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“Open your eyes, Watson.”
Nothing. No movement. No reaction. One finger tapped Watson’s cheek, then a firm prod sent pain through his shoulder.
“Come, Watson. Answer me.”
Watson never moved, and Holmes fought down the nagging, terrifying worry that he would get his friend back only to lose him again. Removing his disguise should not have made Watson collapse.
“Open your eyes, Watson. I imagined many ways for our reunion to go, but none of them sent you to the ground. You need to wake up so we can try again.”
Nothing. Watson’s eyes remained closed, and deep, even breathing confirmed this a true faint rather than a momentary bout of vertigo. Rapid pulse, pale skin, and fine tremors revealed a disinterest in food since Mary’s death, and dark shadows beneath his eyes had undoubtedly contributed to Mycroft’s decision to send Watson to France, but Holmes found no sign of injury. Moran had not found his friend on the trip here.
Which meant utter shock had sent his friend to the floor. Holmes’ worry only increased.
“You are not allowed to scare me like this. You need to wake up.”
There. Pinching the tender skin on the inside of his arm finally produced the barest flinch, though Watson relaxed again the next moment. Holmes quickly wrapped Watson’s hands in both his own, repeated glances scanning Watson’s expression in a search for any movement.
“Watson?”
Only to find nothing.
“Watson, can you hear me?”
No.
An answer rather than a lack of one, Watson immediately denied any possibility of hearing Holmes’ voice. Confusion slowly furrowed his brow and turned his mouth, and even the fingers tabbing Watson’s pulse received only stubborn disregard. Too many years spent believing Holmes dead now refused to deem this anything but a dream. Holmes stopped trying to hide his worry as his grip tightened on that too-thin wrist.
“Open your eyes, Watson. I owe you so many apologies.”
That his friend would not believe. Holmes could see that even now, but he would say them anyway. Or show them. Both, if he could. Watson should not spend every moment so deep in grief that Holmes’ return became nothing more than a dream.
“Watson?”
Grief-lined eyes finally blinked at the ceiling, but several seconds passed before that gaze focused on Holmes rather than the decrepit motel’s peeling paint. Hope flickered only to drown beneath grieving apathy yet again. A dream would not resume after his faint, that said. Watson wanted to believe Holmes alive, but Holmes’ worry strengthened further when something made him pull away from Holmes’ hand. Why did Watson look pained?
“Are you injured?”
Watson shook his head in silent negative, clearly torn between staring at Holmes in shock and hiding his face from Holmes’ scrutiny. Shaking movements tried to retreat out of reach, a wariness Holmes did not understand overriding Watson’s evident relief, but he wanted to keep Holmes in sight as well. He finally compromised by fixing his attention on Holmes’ jacket hem. Clenching his fists did nothing to conceal their trembling.
And made Holmes recall Watson’s rapid pulse. Pale skin. Trembling. Racing heartbeat. The symptoms came together to paint a worrying picture.
“When was the funeral?”
Less than two days ago, by that flinch, which meant Watson had probably stopped eating after her death. A week without food would cause the symptoms he saw.
Though not the wariness still making Watson lean away from him. Another flinch answered Holmes’ intention to shift closer.
“Why are you afraid of me?”
“Not.” Watson edged further away despite the pleasure mixing with fear in the shortened assurance. “Glad—” The word broke, and he swallowed. Another inch still refused to meet Holmes’ gaze. “Glad you’re—” The acknowledgement faltered yet again, as if Watson thought the simple ‘glad you’re alive’ would be ill-received. “Sorry,” he finally murmured instead. “Just—sorry. I’ll go now.”
He used the wall to reach his feet, but his slow pace gave Holmes ample time to block the door once more. Something did not match. While the more physical signs of malnutrition could tie to Mary’s loss, they did not account for the hesitant guardedness characterizing Watson’s every move. What had left Watson so fearful?
“Why?”
Why leave when you obviously do not want to? And for what are you sorry? Both questions laced the single word.
Though Watson may not have heard them. A muttered “S’alright,” barely reached Holmes’ hearing. Confusion appeared when Holmes easily blocked an attempt to move around him.
If his friend could no longer hear what Holmes did not say, Holmes would simply say it. Three years had left him far too lonely to let Watson go now. Not without a clear indication that Watson wanted to go.
This looked more like Watson thought Holmes wanted him to go.
“Why do you want to leave?”
Denied longing glanced at Holmes once more, though Watson continued trying to reach the door. Watson wanted to stay but felt he could not. Holmes did not have enough data to deduce why.
And painfully strong guardedness prevented Holmes from gathering more data. Multiple attempts continued trying to reach the door. Each of Holmes’ wordless blocks only opened a different route, which Watson followed without ever looking up—or touching Holmes. Only when a successful reach for the handle made contact with Holmes’ hurried grab did Watson finally stop trying.
Though he also retreated several steps, confusion evident. Could he truly believe Holmes wanted him to leave when Holmes physically blocked the handle?
Possibly. Wary silence eyed Holmes as if searching for some emotion he did not see, and the uncertainty strengthened when distance gradually made Holmes relax his guard on the door.
“Are you going to answer me?”
Only because Holmes forced the question. The murmured “safer” did not get any louder, but Watson chose a spot against the far wall. Shaking hands nearly dropped his cane, his head remained down, and hunched shoulders loudly announced both his grief and the caution perhaps wondering if Holmes intended to hit him.
Hit him. The deduction sent pain shooting through Holmes. What had happened to Watson in the last three years? The Watson Holmes knew had never been afraid of him.
“Safer for whom?”
For Watson, maybe? If he expected Holmes to hurt him? That made no sense, and the question faded when fleeting eye contact carried a large portion of incredulity.
“You.”
Holmes? What had happened to Watson’s insistence that safety meant a friend at his back?
“How am I safer alone?”
“Without me,” Watson corrected shortly. Fleeting glances quickly returned to the floor. “Not safer alone. Safer without me. Quit blocking the door.” Let me leave before I put you in danger.
“No.” Two long strides laid a hand on Watson’s shoulder, because if that meant what he thought it might—if the anguish Holmes had seen that day had turned into that—then he would need to prove the truth before they could go further. “You are not at fault for what happened in Switzerland.”
Disbelief drowned beneath disregard, then guilt made Watson cringe again—and worried fear grow in Holmes.
“No.” He shook just hard enough to make Watson look at him, however briefly. “I planned that, Watson. I wrote the note, and I paid that boy a shilling to lead you away. I could not let Moriarty reach you, so I faced him alone, intending to meet you at the canyon mouth on your return. Stop blaming yourself for my actions.”
Evident guilt only grew at the thought, mixing with regret to display utter misery. Another inch tried to break Holmes’ hold on his shoulder and created the smallest flinch when the motion failed. The next moment started searching for another way to escape. A way to leave before his presence put Holmes in danger.
“Stop. Right there.” Holmes was an idiot. How could he not have realized how Watson would react to the plan to separate them? “I left to protect you, not because of you, and I only did so because I saw no other choice at the time. If Mycroft had not sent you here today, his next telegram would have put me on the first train. I would have come for the funeral if the news had reached me in time.”
Why?
Utter disbelief never reached words, but the moment’s eye contact conveyed the incredulous question. Why would Holmes come to London when Watson had left him?
“Because I sent you away to protect you. Moriarty would have shot you on sight. You cannot believe I would want that.”
Watson hid his face to make another shot of pain lance through Holmes’ chest. Did he believe Holmes would want that? Had Holmes misstepped so badly that Watson thought he wanted his dearest friend dead?
No. Surely not. Watson clearly thought himself at fault for Holmes’ disappearance, but he could not believe Holmes wanted him dead.
Right?
“Watson?”
No reply. Watson continued staring, hollow disinterest completely disregarding the pressure shaking his shoulder.
“I do not think you will enjoy the results of this, Sherlock.”
Mycroft’s words from so many years ago came rushing back on a tidal wave of pain, but Holmes ignored the overwhelming emotion. He could still fix this. He would still fix this. Even their worst misunderstandings had never lasted long after Holmes tried to explain how his reasoning had led to his actions, and several minutes described the case, the plan, Moriarty’s threat, and how Moran’s late arrival had changed everything.
“We expected a couple of weeks,” he finished, fighting down the painful fear that had only increased when Watson never moved through the entire story, “A few months at most. Not years, and I would have come for you in London if I had known about Mary. Three adults are too difficult to hide, Watson. Moran would have captured you to get me and attacked Mary to get you. You did not leave me. I sent you, on purpose, knowing who was coming. You are not at fault for what happened in Switzerland, and you would not have been at fault if I had followed Moriarty over that waterfall.”
Silence answered him. Watson’s shoulders remained bowed in grief, and continued guilt refused to meet Holmes’ gaze.
“Why will you not listen to me?”
Nothing. No reaction, but another look noted the distance in Watson’s eyes.
“Can you not hear me?”
Evidently not. Hollow eyes stared through the floor instead of at his feet, and waving his hand in front of Watson’s face earned no reaction. How he remained on his feet, Holmes had no idea, but Watson could not hear him—and probably had not for several minutes. Holmes preferred that over Watson believing such a lie.
“Watson?”
Still nothing. Gentle nudges slowly turned him in place, then firm pressure on his shoulders made him sit on the edge of the tub. Holmes knelt in front of him, but even wrapping Watson’s hands in his own did not earn his friend’s attention. Hollow eyes stared at absolutely nothing.
“Watson, look at me.”
One hand sent pain through his shoulder, then reached down to prod his leg, but only when Holmes returned his grip to Watson’s hands did Watson blink, then gradually focus on him.
“Can you hear me?”
Yes. He would not say as much, however. Or perhaps he could not? Watson had not collapsed again, but he had been no more aware of the last several minutes than if he had. Had Watson developed some medical problem in recent years?
Mycroft had not mentioned anything. Long seconds fought to deduce what Watson refused to say before he settled on another question.
“What was that?”
Normal. Whatever had made Watson completely lose focus he considered normal. A deep breath also ran one finger along a rough spot on the tub, then he freed his hands to brace his cane against the floor. Fearful urgency quickly stole Watson’s stick even as Holmes’ other hand firmly kept his friend on the edge of that tub. Watson could not leave. Not yet. Not ill, and especially not believing Holmes wanted him to go.
“Did you hear anything I said?”
No, that flicker of confusion confirmed. Wherever his friend had gone, he had not been able to hear Holmes. That made more sense than refusing to listen to Holmes’ explanation.
Though Holmes would wait to try again. He could always repeat the story later, when Watson could listen. Keeping his friend here mattered more. Especially when two words elicited such distressing surprise. What about a simple “join me” so shocked his friend?
He did not know. Not yet. Insistence grabbed Watson’s shoulder when he froze, staring at Holmes as if trying to read some underlying message.
“Stay with me.” Please, but that word refused to reach audible. “Mycroft has already lined up another safe house, and we will find Moran faster together than I can alone.”
Surprise faded to uncertainty, longing, then disregard. That flicker of guilt feared repeating…something.
“You will not.” Whatever part of Switzerland so bothered his friend, Holmes could decipher the problem later. He only had to convince Watson that it would not happen again. “What happened to side to side and back to back?”
Betrayed. Guilt. Regret. Utter misery. The anguish that had tried to keep Watson at that waterfall had morphed into a heavy blame that rested solely on Watson’s shoulders. A flicker of longing announced his desire even as firm denial extinguished the hope—and revealed the quiet thought insisting Holmes could not want him around.
“And yet I repeatedly ask you to join me.” Answering Watson’s thoughts did not carry the same amusement with such a topic, but pleasure still sparked when another burst of surprise confirmed he had deduced accurately. “You did not desert me, Watson. I sent you away to protect you. You were Moriarty’s primary target, not me. He focused on you from the beginning. Stop blaming yourself for my actions and come with me.”
He wanted to. Desperately. The desire bled through every line in his face and every glance trying to read Holmes’ thoughts without revealing his own, but long, dragging seconds reviewed several memories before longing disappeared beneath hurt, which tried to hide behind apathy. Holmes had done something—whether today or years ago—that made Watson believe the offer a lie. Holmes briefly tightened his grip to regain Watson’s attention.
“What about that do you find so hard to believe?”
Watson looked away, and a leaden weight tried to land in Holmes’ chest. What had he done to make Watson believe everything a lie?
And why did he think Holmes had wanted to leave? That glance had obviously noted the decrepit motel Holmes called a safehouse, followed by the apathetic acknowledgement that Holmes would have to move on eventually. Why stay here when Holmes would only leave again?
Why hope for anything only to find himself alone? Mycroft’s note came to mind, now with a very different connotation. If Holmes let his friend leave, if Watson walked out that door, Holmes might never see him again.
And Watson still leaned away from Holmes’ grip as if he fully expected Holmes to hit him or shove him away in disgust.
“I will not.” Leave you. Disappear again. Toss you aside. All lingered beneath the promise, but the words refused to form. “Join me, Watson,” he continued instead. “Please. We can wander across Europe until Moran makes a mistake. The trip will be safer with two.”
No.
Watson flinched at the thought and resumed trying to stand, rending guilt assigning some insulting term that Holmes needed to refute.
“You are not. What do—”
“You need to check your mail, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson insisted. “You have several important letters.”
“Safer without me.”
The question cut off as Mrs. Hudson’s many orders pushed themselves to the front of his mind. She had caught him hurrying through the door several times, and every one had included a reminder to read his mail, but Mrs. Hudson never read his mail, had only ever read return of post missives from Mycroft that met certain conditions. Mrs. Hudson should not have known enough of their contents to know anything about how important those letters might be. Mrs. Hudson should have had no way of knowing anything about Holmes’ unopened letters.
Unless Watson had sent them. Or Mary. Perhaps both. Mrs. Hudson had visited Mary frequently. Holmes never had read that old mail, but if Watson’s reticence had started with Moriarty’s case instead of at Switzerland…
“How many times did you try to find me at Baker Street that last year?”
Too many. That shrug suggested too many to count, followed by a noted absence of visits, all with Holmes paying more attention to the puzzle than the problem developing at home. Why should he believe Holmes’ invitation now, Watson asked, when Holmes had avoided him for so long then?
“Because I was on a case. I did not avoid you, Watson,” he promised, the slightest pressure on Watson’s hands seeking the eye contact lost whenever Watson flinched. “I started chasing Moriarty nearly five years ago. I left you out of it first because I did not think it would go anywhere, then because it quickly grew too dangerous. Even Mycroft kept his distance for several months.”
Until he became Holmes’ contact. Holmes realized the mistaken example a moment too late, and fear sparked when Watson’s eyes lost focus behind yet another flinch.
“Watson.” Firm pressure on Watson’s fingers desperately tried to keep him here, where he could hear Holmes, as opposed to wherever he had gone earlier, but long seconds passed before Watson blinked. “I could not ask you to choose between me and Mary,” he bluntly continued the instant Watson looked at him, “nor would I chance Moriarty targeting either of you when I could not help. I made the best plan I could with the information I had.” One hand released Watson’s to encompass the motel, their location, and the situation in a single, urgent wave. “A plan that has now changed. We can track Moran together, explore Europe in the process, and eventually return to London to pick Mrs. Hudson’s lock and surprise the Irregulars at work. Join me, Watson. Please.”
Watson nearly refused again, nearly killed the obvious longing to deny the offer and try to leave, but something made him hesitate. Something in Holmes’ words or posture finally made Watson think past the years-old hurt and misconception to see the offer for the desire it was.
Or at least find a contingency plan for what to do after it fell apart. Resignation clearly expected Holmes to vanish again in a few days or weeks, but another glance at their surroundings suggested a desire to enjoy the time while it lasted.
He would disappear the moment he felt his presence anything less than expressly desired. Holmes would not be able to leave him for a moment, but that hardly mattered after three years of painful homesickness. Holmes missed every part of his city, from the Irregulars to Mrs. Hudson, but he missed his Boswell most of all. Hope soared at Watson’s silent, hesitant “yes.”
He would fix this, would show Watson the truth of that day at the waterfall and how much he had missed his friend. Would convey the years’ homesickness, the desire to contact them, the fear of discovery. Might even “accidentally” leave his journals sitting out for Watson to find, but for now, they could focus on the more immediate problems. An indirect suggestion convinced Watson to eat something, and Holmes spent the time “packing” up the room while truly monitoring his friend.
Watson alternated watching something along the opposite wall with monitoring Holmes himself. Assuring himself that Holmes still lived. Watching to be sure Holmes did not want him to leave. They would not be able to separate for a few days, and Holmes would have to watch for double meanings in his words, but he no longer faced each day alone. His Boswell once more sat nearby. Where he belonged.
Suddenly, tracking Moran no longer felt like such a chore.