lightconductor | The Actual Return, Post-Resort

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The Actual Return, Post-Resort

This is a follow-up to this thing Rachelle and I have been carried away by which follows the return of Holmes and Watson to their own time after having escaped/released/whatever from the resort. Big chunks of what happens here is pretty much what happens in The Adventure of the Empty House, including the Catallus (idek), but hey, why mess with a classic?

He thought it must be the Catallus that kept that chance encounter in his mind.

It had been two years. Two years, and there had been no further word, and if Mycroft Holmes had heard any rumours of interest, he had not passed them along. John Watson was relatively certain that any sane man would have long since given up, but he was clearly not sane, at least in this respect. He had, years ago, compared himself to Penelope waiting for Odysseus; that had quickly become far more apt than he liked to admit. Sherlock Holmes was, in all probability, dead. He would not come home. If Watson had any sense, he would try to get on with his life, stop living in the past, perhaps remarry.

Perhaps not. It was painful to think very hard about marriage again, at this point. He was just grateful that his acquaintances concluded that reluctance on his part was due to his very great love for Mary. A more apt comparison, if one kept to the Greeks, was perhaps Achilles after the death of Patroclus.

As it was, he found himself reading over the headlines in the newspaper, thinking of how much Holmes would have loved this Adair murder, were he here. It had every peculiarity and impossibility that would have attracted his attention. Even a moderately sane man would have left that thought and not followed up on it, but no, Watson had found himself hanging about outside the crime scene, listening to some foolish amateur spout off some utterly ridiculous explanation, and wishing he could have seen inside for himself.

And that had been when he'd realised how pathetic he was being.

But the man he had bumped into as he turned away, that gnarled old book-collector who had snarled and snapped at him as they both stooped to pick up the dropped and scattered books he had been carrying, that stayed in his mind. There was no reason for him to spend any particular thought on it at all. It had been the Catallus, Watson thought, that was the reason for his preoccupation.

He knew Catallus, after all. And who in the world could be prepared to face a book of Latin romantic poetry, which was often lewd and often involved two men, dropped nearly on one's feet when not moments before one was musing melancholically on a very similar illegal liason which may or may not still even be relevant?

It was nothing but coincidence, of course, but it shook him just the same.

Trying to forget the entire incident, Watson made his way back to his home, feeling haggard and tired, and for the moment glad that his practice was relatively quiet. As he sank down into the chair in his office, he pressed his hands against his face, telling himself that he felt nothing, because that was easier. He would spent the afternoon there, perhaps doing some writing -- he hadn't decided -- perhaps just trying to clear his mind.

Watson sighed, and reached for his pen, and some foolscap, and began scratch away.

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Holmes does not actually intend to run into Watson.

He's just left the telegram office, actually, and is canvassing the scene of the crime that he knows was conducted by Moran. It's sheer chance that as he glances over the building, his eyes fall on a solitary figure, standing still and staring up at the very same thing. He is not prepared.

He knows Watson instantly. He knows Watson from all angles, every angle, has memorized him, and has even memorized his clothes. He's obtained some new articles, but they're nonetheless so clearly Watson that it's like they're not new at all. He is not prepared. He almost feels struck, either across the face or in the gut, maybe both, and suddenly his lungs constrict and it's like he's lying on a scratchy bed in Tibet with bandages wrapped around his middle.

He has been dreaming of this moment, to be sure, but he's gearing up to it, planning to drop in on Watson at his office, and not to run into him in the street. They can't reunite in the street, not when Holmes's first impulse will be to take him and kiss him until they must steal the air from each other's lungs to avoid passing out. But he cannot simply walk away and pretend as if he has not seen him, cannot merely step away from Watson and carry on about his day, or even tail him to his office.

He has to go up to him.

There is but one acceptable way to do it.

It's easier to avoid embracing Watson and getting them both thrown in jail when he's in the character of this old bookseller, though he is rather grateful for the books he's carrying; they were an assortment of books that merely amused him, but as Watson hands him Catallus, he's struck by the coincidence. He has to remind himself not to smile, not to give himself away, which ends in him scowling and snapping at Watson as he shuffles away.

Holmes tarries; he goes to Baker Street, gives Mrs. Hudson a heart attack. It's good preparation, a dress rehearsal for Watson, and he allows himself time in his old rooms to collect himself, to gather his strength, to quiet the questions in his mind.

What if he doesn't love you anymore? What if he's married again? What if he doesn't remember at all?

It's too dangerous to walk about the streets without a disguise, so Holmes dons the old bookseller getup again as he sets out, and he uses that time to make his plan. He's so nervous he nearly feels ill, nearly wants to eject the tea Mrs. Hudson so excitedly made for him. It's then that he decides.

He will make this into a performance. He will make this into the big reveal of the final act, and he will turn his nerves into stage fright. He knows how to handle stage fright.

He knocks on the door, passes his word on to Watson's maid about his business, and he whispers to himself advice from the stage. Head up, project, don't forget to breathe. The maid steps away and Holmes steps in, hunched, cradling the books in his arms, and he tries not to allow his emotion to show on his face.

"You're surprised to see me, sir," he says, half to play his part and half to diminish some of his nerves by having a little joke with himself.

In all honesty, Watson had been hoping for a quiet day, without interruptions, without patients, but he set aside his writing intent upon giving his guest his full attention.

Of all the people who might have stepped into his office just then, he would not have expected the old man he'd collided with in Park Lane. His first thought was to wonder if he'd somehow damaged one of the books, and if the man had followed him back here to demand recompense. The man had clearly followed him, that much was clear, and that was more than a little unnerving.

His guest was still carrying the volume of Catallus. Watson was doing his best to not look at it.

"I am extremely surprised," Watson said, rising from his chair, an eyebrow raised. "What is it that I can do for you?"

Of course Watson is so interested. Of course Watson immediately abandons his work. He loves Watson so fiercely in this moment that it makes it difficult to continue; he steps forward, throwing himself into the role, forcing his words to come out in a rush. He's impatient, but the scene must be carried out.

"But you see, sir, that is exactly it. You have already paid me a kindness today, and I was not very kind in return, and when I chanced to see you step in here, I thought I should drop by and apologize for my gruffness earlier. I was thinking, you see, and then your shoulder interrupted my thoughts, and I don't take kindly to having my thoughts interrupted. That is a personal defect of mine, sir, and something that such a kind gentleman as yourself should not have to suffer for."

His throat is getting a bit tired of this act; soon, soon, his entire body seems to be screaming, and he steps closer still, reshuffling his books in his arms.

Watson was on guard, and also trying not to look like he was on guard, but he gave this stranger in his office a puzzled, evaluative look. "You make far too much of what was a very small thing, I promise you," he said slowly, attempting not to frown. "You are quite forgiven, although I promise you your trip here was unnecessary." It made no sense; why follow a man back to his home merely to apologise for a chance meeting in the street?

And why were the Fates apparently centered on making everything on this day remind him of Holmes? Why was there a man in his office who had followed him from a crime scene, carrying Greek love poetry, speaking of how much he hated having his thoughts interrupted? That, too, reminded him of Holmes.

His own dark memories would have to wait. There was a more severe question at hand, and the answer could mean any number of things. He wondered, in fact, if he ought to be supremely concerned. "May I ask," Watson said, "how it was that you knew who I was, and how to find me?"

"Do you know, sir, that we are neighbors?" He gives a funny little laugh to ease his tension. "Yes, I have a little bookshop at the corner of Church Street, and you can be certain that you are welcome at any time. Oh yes, sir. Do you collect? I have in my hands some volumes that may serve you very well, yes, let's see..." He sets his books down on Watson's desk and glances at the titles. He plucks one from the pile to press it into Watson's hands, his blood rising as he gets closer to what he knows will be the big reveal. Lights up; the music slightly louder.

"Here's British Birds, and Catallus, and The Holy War -- yes, I believe with these and a couple more, you could fill up that gap in your bookshelf, just there. It does look a bit untidy, as it is, a bit empty."

This is it. He fears he was nearly shaking as he passes Catallus to Watson -- how could he resist? -- and now he definitely fears he'll mess up the removal of his costume in the interval he will have very shortly. His arms are empty now of books, which is convenient, and he must be as quick as he can.

He can't breathe.

Neighbours. Watson thought he remembered the bookshop, although he could not swear to the owner one way or the other. It was something, although he was still faintly on his guard, even if this unannounced visit seemed to be turning into a salespitch.

To have Catallus in his own hands, now, was just one of those ridiculous moments. There was a part of him that wanted very badly to purchase it, and another that did not dare to do such a thing. But then, not all of that Roman gentleman's poetry was completely inappropriate, completely questionable.

He looked at the shelf automatically -- and the gap was not so untidy as all that, he thought, but perhaps it was as good excuse to buy this damnable book as any -- and he turned back, half in a mind to send the man on his way, because really, what sort of salespitch was it to barge your way into a man's office under the flimsiest excuse and then sell him books? Was he supposed to buy them out of guilt for colliding with the bookseller in the street?

When he discovered that the bookseller had vanished, Waston forgot this criticism, for the stranger had been replaced by Sherlock Holmes, in the remains of the bookseller's clothing. This remarkable sight, the last thing he'd expected to ever see again, the first thing he'd always hoped for, after such a day as this, was just slightly too much.

He staggered back into his chair, and as a familiar grey mist seemed to swirl across his eyes, his last thought before becoming entirely insensible was an incongruous and entirely false I am not swooning over this, not again.

As soon as Watson turns his head, Holmes is quick to do away with his disguise; thankfully it's a fairly simple one, and despite his fear, he even has a moment to smooth his hand over his hair, and then Watson is turning around again and then their eyes are meeting, and this time Watson is seeing him and not some decrepit bookseller--

And then Watson faints.

Holmes stands still a moment longer, drinking in the sight of Watson perhaps a little selfishly, and then he launches into action retrieving brandy and kneeling before Watson in his chair. All the while, however, he can't help but field a small amount of satisfaction. He's made Watson faint twice. There has to be some kind of twisted honor in that.

These thoughts dissipate, however, as he settles in front of Watson, when he can begin to feel the warmth of his legs press against his chest, and he gingerly reaches a hand up to Watson's face. Gently, reverently, he draws his fingers along Watson's jawline, tracing fingertips down his neck, settling down on his shoulder. Fear seizes his stomach once again.

What if he doesn't remember?

"Watson," he says, his voice tight and dry; he tries again. "Watson, my dear boy, my dear... Watson, really, you do make a scene."

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