Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I have already recorded the strange and miraculous nature by which I came to learn of Holmes' survival in the Adventure of the Empty House; however, it occurred to me sometime later that I ought to put the events that took place in the aftermath into some sort of record, in order to preserve the unique nature of what took place. I trust i can be forgiven for not immediately recording these events (except in shorthand form in a diary) nor ever intending to publish them; they are in a sense so fantastical that to publicize them would be to discredit us both at best, and to leave Holmes to the operating table or the asylum at worst. But nevertheless, I feel that it would be a disservice to us both, and a great loss for both science and theology, if I did not record, as best I can, what happened to us both in the aftermath.

The weeks after Holmes’ return existed in a strange liminal space. There were practicalities to be sorted- after all, a dead man cannot just resume his living life with ease- but his brother Mycroft had thankfully managed to deal with the worst of the bureaucracy, and Baker Street had, of course, remained almost exactly as it was. The shock and joy of his reappearance, and the danger that followed, receded quickly, if not completely, and we soon found ourselves awkwardly settling into an odd sort of mundanity, a carefully curated sense of familiarity. We had both changed profoundly over the three years we had been apart- and yet, we found ourselves unexpectedly returning to long-abandoned gestures and behaviours, perhaps in an attempt to rediscover the ease we had once had. Not that it was unhappy- far from it- but there was an odd sort of tension, a slight hesitance, as we both cautiously, clumsily reacquainted ourselves with the men who hm for so long, only been well-worn memories held dear in dark times. 

That explains, I suppose, in its way, why Holmes’ strange behaviour went unremarked for so long. He was skittish, almost nervous; he retired early, and secretly, but I heard his restless pacing often enough in the small hours of the morning. It seemed churlish to say so, after so many years spent in vain trying to persuade him to do so, but his newfound appetite disturbed me- or rather, his gaunt figure, and the desperation that laced his movements disturbed me. But I am a doctor, a former soldier, and Holmes’ friend; I put it down, uncomfortably, to the mysterious and unpleasant events he had endured since his ‘death’, and gently reminded him that there was no-one left hunting him, however it may have seemed. 

And besides, I too had changed; the death of my dearest friend had broken my heart, and the slow decline of my beloved wife had done the same again. I looked out upon the world with a widower’s eyes; quiet grief and loneliness had been my constant companion nightly, and I had grown familiar with the company. I knew that I spoke less, was more inclined to lose myself in memories- and generally, with any companion other than my present one, would’ve been considered terrible company. But we had known each other through my aimless emptiness after the war, my ever-present pain and fear; through his black moods and inevitable recourse to the cocaine bottle; through his death and imposed exile. There is a comfort in knowing that, no matter what, a relationship in your life can survive even if you cannot. 

I believe that we would have continued in that vein of placid acceptance of our suffering, and in comfort, quite easily, but for a sequence of events which I can still hardly believe credible. It was by now maybe two months since Holmes’ return, possibly less; I was sitting alone by the fire, and absent-mindedly watching the encroaching darkness engulf the sky. Before, my evenings were spent in conversation, or at least company- Holmes would sit and smoke, my wife embroider- but Holmes had retired a little earlier, and I was alone. I toyed with the idea of awaking Holmes on some pretense, for left alone I had a tendency to grow maudlin, but my conscience protested quite fairly that Holmes’ clearly needed his sleep, and it would be unfair to interfere with him. But still, I remained restless and unhappy, and eventually decided to walk by his door and listen, on the chance that he might be pacing around, unable to sleep, or engaging in one of his neglected hobbies, such as playing his violin. 

I put my ear to the wood of his door, expecting to hear only the usual soft sounds of a man asleep; but instead there came the most dreadful sounds, muffled, of a man clearly in anguish. It was a wonder I had not heard them before. 

“Holmes?” I rapped sharply on the door. “Holmes?”

There was no response, just a continuation of the pained, muffled noises. I ran through possibilities, each more morbid than the last, and tried the door handle, but to no avail.

“Holmes?”

There was no other option. I winced, pre-empting the pain in my shoulder I would incur, but no matter; the door, after a few shoves, burst suddenly open and I was presented with a sight forever etched into my memory. 

Holmes was curled up, half-kneeling on the ground, coughing hoarsely, as though choking. I ran to him.

‘Holmes? Holmes, for Heaven’s sake man, answer me!”

His eyes were wide and frightened; his hands, in a flurry borne of desperation, were scrabbling to clutch at my collar. I maneuvered him onto his side, with the hope that it would relieve whatever it was that was causing his body to be wracked by coughs in such a way, and with nothing else to do, ran a soothing hand down his back.

As if shying away from my affections, he was suddenly seized by some violent force, and titling forwards, started wheezing and coughing yet more violently. I hit him sharply on the back, once- twice- and then, suddenly, water burst from his lungs, flooding out in fits and bursts. The water seemed to have no discernable source, other than his lungs, and had a strange chill- but any curiosity I had was kept swiftly at bay by desperation. I continued maneuvering him, attempting to encourage the water out of his body, but it was a futile effort and there was little I could do. within minutes his skin had gone cold and blushed with blue; my movements became more desperate. I had spent three years in mourning, only to have him delivered to me wounded but alive; I could not bear to mourn for him again.

How long I spent sitting there, on the hard wooden floor, surrounded by little pools of inexplicable, freezing, water, I do not know. I held him, half-cradled his cold body, unable to let go; and then, possessed by a sudden, violent grief, all but threw his corpse onto the floor and retreated to the far wall, where I sat, unseeing, joints slowly stiffening as though in sympathy for my friends second, final death. 

The church bells rang out for midnight. the 4th hour of my vigil. I did not move.

The ringing echoed a little in my ears, as though the bells themselves were in the room. They faded away, like a ghost, but then- 

A sudden, gasping, heaving breath replaced them, a desperate gulp for air more horrid and beautiful than any holy bell. In front of me was a corpse; the eyes of that corpse had snapped open suddenly, and darted wildly about, unfocused but not unseeing. For a moment, I froze, stunned- convinced my mind, whether to soothe or to torment, was showing me visions, and not the truth. But I came to my senses soon enough, and rushed to the figure, holding him half-upright as he gasped for air, as the blood flooded again through his veins, and as he started once again to regain consciousness. I forced his sleeve up, grabbed onto his wrist in perhaps a far rougher manner than I should have done; and, gloriously, miraculously, I found it to be true. There was a pulse, stronger by the minute, under the warm flushed skin of my friend. Holmes was not as dead as i had feared- it was all a mistake- he was alive! 

I could have wept with relief, and I did well not to; instead, I held Holmes as he gradually calmed down, and felt him sag against me in exhaustion. 

“Holmes!” I cried. “Holmes! For Heaven’s sake, you’re alive! What on Earth happened?”

But he did not share my jubilance at his miraculous recovery; his eyes darted to mine nervously. He said nothing. 

I did not care. I supposed i must have been mistaken, when i presumed him dead; the stress and exhaustion of the last few weeks, years, must have played havoc with my senses, for I could see no other way that I, a doctor of many years, could have possibly misunderstood. 

But the water- 

No. I made an attempt to forcefully dismiss it from my mind, and focused on Holmes.

“Holmes,” I said, now a little calmer. “I do apologise- I just- well, I thought you were dead- again- but it must have been a mistake on my part- I just-”

He leaned towards me, a little unsteady, and gave my hand a quick squeeze. He smiled not unkindly, but his eyes were full of sorrow. 

“I suppose, Watson, that you of all people deserve an explanation of these things. My dear Watson… I must apologise, firstly. You referred to the tale I told you- the explanation of how it was that I came to survive, and the professor did not, as ‘remarkable’. It would surprise you, I suppose, to learn that it was in fact so ‘remarkable’, as to be fictitious- which, (and again, I apologise for misleading you), it most certainly was.”

Despite the seriousness of the moment, I snorted. He turned to face me, the humorous glint of his eyes belaying his sternness.

“And what, my dear Watson, is so amusing about that? ” he demanded, and not for the first time I privately lamented that the world had lost a fine actor the day Holmes had become a detective.

I explained: “Well, you see Holmes- I mean, Japanese martial arts, climbing up the waterfall. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve said you were being fanciful !”

His eyes twinkled. “And now you do, would you still say the same?”

But despite his good humour, it was I who quickly sobered. “That depends on what the truth is, I suppose.”

He stood up, a little unsteady, and turning away from me, walked a few paces towards the window. Some movement- I heard more than saw him as he lit and took a drag from his cigarette. I thought to protest the action, the smoke surely paining his strained lungs, but I did not. He gave, if not the impression of weakness, the impression that without such an aid he would be unable to talk at all- i could hardly begrudge him that.

“You were right, in thinking that the falls of the Reichenbach were unsurvivable, that myself and Moriarty were too evenly matched to triumph over one-another without anything save the timely intervention of pure luck. We fought, that much was true; as was the fact that I watched him plunge to his death, and the fact that, as he fell, he made what would otherwise have been a successful attempt to drag me down too.”

“How did you survive?” I asked, perhaps a little too eagerly, my mind racing with possibilities. “Did you find a ledge, and pull yourself back up the waterfall? Did you manage to hold your breath, and swim? Did someone help you? Or- no, surely you must not have fallen in the first place!” 

He smiled wanly, and said quietly; “And I am to suppose that it is I who had been fanciful? But no. I fell, as good as that- we were quickly separated from one another by the rushing of the water, and despite my knowledge of a variety of martial art forms, even I could not stop my body seizing up, the cold water flooding my lungs and my very heart starting to slow.”

He took a few more puffs of his cigarette in contemplative silence, before, in one fluid motion, abruptly stubbing it out and coming to kneel in front of me. He took my hands in his, clasped them gently, but kept his head bowed and refused to meet my eye.

“What I am to tell you next, Watson- what happened- I can barely believe it myself. And indeed, I would quite happily dismiss it as the ravings of a madman, the last hallucinations of the almost-dead, were it not for the nightly evidence of that little scene you just witnessed. But I beg you- doubt me if you will, but hear me first, please.”

He took a ragged intake of breath.

“I could feel myself choking on the water. I felt so painfully cold. The water pushed me this way and that, tossed me against the smooth rocks like a rag-doll, and I could neither move nor see nor cry out in any way. It was so loud, the water and the blood rushing as one, and I knew that I was to die, here and now and then- I am not a religious man, Watson. I can only be called a Christian by the fact that I cannot be called anything else, and I do not believe it was any divine being that I saw. And yet…

There was a sudden, harsh light, overwhelming my vision. The noise had completely ceased; I was still. 

The Light asked me if I wanted to live. Or- not asked. It was as though the sentiment just appeared , fully-formed, into my mind without needing to go through the ears first. I was barely coherent in my reply, which was at any rate positive. It asked me, then, what it was that made me want to live. I…showed it, I suppose, thought of my work, the greater good of the country, ridding the world of the scourge of Moriarty and his men. It asked me again. I showed my- the people, both in the personal and more generic form, who hold a place in my affections. It asked me once more. I was desperate, terrified- the noise had started again, softly, but building up, getting louder and louder as that dreadful Light faded and so I told it that… that I wished to live simply because i did not want to die; i was frightened, in pain, not ready to face my own death. The Light pulsed, once or twice, and then into my mind came the words: then that is what you shall get . And then-”

He stopped, sagging slightly, as if whatever reserves of energy had powered him through that explanation had suddenly disappeared. I gently squeezed his hands, attempting comfort, but he shuddered and withdrew sharply, resuming his place by the window. 

Coldly, he said: “And that was that. The rest is unimportant.”

“Good lord, Holmes,” said I, unable to fully comprehend what he was saying. He lit another cigarette, and this time I saw his eyes crease in pain as he took a drag from it.

“I hope you will understand why I lied at first. The whole thing is so… fanciful, humiliating… I had no time to convince you, and I find… I could not bare being called a liar.”

Eventually I regained hold of myself long enough to ask a sensible question. He looked- and sounded- too fragile for me to attempt as I wished and give him some sort of human comfort. Logical, practical questions would be better for us both. “And tonight’s… episode?”

His mouth twisted. 

“A cruel and unusual after-effect it seems. Every night since then, I have, at sunset, experienced again the feeling of drowning- and as each new day begins, I arise once more. It has been like this for three years.”

Three years of dying daily…. I shuddered, and fought the desire to hold him close. I attempted to focus my mind, to think rationally. 

“The logical suggestion is that you experienced some kind of auditory and visual hallucination. It’s very common- when the brain is dying-”

“And what about my little episode, just now,” he spat the words as though they were bitter to say. “Was that all a delusion too?”

I hesitated. It was true, that that was far less easily explained, and unless I myself had been driven insane, this, at least, was something I myself had proof of. If he had been drinking water, or showering perhaps-

He gave a bark of laughter, and shook his head. “Watson, Watson, if I am to be a madman, I trust it is not a foolish one. Do you not think I would’ve mentioned, had I been drinking or bathing or doing anything else that might explain the event in more reasonable terms than I have done?”

How well it appeared he could still read me. But I agreed with him; it seemed unlikely, but whilst the alleged previous instances might be dismissed as hallucination I had seen this. 

“Perhaps,” I said cautiously, “it is simply that the human mind and body is far too complicated for us to comprehend.”

He looked to say something suitably scathing and dismissive, but I continued.

“In those first few months, when I came back from the war, sometimes…certain noises, or smells, or words, or thoughts would send me back. Back there, I mean. Not physically, of course, but my mind felt as though I were there, and, crucially-” (for he had opened his mouth to speak) “ crucially , it was also my body that felt as though I were there. I sweated in the heat; my ears rang with the sounds of bullets, I shook with the force of it all. Perhaps this is something similar.”

“Perhaps,” he said, although I saw he did not like it. “But how do you explain the water?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Again, some unknown psycho-biological response? If you would consent to some Harley Street doctors, I’m sure if they only saw you-”

“They would as soon as lock me up in an asylum as deliver me around for autopsy upon autopsy. I am neither a madman, nor a curiosity-show specimen, whatever you may believe.”

“You cannot surely believe they would not take you seriously, once they had seen it for themselves,” I said, impatient as his obstinance. It was as though he didn’t even want to find out what it was that plagued him like this. “These are men of science , Holmes, not some superstitious wanderers on the street!”

He shook his head.

“Surely we must do something though. Do some experiments, change some variables. I can’t just sit here waiting for you to…to drown every evening, unable even to explain it! Please, just consider it- I know some colleagues of mine who-”

“ No. I will concede to your… investigations, and those only, if I must. I will not have a doctor other than my own, and I will tell you- beg you- not to speak of this to anyone, or else I shall go to Mycroft, and he will send me to Italy, Germany, Nepal, wherever, I can live out my days drowning in peace.”

“But Holmes-” I protested, “I am hardly an expert in the workings of the mind!”, but he took no notice of my grievances. Truthfully, I was- not pleased, but not quite so unhappy as I claimed. Holmes’ mind is a rare gift, the man himself wonderful and strange, and I did not trust any other doctor to understand . I was not without my experience of the problems of mind, both personally and professionally; but, perhaps just as importantly, I had both intimate knowledge of and the trust of my patient- I did not take that lightly. Besides, at the very least, he had given in to my request; his obstinance was borne of fear, I suspected-  for above all, he was a scientist, and I cannot think of anything stronger than mortal, animal fear that would dampen his desire for answers and explanations, if not solutions.

The church bells rang again. Six o’clock. I felt suddenly, as though it were a physical weight, the impossible battle that lay ahead, and I sagged against the wall. Holmes met my eye, similarly exhausted, and smiled in common tiredness. 

“To bed, I suppose, for all the good it’ll do us. I find I can never quite sleep after these… episodes of mine.” 

He stretched, wincing, and then offered me his hand; I took it gratefully, and stood up with not a little difficulty that he was good enough not to remark upon. I made gingerly towards the door, but it was something deeper than exhaustion and pain that made me reluctant to move. 

I turned back to face him, watching me with that same hawkish intensity. 

“Holmes-” I faltered. I could not put it into words but the difficulty of the past few weeks- the past few years, compounded by the shock and grief of seeing my friend apparently die again in front of me, and the deeply concerning possibility that his mind may have been deeply scarred, had cut me deeply. I had an almost visceral reaction to the thought of letting Holmes out of my sight, a bone-deep fear that if I turned away he would collapse again, choking- or worse, simply dissipate, having been merely the products of a restless grieving mind all along.

“Holmes,” I began again, drawing strength from the focus with which he watched me. “Holmes, I do hope that if I were to overstep, ever, you would tell me, but- that is, if you would allow me, and if it wouldn't make you uncomfortable-”

“Have you ever known me to suffer you in silence Watson? I have known you too long for that,” he said, not unkindly. “Ask me simply.”

“Could I sit with you, as you sleep? I find myself…reluctant, to leave you, as illogical as that may be.”

He shook his head.

“I shall not have it! We have shared a bed before when on cases, have we not?  We shall do so again, tonight. No, Watson; we shall not have you waking up in an ill-humour with a crooked neck, and I am far too selfish to consign myself to the same fate. And besides, if I come into trouble during the night, I need my physician to be on-hand.”

There was a kindness in his justification, for I felt sure that it was not his own; but regardless, I accepted it as it was. Our mutual exhaustion returned with a vengeance, and so any awkwardness was all but forgotten- a fact for which I was grateful, for despite my lucidity, and his good-humour, neither of us were in a state to engage in the complex negotiations it would have ordinarily required. And so it was, that a day after dying and mere hours after being revived, Holmes and I lay down in his bed and quickly fell asleep.

Chapter Text

I awoke late the next day, well into the afternoon, apprehensive and aching. Sleep had granted me some reprieve, but awake, my mind was thrown immediately back into the turmoil of last night, and the terrible things I had seen; it was an effort to focus my mind enough to figure out how best to remove myself from the bed, my leg being fairly uncooperative with my efforts. 

Holmes too was awake, stretched languidly over the arms of his arm-chair, and a casual observer would have found him to be much as he was, in one of his better days- alert, lively, somewhat taciturn, to be sure, but content to listen as Mrs. Hudson regaled him with tales of gossip. I was not, after all, the only one of his friends who had been so affected by his absence, and our good landlady was one of the few people from whom he tolerated- even enjoyed- idle talk- at least, for a time. 

I was loathe to interrupt them; loathe to shatter their easy domesticity, to confront Holmes. I was still tender, both physically and emotionally, from last night; but I was, it quickly became apparent, also hungry, and so I swallowed my reservations in favour of procuring some of Mrs. Hudson’s delightful cooking. 

She duly delivered, and accompanied us; I was overwhelmingly grateful for her company and easy chatter, although neither of us could hardly have been delightful or thrilling company. But too soon, she left, and it was just me and Holmes. 

“I, ah- well. Good morning, Holmes. Did you sleep well?”

He smiled wanly. “As much as I ever have. I take you did too, despite your leg and shoulders, for which-” (a look of regret flashed across his face) “- I can only apologise.”

I waved it away easily. We lapsed back into silence uneasily; there was only one topic on my mind, one which I didn’t particularly want to broach, and he certainly didn’t want to hear, but it felt impossible to discuss anything else. 

“I- well. Holmes?”

“Hm?”

“Last night- if you remember- we discussed the possibility of us trying to come to the bottom of this condition of yours?”

“ You discussed it, yes.”

“Well, I was thinking- tonight- if I could observe you, and perhaps run a few tests on you?”

“ Tests ?”

“No, as in-”

“I thought I made it clear to you. I will not be treated as some specimen in a jar, to be poked and prodded, and experimented on.” Mindful of Mrs. Hudson, he kept his voice low, but it shook nevertheless with anger. 

I tried to console him. “Not tests , exactly, but taking measurements, observations, that sort of thing.”

He looked skeptical. 

“I want to try and concentrate on that liquid in your lungs- what it is, where it comes from, what effect exactly it is having upon your body, what is happening concurrently that might have an impact on it,” I explained, in the hope of appealing to his scientific mind. I did my best to explain the possibilities, what I was looking for and what I hoped to find; and I appealed too, to his sense of duty, pointing out that this might well advance the study of science, our understanding of the body and the eternal mysteries of death. That studying it, finding possible causes and solutions to it, might alleviate the pain of other poor souls who, unknowingly, furtively, were suffering the same. 

He eventually agreed to it unhappily, and withdrew into his room, and no sooner had he left my sight that I regretted my insistence at once. Bile rose in my throat, burning and sour, but I consoled myself that this was necessary- and Holmes, despite himself, must have believed so to, for he hadn’t again protested or fought me on the issue, had just acquiesced with a dour turn to his mouth, and I could hardly fault him for not being the eager participant in his own self-experiments he had been known to be. 

Nevertheless, I spent the rest of the day in a guilty, miserable state; I did nothing much of note, failed to read a single chapter of my book, and between us we ate a silent dinner that transubstiated itself to ash in my mouth. 

At sun-down, we retreated into his room. Under my instruction, he had only a single glass of water at dinner, and none since, and had not bathed nor washed his face, nor done anything at all with water since then. My idea had been, firstly, to locate the source of the fluid, and to confirm its make-up, which would tell us, at least, if this phenomena had been created by his body or not. I bade him to remove his night-shirt, which he did; it was a mild spring, but Mrs. Hudson had taken little convincing to be persuaded of the need for Holmes to keep warm, and had been kind enough to light a fire in his room. 

I put my stethoscope to his heart first, which seemed healthy enough, although beating fast- presumably at the sudden cold. Then to his lungs, whilst he, under my direction, controlled his breathing, now quickly, now slowly, now deeply, now shallow. It seemed to me perfectly ordinary, powerful, unimpeded lungs, suffering a little, to be sure, from years of heavy smoking and breathing unadvisable chemicals, but otherwise as much they should be. I could hear no fluid, no distinctive rattling or rasping, and I wondered again if it was possible that we were both under some delusion, that stress or some sort of nefarious poison had warped our minds in some way. Ideally, I would have brought in some third party to watch and measure him; some doctor whose skills outpaced my own, and who had no association with either of us, so as not to have any bias of sorts. But no; I had promised, and would stick to my word. 

In any other situation, such closeness to him, such intimacy, would have unnerved me; but as it was, I could only find it a necessary evil, and so I did not, as I might have done, let my eyes linger, secretly, upon the flat expanse of his chest, upon the fine hair and fine scars that covered the front and back. I did not, as I had once wished desperately to do, allow myself to feel with my hands the steady, incessant beat of his heart, which I alone knew was as strong as any behind that carefully curated mask. I did not, as I had only allowed myself to dream, and never to think, entertain the thought of his elegant, skilled hands reaching out for me in response, nor the thought of his eyes blown wide not with morphine, but with something stronger. I thought of none of this, but completed my ministrations quickly, in order to make the whole thing as easy for him as I could. I felt him tremble beneath my hands regardless, and apologised; he said nothing, but continued to hold himself taut until I had moved away. 

The coughing started just as the last of the sun’s rays disappeared beneath the horizon, first quietly, then louder, and more pained and frantic. I put my stethoscope to his chest; his heart beat rapidly, desperately; his lungs too were desperate, but futilely so, for every breath drawn labouriously drew, from some unfathomable reserve, the distinctive sound of liquid. I did my best to be dispassionate, although it pained me; took notes of the speed at which his condition progressed, measured the sound of the strange liquid as it increased in his lungs, filling them up until he could do no more than let it gush out of his mouth, unending, as it drowned him from inside. It was agony to watch, and to be able to do nothing, and more than once I felt my hands tremble with the need to provide comfort; it took all my reserves of professionalism to remain calm, and continue observing, stethoscope in hand. His eyes filled with a blind, animal terror, and his hands, like claws, clutched at me, all that carefully maintained self-possession gone. I shall not dwell upon how it ended again; but needless to say, soon enough, once more, I sat on the floor, surrounded by impossibly icy water and the corpse of my closest and dearest friend. I collected the fluid, as best I could, in a jar, with the vague hope of testing its composition; lifted Holmes, with some difficulty (for, even with the toll of the last few years, his frame was taller and more ungainly the mine), and placed him upon the bed; and arranged him, as though to pretend that he was not a corpse but merely unconscious, and needed to be kept in comfort. 

I measured his heart and chest again, pointlessly, and made a few notes. I could not bear to leave him in this state, alone, nor even to look away. I did not, in truth, despite last night’s evidence, fully believe that he would awake and be alive once more.

I was also exhausted, although perhaps ‘drained’ is more precise; I had slept well enough, but still my bones felt heavy with weariness, and still I felt as though my thoughts were travelling through treacle. I was tempted to retreat to my own bed; but I could not bear leaving Holmes, and the thought of him awaking, so painfully, only to find himself alone was unthinkable, even though I knew that he must have done so so many times before. Had done so, for every day since yesterday, and the idea pained me. 

I thought back upon our conversation yesterday, the easy way with which he had invited me into his bed; the comfort with which it gave me, and which I believe he took from it; and it was shamefully simple for me to convince myself of the rationality in doing so again, in sleeping once more aside my dear friend, now a corpse. 

I awoke once more some time during the night, to the glorious, unreal sound of soft breathing beside me, and without thinking I reached for my companion at once, to console myself to his state of living. 

Beside me, Holmes lay, once more violently wretched away from the embrace of death; perhaps it was naivety to expect him to be sleeping peacefully. My hands brushed his arms, and felt him tremble, with cold or with fear; I pushed myself up a little to look at him properly, and saw that his hands were knotted together tightly, as though praying or in distress. I confess that it shocked me: despite everything, I had never quite relinquished the image in my mind of Holmes as impervious, imperious, impeccably self-controlled. 

“Holmes?” I spoke softly, as if speaking too loudly would make him shatter.

His eyes flashed upon, and darted around. I lay a hand cautiously on his shoulder. “Holmes,” I said more firmly, an echo of my usual methods of calming him in his drug-induced terror. “Holmes, it is I, Dr. Watson. The year is 1894, we are in Baker Street. I am here.”

He closed his eyes once more, sighed quietly, and then looked at me with such unbearable softness as I felt unable to look away.

“Ah. Watson. You have discovered my guilty secret after all.”

It took me a moment to discern his meaning. “This happens often?”

“Since Reichenbach; I imagine I don’t need you to explain this one. Often, yes, but not constantly, for which I am thankful.”

“I can imagine,” I said truthfully, my own experiences in these matters being thoroughly unpleasant. Holmes had made a habit of playing sweet, sorrowful melodies on the violin for me after I had awoken from such things, that in those early days, I had often found myself near-tears with the kindness of it. Tentatively, I said: “I found- sometimes- that I longed for company, in those nights,” and saying so reached for him hesitantly. The thought of Holmes’ feeling as wretched and alone as I had overrode any fear I might have felt, and I suspect he felt similarly, for he allowed his usual defences to drop and let me gently untangle his hands from each other, and wrap my own around them instead. 

He made a small, plaintive noise; I did him the dignity of ignoring it, for I was not so callous as to hold him responsible for taking comfort in the contact as I had intended. I simply eased myself down beside him, hands still enjoined, and ran a thumb along his knuckles, bony and scarred. His breath shuddered in his lungs; his hands clutched onto mine harder, and mine to his, and I breathed slowly, deeply, loudly, in the hope that he would involuntarily mirror me and relax. It was in this manner, therefore, that we fell asleep, hands clasped between us, taking forbidden comfort in the knowledge that we were here, now, together, and alive. Until tomorrow, at least.

Chapter Text

The next morning, I awoke earlier than he, taking care to disentangle myself gently. I was aware that what I had done had been wholly unfair; I had allowed my own forbidden affection to take precedence, had been weak, and had forced upon Holmes affection that I should not have, especially in his fragile state. It preoccupied me, this lapse on my part, not unforgivable, but certainly unrepeatable, and by the time he himself wandered out of his own room, awkward apologies spilt from my tongue like water had gushed from his. 

He looked surprised, and then embarrassed and a little awkward, but feigned casualness enough as he dismissed my apologies as unnecessary: “No harm done, my dear fellow, although I rather think it is I who should be apologising to you, for waking you up and… seeming to need such comfort.”

As I went to protest- of course he need not apologise for such a thing!- he smiled, as if to say: you see? Unnecessary, and I conceded the point. Without that burdening my conscience- or at least, not quite so much- I sat down easily to breakfast, as did he. 

The next few weeks passed distantly, and quickly, as though witnessed from a fast-moving train carriage. Holmes spent a day or two smoking silently in contemplation; he seemed to be making some kind of peace, to be making his own attempts to process and understand this new situation of ours, and I admired him greatly for it. Whatever solution he was searching for, he seemed to have found it- or perhaps it was just a gradual resignation that he’d found. But regardless, there was a marked change; he appeared, to my eye, more relaxed, more at ease, and the tension from our earlier interactions was now only notable by its relative absence. By now it was mid-May, and the perfume of crushed magnolias hung in the air. 

We had settled into some form of routine; the days spent quietly, in companionable peace; the evenings attacked with recourse to the professional logic of science, as my notebook filled with observations and descriptions and measurements abound. At night, we still did not retreat to our separate rooms, but I had insisted that we manoeuvre my own bed next to his, to pacify both our fears without the possibility that I might lapse once more and lose control of my own desires. 

We- and it was we now, for Holmes, although still not eager, had gradually become more cooperative and more desirous of finding an explanation for his problem- had placed an advertisement in the periodicals, both the respectable and the not-so-respectable. It read:

Dr. A---- wishes to hear from anyone who believes they have been dead and are now alive, and most particularly anyone who now suffers from repetitions of the cause of their death, and anyone who believes they saw some kind of ‘light’ which saved them. Please contact Dr. A---- at the Royal Institution, Westminster, London, via post. Any correspondence and travel to the Institution up to 1 guinea will be reimbursed. Time-wasters and so-called prophets need not apply.  

Dr. A---- was an old colleague of mine, now a tenured university professor, who had agreed not ungracefully to have his name used for the piece. I assured him that it was for an investigation of the utmost importance- which, in a way, it was-, that we alone would bear any responsibility for the whole business, and that we wouldn’t dare dream of bringing his good name into disrepute, althoughIi dare say what convinced him more than anything was my footing the not-insignificant bill charged to our table, once I had agreed to treat him for dinner. I called in favours from various other acquaintances, under the same pretense- most notably, a fellow from Oxford, who was one of those men (and there were a few) who had been thoroughly uninterested in me until my metamorphosis from army doctor to compatriot of Sherlock Holmes. I had requested him to analyse the liquid in the jar, and Holmes’ symptoms as given; I had lightly persuaded Holmes to write him a note himself to ‘sweeten the deal’, as it were. He obliged good-humouredly, although I would hardly have begrudged him had he not; whatever decision he had come to, he seemed to be attempting to be lighter in our interactions, and I myself, silently acknowledging his efforts, had made up my mind to do the same. 

To aid our investigative efforts, moreover, Holmes had set his army of street urchins ( ‘the finest army known to man, Watson!’) onto the case. They were, predictably, delighted to see him alive, but with none of the nervous apprehension that had plagued me. It was enough, for them, that he was alive and in relatively good spirits, willing to feed, train and in his own way entertain them, and it did not escape my notice that we saw many of them a lot more than usual in those next few weeks, all eager to catch another glimpse of the miraculous Mr. Holmes, apparition or man, whichever he may be.

It also did not escape my notice the positive effect this had on Holmes, who was much cheered by the presence of his Baker Street Irregulars, and he inclined himself to the odd cheerful whistle. To my mind, it was as sweet and light as birdsong.

“' - and therefore, I can not only conclude that this is water, but that it is river water, and most certainly from the Alps, although I cannot say where without more samples to compare it to.’ ” I turned over the final page of the letter. “ ‘Please give my regards to Mr. Holmes- I wish him the best of luck on his investigations.’ There, Holmes, what do you think of that?”

From where he sat by the fire, back leaning against my good leg, Holmes snorted. “He seems rather full of himself, don’t you think?”

“And more than a little starstruck, I agree.”

“Do you trust him?” Holmes asked, turning his head slightly. The letter was a long, precise response from my much-flattered associate, who in his enthusiasm had, via many tedious paragraphs and graphs, communicated to us what Holmes had long maintained: that the fluid emerging nightly from his lungs was indeed the water from the Reichenbach Falls. 

“With my life? No, but regarding this? Absolutely. He’s an expert in his field.”

“So-” his voice shook a little. “So, you believe me then?”

“I- yes.” I thought to say I had always believed him, but it was true, I had doubted him at first, as any rational man would have. “Yes, I am satisfied, as much as can be without a neutral third party involved, that you are, somehow, genuinely drowning on dry land every single night.” I sank back into my chair with the weight of it, the force of saying it out loud. “Which is worse, in a sense. I’m almost completely lost.”

He laughed bitterly. “As am I, dear Watson.”

It was taking a toll on him, I could see- not just the nightly drowning and resurrection, but possibly worse: the hope, the promise of an explanation, even of a cure. And both looking unlikelier by the day. 

The advertisement had been a success, in the sense that we had been inundated with responses, the good people of England’s duty to Science buoyed by the prospect of paid-for postage. By all other measures, however, it had been a failure; expensive, for one, although Mycroft Holmes was apparently willing and able to cover everything until Holmes had taken up his work once more. More pressingly, however, was the sheer amount of it that was useless, whether patently false, a clear attempt at trickery, or the half-mad ramblings of some poor devil who was convinced their Aunt Eliza still walked the Earth, thirty years after she’d been put into the ground. I read them aloud- Holmes, for whatever reason, has never seemed to enjoy reading fpr himself, and I am more than happy to oblige him. Some letters he dismissed within a sentence or two; others, after being read once or twice; some only on seeing the handwriting for himself, a rare few not at all, on which I had to gently point out that they simply could not be true, for this and that reason. We received, and got through, seemingly endless piles of correspondence daily, most of which seemed to either one of us- more often than not, both- completely useless, but a select few received closer scrutiny, untidy notes in the margin, and eventually, a reply. A parish priest in Lancaster who claimed to have survived drowning in a lake; an actress who reportedly had experienced the feeling of being strangled daily, after an accident backstage; and a young man whose mother, he claimed, had choked to death on a piece of bread every night for thirty-two years. 

("Good heavens," Holmes had murmured weakly, on hearing the last of them. "Thirty-two years of dying. Imagine.") 

It was hardly promising; but nevertheless, I dutifully transcribed letters, explaining in clear terms that Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221b Baker Street, London, was in fact engaged in some top-secret investigation, and that they should, if willing and able, come in-person to be interviewed by him, and should not (it was stressed) explain the truth of it to anyone. And, of course, that they would be suitably reimbursed for their travel fares and time. 

Whilst we awaited our prospective interviewees, Wiggins brought back a wealth of gossip. He was, being older and sharper, and more used to Holmes, than a lot of the boys, apparently concerned in his own way, although he was careful not to show as much. 

There was a merchant sailor, currently on leave, who seemed promising, as did a prostitute who went by the name of Kitty Fischer. I was sent there and then to compose the letters, and dutifully retreated to my desk to do so, while Holmes gave Wiggins his instructions. I heard his voice- I could discern enough of it to learn that he suspected Miss Fischer would have certain… suspicions that would need to be assuaged, about the nature of our request, and indeed ourselves, which he instructed Wiggins on how to deal with. The boy seemed to understand well enough, asking the occasional question or clarification; and then, that sorted, I heard him falter, and ask hesitantly:

“Mr. Holmes, Sir, if you don’t mind me asking- I don’t mean it rudely or nothing, but is everything alright? Just, we all thought you died, and then you didn’t, but you still look like you did- like, ill or something- and all the younger ones are saying you went to Heaven and the angels sent you back to help us by solving things for people, which is stupid and all but-” He trailed off. 

Holmes’ voice, when he responded, was far too low for me to make out his words, but when I returned with my letters, I observed that his pale face had coloured with emotion, and that Wiggins’ prodigious ears were flushed red. 

“Ah, Watson. Your battle with the fountain-pen was victorious, I hope?”

I glared at him; he grinned, amused, and taking the letters out of my hand, gave them to Wiggins.

“And that’s- let’s see- how much do I usually give you for expenses? Two shillings?”

“Last time, I got three bob and a tanner, Mr. Holmes.”

“Ah, yes, thank you,” he said, counting out the coins. “Now, if you go downstairs, I dare say Mrs. Hudson will have something or another for you, even though you’re far too old now to be charming her like that."

Wiggins grinned broadly, showing his yellow-black teeth. “Thanks Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” he said, nodding to us like a young gentleman, “Hope it all goes well and all.”

And then, in a flash of grime, he had gone, albeit to bother Mrs. Hudson for some food. 

“Didn’t I tell you, Watson? The best and brightest of the lot. Scotland Yard couldn’t come close!”, Holmes said, and watched the space where he had been with a fond look in his eye.

Chapter Text

Our apparent Lazarus’ were quick to reply, and over the course of the next month or so, once more through the doors of 221b Baker Street, did the highest and lowest of England's children pass. 

Miss Kitty Fischer was the first. Despite the numerous assurances given to her via Wiggins, there was a guarded look to her eye as we greeted her. She scanned the room, quick and alert for any sign of trouble; and only once she had been satisfied did she sit down and shake our hands.

“Pleasure to meet you, gentlemen,” she said, her accent immediately betraying her as not the infamous socialite after all, but from the East End. She was older than I had expected, or perhaps had just had a difficult life- her long curled hair was greying, slightly, and bright red paint had bled into the creases at the corners of her eyes and mouth. 

“Indeed,” said Holmes, waving his hands for her to sit down. “Now-”

I caught his eye.

“Ah, yes. Would you like some water? Tea? Very well. This is my friend and colleague Dr. Watson, who you make speak in front of as freely as you would myself.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Fischer.”

“Hm.” She nodded graciously in my direction, and then turned back to Holmes, straight-backed and imperious like a Roman statue come to life. “You wanna know ‘bout me nearly dying, don’t you?”

“Indeed.”

She laid out then the terrible events that had befallen her; which, although tragic, were on the whole not unusual. She had been attacked- stabbed- by a client, although out of jealousy or anger or disgust, she couldn’t say, and had been left for dead. What came next, however, was of more interest to us, and I saw Holmes’ eyes light up as she described, clumsily, a similar phenomenon to what he claimed to have experienced: a bright light; a desperate desire to live for its own sake; a sudden, miraculous survival dismissed at first as strange, but earthly. And then: day after day, the aftereffects.

She remained, it should be said, admirably calm and composed throughout, dispassionate perhaps to the point of concern, even when Holmes, caught up in his own line of thinking, pressed for details and repetitions that she was clearly reluctant to give. 

“Go back. Describe it again, if you will- Watson, note this down.”

I grabbed the notepad I had grown into the habit of keeping upon myself at all times; she glanced my way, wary and unimpressed, but after a moment consented to being recorded by means of a small nod, her lips pressed together tightly. 

“Ev’ry night- I feel, in my side-” (she put her hands on her left side, just below the ribcage); “it starts with a sudden, sharp pain- that's the knife going through- and then it starts bleeding everywhere, all over everything, and then it all goes black and that's it. And then I wakes up again at night, and I have to go out ‘cause I've missed out the evening when all the men are out and looking.”

I asked her a few questions myself, more gently, although it didn’t seem to have much effect. I noted down her answers diligently: the size of the blade (thin, about the length of a finger), whether or not it was left inside the wound (it was), the time taken for her to die (by her estimation, about half of an hour, although she couldn’t be sure), and a few more medical questions besides. 

“Is that all?” she asked, directing the question at Holmes, who had been watching out conversation keenly. He steepled his long, elegant fingers, and looked over them at her.

“Well, Miss Fischer, there is one thing. I understand this is a lot to ask, but we are men of science, you understand, and it is imperative that we have proof of your claims. If you would stay the night, and we- or rather, the good Doctor- could perhaps observe your condition-”

Miss Fischer looked fiercely outraged, and started dramatically gathering up her skirts to leave. “Mr Holmes!”, she said, colouring beneath the rouge on her cheeks. “To think that I thought you was an honourable man-”

“Miss Fischer-”

“- and what that young boy said you were as well! I suppose you paid him for the trouble and all, your sort do. I tell you-”

“Miss Fischer, please-”

“You won't be getting nothing out of me-”

“Miss Fischer- Kitty-”

She paused in her tirade. 

He said, quietly, apologetic: “If you would allow me, for a moment? I rather think you misunderstood me; or rather, I misspoke. I know how it must seem to you, but I would not dream of- well, no, firstly, if you'll allow me to explain?”

She remained standing, but gave an imperious nod of the head. Very well. 

“As you may or may not have heard, three years ago, I myself died by drowning in Switzerland- a good many newspapers will attest to that, I'm sure. I experienced similar events as you have described; and since that day, have nightly experienced the unpleasant phenomena of drowning on dry land, to the point of death. Again, the good doctor,” (he gestured to me); “will testify to this, having witnessed it on numerous occasions.”

She looked to me, challenging.

“He does,” I said. “ I have seen him experience it nightly, water flooding his lungs from within. I can offer you my notebook of observations if that helps.”

For a moment, I feared that she might take me up on the offer- certainly, I wouldn't put it past her- but on considering it, she appeared to be willing to take me at my word.

“And so what does that got to do with me?”

Holmes closed his eyes, and again steepling his fingers, said: ‘“What indeed. There is a scientific element to it- Dr. Watson has observed me and proved that the phenomena is not a delusion of my mind alone; but so far we have had no indication I am not the only person suffering from it. There is no other way of making certain the objective veracity of your statements even if they are no doubt the truth . But that… that is not an explanation, I think, and I suppose, by asking this of you, I do owe you one.   

Miss Fischer, the truth of it is that I have been, since that dreadful event, in a near-constant state of pain, fear and exhaustion. I make no assumptions about your own feelings on the matter, but if it is even similar- well, then perhaps you can understand why I wish to find a solution to it, and quickly.”

Miss Fischer lowered herself back into her chair, and reached slowly, as though in a dream-state, for his hands. His eyes shot open in surprise, but he let her take them and trace their lines, as though telling his future.

“Mr. Holmes,” she said lowly. “Mr. Holmes, it has been hell. Every night, he murders me again, and every morning, I have to go out anyway, and convince another man just like him-” She broke off. “Your doctor- is he trustworthy?”

With a sudden ferocity, he said: “I would trust him with my life. I do, nightly. No harm will come to you under his care, I promise you.” 

I was privately touched, but held my tongue; was Miss Fischer to be as easily swayed?

She looked dubious still, but took a shaky breath in, and nodded her head once or twice before speaking. “Alright then, Mr. Holmes. For a cure.”

She squeezed his hands once, and then let them go, letting her own drop into her lap. She bowed her head, as though crying, but when she looked back up, her shoulders were set and her eyes were like steel. “Lead on, Dr. Watson,” she said, without a single hint of fear. 

For Miss Fischer's sake, I will not dwell upon her ordeal that night; needless to say, it was much as I had expected, a synthesis of what she had described and what I was now horribly accustomed to watching Holmes endure. 

The next morning was not nearly so awkward as I had feared; or at least, there were no histrionics. Miss Fischer was very brisk and businesslike, as she shook my hand, and hoped that I had taken something useful from the experience; with Holmes, she was outwardly similarly composed, although there was something akin to a matronly warmth as she raised a hand to his shoulder, and wished him luck. She had declined our offer of breakfast, and had had to be convinced to take the payment owed; but she was not too proud to accept some bread to take with her, and agreed that, should we find a cure, we were to contact her immediately. And then, chin tilted to heavens like any Lady worth her dowry, inimitable Miss Fischer disappeared from our door. 

The rest of our respondents were similarly unenlightening in their interviews. In all other regards, they were interesting enough- a bizarre collection of individuals: the blank faced, haughty actress, who had a rather disarming habit of addressing herself not as I but as Louisa ; the rambling, unfocused parish priest, who drove myself and Holmes close to tears of boredom with his tangents; the young man and his wizened mother, who's faces seemed identical, and who's sentences blended into each others, until it was impossible to tell who had said what. And none of whom, although somewhat amusing, were any the more enlightening. 

(We had, by silent agreement, asked no others to prove the truth of their deaths and resurrections; we had had proof enough that it was not a phenomena isolated tp Holmes, but more pressingly, I believe that neither of us wanted to witness nor induce another to have witnessed such a thing again. For my part, I do not believe I shall ever forget the sight of that poor, proud woman bleeding to death in front of me, and knowing completely and irrevocably that there was nothing to be done.)

Mrs. Hudson had not remained immune to our sudden influx of visitors, and remarked pointedly that she lived, as far as she knew, in Baker Street and not Piccadilly Circus. However, I believe that the knowledge of Holmes once again occupied on a case gave her much reassurance of his state of mind, and so for now she was willing not to press the point. If only that were true, and it had been an ordinary case! But it was not to be; and so personal was the case that the lack of progress had soon given way not just to the usual irritation and helplessness, but a pervasive melancholy in Holmes that I, knowing it reflected only the reality of his situation, found myself unable to deal with.  

Worse still, he had been distancing himself from me, although I had to believe he had his reasons. He began breakfasting alone, spending hours out on walks, and it was only at dusk that I caught him for long enough to talk. We exchanged taut pleasantries; the sun retreated, as though equally unsettled by our conversational attempts. But as I made to follow him to his room, as I had done so for almost two months now, he held out a hand. I stopped, confused.

“Not tonight, Watson. You must sleep alone, I'm afraid.”

Understanding dawned on me, and I felt rotten to my core. “My dear Holmes, of course, I completely understand- if I have ever made you uncomfortable-” He put a kindly hand on my shoulder, and I stilled.

“Watson, Watson, whatever shall I do with you. Do not worry yourself, my dear fellow; have you ever known me to suffer in silence? No, I simply wish to test a hypothesis, however unpleasant or may be, and do that I need to remove myself from your presence for at least a week or two.” My dislike for this plan must have made itself known upon my face, for he gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. “Brave heart, and all that,” he said, and then, without explaining further, he wished me a brisk goodnight, and withdrew to his own room.

Or, as it had become, our room; my own, unused, had accrued an unpleasant dusting of dust; it was all wrong. I lay down in my bed, where he had, unknown to me, removed it; the angle was all wrong, the light from the window keeping me awake, the familiar sounds and presence of another person now almost painful in their absence. The room was too cold, too empty, too small; and worst of all, too quiet. My mind raced with possibilities: had Holmes died, irrevocably, alone and in distress? Did he grasp frantically at the air, in his blind panic; did he think I had abandoned him in his last moments? 

Worse still, the awful sense of foreboding that came over me, the helplessness all the worse for my medical profession, reminded me unpleasantly of the final months of my wife Mary's decline. Then too, I lay, forcibly separated from my beloved, tormented by my own mind while she was all the more tormented by her own treacherous body, as it destroyed her from within. 

The thought of the same thing happening again terrified me beyond description, and it was all I could do not to throw down the door, and take Holmes by his living hand, and lay my own upon his still-beating pulse. 

But I had promised, after all; and I knew I must prove to him that I still had faith in him, assure him of his own capabilities and autonomy, and perhaps more importantly, my continuing trust.

Chapter Text

It had been a full week since Holmes had, quite unexpectedly, refused my company, and the nights were sliding by as though covered in treacle. Perhaps it is churlish and entitled of me to resent such a reasonable change in behaviour; but I had grown used to it, not just for the comfort of it, but for my own state of mind, and I had spent the last seven nights lying awake in a state of mental torment. Besides that- as not just his friend but his doctor- I felt as though it were a dereliction of my duties, to leave him unobserved, and suffering; and so, by the following Saturday, I had made up my mind. I was thoroughly fed up; exhausted, miserable, guilty, and not a little frustrated at Holmes' refusal to actually explain what his hypothesis was. Through the night I had run through endless possibilities in my mind, had steeled myself appropriately. I had made up my mind to confront him about this at breakfast the following day, however unpleasant it might be. 

When the morning itself came, I felt only an inexplicable calmness; I suppose that either my mind had exhausted itself, or that coming to some resolution was better than none. 

“Holmes,” said I, determinedly. “Holmes, listen, I must talk to you-”

He whirled around to face me, with uncharacteristic energy; he too had spent this last week looking more exhausted and miserable than ever. “Not now, Watson- eat up, there's a good fellow- we've a guest expected within the hour-” 

Blindsided, I could do nothing but dutifully sit down to eat, and quickly, whilst Holmes ran off and busied himself by doing whatever it was that he was doing. Tomorrow, I consoled myself; tomorrow, I would confront him properly, come Hell or high water. 

“Mrs. Hudson!” he called out, from where he was half- buried in files. “Mrs. Hudson, the door, if you please.” 

A few seconds later, the doorbell rang out, heralding the arrival of the very last of our hopes. 

Said last of our hopes was the merchant sailor- Tommy, as he insisted we call him. He turned out to be not the wizened old sea-dog I had half-expected, but a young, heavily tattooed Irishman, muscular, and with the peculiar look of a man who had been in quite a few fights in his time. I observed his nose seemed to have been broken, and his left eye was in the last stages of bruising; I could well imagine Mrs. Hudson's horror on seeing him, in shades of blue and purple, traipsing up the stairs.

“Alloa, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” he said cheerfully, slinging himself into an armchair and drawing out a cigarette and offering one to Holmes. He took it, thanking him; and then was forced to draw in close to the man as he lit them both. 

I took an immediate dislike to the man, although I could not say why. Perhaps it was intuition; caused by his arrogance, perhaps, or his coarse, brash mannerisms and immediate over-familiarity. Holmes, however, didn't seem to share my dislike; he leant forwards, eyes bright and keen, as the now-familiar tale of death and revival was told. 

A shipwreck, off the straits of Gibraltar; a strange light, a man speaking in tongues, that he could nevertheless understand; every night since, the feeling of drowning, the appearance of drowning, everything but the real thing. I schooled my face to attentiveness, but I needn't have bothered: Holmes was fascinated, and Tommy evidently enjoyed the attention. Neither spared me a glance, and so I was free to let my mind wander.

I do not mean to sound callous, or dismissive of this poor man's trouble; but his tale told us nothing new, gave us no further hints or help, and I was utterly exhausted besides. It baffled me, how Holmes could focus on him with such a keen intensity, when there seemed to me to be nothing more interesting than his own story mirrored back, and nothing more complex than a coarse, simple sailor.

Holmes asked him a few questions, as had become routine; they talked lowly, heads bowed together, still smoking those terrible cigarettes. Tommy’s jacket had fallen open slightly, betraying a flash of green- some sort of plant, I guessed, although I could not begin to say why. Holmes, of course, had probably already deduced what plant it was, when and where he’d procured it, and the precise reason why. 

I was broken out of my thoughts by a sharp laugh from Holmes. Tommy sat back, a languid smile toying at the corner of his mouth, looking, to my mind, irritatingly smug. I wondered what it was that could have aroused such a reaction from Holmes, but they were soon back at it again, heads bent together, conspiring. Holmes’ hands fluttered around in-between them, sketching something or another, that, by the supremely irritating expression on our visitor’s face, appeared to have nothing to do with the case at hand. 

“Holmes!”, I said, a trifle sharper than I had intended to; Holmes turned to me, irritated at the interruption. 

“What is it, Watson?”

“I, ah…” I faltered; what had a moment ago seemed so important, enough to interrupt Holmes, now seemed to have disappeared under scrutiny. “Should we not compare Mr. Tommy’s account with that of the others?”

He waved his hand. “Yes, yes, good thinking, Watson, they’ll be by my chair, I believe.”

I left them talking once more in bad spirits, and went to fetch the notes. This took me some time, Holmes steadfastly refusing to abandon his habit of abandoning his possessions in the strangest places, and by the time I had collected them from the various pockets and drawers they had been hidden in, from behind the mantelpiece clock and between the fabric of the chair, I was in a sour mood. I felt embarrassingly petulant, like a child, but I could not help it: I was exhausted and fed-up; Holmes was ignoring me, and refusing to tell me anything, but was more than happy to lavish attention on some A.B .-

Perhaps there was a touch of jealousy in me too, but the implications of that thought were enough to make me recoil. 

I took a moment to collect myself, and then, brandishing the documents like armour, I re-entered the room.

It was empty. A note on the table read:

Watson. Following up on some details with T.. Will not be back until the inevitable. No need to wait. S.H.

Well! I did not exactly sulk, but with the clarity of hindsight, I can confess it was a near thing. Instead I bustled aggressively around our flat, pointedly tidying and filing for an absent audience, as so many an aggrieved house-wife before me. I could not possibly see what Holmes could want in that man, who seemed perfectly mundane to me; and it stung all the more given his continued rejection of me, in favour of that unexplained hypothesis of his. 

My displeasure worsened my mood, which (to the delight of Mrs. Hudson, I’m sure), manifested itself in a sort of dull mania for cleaning. I polished the desks, and the windows; folded blankets, tidied away the assortment of exotic objects that had gradually invaded the floor; and though my shoulder protested, the distraction of tactile work, combined with the righteous resentment I felt at Holmes, carried me onwards. The house-wife comparison was perhaps more apt than I was comfortable with, the implication once again freezing me; but I am led to believe that many an aggrieved house-wife has expressed her displeasure with a bout of pointed cleaning. (With the exception, of course, of my sweet Mary, whose temper tended towards the mild, and whose anger with me was not nearly as strong as I perhaps deserved. Holmes had once, very dispassionately, asked me if I would have known if my wife did indeed have her grievances with me, did in fact resent my inability to. At the time I had dismissed this angrily, as the barbed cruelties of a kind man deeply hurt, and from a man who himself professed no understanding of women anyhow; and then, he had died, and my wife had begun her slow decline, and I did not think of it any longer. It remains a cruel statement; but, in those solitary nights, when I had neither my wife nor Holmes, I reminded myself of how perceptive Holmes was- is-, and how much of his life he spent noticing the things that other people did not wish to see).

By the time Holmes returned, an hour or so before sunset, the flat was spotless and I was exhausted. I had resolved to ignore him, and forced myself to appear utterly engrossed in yesterday’s Times even as he thundered up the stairs. 

“Ah, Watson!” he said, panting slightly. Surprised, I looked up at him despite myself.

“Good Lord, Holmes, where have you been?” I asked. His pale face was flushed slightly; his eyes were bright, and his clothes ruffled and laced with smoke. Suspicion dawned on me, and I stood up, bringing his face down to mine and peering into his eyes. 

After a moment, he tore his face away, and said bluntly: “There’s no need for that, see?” and bared me his scarred forearms, one and then another. I nodded, mollified, but unapologetic; it was hardly an unreasonable concern. In fact, I had half-expected him to have started up again already, but his arms said otherwise. 

I asked him about it, a little awkwardly; I had not wanted to mention it before, for fear that he would take it badly, but he appeared in good spirits, and seemed not offended at all. 

“What would be the benefit of taking it again? I have enough to occupy my mind as it is.”

He removed his coat, and hanging it over his chair, collapsed into it. “I should leave you alone more often, Watson. Mrs. Hudson would certainly appreciate your efforts.”

I scowled at him. “And what were you doing, anyway? There wasn’t exactly much to follow up on with that Tommy.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but I interrupted him with a yawn. He looked amused. 

“Tired, Watson?” 

I admitted that I was. 

“Sleep, then. You are not needed tonight.”

I began to protest- I had still not managed to confront him- but he just smiled faintly. “Tomorrow, Watson, and I promise to you that all will be explained.”

The next morning, I awoke pleasantly. The physical exertion had tired not just my body, but my mind; I had had as dreamless and deep a sleep as I had ever done since the days of the Reichenbach, and certainly since Holmes had begun this ‘experiment’ of his.

He too was in continued good spirits, and clapped his hands together in delight on seeing me. 

“Ah, Watson! You slept well, I see.”

“I did, yes.” I said, reaching for the toast. “Did you?”

“Excellent, excellent!” he said, taking (to my delight) a bite of his own slice of toast. 

I was conflicted. I did not want to disturb his all-too-rare good humour; but equally, it concerned me, so jarring as it was to his character, and to the situation at hand. 

Lightly, I said: “So, Holmes, about your hypothesis?”

He did not reply. I looked up from my toast. 

The good humour had fallen from his face, and as I met his eye, he turned away from me to light his cigarette by the window. I stood up and followed him, and for a few moments, we stood in that way silently, as he assembled his thoughts.

“My hypothesis. Indeed. It… it began, my dear Watson, as it had occurred to me that since our investigations began- or to be more precise, since I revealed my situation to you, my experience of my… fits, has been less severe.”

“Less severe?” said I in surprise, recalling his clear terror and distress in those long nights; “I should hate to have seen them before, if that counted as an improvement.”

He smiled grimly. “Indeed. I had hoped that it was a simple effect of that great healer, time, and that I would simply have to have patience for the entire thing to recede. Therefore, I thought it best to remove as many variables as I could, the most pertinent one being you . But as it was…. You will, I’m sure, be displeased to hear that it was in fact worsened in your absence, although thankfully not to the degree that it had once been.”

He spun round to me then, and his eyes caught mine, magnetic. Very seriously, he said: “Watson, I am forced to conclude that the severity of my condition is tied somewhat to my mental state; and that (and I hope you shall not think less of my for it), but your presence, and comfort, as my dearest friend, appears to alleviate it somewhat.”

I could say nothing; instinctively, I caught his hands in mine. They shook, slightly, and his fingers curled imperceptably over my own.

“I.. I am glad, I suppose, that my presence improves things, and I hope that you will allow me to continue to keep company with you?”

“To keep vigil,” he said wryly, but thankfully nodded in assent.

“But Holmes,” said I, more firmly, “you cannot do this again. I will not have you increase your own suffering, when I have it in my power to help.”

“If I remember correctly, then you were the one who insisted on investigating it.”

He was right; I had, but his admission had shocked me, and I wondered now if it was worth it.

“Are there no other avenues of investigation that we can try? Any other aspects of research?”

He looked thoughtful. “I suppose…” he began, and then, looking down, seemed to notice suddenly our position, and dropped his hands from mine as though in pain. He turned again to face away from me, and said, very steadily, and casually: “Are you free, today, at-” (he checked his watch) “- half-past twelve?”

“Of course,” I said, “As you are well aware. But why?”

He sighed. “I believe it is time that we resort to visiting Mycroft, dear Watson,” and saying so returned back to the table, pouring the tea as though nothing had happened. “Tea, Watson?”

“Thank you. Do you really think he can help?” I recalled his brother as a blindingly intelligent, severe man with an apparent disinclination towards activity, talking, and indeed people.

He shrugged, and addressed his words to the remains of his breakfast. “Mycroft is the cleverest man in England, quite possibly the world. If anyone can find a solution to this matter, it will be he.”

I wondered, then, why Holmes had not asked his brother before, but he appeared to be emulating him now in his complete disinclination to talk, focusing wholly on his cup of tea and remaining bits of toast, and so I decided it was best not to ask. I would find out soon enough, I hoped; Holmes could not keep me in the dark for the rest of his life. Surely.

Chapter Text

Our meeting took place in the Diogenes Club, as I had expected. In my admittedly tense state, the club- with its peculiar prohibition of noise- disconcerted me; men sat around reading or writing, completely silent; even the carpet disapprovingly absorbed the sounds of our footsteps. The effect was eerie; it felt, in that moment, as though we were already ghosts.

We turned one corner, then another; I risked the (silent) ire of the club members by hurrying behind Holmes, as he strode purposefully towards the Stranger's Room; injuries and age meant that my breath, criminally, was audible, but I cared not. I was struck with the unexplainable fear that, were I to lag behind, he would disappear around a corner as though he had never been there at all, and the judgement of silent ghosts was nothing compared to that terrible, real possibility. 

Again and again we turned the corners of this silent labyrinth, I working myself into near-hysteria, until finally, blessedly, we came to a door. Holmes did not knock; the door opened silently, and silently we stepped in, and still silently he greeted his brother, only speaking after the door was well and truly shut. 

“Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.” And then, wryly: “Ought I assume this is no mere social call?”  His quick eyes scanned him, deducing and filing away details I could not begin to guess at, whilst my Holmes stood uncomfortably, determinedly not fidgeting under his brother's dispassionate, analytical gaze.  

After he had satisfied himself, Mycroft Holmes steepled his hands in a gesture remarkably similar to that of his brother, and said: “Start from the beginning, if you will.”

Holmes did not sit, but stood in front of his brother's desk, looking for all the world like a schoolboy in front of the Headmaster; he explained the situation evenly, and fairly impassively, although I dare say his brother was not fooled. After he had concluded his account of our recent investigations into the matter, Mycroft closed his eyes, and for a few minutes sat still in silent contemplation. The sound was not broken by even the ticking of a clock; apparently, the club looked unfavourably upon the obtrusive noises of timepieces as well as of men.

Eventually, he spoke, in a low, measured timbre, utterly impassive and unmoved.

“If it were any other man telling me this, I would accuse you of fantasy, or the last hallucinations borne of a near-death experience. It brings to mind a deal with the Devil, does it not? Beyond science, is religion, if the Church is to be believed.”

Holmes’ mouth twisted. “Am I a Dr. Faust, then? Once my bargain with Mephistopheles has expired, will I duly be carried off to Hell?” His bitterness was evident. 

“Don’t be an ass, Sherlock, and do sit down. It is merely a hypothesis, that is all. And besides, I seem to remember in Goethe’s retelling of the tale, it is Gretchen’s pleading that prompts the angels of Heaven to save him.”

Holmes glared at him; he either didn’t notice or deigned not respond.

“Scientifically though, I cannot recall much in the way of similar records, although I shall, of course, see what I can find. There are certain records open to me that even you would be unable to access. In the meantime, however, I suggest you consult literature.”

Holmes looked incredulous; and indeed, I'm sure I did too. Mycroft Holmes' expression did not change, although his eyes glinted with amusement.

“Come now, Dr. Watson, surely you of all people know the value of literature? Think, Sherlock. Literature, folk tales, all made-up, to be sure, but they all come from somewhere. There is no better resource to find out about the unexplainable, those phenomena not yet brought to the attention of science.” 

Holmes looked unconvinced; but his faith in his brother's intelligence won out and he accepted his argument only a little ungraciously. Mycroft Holmes, meanwhile, began writing neatly on some paper, occasionally pausing in thought. 

“Dr. Watson,” he said, not looking up. “If you would give Sherlock and myself a minute alone.”

I looked towards Holmes for guidance, but his expression carefully betrayed nothing, and so I left them to it, awkwardly standing by the door like a chastised schoolboy. I stared at the carpets; plush-red, like velveted blood, they stared back impassively, unwilling to be compelled into talking. 

My forensic examination of the carpet was inelegantly disturbed by the sudden appearance of Holmes, who, in one fluid movement, whirled out of the room, and, without pausing, bade me to follow him as he marched through the club, imperious and impervious to the glares thrown his way. I was forced to hurry beside him (in a rare show of inconsideration, he did not think to slow down), and I resentfully limped alone until I had made it out onto the street, where he had thankfully been waiting for me with a hansom cab. I attempted conversation, but in vain; and neither of us being too inclined to talk, I saw no reason to force it. It did occur to me, however, that his haste in leaving the club had had the effect that I had, on him leaving, not caught a glimpse of his face, and I wondered what exactly it was that his brother had spoken to him about.

By unspoken agreement, it quickly became ritual; each evening, after dinner and cigars, we would settle by the fire, and make our way through the hefty tomes Mycroft had bade Holmes to read. One of which, I was amused to note was the King James Bible;

“A practical joke?” said I. 

Holmes looked at me, amused. “Tell me, does Mycroft strike you particularly as the sort of man who plays practical jokes? Or has a sense of humour, for that matter? If he has given me a bible, it is because he thinks the tales of Lazarus and Jesus may be of use to me, and for that alone.”

It was almost companionable, if not for the constant reminder of what was at stake; I read aloud, for Holmes seemed to dislike reading himself unless absolutely necessary, and we discussed each part in turn. Holmes’ usually scathing criticism of literature was rendered somewhat weak by the situation in hand, although he made a valiant attempt that would have, I'm sure, have made Kit Marlowe blush. And then, each night, we retired to his room, to await Holmes’ ‘episode’, which brought no less fear to my heart than it had the first time I had observed it. Nevertheless, I was glad that we were together; and observed, with relief and interest, that after a few days, the severity of Holmes' suffering appeared to stabilise to the levels it had been before his experiment. 

Within a month, we had made our way through Marlowe and Rutebeuf; by August, we had started Goethe, and were altogether none the happier. Holmes, although he had acquiesced to it gamely enough, had been far from convinced at his brother’s suggestion of literature. The reality of it- that a man widely considered by certain, select individuals as the most intelligent in England, if not the known world, had no other explanation than to resort to fiction- worried him more than anything, and he took it, I believe, as an admission of failure. He grew hopeless, and I privately began to curse what I believed to be Mycroft’s misjudgement in this case. 

As Holmes grew hopeless, I fell uncharacteristically towards optimism. Goethe, in particular, had preoccupied my mind, and I, in part through sheer will, had taken his strange tale as a sign. In the slight mania that the warmth of summer brings, as reliably as flowers and bees, I became convinced that I had, through this, solved Holmes’ condition. He, who was sinking ever-deeper into melancholy, was unconvinced. Like thunder, it hung between us, heavy and threatening; and yet, in my mind, it was all so simple. Gretchen saves Dr. Faust with her pleading, the Ewig-Weibliche the salvation of man; in my mind, Dr. Faust, with his indomitable will to knowledge, his search for was die Welt im Innersten zusammenhält, became a mirror of Holmes. It was not, for him, so simple, but his disagreement was generous, and thus encouraged me; and so into September, my myopia grew. 

“Holmes,” said I, one day, frustrated by his constant refusals to do what was so simple. “Holmes. I am well aware of your dislike of the fairer sex, and abhorrence of matters of the heart; but surely, for the sake of your life, you can find one woman willing to vouch for you!”

He had been relatively mild in his rebuttals thus far; and so it was a shock to me, when he raised himself to his full height and answered: “One woman to vouch for me, one woman who knows my heart. You presume too much, to think she exists. If dislike was all it was, then perhaps, but there! You must know! There is no such woman.”

Before I could begin to react to this admission- and admission it was, for I understood what he was telling me, veiled only for decency's sake- he threw a hand on the table and laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh; it had the tenor of a madman, of desperation and insanity. 

“But still,” (he continued;); ”But still, then, you say, if we could find one- just one- this woman, how would she vouch for me, pray tell? The Lord is not so free with his personal appearances these days. Will she have to die, too?” 

I had not considered this, and he read it clearly on my face, for he continued vehemently:

“Shall we condemn another person to this half-life I lead? What if she doesn’t take, shall we be obliged to murder half the young women in London until one of them receives such a vision as mine? Or are you counting on the Angels to intervene with us as well?”

He closed his eyes then, the energy that had animated him so disappearing as quickly as it had come. As if in a daze, he lowered himself past the chair, and onto the floor. In a murmur, he said:

“I should not have shouted, dear Watson; you only have my interests at heart. But I shall not- can not- condemn another being to this tragic farce of a repeated death, and still not on the hope of a story-book morality tale.” 

He opened his eyes again, intense and hawkish, and scanned my face, although for what I don’t know. 

“And,” he said, mouth twisting a little in humour, ”frankly, not all of us are as popular with women as you are. Although, I understand how one may forget such a thing…”

I took his comment as it was intended: lightly, and in the spirit of friendship, and as a plea for ignorance. He had revealed himself to me in a moment of passioned anguish; we were both aware of it, and what it meant, but for the sake of his dignity, he was requesting me to act otherwise, and I obliged. 

“It is all too easy to forget,” I agreed, amused. And then, soberly: “I understand. It was foolishness, this fixation; I can only apologise. We shall have to find another solution.” My previous passion had given way to a sombre calmness; I felt, for the first time since the idea had taken root in me, that I could think clearly. 

“Must we? Find another solution, I mean.” 

Alarmed, I frowned, and replied, “Of course we must! You said yourself, what a terrible half-life this is to lead. And” (I said, with a sudden fear overtaking me) “the alternative- you must surely not be considering… I will not allow it!”

He smiled, wanly, but with genuine amusement. “Well, if my Watson won’t allow it, who am I to do otherwise? It is true, this life I lead is not pleasant; and I have considered the alternative, both as a logical and a-” (he faltered here) “- as an emotional possibility; and in truth neither much appeals to me. But less so does living as a specimen in a glass-jar, endlessly being poked and prodded.  This endless searching for solutions…”

He said, like a confession: “I am tired, Watson.”, and I understood that it was not just due to these recent experiments he was referring. I bowed my head in silent agreement, and I knew he understood it as it was too; I was tired too, and not just from these last few months. 

“I suppose,” I said thoughtfully, once the moment had passed, both of us silently lightened by the admission, “that the one thing we have not tried is time. Perhaps, the symptoms- the frequency- the severity- will lessen in time. Even us doctors are useless to do anything more than simply waiting can do. it stands to reason this is no different; or at the least, surely it is worth a try?” 

He nodded his head in agreement, although he frowned in a way that suggested he remained unconvinced. 

“We can but wait and see, I suppose.”

Chapter Text

September crept into October, as it must. The leaves, only a month ago vivacious and new, now shrivelled and fell, and half-dead were trampled underfoot into the mud. 

It was something that I had discovered, first during my experience of war, then during the slow, painful days of recovery, and again and again after the deaths of my beloved, and of Holmes. What is terrible, what is painful, what is shocking, horrifying, unnatural: all this can, with time, become routine. This stayed true with regards to Holmes’ condition, and true again with regards to the agonising helplessness that followed our agreement to let Time, the natural healer, to try her hand. I cannot deny that it still troubled me, that every night felt like willful abandonment of my professional ethics, and of my dearest friend, but it became easier, every time, to accept it. It was helped too by Holmes himself, who, for all his continued pain, had clearly found something freeing in accepting- for now- the unknowable. There was a lightness in his countenance that made me almost giddy with joy when I caught sight of it. 

We had continued our way through his brother’s reading list; to considerable amusement, we were obliged to consult some past editions of that esteemed fancy-rag, the British Spiritualist Telegraph . The thought of Mycroft Holmes, that austere, serious man of science, recommending to us this nonsense, let alone having read it, was a delight in itself; the contents only exacerbated it, and it was for some time the subject of considerable mockery between us. Holmes, in a fit of mirth, had exclaimed:

“My dear Watson, I hope upon hope that when I die, I'll surely be spared such tedious social occasions as being at the beck-and-call of Mrs. Matilda Roland, Brighton, relaying news of people’s grandfathers and great-aunts and pet dogs! To die, to sleep, indeed. I should begin to wish to die again, to get some peace."

October into November, and the winter winds brought death and decay to the streets of London, and took in return our relief. There had been little-to-no change to Holmes’ condition; it had remained either blessedly stable, or damnably stable, depending on one’s perspective. Holmes’ mood had begun its slow decline in tandem with the slow encroachment of frost; I believe, although he would, I’m sure, accuse me of fancy, that they were linked. The inevitable death of winter replaced the optimism of that summer, and in it I believe he saw a reflection of himself. 

Also, we had begun Lucretius’s De Rerum Natura , which had nothing much to recommend it, in terms of good cheer:

We view our fellow going by degrees,

And losing limb by limb the vital sense;

First nails and fingers of the feet turn blue,

Next die the feet and legs, then o'er the rest

Slow crawl the certain footsteps of cold death.

Still must the soul as mortal be confessed;

From all its parts, sink down to brutish death,

Since more and more in every region sense

Fails the whole man, and less and less of life

In every region lingers.

Holmes had been much enraptured by it- or perhaps enraptured is too positive a word for what he seemed to feel, for his preoccupation with it seemed to cause him both distress and fascination in equal measure, and he often called upon me to recite certain lines, as he paced and smoked, inscrutable . I obliged, though not without misgivings; it seemed to me the symptoms of mania had taken hold of him. For my part, the corrosive effects of the winter chill upon my own mind and body, and my intensified concerns about Holmes, were accompanied by the ghosts of memory the passages had summoned. My wife had faded similarly, body and soul; less and less of life in every region lingering . I missed her, simply and desperately, loss and sorrow and regret merging into one undefinable emotion. I missed Holmes too, the Holmes that I had, in my naivety, become accustomed to: still mercurial, still prone to lapses of melancholy, but with a lightness and a- a- rootedness, that I had rarely, if ever, seen on him. My wife was separated from me by death; my dearest friend was strung perpetually between our two worlds, and had retreated into a melancholic mania; and thus isolated, I too began to fade into the phantasmic. 

One night, we were sitting quietly in the moonlight, recuperating. Holmes, recently resurrected, had quietly asked for my company; I, with the earnestness that can only be allowed between men in these small hours, had confessed that there was nothing I desired more. It was as though the moonlight, in painting the world silvery-grey, had had a soothing effect on us both; Holmes toyed with an unlit cigar, but without the frantic energy that had possessed him; I chided him gently, on the basis that I felt that it was far too early to have smoke blown into my face, and to his quiet amusement. We lapsed into companionable silence; and then, hushed, to the moon, he said:

“ And less and less of life in every region lingers.” It took me a moment to recognise the poem (that damned poem!); then falteringly, he continued:

“The flesh,” he said, “like the life-force- call it a soul, call it a will, call if anything you like, it never- have you noticed? That it rarely, if ever, issues away all at once. Rather, it dies in small quantities, day-by-day, minute-by-minute.”

The fingers first go cold, then the hands that cannot stop gripping. Then the breath is stolen from the lungs, and the blood refuses to return to the heart.

The moon remained impassive. He said, clinically, as though discussing a client:

“I myself am half-dead. Or swung perpetually between the two, at least- I suppose it must qualify. It is a wonder there are not worms crawling out of my eye-sockets right now; truthfully, sometimes, I am more surprised than not.”

He looked at me, then, eyes searching for understanding; the intensity of his gaze felt physical, akin to a bruise. His eyes, his glittering, desperate, deep eyes- they found, I hope, sympathy, but that was all. The moonlight gave shadows to the gauntness of his face, and truth to his claim; it was as though he were a glittering skull, with eyes black holes that might well contain worms. 

I did not know what to say to him. His eyes dropped from mine, unsurprised but disappointed, resigned once more to solitude.

Haltingly, the words forming in my mind even as my tongue moved to form them, I said:

“After- the war- when I returned. Sometimes, I did wonder whether I had died- was a ghost- people looked through me-  and everything, all of me, hurt so much- and better men died- men died- and I thought, surely, it must have killed me, or blown me to pieces, my leg and shoulder and arm all alive in their own pain.”

His mouth quirked up. “Ghosts are impossible.” And as I was about to allow anger to take me: “Of course, so is drowning on dry land, nightly. Watson, look at me,” he commanded gently, and laid a gentle hand upon my face. “I would not wish understanding upon anyone.”

I understood what he was saying. So often, I have compared him to an automaton, and so often I have done him a disservice by it; but never more so than then, his eyes shining, his hand faintly trembling against my cheek like the wings of a trapped dove. in gratitude, in shared sorrow, in love.

The next morning, Holmes was late to rise, and so I crept out to my desk unobserved, intent on my mission. I could do no more of this half-life, I could bear no more of consigning Holmes to such a thing. I ached desperately for freedom, for reprieve, and my resolve was set. We would go away- our own private rest cure- away from London, overrun with ghosts-

I could not say that it would help, but I feared what would happen if we did nothing. Like the boiler of a steam-train, hurtling along, and all the while heating inexorably, I feared our explosion. Holmes, it seemed, was of a similar mind, or else last-night had had such an impact as to subdue his objections. There were the usual few grumbles, more performative than anything, but I dare say he was, if not looking forward to the countryside, holding some hopes as to what it would bring.

The urgency of packing had the benefit of jolting me out of my malaise, and through our rooms rushed a whirlwind of frantic searching- aided ably by the amenable Mrs. Hudson, and under the watchful eyes (and arch commentary) of Holmes. 

Within the week, we were on 10:50 from Paddington to Plymouth; from there, Penzanze; from there, Kynance Cove.

Cornwall, even in winter, has a certain ethereal charm. Our little white-washed cottage was surrounded, on all sides, by a white alien desert, the rolling moors having succumbed to snow; scattered around were no people, but strange stone monuments honouring the long-dead, the sole remnants of a disappeared nation. Or not the sole remnants; the language, familiar yet incomprehensible, with its musical quality and cadence seemed too a remnant of a long-forgotten age, when our ancestors lived among dragons and myths. I, for my part, felt much relieved, being by nature anyway inclined towards vast expanses of verdant hills, and the sort of air one can breathe , rather than swallow; Holmes, despite his general suspicion for the countryside (“ What better cover for the criminal than isolation, ignorance, impunity- in short, the countryside that you so admire?” ) seemed equally taken with our destination. He got into the habit of embarking on long, investigative walks along the coastline, returning flushed with the cold, brisk air, eyes bright. Our walks together were rather more leisurely, in deference to my injuries, but no less dogged in their investigations as to the Cornish topography; burial mounds, wildflowers and fossilised marine life were the subject of fascinating discussion, and a thankfully neutral one at that. Holmes, as ever, was at his most magnetic when enthusiastic, and with the same single-minded fascination he gave to crime, he now gave to the wilderness around him.   

The only blemish in our respite was on the eve of our second day. We had gone, for the first time, down to the coast, where the water rushed and spun in eddies, and shattered against the rocks. Briefly overcome, I could not help but stare transfixed, as this great wall of ocean threw upon it boats like children’s toys; Holmes appeared to me equally lost in reverie, and I confess that it was only much later that I recalled how he flinched at the salt-spray on his face, and how his eyes, perhaps, had not been so contemplatively lost as mine. 

Still, at the time, I had thought nothing of it, and if his manner at dinner was a little quiet, then I attributed it to tiredness, nothing more. We sat together, for a while, idly playing cards; dragged a narrow bed into the larger of the two rooms, and played out the requisite argument about who should take which bed; and retired. Sunset came, and with it, Death; midnight again brought a miraculous resurrection, and exhausted by the walking, I had no issue slipping back into sleep. 

It was perhaps only an hour before I was woken again, as if by some instinctive sense, for certainly I could not hear anything at first. And then, straining my ears: the rasp of nails against flesh, and air against lungs, the rustle of fabric against fabric, and the creak of the old bedframe under pressure. I knew it to be a scientific impossibility, and yet I could hear the frightened pounding of a heart. 

“Holmes?” I said, pushing myself out of bed. 

The movement stilled. In a strained, weak voice: “Watson. Apologies for waking you.”

“Nonsense,” I replied, not giving him a chance to protest; on my side, there was a window, who’s curtain I pulled open. Fortunately, the moon was full and bright, and enough light flooded in to allow me to assess the damage. 

Holmes lay on the bed (the smaller of the two, he having won the argument); his complexion, usually pale, was wan; his chest rose and fell rapidly; his eyes were screwed tightly shut, and his hands-

In his distress, he had torn at them, like a wild animal, and thin red lines traced them like evidence. I felt like weeping.

I summoned what professionalism I could, and said gently: “Holmes?” He opened his eyes, and focused on me well enough, although his expression did not shift. “I am going to fetch some water. Do you think you could be sitting up when I return?”

He said nothing in acknowledgement, but when I returned from my search, he was sitting on the bed, staring blankly at the wall, hands hanging limply in his lamp. 

I said nothing, just knelt before him, beside the bed, wincing slightly. I squeezed his knee, to alert him to my presence; he looked down, sharply, and I felt rather than saw his sudden, inadvertent intake of breath, and the shaky exhale that followed. I turned his hand over gently, almost- although I dared not think it- almost tenderly . 

I suppose I can be forgiven for thinking that I could feel his pulse jump underneath my touch. 

I ran the damp cloth over his forearm and hand, again and again, until in the dim light they seemed to come away clean. Inside, my heart raced; still, my hands traversed his pale forearm mechanically, rendered calm by years of training and circumstances far more dire. I wondered silently whether it had been the sea that had triggered something in his subconscious, the memory of drowning reawakened, but said nothing. Holmes, in my care, remained silent. The cloth came away clean, again and again; my work, it seemed, was complete. And yet- I could not seem to bring myself to stop. Even in the relative darkness, which painted everything in shades of soft grey- even in that, Holmes’ hands were a thing to behold, scarred and stained and rendered rough in strange places, a physical record of his lifes’ work. They were perhaps not a thing of beauty, although they were as elegant and pale as any Lady’s, but they were artful and skilled- they were hands that could delicately pluck the strings of a violin, and that could force an iron poker to be straightened once more. They had long held a curious fascination for me, as a record of Holmes’ life, his vulnerabilities, his skill- perhaps fascination was the wrong word, or at least incomplete, but I recoiled from the one I knew to be true. I recoiled from the thought, from the emotion, from what I had not wanted to admit it to myself, even now. It was illegal; it felt like betrayal. But the darkness was a veil, and in the isolation of the Cornish night, I could admit to myself that I loved him, yes, and long had done; and I had thought him dead, and it had killed me, and that he had returned to me, and- 

And- 

I pulled away, suddenly fearful that my thoughts were written clearly upon my face. Surely if anyone could decipher it, it was he.

But his head was bowed low, and he did not stir when I rose (despite the loud protests of my aching leg); when I returned, having discarded the cloth and water, he had returned to bed, and was lying as still as a child, arms wrapped tightly around each other. I assumed he was not sleeping; but if he was, I had no desire to wake him, and if he wasn’t I had no desire to talk. So I simply took my place, mere paces across the room, in silence. For a little time, I lay awake, mind meditatively blank, until, unnoticed, I drifted off into a blissfully dreamless sleep. 

Chapter Text

It had been a week, and then another, all passing by with the lightness and deftness of the spiritual, not material, life. The rhythm of our days passed pleasingly, the cadence of our movements as melodic and alien as the language. Nothing had changed; and yet, I had not felt this relaxed, this content, this easily, peacefully detached since- well. Childhood, most probably. The languid days, whose only purpose was exploration and pleasure, had something in them of the idylls of childhood, and it was a stark contrast with the previous months, which had been haunted by the metaphysical, by death and life, and the limits of man, and medicine, and science.

Holmes himself remained invigorated, as though lightened of his burden; the previous episode had not repeated itself, and whilst distressing in nature, he had begun, I think, to accept, completely, the strange legacy of his survival. In the evenings, we sat, half-dozing by the fire, and talking of the idle and extraordinary; his reluctance to go to bed was tempered by sardonic humour, shaky and uncertain, but attempted nevertheless. 

We had discovered for ourselves a domestic idyll, isolated from the world and its responsibilities; but it could not last, and I had thought it best that we return home for Christmas, and had sent Mrs. Hudson a letter to that effect. Our last days were spent with an oddly self-conscious enthusiasm, as though the hard knowledge of our inevitable departure had compelled us both to enact absurd enjoyment to the end. 

Our penultimate evening was spent as such, languid and slow, as we sipped brandy as though to do so slowly would similarly draw out the day. The temperature had dropped suddenly, and already frost had begun its slow creep up the windows; we were both reluctant to abandon the dying embers of fire. 

Inevitably, we did, a touch awkwardly, all too aware of the significance of our new mundanity. The room was cold, but I had ample experience of sleeping in uncomfortable conditions, both during the war, and the investigations Holmes made me endure, and I did so easily. I was roused perhaps a quarter of an hour later, by hoarse coughing, and then a dreadful stillness. 

I woke again at some unknown hour- past midnight, since Holmes had returned to life. It took me some minutes to become aware enough to interpret my senses, and reason what had awoken me. 

The quiet, incessant rattling of the metal bed-frame. 

I propelled myself out of bed, wincing more from the bare floor than the usual pain in my leg. In his bed, Holmes shivered, the cold of his room undoubtedly worsened by the icy chill of the water he had so painfully choked on. I cursed myself, for it had not occurred to me at the time, but a feel of the bed-sheets confirmed my suspicions; they were damp, and faintly earthy, as though they had been soaked in the Reichenbach itself. 

For a moment, I watched Holmes. He had always felt the cold more easily, but now as he shook, and his flesh became pale, I was uncomfortably reminded of every time I had watched him drown. It was as though every instance, every cruel repetition of his death, had at once been overlaid and was playing out in front of mr, and once the thought had taken root I could not easily forget it.

“Holmes,” I said lowly, not wanting to startle him. His eyes snapped open, and impossibly, softened. “Let me warm you. It’s no good you suffering like this.”

Silence.

“It is only logical that we share heat, for the sake of yourself at least,” I tried, appealing to rationality. “Come into my bed, Holmes,” I said, masking my awkwardness with the imperative.

Still silence. And then:

“I cannot ,” he said, in a whisper seemingly torn from his throat, and he sounded so utterly wretched it all but strengthened my resolve.

More firmly, I said to him: “Holmes. Please . For my sake, if not yours. I… You are, now, far too reminiscent of yourself during these episodes of yours for me to be in any way comfortable.”

I could half see him, in my mind's eye, writhing and shaking on the floor as his lungs desperately, fitfully gasped for air. It disturbed me beyond words, and if he hadn't responded, I doubt I could have prevented myself from dragging him into my bed, and clutching him to me anyway, in a desperate search for signs of life.

But he did answer, in the affirmative; “Very well. On your head be it, Watson.”

I gathered him into my arms uncomfortably, his frame being far taller than mine, but we quickly managed to rearrange ourselves until we were together in far more comfort. At first my embrace (for I suppose that is what it was), was done gingerly, but before long I had my arms wrapped tightly around his thin frame, his thin wiry hair soft against my cheek. His hands were caught between us, grasping handfuls of my shirt with a desperation I could all too well understand.

And yet, still, it wasn’t enough. Every clear breath he took seemed to hold echoes of choking, every abating shiver the last twitches of life.

“Holmes,” I said wildly, a little desperately. “ Holmes.”

I pulled him towards me tightly, as though trying to merge us into one. He did not protest.

He said, softly: “I am alive , dear Watson,” face twisted in understanding, and then, impossibly, unthinkably, moved his hands until they lay lightly on either side of my face.

They were cold, and smooth, with odd rough patches where injuries and chemicals had forever marred the flesh; the night’s blackness was now so complete that I could scarcely see them, or perhaps my eyes had simply fluttered shut, but no matter. I had long committed them to silent, secret, shameful memory; their lithe cleverness had enchanted me since we had first met.

I cannot say what silent calculations went through Holmes’ mind then, what internal battle he fought even as we lay together, his hands trembling against my cheek, but his decision, once reached, remained firm, and I felt rather than saw him push himself forward towards me, and then kiss me. It was curious, laced with a slight hysteria, the hysteria of the almost-dead; it was gentle, and nervous, and completely assured, and it was Holmes.  

I shall draw a veil over what happened next; all I can say is that, after many resigned years of hidden desire, to experience such tenderness, such ecstasy, such contentment… . 

When I came to again, it was in the most delightful circumstances conceivable, Holmes loosely wrapped around me and curiously investigating my throat. The frenzied desperation had receded into contentment; and the anxious fluttering of my heart, the dogged fear of Holmes’ death, the visceral need to never part, had, if not died down, at least calmed itself. 

There was a lightness to me, a lightness to us both, that threatened to turn into joy; and it was with breathless laughter that we spent our last day in Cornwall rediscovering each other in those mystical hills, and reaffirming our own miraculous continued existence.

I was, I think understandably, apprehensive about our return. Like a sore tooth, I poked continuously at the thought, at whether the private idyllis of our cottage would survive in the scrutiny of our flat, or of London; of the measures we would have to take to ensure our continued peace, of the perpetual secrecy and fear. Holmes, in not nearly so morose a mood (his return to his beloved city undoubtedly cheering him), allowed me to stew in my thoughts until Plymouth, when he interrupted them:

“My dear Watson, if I gave you something as meaningless as a flower, I do believe you would work yourself into knots worrying about its prospects.”

I glared at him. “From the man who cannot view a charming little hamlet without wondering what crimes go unpunished within?”

He gave me a sharp smile, lightning-quick. 

“Besides, this is different. Holmes, you cannot tell me it does not worry you, the prospect of being discovered, the constant secrecy.”

He shrugged. “I admit, it is a concerning prospect. But more out of concern for you than anything-”

“You think you could save yourself?”

He barked a laugh. “Of course not, although I dare say Mycroft would give them pause for thought. But I would be equally put under a microscope in all my component parts, if they discovered my nightly impersonations of Lazarus, and certainly there has always been pointed talk about my suitability in the outside world. And besides,” (and here he chanced a look at me, almost coy); “I cannot say that, now I have discovered it, I am in any willingness to abandon this practice. That is to say,” (his face flushed, shy); “Well, that is to say- I believe that it is worth the risk.”

I was deeply touched, perhaps more than he could know, and although I could do no more in public than to brush his hand, I made up my mind to demonstrate the depth of my emotion, and my regard for him, the very moment we arrived home. 

My fears were both realised and unrealised. Mrs. Hudson, sweetly, was delighted at the change she had noticed in both of us, and attributed it to the wonders of the Cornish coast; Christmas was an extravagant wonder, a stark, and a little painful, contrast to the year before. After a little too much mulled wine, she opined that it was “wonderful, truly” that myself and Holmes were such good, close friends, and then regaled me with gossip from her childhood friends in Aberdeenshire, all of whom apparently had gone into service with eccentrics, if her tales were any indication. Holmes had sent a letter to his brother, whilst in Cornwall, explaining, among other things, his decision to ‘give up’ on finding a cure. 

In reply, he received a note, written in a neat, precise hand,which read: .

S.H.. Hamlet, 1:5. Your decisions are your own, in all matters. If you are willing, I intend to dine at the D. club tomorrow. Bring Dr. Watson if you choose, but remind him please of the rules. M. H.

On reading this, he barked a laugh, and handed me the paper. “I did not know that Mycroft was so inclined to literature, it seems.”

I wondered how much Holmes had told him, and how much he had simply deduced, but thought better than to ask. 

I did, in fact, attend the dinner, which was perfectly satisfactory in almost all regards. Holmes, clearly buoyed by his brother's tacit acceptance, jumped enthusiastically from topic to topic, neglecting his dinner until I chided him, amused. The elder Holmes remained blankly impassive, but nevertheless gave an indication of fondness, which greatly warmed my heart. Nothing he said directly, no sly wink, no tonal shift could be pointed to; and yet, cryptically, I was left understanding that he approved of myself and Holmes, and that he trusted that, were I to hurt him unfairly, there would be no need for him to take measures on his behalf, for I would already have done so. 

Holmes visited Miss Fischer in person, in the end, and requested that I not accompany him. On his return, he was melancholy; he told me later that, of all his regrets, giving that poor lady hope, however distant, only to then remove it, was one that troubled him regularly. She had taken it magnanimously, understandingly; bore him no ill will, only the sympathy of the similarly stricken; and he spent days after wretched with a guilt I could not alleviate. But she was a practical lady, and struck up correspondence with a sort of polite insistance that defeated Holmes utterly. I was, I must admit, a little in awe. 

Later, he wrote to her not-infrequently, on cases and gossip and  commiseration, a shared understanding of horror. She wrote back, taking respite similarly, and through these letters was instrumental in the later apprehending of at least two murderers and one international thief, the last for which she even made an appearance in the Times .

As for Holmes' condition, I am afraid a neat narrative end eludes me, as it often does in life. Eventually, Holmes was drawn back into the  magnetism of detective work; and if dying hadn't made him any more careful with his own life, it had at least made him more sympathetic with others. He had nights where, as he died, his eyes went glassy and panic-stricken, where he coughed so severely water mingled with blood, where he clawed at his own throat in a desperation to end it sooner; and yet, if his condition never reduced completely, it did reduce in severity, as we discovered new ways of managing it. My fear of his death persisted similarly, but ultimately, we succeeded. Holmes had survived. 

Perhaps there will one day be a cure. Holmes professes to have long since stopped believing in such ‘’wishful thinking”, but the world moves onwards and medicine is ever improving. Perhaps there will be a cure for my own troubles, the nightmares and pains that still pain me at times. Perhaps there are things that man is forbidden to touch, to understand, to cure. 

Or perhaps not. But we live not in the hypothetical future, but the now ; although the now has been some nine years since the events described. I believe I can speak for both of us when I say that we are both far happier than we each ever imagined was possible; and in the privacy and beauty of the Sussex Downs, I find myself endlessly grateful for Holmes' return. Holmes, who apparently has nothing better to do than to read over my shoulder and make comments, wishes to inform me that this is both saccarine and sentimental, but he too has mellowed, and I believe, my dear, that you understand me when I say that I hope upon hope for so many happy years in the future. 

J.H.Watson

17th June 1903