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Holmes jolted awake, his heart racing. Patches of sweat had soaked into his nightshirt, and the sensation of material clinging to him was deeply unpleasant, especially in the area of his chest. It moved freely, bumping into his arm, and that was unpleasant indeed.
Further deeply unpleasant sensations struck, from the roughness of the sheets to the smell of the very room. This wasn’t his room, wasn’t his home.
With a soft whimper, he looked around, and was greeted with still more unfamiliarity. His stomach twisted, and the racing beat of his heart worsened until the crashing of his heartbeat was nearly all he could hear.
But not all. He could hear the tick of a clock, carts creaking outside, the barking of a dog he did not know.
He opened his mouth to call out, to call for Watson, and cut off with another choked whimper. No, no, he couldn’t call out. He must hide, couldn’t let anyone find him, couldn’t let anyone even know who he was. Alone, so alone…
“Holmes?” Watson’s voice echoed through the room, an unexpected but familiar note in the jarring orchestra of sounds he did not know. “Holmes, are you all right?”
Holmes whimpered again. He could not manage to say anything, for the world had become entirely too much. His heart ached with need, but he was incapable of movement either. Only his chest truly moved, unbound breasts shifting with each gasp for air and worsening his state of overwhelm. There was too much discomfort, too many unpleasant sensations.
A bed creaked, and Holmes flinched at the noise. There was another creak, and a shift of his own bed, and he shuddered at the movement. His hands crept up, covering his ears, trying to stifle the noise.
But although he could no longer move, and although the sound of his own breaths sent him further over the edge into an endless tumble, he understood what was happening now. Watson had just climbed into bed with him, wherever they were, and that meant he was safe.
Regrettably, even the knowledge of safety and the nearness of Watson’s warmth was not enough to prevent the building cataclysm, although perhaps it could reduce the severity. Roaring flooded Holmes’ ears. He pressed harder against his head, and began to rock.
The rocking did not help, only worsening all the unpleasant sensations, but he could not stop that either. Nor could he stop the whimpers, or the tears that escaped down his cheeks.
And then there were the memories, memories he had been dreaming about. Of Moriarty’s furious face, of the roar of the Reichenbach Falls, of the crushing loneliness and longing for home, for Watson, for happiness that might never come again.
He could not fully break free of them, not in his present state with his mind and body so severely overwhelmed. But Watson was here, was with him. He wasn’t alone.
When the cataclysm at last passed, Holmes was nearly too weary to move at all. He reached out, and Watson took that as the permission to move closer that it was. “Easy, old man,” he murmured, drawing Holmes to his chest. “Easy, I’m right here.”
Letting out a long breath, Holmes relaxed into the embrace. While he very much objected to his own breasts and their irritating movements most of the time, he found Watson’s softness pleasant to rest against. As it was night, neither of them had been wearing their binding garments, and to rest his head on the welcoming pillow of Watson’s chest soothed him.
Watson stroked his hand, skilled fingers combing through displaced strands. “There we are, easy. Just breathe, Holmes. Just breathe.”
Holmes hummed vaguely in agreement. He had not yet recovered enough to speak—an effect which sometimes lasted for days if he had become too overwhelmed by the world—but his immediate distress had certainly faded. He understood where he was now, and what had happened.
This was an inn, somewhere that he and Watson were sharing a room while on a case. An entirely simple situation, and yet a terrifying one after dreaming of those years alone. It had seemed as if he was alone, as if he was once again in hiding.
He was not, however. He was with Watson.
Holmes still lacked the ability to speak, but he fumbled for Watson’s hand and drew it to rest over his own heart. Watson nodded at once, a slight movement against the top of Holmes’ head.
“Of course I shall stay,” Watson said softly. “I’m not going anywhere, old man. I promise.”
Reassured, Holmes relaxed again. Watson understood him even when he could not find the words, and would not leave him. The inn might be unpleasantly unfamiliar, but Watson’s presence was both familiar and beloved, and thus all would be well in time.