lightconductor | An Unexpected Vacation

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An Unexpected Vacation

Watson's brain hadn't quite caught up with the reality of his situation. That they were in danger, he understood. That Moriarty was behind it, he grasped easily. That it was necessary to flee the country, he could not argue with even if he wasn't happy about. And it was easy to understand why he had to take this convoluted route to the station, separate from Holmes, even if he didn't naturally fall into step with whatever Holmes's latest plans were.

But here he was, at the station in one piece, still with the feeling that he only knew half of what was going on, or even less than half, and there was no sign of Holmes. Their compartment was occupied, too, by some Italian priest who seemed to speak little English, if any at all, and could not be made to understand he was in the wrong compartment.

Where was Holmes? Watson was beginning to feel more than a little desperate. Had something happened? Was this part of their escape plan? Had there been a last minute change? Ought Watson to get off the train and see if he could, somehow, manage to track him down? Should he stay on the train and wait to see if Holmes rejoined him later on?

He had no idea, but his heart was pounding away in his throat.

The train was pulling out of the station, then, and Watson was craning his head, searching for sign of Holmes, and seeing nothing. He hardly looked at the priest across from him, clutching at the sides of the window in his anxiety.

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Frankly, Holmes is sick with worry. He's mostly very upset that Watson is here because he knows precisely what Watson's involvement in all this is; they love each other, and Moriarty wants to use that to hurt Holmes. He relented to bringing Watson with him because at least he could keep Watson safe if they were together, even if he doesn't really think that his side is the safest place, either. The hardest part of all of this is keeping this quiet from Watson, but he isn't sure he has the courage to tell him.

He's glad, too, that this journey starts out with him in costume; he vents some of his unease in his little act, and he watches Watson's anxious face with some detached amusement. Once the train begins to move, however, it's safe to shatter the illusion.

"My dear Watson," he says, hiding his smile, "you have not even condescended to say good-morning."

To say that Watson was surprised was an understatement. He very nearly cried out, although he did manage to stop himself. He did turn, staring at Holmes in astonishment, amazement, immense relief. Now that he had Holmes alive and well before him, it was much easier to be genuinely engaged in what they were doing, very nearly excited. Their current situation was dangerous, to be sure, but that was nothing he had ever shied away from.

"Holmes!" His voice was not loud, hushed in fact, but he abandoned the window and sank down beside him, catching Holmes's hands in his. Any more affectionate greeting would have to wait, unfortunately. "Good heavens, you gave me a start. Is all well? Have we been followed?"

He bit back the thousand other questions he had, and merely clutched at Holmes's fingers, running his thumb over Holmes's palm.

"There; you may see for yourself," he says, tense. Holmes nods out the window, where the tall figure of Moriarty can be seen pushing through the crowds, but the train's already speeding away, and he won't be able to catch them -- not here, anyway. Not yet. What's most infuriating is he can't deduce what would happen, should Moriarty catch them; surely Holmes is the prize, but would killing him or robbing him of his heart be the more satisfying punishment?

"I'm relieved to see you are well. Did you read about our rooms? I only hope the fire damage wasn't too severe."

Watson craned his neck to catch what glimpse he could of this Moriarty person, trying to see him well enough to remember his face, but... well, the man was awfully distant, and growing more so.

He shut the blinds, and turned to Holmes hastily, kissing him briefly but hard. There was no way to explain exactly how desperate he was to greet him properly, how glad he was to see Holmes in one piece, and he could not have waited any longer to demonstrate that fact.

"I did see," he said, sitting back again. "I suppose that's why you had me go to a hotel. Is Mrs. Hudson all right, do you know?"

He's glad, immensely glad, for that kiss, and resists pulling Watson back in for another. Instead, he takes both of Watson's hands in his own and grips them as he struggles not to show too much of his worries.

"She's fine, yes." If these men were to go after his housekeeper too, Holmes isn't sure he could keep his calm so well. "Did you recognize your driver?" he asks instead, a small smile coming to his face.

"No," Watson said, mystified, wondering if he ought to be concerned. "Should I have? I followed your directions exactly."

That he might have done something wrong was very worrying indeed, especially when he had, so far as he was aware, followed his instructions to the letter. He continued stroking Holmes's palm with his thumb, wishing that doing more would be possible. At the first possible opportunity. "You weren't in our rooms when they set it on fire, were you?"

"No, my dear, I was safe," he says, smiling, and he lifts Watson's hand to his lips so he can press a kiss against his palm. The mystified look on Watson's face is what he's eager to chase; he's eager to follow that and leave behind Moriarty and the imminent danger and the precarious nature of their attempts to apprehend him.

"I am certain that you did, especially considering your driver was a stranger to you. That is as it should be, for it would hardly do for anyone to recognize Mycroft driving you through the city."

"Mycroft!" Watson exclaimed. "Your brother, out and about? Good heavens."

This was very serious indeed, then, if it was enough to get Mycroft out of the Diogenes Club. That was more than a little sobering. "Bless him, then." He sagged back against the seat, shutting his eyes for a moment while he tried to sort himself out.

"Very well. We appear to be doing well so far, then. How does our plan go from here?"

Holmes wishes the plan involved pulling Watson into his arms, and holding him, and kissing him, and forgetting about about the world around them; but then, that habit of theirs is partially responsible for the situation they're in now, isn't it? He shakes those thoughts from his mind and instead turns Watson's hand in his own; he traces his fingertips down the length of Watson's fingers, over the pads of his hand.

"From here we must out-deduce Moriarty. We'll get off at the next station, leaving our bags behind -- sorry, old fellow -- and make for Paris. Moriarty will still be on the special he no doubt caught in order to pursue us to our perceived destination."

Watson did sigh a little at the loss of his luggage, but then, he'd been told not to bring anything irreplaceable. He had a habit of packing light in any case. "I suppose it would have been too much to ask for him to be so easily shook off as this," he admitted. "All right. Paris it is. This isn't exactly how I prefer to see Paris, but needs must, I suppose."

He shifted a little closer towards Holmes. It was hard for him to feel too threatened; he always felt very nearly invincible with Holmes, which was perhaps foolish, but he nevertheless had faith in the two of them together.

"And Lestrade will lead things in London?"

With a pang he considers Lestrade, considers Mary, whom he's really grown quite fond of now, and is exceedingly pleased she didn't marry Watson so he doesn't have to hate her. And Robert -- whose name, Holmes will never forget, came on his suggestion -- so small and innocent. Would Moriarty go after them, too? Lestrade is harmless, he ought to know; hardly a true threat to his crime network, but he's certainly in the line of fire.

He smiles at Watson and nods. "Yes, Lestrade can manage."

And then, because he can't resist it anymore, he cups the back of Watson's head and pulls him in for a kiss, slower but no less fierce.

Watson leaned into that kiss, shutting his eys. Such embraces were unwise, here and now, and he knew it, but he didn't particularly care, either. They had escaped danger, were deep in further danger, and that was ever the nature of their lives but they were still, miraculously, in one piece.

"Don't distract me," he chided, though without real ire; his tone was deeply affectionate. "I'm attempting to work out the details of your master plan. How long shall we be away from London?"

"Not long, my dear," he says, resisting the urge to sigh. He ought to be more confident about this, but he finds himself shaken to his core, not just because he's matching an intellectual equal, but because he's coming up against someone who's far more inclined to evil. And evil is, unfortunately, not always predictable. In that, Moriarty has the upperhand. Cruelty is difficult to deduce, as the mind resists it -- even Holmes's. Maybe it wouldn't have, were it not for Watson, but he's a better man now, from the inside out.

"The Yard will overtake Moriarty and his men, and it will be safe for us to return to our housekeeper and our singed carpets."

"In the meantime... we hide in Paris? There are worse things, I suppose."

He exhaled, trying to settle himself. He was feeling excited and anxious and anticipatory, all at once, and it was a lot to process. It was, in a terrible way, rather glorious. "I suppose it's a fortunate thing I have my gun in my pocket," he said, "and not in my luggage."

After a moment's thought, he added, "I shall toast Lestrade when we return."

He laughs, a breathless sound, and lets his eyes close. No, this plan will work. It will. It has to. Moriarty will be apprehended and his life with Watson will be allowed to continue because Holmes deserves this; hasn't he proven himself that he's a good person? Hasn't Watson, too, suffered enough, far too much for someone as good and kind and loyal and devoted as he? He relaxes and sets his chin against Watson's shoulder, close to but not quite nuzzling at him.

"For a job well done, or for allowing us a brief Paris vacation?"

"Both," Watson said, smiling. He tilted his head against Holmes's. Even if the situation was dire, there was a great deal of comfort to be found here and now. He was too much a sensualist to think otherwise, and too much in love.

It would be an uneasy holiday; he had no illusions about that. He would, truly, look forward to getting home again, to seeing Mrs. Hudson, to assessing the damage to their home, to greeting Lestrade and Mary, and playing with little Robert, to having the threat of danger lifted from them.

In the meantime, they were invincible.

"Where shall we disembark, then? Should I avoid getting too comfortable?"

He inhales and leans back, as unfortunately train cars aren't the best place to seek physical comfort for a pair of homosexuals (well, one homosexual and his lover). He leans back against the seat instead, resting his head.

"We'll get off at Canterbury, say farewell to our luggage, and Moriarty, as well," he says, mostly to the ceiling, and he reaches for Watson's hand again. "Hopefully for good."

"Hopefully not 'for good' as pertains to our luggage," Watson said, wryly. "I suppose I won't be seeing that particular shaving kit again any time soon, but theoretically it should languish in some lost-and-found office until we have opportunity to claim it."

Such pointless teasing made things somewhat lighter, somewhat more bearable. He squeezed Holmes's hand tightly.

"Canterbury," he mused. "Well, it gives us at least a little time of enforced relaxation in the middle of our flight for safety."

"Mm," he murmurs and presses closer to Watson's side. "Enforced relaxation and shopping trips. We'll buy new shaving kits." He sighs, more frustrated with this downtime than anything; it's a short while to Canterbury, and until then, he and Watson have only to distract themselves. His mind doesn't appreciate the interruption of their adventure, not at the moment.

"My dear, how bad do you suppose it is that I would rather spend this train ride languidly kissing you?" he asks, turning his head to the side so that he murmurs in Watson's ear.

"Oh, well. I don't think that's bad at all," Watson answered. His voice was soft, but rather sly, and it held a definite smile. "Potentially unwise, yes, but not in the least 'bad.'"

Unwise or not, he turned his head and kissed Holmes, lingering a moment or two in the familiar gesture, the familiar feel and taste.

He pulled back fractionally, an eyebrow raised. "Do you realise," Watson said, half laughing, "that you're still wearing a bloody cassock? I feel like I'm corrupting the clergy."

He looks down at himself and laughs, having completely forgotten his disguise. It takes him a moment to compose himself, but he raises a sly eyebrow at Watson when he does.

"I take it that isn't a game you'd be interested in?" he teases, even though he doubts it very much, doubts his own ability to go through with it; that would be quite the blasphemous game, however erotic it might seem otherwise.

"Let's not," Watson laughed. He clutched at Holmes's shirtfront, kissing him again, and let him go. "I already feel sacreligious enough. Do tell me you have some other article of clothing about you somewhere. It will look very strange if I'm travelling to France in the company of a priest."

He kissed him again, anyway.

"I can do better than that, my dear." He pulls the cassock off, revealing comfortably normal clothes underneath, and he folds it up, as he doubts it will be necessary any longer. Freed, he returns to Watson's side and kisses him again, not particularly caring just now that it isn't wise. They've had a narrow escape, have a narrower hope for securing Moriarty, and he wants to kiss his lover as much as he possibly can.

"Feel better about traveling to France now that I'm merely a homosexual in a well-tailored suit?"

"Much," Watson laughed throartily. "But there's no merely about it." He twisted his fingers into Holmes's jacket and pulled him very close. He kissed him, hard and enthusiastic, his eyes shut and his ears alert for any sound that might mean it was prudent to pull away.

"You look far more handsome like this," he pointed out, nibbling a little on Holmes's earlobe. "And while perhaps just as sinful, I like this sort of sin far better."

Once that would have been difficult to say. Now, it was natural and teasing.

This trip is intoxicatingly distracting. It's tempting to think of this as simply a holiday, like their first holiday together; it's tempting just to enjoy his time with Watson, but he can't relax completely, not until he knows that Moriarty and his gang are captured. He makes a conscious effort to keep his mood in decent spirits, however. He doesn't want to be upset; he doesn't want to let it show how worried he is, not really, but it's difficult.

He takes a long drag on his cigarette and doesn't glance at the clock. A telegram should be coming soon, and every second that it's not here has him more nervous.

Strasbourg was pleasant, if nothing else, and the cafe in which they sat was charming, but as far as Watson was concerned the highlight was the company. It was a strange and disturbing sort of holiday, but he couldn't help but enjoy it. The alternative was, after all, to dread every minute.

He was aware of Holmes's tension, but wasn't sure how to broach it, if at all. With his lunch eaten, he sipped quietly at his coffee, wanting to offer some sort of conversation.

"How long shall we stay here?" he asked at last, markedly casual but with a sharp, worried eye on Holmes.

He huffs and then breathes more slowly; he steeples his fingers together and forces himself to find something calming to hold onto as he keeps an eye out for the telegram. Of course it isn't Watson's fault that he doesn't understand; how can he understand, when Holmes himself hasn't let on to it? Moriarty is simply another villain; another puzzle that Holmes will solve, or not solve, and Watson will scribble it down in his journal, and he will publish it or he won't, and they'll continue on as they were.

Whether or not that happens depends entirely on this telegram. Holmes can't say why he knows that; he clings to that, that he can't predict the future, not like this, not on a feeling.

"How long would you like to spend here?" he says instead, and he shifts his eyes to Watson instead of straining them for the messenger. Watson is his life raft here, and he intends to sail his positivism to the end.

"Well, it's quite pleasant," Watson said, easily. It was, in fact, far more easy than he actually felt, but it seemed important to pretend to that sort of calmness. "I wouldn't mind styaing here for a few ays, and enjoying the atmosphere as much as possible. If you think that's wise, of course."

He took another sip of his coffee, stretching his legs a little under the table. "What do you think?" he asked. "Is it worth staying here?"

Edited 2012-01-16 05:36 (UTC)

Yes, Watson. It is worth everything. This place -- this afternoon is worth everything.

He sighs and doesn't put any of his actual weariness into it; he tilts his head back instead and closes his eyes, his fingertips just brushing his chin.

"I expect we'll be leaving here before too long." No, this place is more of a crossroads, and the longer Holmes must wait here for the directions as to which way to go, the more anxious he becomes. Actually, he thinks this may be his least favorite place. "I hope you don't find that too disappointing."

"I think it is not so very terrible," Watson said lightly. As much as he enjoyed Strasbourg, they could not stay here forever, and moving on to new places would mean, well, new sights, new experiences, new adventures. "There's plenty else to divert us, elsewhere."

He wanted to be able to reach across the table, to brush his fingertips consolingly against Holmes's skin. The he could not was almost unbearable. Certainly they were miles from home and unrecognised, but it was a risk, and he couldn't take it. The unfairness of that was overwhelming.

"I am subject to your decision," Watson said calmly, over the rim of his cup.

He lifts his head to reply, but the words die in his throat because approaching is a waiter with a telegram on a tray, and his mouth runs dry.

"In a moment it will be decided for the both of us," he says, tension in his voice. He's practically vibrating with excitement, with nerves, as he snatches it up from the plate and tears into it. His eyes sweep it once, quickly, and gather all that matters. Moriarty is lost. His blood runs cold in his body and he tosses the telegram down, retreating into himself for a moment.

"Escaped! Watson, this is the worst possible news."

Watson reached forward and took the telegram for himself. He read it over, his expression settling into a frown. Moriarty had escaped. Moriarty had escaped. What would that mean for them? Where would they go from here if that were so?

"Well," he said, putting down his coffee and the telegram. His eyes did not leave Holmes's face. "That leaves the question of what we plan on doing now."

His words were calm, but he was all too aware of the danger that might lay before them. Danger was simply nothing new to him, only one more detail in a life that had been full of danger. The first thing to do was always just to take what there was head-on. That didn't mean he didn't feel the chill of danger running through him, either.

Holmes reaches through his disappointment and his ridiculous, inexplicable (but so far, legitimate, aren't they?) sense of dread about all of this; he clings to his reason instead, but even that isn't very helpful. Reason says that they are in danger. That Moriarty will come for him. That Moriarty has nothing left to lose now but his own life, and he'll want to bring Holmes down with him.

Watson is not safe. Watson would be safer in London, under the surreptitious care of Mycroft who could have him followed or even keep him indoors. Moriarty cannot return to London; disguise is not a skill he's borrowed from Holmes. Watson would be safest there; at Holmes's side, he is but an extension of Holmes's heart. It would take one shot to kill Holmes.

"You plan on returning to London," Holmes says decisively as he brings himself back into crisp focus. "I will continue on this journey, as Moriarty is certain to follow me. The time for his capture will come."

"I beg your pardon," Watson said, rather sharply. "I plan on doing nothing of the kind."

Even as he said it, it struck him just how strange it was for him to flat out refuse Holmes's, well, orders. He accepted things calmly as a matter of course. This, though, went beyond all reason. He could do nothing so cowardly.

"If you think that I will for a moment entertain the idea -- I am not waltzing off to England to leave you here to face this alone." He was almost offended at the idea, he found. "That is not the sort of man I am."

He is at once surprised and not surprised by Watson's refusal. Though Watson rarely disobeys orders, this order is different; this case is different, and that nagging sense of something that he won't be able to stop eats away at him. He frowns at Watson, confused, and tilts his head.

"This isn't a matter of cowardice, Watson. It's a reordering of the troops, and I need you to go home." This is all nonsense, of course, but what he can't tell Watson is that, were he shot, his death would not be a result of his own merit. It would be because Holmes loved him. That's not an easy thing to say, but perhaps he could convince Watson another way, with another version of the truth. He sighs and leans forward, laying his palms the table.

"With his criminal empire disbanded, Moriarty has nowhere to go, nothing to drive him anymore, save for revenge. He will come for me, Watson, and probably already is on his way. I will be a very dangerous companion," he says lowly, his eyes on Watson's. "In London, you will be safe, and waiting for me to return."

"All the more reason I should stay with you," Watson protested. "You do not need me to go home. You want to protect me, when I should be with you. I can do no good in London, none at all. I can do good at your side."

He drew a breath, calming himself, and looked hard at Holmes with a steely eye. The idea of being put aside, of being sent back to safety alone, absolutely infuriated him. At the same time, he couldn't be really angry with Holmes for this, not seriously, so it mostly came out in intense frustration. "If your life is in danger, then my place is at your side," he said, in a lower voice, "where I might be able to help protect you. I might be able to be of aid. You cannot be thinking of leaving me behind."

"And I cannot think of dragging you into the line of fire," he returns, trying to be calm, but his words are a near hiss. He curses that they have to do this in public, that he has to be conscious of his tone and attracting attention with a heated argument. He forces some normality into his stance and casually picks up his coffee to sip at it, and he breathes slowly through his nose.

"Your life will be in danger so long as you are by my side," he tries again calmer this time. "My duty is to see to your protection."

"Do you honestly think I could somehow live with myself if I abandoned you now and you were to die?" Watson hissed back, his eyes narrowed. "My duty is to ensure your protection. How could you possibly expect me to leave you alone in these circumstances?"

He was positively glaring across the table, challenging Holmes to protest this, challenging him to send him away. He would not go, whatever Holmes said. He knew that much.

"This is not the first time my life has been in danger, not by far. Do you honestly thing that argument will hold water with me?"

"It is the same argument that you are making, only mine is clearly the better option, as in mine at least one of us is sure to be safe at all times." He scoffs and glares right back, though he consciously works to keep the tension out of his frame, to not appear too angry. His elbow rests against the arm of his chair, and he rubs his fingers together idly, needing somewhere to vent his frustration if he can't do it with a raised voice.

"We are reckless men, you and I, and we do foolish things. You joining me on this pursuit will be among the most foolish."

"I cannot possibly be content knowing that I'm safe and that you are not!" Watson protested. He leaned forward, his expression fierce. "My joining you on this pursuit is inevitable, and necessary. If we are reckless men, then I must do this, whether or not it is foolish. I will not abandon you."

Attempting to not appear angry was the last thing on his mind. He was quite visibly angry, leaning forward across the table. "I don't care how foolish it is. I am not capable of leaving you, and you are not capable fo sending me away."

No, he isn't; of course he isn't. Watson is too stubborn, and Holmes -- ultimately -- too weak because the picture Watson paints is far more romantic and appealing than Holmes's own. Dashing across the continent together, protecting each other, finding comfort in each other when the chase becomes too much -- that's far better than Holmes's own dark, clinical approach to the road before him.

And there is, as always, that nagging sense of the end of all things. No one wants to walk into that alone.

"Very well," he says quietly, after a moment. "Our carelessness is better when we share it."

"Good," Watson huffed, still bristling with stubborn anger. "I'm glad you'll consent to agree."

He picked up his coffee cup, and had a sip, deliberately slow while he tried to calm himself of his own righteous fury. His look across the table was one of challenge, daring Holmes to continue to protest, daring him to offer any further objection.

"We will be far safer together than separated," he said, with all the finality he could summon.

"We'll see," he murmurs darkly, and he reaches over to stub out his cigarette. He'll need another, and preferably he'll need to put some space between this conversation and Watson's vibrant anger. It irritates him, and it feels inevitable; it feels like it's hemming him in and tying a neat little bow on this package that he doesn't want, and he's afraid of what's inside it.

He lights another cigarette and forces himself to relax, but the tension in his shoulders won't dissipate.

"We'll leave this afternoon."

Watson nodded. Finishing his coffee, he reached into his pocket and lit a cigarette of his own. He needed to calm his own nerves, to be sure. "Very well," he said, his tone softer. "Is there any point in my asking where we're going, or shall I learn when we arrive?"

There could have easily been an edge to that question, but his voice lacked it entirely, merely being faintly wry and resigned. He sighed, exhaling some of his anger. He had a fierce temper, true, but it was as quick to fade as it was to flash.

"Incidentally, I shall never forgive you if you attempt to give me the slip and carry on alone."

"Well, then I'd just be sure to succeed, rather than merely attempt." He gives Watson a wan smile to prove that he isn't being entirely serious. "It would be best if our destination remains a surprise."

He needs silence; he needs to get a better picture of the situation they're in, of how they will travel together and remain safe, of how quickly Moriarty will be able to track them. He pushes his chair back and closes his eyes, shutting Watson out entirely.

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An Unexpected Vacation

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