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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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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