"Watson, what have I done to you?"
The whisper sounded above me, carried on a breath so quiet I barely heard it. The words twisted and turned until they aligned to gain meaning, then confusion bloomed. How had a dream manufactured that mixture of worry, fear, and regret? Holmes had certainly never let me hear such emotion while alive.
"Pale, but no injuries. No fever. Days without sleep, but that would not make him collapse. What about—Watson?" The question cut off nearly mid word, then a hand gently shook my shoulder. "Open your eyes, Watson. I owe you so many apologies."
For…what? And why did a dream come with sound and touch but no sight? Mary would laugh when I told her about—
Wait. Dead. Right. I was alone now. Maybe I could change the dream? To when she was still alive?
"Watson, can you hear me?" Or not. The hand nudged me again, then moved to tab my pulse as his tone returned to thinking aloud rather than addressing me. "Slightly fast, but not enough to cause this. What about meals?"
Lean fingers carefully cupped my own, tilting my hands back and forth though two fingers never strayed far from the pulse point. I ignored the contact. If I could not change the dream, could I at least end it? He could not be here, and every word brought only more pain.
"Two days," he finally sighed. "Maybe three, and he fought me for several minutes." A low oath colored the air as my shoulder shook again. "What a fool I am. Wake up, Watson. Please wake up."
The few methods I knew strengthened the dream rather than ending it, however. His voice should be fading, not growing clearer. I did not want to watch him pretend to return again. Not minutes after burying my wife. How did I make this end?
"Watson?" Two hands wrapped again around mine, tabbing my pulse even as my fingers rested against a rough jacket. "You are not dreaming, Watson. I left to protect you and Mary, and I returned as soon as Mycroft's telegram reached me. How do I convince you I am real?"
He could not. Not when I knew better. Dreams, hallucinations, visions, all had become the conduit of fruitless wishes over the last three years. Mary's loss only highlighted my guilt. I should never have left him that day.
"You did not. Whatever you are thinking is wrong, Watson. I wrote that note, and I paid that boy a shilling to lead you back to the inn as soon as Moriarty found our trail."
I should not have gone. Should have known better than to let Holmes separate us when he was in danger, but "should have" did not change what I had done. I had abandoned him, and that abandonment had taken the life of my dearest friend. My fault.
"No. Watson, listen to me. You cannot take the blame for my death when I am not dead."
Rustling placed pressure beneath both arms, then grunted effort partially sat me up and propped me against something warm and solid. My one attempt to avoid the contact merely set the room spinning again, and a long, sinewy arm wrapped around my chest as I regained my tenuous focus.
"Open your eyes, Watson. Mycroft's guards will ensure we are not interrupted before you believe me."
Mycroft. The brother Holmes claimed unable to tolerate for long…stood guard outside the church? That made no sense.
But neither did this man's stubbornness. I could think of no reason for the ruse to continue this long. He should have either given up or resorted to cruder methods well before now.
Unless he was telling the truth?
No. Not possible. I knew better than to hope for that. My friend was dead and had been for years.
Except the appearance had been right. The voice remained far more accurate than any hallucination, and even the hands gripping mine felt right. Who else—
"Watson?" My cushion shifted beneath me, becoming increasingly familiar with every passing moment. Hope sparked despite my efforts to quell it. No disguise could match everything correctly.
Right?
Cold fingers touched my neck to make me jump, and a low groan escaped when the sudden movement exacerbated the headache quickly announcing itself. A distracted thought almost clinically noted the common symptoms of prolonged hunger. How I had gone from "not hungry" to "problem" so quickly probably had more to do with my efforts to escape than my eating habits, but whatever the cause, the resulting symptoms would make reaching my feet rather more precarious than I wanted when in an uncertain situation.
"I know you are awake, Watson. Answer me."
Though the diagnosis did nothing to help at the moment, when the too-close order made me flinch again. Even if my words had not left with Mary, I would not have been able to reply to that.
"Watson?" The arm around my chest tightened, briefly, then two fingers resumed tabbing my pulse. "Are you ill?"
No. Well, maybe, if the room did not stop spinning with every movement, but he did not need to know that. Concentration finally managed to twitch a finger, then evade his grip. Relief drained the tension from the arm holding me against him.
"You need to open your eyes. I actually expected you to hit me by now."
Hitting him required believing him real. One could hardly hit a hallucination, after all. Or a dream.
A hallucination could not hold me upright, however, and my dreams never lasted this long—or contained this much detail. A long moment finally quelled the persistent vertigo enough to force my eyes open.
And focus on two pairs of feet. I pushed away, falteringly crawling the scant distance before I managed to put my back to a narrow table leg. A glance back found a familiar frown desperately fighting to conceal obvious concern. Streaks of dye tried to lighten patches of hair. A two-day beard put quite a bit more than a shadow across his face. New scars crossed his shoulder to dive beneath his shirt. Hollow cheeks announced both exhaustion and a lack of decent food.
But despite the many small changes since I had last seen my friend, none actually proved him anyone but my friend. Holmes. He was—
"I am real," he promised, not even scowling though he must have repeated the phrase several times. One hand almost hesitantly landed on my ankle. "I am not dead, and what happened in Switzerland was not your fault. It was mine. My plan failed, and I could only leave before the failure killed you and Mary. It was supposed to be a few weeks. Maybe a month. Not three years."
Joy bloomed, only to be ruthlessly quenched. While beyond glad to see him alive, I had still left. How could it be his fault when I had abandoned him?
"I wrote that note, Watson. I sent you away, intending to meet you at the canyon mouth on your return. Not because I do not trust you," he quickly added, undoubtedly reading my expression. "Moriarty would have shot you on sight, but alone he would agree to a duel I knew I could win. My plan failed when Moran missed the duel's terms, and he still sought revenge when you returned from town."
Yes, returned in a panic after believing a hoax. If Holmes had still been in that canyon, he knew how I had handled his death, but why had he come back now? Mary's death could not have changed his opinion if he did not want me around.
A flash of remorse acknowledged the question, though he merely edged closer, watching me as he moved to take my hand. "You have not said a word all day. Can you speak?"
No. Well, yes, but not yet. Even the surprise of seeing my friend could not renew my words that quickly. A half shrug answered even as seconds passed in silence. Did I have any reason to believe this a falsehood?
No. I did not want to think about what would happen if this did prove false, but I could find nothing contradictory. Voice matched appearance which matched mannerisms—and even location, to some degree. If anything could have interrupted the avoidance that had left me alone so many evenings that last year, Mary's loss would be one. She had caught his attention that first day just as she had mine, though obviously in a different manner. I had thoroughly enjoyed watching their friendship grow, the year I had them both.
That did not explain why he was still here, though, or why he had revealed himself instead of simply attending the service. Arrived for the funeral or not, why would he let me see him? I had lost his trust, made him avoid me for a full year, then abandoned him. Paying his respects to Mary should not have included greeting me.
"Stay here, Watson." A gentle tug regained my attention. I looked up to find him now sitting beside me, both hands cupping one of mine and worry lining his face as he studied me. "Do you still doubt I am real?"
No. I wanted to, wanted to avoid the inevitable letdown, but I could not. Not when everything I used to try to disprove his presence only confirmed it instead. I shook my head.
"Then why are you leaning away from me?"
Because he could not want me around. Why did he sit on the floor of an empty church when he could have disappeared into the crowds when the service ended?
"Three adults are too many to hide."
Confusion escaped in a small frown. What did that have to do with anything?
"Two adults are not." A long pause easily read the fleeting thought I could not say. "Come with me, Watson. We can travel the continent until Moran makes a mistake. Mycroft has already promised to find a buyer for your practice."
But…that would put us sharing a small safe house. Why would he want me there after I had broken his trust and abandoned him?
"You did not." His deepening frown confirmed some of my thoughts must have reached my expression. "Everything that happened in Switzerland was my fault, not yours. I sent you away to keep you safe, and my plan failed. You are not to blame."
I still should not have left, and that did not address what I had done to make him avoid me the year before that. Opening my mouth to ask produced only silence, however. I finally hid my face in searching for my cane.
It still lay by the door, but Holmes quickly put himself in my path. "You do not believe I wanted to leave?"
Of course I did—and he did. However he had gathered the knowledge from my expression, the pleasure of seeing him alive could not diminish the simple fact that I had somehow shattered the friendship I had worked so hard to create—and that before the worst day of my life. Whatever I had done to make him avoid me, I surely deserved to find myself alone as well.
"Inaccurate." Pressure on my fingers waited for me to look up. "I left because my presence would have put you, Mary, and Mrs. Hudson in danger," he insisted, "and I returned today because I want you to come with me. The two of us will find Moran much faster than I could alone, and only after he is behind bars can we pick Mrs. Hudson's lock and surprise the Irregulars at work."
Amusement flickered at the idea, though the smirk never reached my face. I studied him instead. He should not want a murderous traitor as a companion, but comparing his actions to his words would reveal the why of the offer soon enough. Did I have any reason to believe this a falsehood?
No. While incongruous with having lost his trust, nothing else explained why he would return today of all days. Could I afford to agree?
I had no reason not to. He would simply disappear again when he grew tired of me, and I could always let him return to Baker Street alone later, should the offer only extend to the case. That empty house had nothing else for me, anyway. I could follow him until my invitation expired.
My hesitant nod prompted evident pleasure, though still tempered by continued concern at my silence. One long arm reached behind him to retrieve my cane, and his firm grip steadied me to my feet. I pointedly ignored the spots in my vision.
"How long has it been since you ate?"
I had no idea. One shoulder lifted in another half shrug before I finally managed words.
"Morning?"
A word, though what about it made him flinch, I could not discern. A wig, a pair of glasses, and a change of posture transformed my friend into a nameless well-wisher before he pushed open the door, and less than a minute saw us headed deeper into the cemetery rather than toward the entrance.
"Where—"
His grip tightened at the partial question, but one hand referenced a large stone structure not twenty feet away. "A hansom fits in that mausoleum."
Which would get us out of the city with less chance of being noticed, I finished easily. An uneven patch returned my focus to my feet. Our feet. Two shadows played over the path. His hand firmly gripped my arm. His shoulder bumped mine every other step. Holmes was alive, solid, breathing. My fault or not, I was not a murderer, had not killed my friend so many years ago. Whether this lasted a day or a week, I would take what time he was willing to grant.
Mary would not have wanted me to haunt an empty house, anyway.
Alright! Second and final chapter a bit later than intended, but you can thank that wonderful flu/head cold going around. I swear my head's gonna explode any minute. (If you know anyone who has it, run away screaming. You'll thank me later, when you don't catch it XD )
At any rate, hope you enjoyed, and reviews are always very much appreciated :)
Thanks to those who reviewed last chapter!