Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes was weary. After a night (technically, a night and a third of a day) tailing a man who was blackmailing his client, he finally had proof of the villain’s activities. Pleased with his night’s work, he was eager to retire to his rooms at Baker Street and relax with a pipe to consider his next move. He suspected, however, that returning home would not be a simple case of walking in the front door. There was the matter of the suspect in a recently concluded investigation, who had been acquitted by the courts due to what Scotland Yard called a “clerical error” but what Holmes preferred to call their characteristic incompetence. Whatever the name, the result was that there was an angry, violent criminal recently (yesterday morning) set loose in London who knew the detective hailed from 221B Baker Street.
Holmes scanned the back alley. If, as he suspected–Ah, Watson, he thought fondly. Good man, Watson. The former Army doctor had left his bedroom window open a crack, and Holmes began to inch his way up the drainpipe.
Watson reacted to the sound of the window to his bedroom at 221B Baker Street scraping open from the outside in one smooth movement of pure instinct. He reached under his bed and levelled his revolver at the window, and by the time Sherlock Holmes finished extricating himself from the windowsill, he was staring straight down the barrel of his flatmate’s revolver.
Unfortunately for Holmes, his flatmate was still asleep.
Watson’s eyes were open, but there was no awareness behind them. He stared straight into Holmes’ eyes, but there was no flicker of recognition. Holmes swallowed slowly.
“Watson,” he said softly, overwhelmingly aware that his flatmate was only six months removed from Afghanistan, and much less than that in his dreams. For all Holmes knew, Watson was aiming his weapon at some nebulous enemy from his past.
“Watson,” Holmes said again, when his first salutation failed to cause a reaction. “Watson, it’s me.”
Watson shifted his grip on the revolver so that he held it with both hands, still aiming steadily at Holmes’ heart. Holmes swallowed.
“Put your hands where I can see them,” Watson commanded, the unmistakably authoritative tones of Captain Watson blurred by sleep.
“All right, Watson, all right,” Holmes said, trying to keep his voice quiet. He slowly raised his hands into the air, turning his palms towards Watson. The man was clearly in the grips of one of his war dreams, and Holmes had no idea if his show of defencelessness would register, but it was worth trying. He studied Watson’s face for any indication that he was regaining consciousness, but there was nothing. The skin of his face was smooth, unmarked by the lines of concentration that would normally accompany this level of focus.
“Kneel,” Watson commanded, “and keep your hands up.” Holmes briefly evaluated the danger in not complying, but Watson’s voice was still sleep-heavy and he knew that his friend did not see him, and unless he could make Watson see Holmes, he would continue to treat him as a threat. Holmes sank to his knees, making the movement as slow and steady as he could to avoid startling his friend. He stared up at Watson, dread beginning to pool in his stomach as he wondered how far this dream of Watson’s was going to go. He dearly regretted not asking Watson about his dreams in more detail, but Holmes had to admit to himself that he had never expected to live one of Watson’s dreams with him. The most involved he had ever been was lulling Watson back into peaceful sleep with his violin, and that even only in the relative safety of the sitting room.
“Watson,” Holmes tried again, his voice low but beginning to shake a little bit. “I’m not sure what you’re seeing, but you need to try and wake up.”
Watson took a step closer, close enough that Holmes caught a whiff of whiskey on his breath.
“You shot one of my men,” Watson said, taking another step closer to Holmes. “He died under my knife yesterday.” Watson lowered his revolver, keeping it precisely trained on Holmes’ heart.
“John!” The word tore out of Holmes like a prayer as Watson’s revolved cracked across his head, and Holmes crumpled to the floor.
“Oh God, Holmes–” Watson gasped, Holmes’ exclamation jarring him out of his dream. He dropped to Holmes’ side. “Oh Holmes, I’m so–” The words ended in a sob.
Watson lowered his head, holding his ear above Holmes’ nose and four painful, long seconds passed as he waited to hear a breath. When Holmes finally drew in a stuttering, short breath, Watson turned and pressed his lips to Holmes’.
“Sherlock,” he murmured against his lips, “I am so, so sorry.” Holmes stared back, wide-eyed, too stunned to react.
Abruptly, Watson stumbled to his feet, then turned as if to bolt from the room, but a weak grasp at his sleeve stopped him.
“Watson,” Holmes said weakly. “I apologize, I should not have-” Holmes put a hand to his head, touching what would surely be a bruise in the morning.
“It is I who must apologize, Holmes,” Watson interrupted him. “Both for assaulting you in my dream, and for–” he flushed, and mumbled the rest “assaulting you while awake.”
“My dear Watson, you can’t think-” Holmes began, but again Watson interrupted him.
“If you wish to bring this to the Yard, I–I can’t blame you,” Watson said. “My behaviour was inexcusable, I know you–”
“No listen, Watson,” Holmes raised his voice. “I’ll quit the cocaine, I’ll do anything, just please–!” Holmes couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, but surely Watson knew what he meant? At any rate, the other man finally seemed to calm down, and Holmes rose to his feet, only slightly shakily.
Violin, now, he thought, and made for the sitting room.