Saw the date and decided to try to get this ready to post. Second chapter will go up next week sometime. Hope you enjoy :)
Dead.
The word echoed in my mind, ricocheting over and over as if to ensure I got the message. Another shot of pain bloomed wherever it touched.
Dead.
But…she could not be dead. Every day felt more like a dream, like I coasted through time on the winds of a nightmare. Something so surreal could not be true. I had to find her. I would find her. Around the corner. On the bed. In the sitting room. She could not be dead, so she must be here. Somewhere. I simply needed to find her.
Yet three days after that horrible morning, I found myself at her funeral. Eulogies and hymns passed in a haze as I fought to comprehend a world where she was not.
Mary. My love. And our child. Both dead. Gone to join Holmes.
If they were dead, then I had failed them, too.
A shovelful of dirt landed in the hole in front of me, motes of dust swirling to catch the light in ever-changing patterns, and I roused from my thoughts just enough to note the gathered mourners now drifting out of the cemetery. I would find myself alone in only a few minutes. Their lives had not ended when hers did.
Mine had, however, and I did not yet know how to restart it—or if I wanted it restarted. With no reason to leave, to go back to that silent, echoing house, my focus shifted back to the filling hole.
Quiet nights in the sitting room. Lunches around patients. The joy of her news. Even laughing admonishments to help with a case though she stayed at home. Memories flickered to life before me, each sparking another jolt of pain. I had no wish to go back to the house we had made our home. Did I have a choice?
Not really. Or, more accurately, not yet. I could hardly move with only the clothes on my back. Selling my practice first would at least give me the funds to establish myself somewhere else.
Except…that meant a wait of days or weeks for the sale to finalize, which circled back to my complete disinterest in reentering that house. Could I leave before selling?
"Doctor?"
"Sleep on it, John. Sometimes the answers are clearer in the morning."
Resignation escaped in a faint sigh at the remembered advice. I had not slept more than a scant few hours since that morning, nor probably eaten, though a lack of appetite tried to deny that thought. I doubted I would sleep tonight any more than I had last night, but I would solve nothing here, staring at a growing pile of dirt. The debate could wait for tomorrow. Or longer. No one expected me to work for a while.
"You never told me you were a poet, John. Does Sherlock contribute to those writings, too?"
How I missed her!
"Doctor, can you hear me?"
Light fingers tugged my jacket in warning, then gently took my arm, and I blinked to find vague concern competing with the polite blankness of a stranger. Slightly stooped with age, a much older man studied me from beneath a flat cap. Shadows hid much of his face, but the worn traveler's suit suggested an old acquaintance arrived for the funeral. I needed another moment to realize he had looped my arm in his and headed for the church.
"Just a few minutes of your time, Doctor," he murmured when I tried to free my arm. "Mary gave me a message to be passed along at her death. It is not for anyone's ears but your own."
Mary. While I knew better than to trust a stranger, I could not refuse a message any more than I could stop breathing. The man clearly knew that. Long legs slowed to match my uneven gait, but he said nothing else until the church's rear office provided a measure of privacy.
"Do you recognize me, Doctor?"
His diction on the last word sounded somewhat familiar, but no, I did not know him. The lack of recognition hardly mattered when I did not know all of Mary's friends, and a silent negative also positioned me between him and the door. I would listen, then I would leave. Whether I returned to Mary's grave or went home I could decide later.
A glance checked for eavesdroppers before a slowly predictable movement removed his cap. Steely grey eyes never left my face as fabric thwapped the floor, then a handkerchief started removing makeup.
Wait. Steely grey eyes?
Yes, and the face of a man long dead gradually appeared beneath the makeup. I reflexively took a step back.
"Watson."
No. Not possible. He had died years ago, had fallen from a waterfall when I foolishly abandoned him. Even Mary's arguments had not lifted that murder charge from my conscience. He could not be here.
"I am not dead, Watson. I went into hiding to protect you."
No, he had died because of me. Had I fallen asleep in front of the grave? Or did I simply not remember returning home?
"You are not dreaming. Mycroft's missive reached me yesterday, and I took the first train."
It did not matter, I decided. Wherever I slept, he could not be here. My friend was dead. I had killed him years ago. Either I was dreaming, or this was a trap. I needed to get out of here.
Long fingers barely missed my jacket. "I am not dead. Inhale before you collapse."
I did not need to inhale. I needed to leave, but he blocked my every route. How had he gotten between me and the door?
"Watson!" One final lunge caught my sleeve, then my arm, and his firm hold refused all attempts to break free. Some ruffian must have seen an opportunity for retribution. Grieving or not, I would not go without a fight.
"Watson, listen to me!"
No, but I could not leave, either. Strong hands gripped each arm, both holding me in place and—increasingly—supporting my weight. Lack of rest combined with exertion to make the room tilt. I needed to escape before the vertigo caught up with me.
Or at least before he could take advantage of my weakness. A creative twist broke one arm free, then a backwards kick earned a grunt of pain. I lunged for the door only for his other hand to tighten on my arm.
And put spots on the wall. Something shifted that I could not define, and I found myself flat on my back, clear worry lining Holmes' face above me. How had I ended up on the floor?
"Watson?"
And how was he still here? Dreams did not usually flip orientation like that, and any ruffian would have ensured I never woke. Who leaned over me?
"Watson, can you hear me?"
Yes, but I would not answer. Could not answer, when Mary's death had stolen my words days ago. Urgency diminished with my lack of injury, and long seconds memorized this image of my old friend before I pushed myself away and off the floor. Despite the weakness evident in my unsteady legs, he obviously did not mean me immediate harm. Perhaps I could reach the window?
Or not. One hand landed gently on my shoulder the moment I turned. Careful prodding sent pain lancing through scar tissue.
"I am real," he promised. "Moriarty had a lieutenant, and I could not make you choose between me and Mary."
He was dead. I had killed him years ago, and that same incompetence had cost me my wife and child as well. Intentional or not, I could not deny the guilt that stole my words and brought the past to life. Could I leave through the rest of the church?
No. The hand on my shoulder prevented me from moving further away, then long, painfully familiar fingers looped around my wrist.
"I am not dead, Watson," he murmured, ignoring my attempts to break free. "Look at me."
No. I needed to get away, needed to escape this vision of one of my greatest regrets. I had no idea who would take the appearance of my old friend, much less who would do so on this most painful of days, but I would not fall for such an underhanded ruse.
"This is not a disguise. I intended to meet you at the mouth of the canyon, but Moran's rifle never wavered while you searched the trail. Revealing myself would have killed us both, and contacting you later would have put Mary in danger. Three adults are too difficult to hide, Watson."
Just as one, specific adult should have been too difficult to imitate. How they had gotten the voice so accurate—down to the threads of concern and exhaustion—I would never know, but there had to be something here I could use to escape. Whatever his reason for trying to convince me, he would only talk for so long before resorting to cruder methods. Could I use my cane?
"Look at me."
No. It lay by the door. I carried no weapon to a funeral, nor did I have anything that would do in a pinch, and the firm grip on my arm prevented me from sacrificing the jacket to get away.
The hand on my shoulder pulled, and a sharp movement kicked my feet out the next moment. I tensed, expecting the impact with the floor to precede his true reason for trapping me here.
Except the impact never came. The hand on my shoulder gripped my jacket, another hand beneath my elbow helped support my weight, and I quickly found myself braced against the wall, the door to my right and a feigned scowl trying to cover fear in front of me.
"You have grown more stubborn over the years. How many times do I have to tell you that I am not dead before you believe me?"
I made no reply, could only stare, eyes undoubtedly rather wide, as every search for a discrepancy found nothing. The scar on his cheek had come from a fight in a warehouse. The one on his lip from a thrown bottle. Steely grey eyes had long proven themselves unique. Long fingers carried the same strength that had once unbent a fire poker.
More grey streaked his temples than I remembered, but that hardly disproved his claim. I focused more on his growing worry. If he was real—if my old friend truly stood in front of me—why did he study me like that?
I had no idea, nor did it truly matter when I flipped from "no appetite" to "problem" in a single inhale. My stomach churned as if searching for food I had not eaten, then lightheadedness shot into a vertigo that made the room spin. The concern lining his face spiked as my vision darkened.
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