me for my "infernal tendency to have all the data and still reach exactly the wrong conclusion," and first proposed the idea of where to go after retirement—and what would end our retirement. While I knew he would have preferred many more years in this seaside cottage, I had half expected him to start packing.

I simply had not anticipated the vehemence—or that we would leave immediately.

"Why does that surprise you?"

A different sort of worry colored the words, but I shook my head. He did not need to know that I had prepared myself to spend the next month or two, at minimum, resting here before we sold the cottage.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." The instant reply brooked no argument. "Are you confined to that chair?"

I could not stifle a grimace. "Somewhat. I can reach any room in the cottage, but it takes a while, and I have to sit down once I get there. I don't trust my balance yet to go outside."

Tripping would leave me stuck—and possibly injured—until someone found me. Better not to risk it. The worry still lining his forehead said Holmes agreed.

"Do you need anything before I go to town?"

A silent negative joined a gesture to remove the urgency. "The telegraph office will still be open in a few hours, and we cannot leave today anyway. Unpack your carrysack, grab something to eat, maybe change clothes. Nicolas will know when we board the train."

Well, when I boarded the train, but as I would not leave without Holmes, the distinction hardly mattered.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, staring at me. A series of deductions flickered too quickly for me to track before he found a different question.

"Have you eaten?"

I had not, but he refused to put off his plans longer than that. After a short luncheon—and the accompanying amusement when Holmes saw one of Torsten's meals appear on the counter—he retrieved a few packets from his desk and hurried out the door to set our "post-retirement plan" into motion. He would alert Mycroft we were leaving, tell Lestrade our destination, and put the cottage up for sale. Then, after he packed a trunk for each of us, we would ride the Polar Line to Thurso, where Nicolas would pick us up for the last stretch to the Pole. There, we would go straight to the transitional room of the Great House to learn our Age and make the Pole our permanent home. Never again would either of us need to worry about losing the other.

That small, lifesaving amulet still rested on the chair beside me when he disappeared down the road, and I pulled the gem into view once again.

"What is the addendum that allows a human to enter the Pole in the presence of an immortal any day of the year?" I had asked.

"When all evidence suggests that waiting for the solstice would result in the death of the supplicant."

I had known that, and Nicolas had known that I knew that. He had told me that first Christmas after Holmes returned, when Nicolas had admitted his plan to offer me a place in the Great House, but I had wanted the proof available if Holmes asked. As I had told him several times over the years, nonmagical humans living in the human world, by the laws put in place when we as a species lost our magic, could not enter the planet's largest magical city except on the brightest day—the summer solstice.

Several hours after Nicolas had provided the key to our now-urgent plan, a single pass finally wiped the words away. I sent only two in reply.

"Polar Line."

See my profile for a list of other Magical Creatures AU fics.

General info for those who haven't read my other stories in this AU:

All folklore is real. Father Christmas (Nicolas). Jack Frost. Nisse. Dwarves. Everything with a story and some without. Every sentient being except humans has magic.

If a shop is "magical," the clerks are aware of the magical realm and the realm's inhabitants frequent that shop.

Many small animals are "creatures of creativity". Rabbits bring stories, birds bring songs, and so on.

A human's "Age" is their Age of Decision. Once they reach their Age, they must either return to the human world or "transition" to immortal.

Any questions feel free to ask. Reviews are always very much appreciated, and thank you to the guest who reviewed the previous chapter :)