Chapter Text
Despite all his fears, Sherlock sleeps deep and dreamless that night.
(At least, he cannot remember any dreams when he awakens. There is the feeling of being so very small and the uneasy sense that they are being watched, but he knows now that these are not merely the product of dreams.)
By his side lays Watson, an arm thrown protectively over Sherlock’s shoulders. He has appropriated one of his older self’s nightshirts and as a result is not quite as damp as Sherlock, but the inelegant press of his cheek and his open mouth against the pillow leave him looking nearly as exhausted as Sherlock feels.
He wonders how Watson fared in this mirror of their London. How long he spent searching the water before deciding to retreat to Baker Street.
The others — their older selves — the true residents of 221b Baker Street are already awake. He hears them downstairs in the sitting room. An entire flight of stairs between them. Sherlock had not cared one way or the other before, but now he cannot bear the thought of John being so far away.
So far away.
He forces himself upright and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, gently removing Watson’s arm. He refuses to lose his mind in broad daylight.
The stairwell is much better lit here than at home, and the sunlight does much to ease the tension Sherlock can still feel behind his eyes. He stops dead in the window just for a moment, paralyzed by its warmth as though he has never felt it before. Has it truly been so long since he has seen open sky? He almost feels normal as he makes a perfunctory knock on the sitting room door, then pushes it open with no further preamble.
Two familiar men turn to greet him. One is the older Watson, confident and distinguished, relieved to see that his young guest has not vanished into the night where he may never know what became of him.
The other, hair slicked back instead of falling free like last night, is Siger Holmes.
Sherlock slams the door shut again.