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Holmes kept his eyes forward and his hood pulled up as he moved through the murky streets of the half-collapsed slum. He ignored the calls of entertainers and street vendors, and walked with the air of one who is certain of his way and should not be lightly trifled with. Despite his apparent singlemindedness, his senses were intent on every detail, taking in movement at the corner of his vision, the scent of the streets, the rattle of carts, the sound of voices raised or hushed. Several times, prompted by some detail, he walked confidently into an alley, only to crouch in the darkness to conceal himself until some gang passed by. It made his progress slow, which wore at him badly, but he could not afford to be waylaid by even a merely human criminal.
At long last, he reached his destination, turning down a final alley that looked no different from dozens of others in the teeming streets. Again, he crouched to wait, moving only when he was sure he was unobserved. At last, he moved some concealing debris and descended through what had once been the coal chute of a fine house, and made his way into the underground ruins beneath.
He could move more quickly now, for they had chosen this area because there had been no sign of human habitation within it. He ignored the insolent rats glancing up at him when his lantern light fell upon them, too bold to even scatter at the sight of a human. That boldness worried him for Watson’s sake, but he hadn’t had a choice, if Holmes was to give him any chance at all.
At last, he saw the glimmer of light in the distance, the glow of the lantern he’d left behind. When he was close enough, he called out softly, “I’ve returned.”
He drew closer then, heart chilling in his breast as he saw the man he loved so well, his partner in everything these many years. His color was far worse than it had been a few hours before, and there was a labored sound to his breathing, as if he were half-drowning. He seemed asleep or unconscious and Sherlock dropped to his knees beside him, brushing a gentle hand over his temple. The fever was far worse, dangerously high already.
He pushed aside worry for what such signs might mean and kindled a small fire, just enough to make some broth from pocket soup and some of the water he’d ventured out to get. When it was ready, he moved closer and touched Watson’s shoulder. “You must drink a bit. A few minutes, then you can sleep again,” he said.
Watson’s eyes fluttered slowly and Holmes looked at them, watchful for any strange color, or for the deadly light of madness. But he saw only pain and exhaustion in them, and they were the familiar blue he knew so well. He struggled to sit up, but seemed to lack the strength. Holmes felt his heart clench with fear, but shifted an arm under his head and lifted him carefully. “Are you in much pain, dear heart?” he asked.
Watson looked at him blearily and found his hand, squeezing it once. “Not much. Simply weary.”
Holmes heard the brave lie in his words and leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead. “Can you manage some soup? You’ll need your strength.”
“I can try,” he promised uncertainly. Holmes nodded and carefully brought the tin cup to his lips.
There was little need for words, but the knowledge lay heavy between them. Not all of those with royal blood could infect with a bite, but many could. If Watson was so ill already from an injury not even a day old, the Count might well have been among those who could.
“I’m sorry, Watson,” he murmured softly. “It was an unforgivable miscalculation.” Those with royal blood generally made a show of their power. Given what he showed in public, Holmes had believed that the Count was mostly human, apart from his eyes and his ability to cause agony with a touch. He hadn’t anticipated what the Count had hidden beneath his jacket.
Watson swallowed and sighed, turning his head aside for a moment. Holmes saw the way the sweat stood out on his brow, the creases of pain on his face. He would have given much to be the one lying injured instead, or at least to bear half of the pain himself. “It was worth the wound to put an end to him,” he replied.
Holmes hummed slightly and offered the cup again when Watson turned his head back. They both knew how the work would end, sooner or later. They had done what was necessary countless times, for those too far gone to be saved. One day, it would almost certainly be one of them. They would do it—they were used to the necessities of a hopeless war. Still, every particle of Holmes’ being cried out, Not yet!
Watson spoke again, voice hoarse but carefully light. “What would you do if—if They were gone?”
Holmes looked up at the dark ceiling, barely visible at the edges of the lamplight. “I should like to retire to the country, just the two of us. We could have a fine garden. You could write and I should study bees.”
“Bees?” Watson shifted with some effort so that he was half sitting up, though leaning his side against Sherlock for support.
“They’re a kind of insect. There aren’t many of them, but I would see them sometimes at my parents’ country estate. They’re a strange creature, yellow and black and furry. They make a sort of waxy nest called a hive and produce something called honey. It’s very sweet, a rare delicacy.” The sort of thing his parents had served at parties to show their position, in truth.
He could see Watson trying to imagine it. “A furry insect. I would like to see it someday.”
“I should like to show you some day. We could walk by the seaside, perhaps, and watch the sunset.”
Watson found his hand again. “I would write and we’d sleep in a bed every night. And have a fire in a fireplace.” His voice was beginning to blur with weariness, and his eyes were drifting closed again.
Holmes set the now-finished cup of broth aside and lay Watson gently back. He slipped into the bedroll with him, careful of his injury. For a long time, they simply lay together, knowing how fragile this might be, how few nights like this they might have left. Holmes found his throat tight with unshed tears and felt he must say something, but wasn’t sure what words could possibly suffice. At last, he spoke again the words they’d said to each other, in a silent catacomb without priest or sacrifice to mark their vows. “You are my heart and soul, my life’s breath. I will treasure you, walk with you, and fight with you, for as long as there’s life and mind in me.”
Watson didn’t answer—Holmes realized he must have fallen asleep or slipped into unconsciousness. He pulled the bedroll around Watson gently, careful of his injured side, and then sighed, memorizing the feel of Watson in his arms.
In time, even if not tonight, a life would end and a heart would be broken. Their war was a forlorn hope, and Holmes knew the two of them would never be able to end the Old Ones’ rule. Yet despite it all, he knew he would rather live a handful of years in hiding and hunting rather than a hundred years in a gilded cage.
Perhaps, sometimes, one more night was all one could ask for.
Holmes watched the lantern flicker, not banishing the darkness around them, but also not swallowed by it, and listened to John breathe.