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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Mycroft had been waiting, hoping that brother of his was not running too late, and passing the time by watching the traffic in the street from the window, amusing himself by working out what he could see about the pedestrians. He'd seen his guests arriving, of course, and was ready for them.

"Sherlock," he greeted them, coming away from the window. "Dr. Watson. Do come in, have a seat. Let's not wait for luncheon to get cold."

They both looked so nervous. Nervous, and exhausted, and... well. Fortunately, this amused him. He had every intention of demanding one or two answers from his brother over the course of the meal, but for now... he was mostly just amused at the state the two were in.

"Mr. Holmes," Watson nodded back. He glanced at Holmes at his side, faintly anxious. What could he possibly say, turning up on such short notice in a sort of improvised, much-delayed wedding breakfast. Well, perhaps that was going a bit far, but last time he'd spoken with Mycroft, they'd both thought Holmes to be probably dead. "I hope today finds you well?"

He moved towards the table. He had to admit that, as usual, the club's chef was showing no sign of having given anything less than a full and thorough effort.

"Mycroft," he says, trying to sound cool and collected but inside his nerves are tumbling over and over in somersaults in his stomach, and he follows after Watson, stopping behind his chair.

"I see you have acquired a new chef since I was last in London." He gives his brother a slightly challenging smile before he sits. He knows no other way to begin a conversation with his brother besides these observational games, particularly when he hasn't spoken with him in so long, and particularly when he is nervous about what other things his brother may be noticing about him.

Completely unsurprised at his brother's deduction, as he knew perfectly well how he had reached it, Mycroft sank down into his own chair rather heavily. "I have," he concurred. "French, and rather good. One must allow oneself these little indulgences, after all."

He picked up his fork and helped himself to a mouthful before he countered Holmes's deduction with one of his own. "I see you've managed to get yourself seriously wounded on your travels. I suppose you'll blame that for your failure to stay in contact?" Mycroft wagged his fork reprovingly. He was quite certain that the good doctor already knew of it -- judging from the way these two looked, whatever they had been doing last night was not sleeping.

Oh lord. Watson suddenly wondered if this was going to be a very long lunch. The last thing he was going to do was get in between these two when they were like this. He thought it was friendly, but he couldn't always tell.

He turned his attention to his plate, since this was safest, although he kept a close ear on the conversation.

Holmes is not very hungry, but he can attempt to eat, at least a bit, so he starts. He can't say he's surprised that Mycroft would've noticed; he does seem to carry himself a bit more stiffly now, though he likes to think that he is getting better with time.

"Moran believed he had killed me when he wounded me, and I was not very interested in revealing the truth to him." He pauses to chew his food, battling off his shyness. This is his brother. Why is he feeling so ridiculous? Suddenly he's grateful for Watson's presence even more.

"I have spent some time in Tibet recovering. You have been working harder at keeping the British government alive lately; when you chance to take a holiday, I highly recommend the area." Not that he ever thinks Mycroft would take a holiday or leave London. And, really, it's not like Holmes is very different. The word 'holiday' is almost irritating in and of itself.

Mycroft gave his brother an arch look; the idea of taking himself out his carefully contructed schedule long enough for any sort of vacation, let alone one all the way to Tibet, was unpleasant in the extreme. He liked his regular route and his predictable days just fine. Of course, Sherlock knew that, but Mycroft was not about to let his little brother wind him up over anything like that. "Ah yes, Moran. I read of his arrest in the morning paper. It's all attributed to that inspector, of course, but you did of course have your fingers in that affair."

He paused to refill his cup. "I have been busy, yes. This is the trouble, Sherlock, with making oneself indispensible, and the political situation in Germany is rather delicate, just at the moment. Still, I do believe I can manage to rearrange my timetable to make time for lunch with my dear brother, and his friend."

Mycroft let his last word carry a certain amount of teasing innuendo, mostly just because he wanted to see Sherlock's reaction to that.

Watson made a game effort not to choke, which was made worse by the knowledge that while he might have been able to pass it off as nothing to any two other men in the world, that was not true for these two. He wasn't even sure there was a logical reason for his reaction. He knew Mycroft knew. He just... had not quite been expecting that.

Of course Mycroft knows. Part of the whole reason he has come here is so that he may sit and have a meal with his husband and his brother, who is the only person in all of London who can be allowed to know the true state of his and Watson's affairs. Holmes doesn't blink, though he does set his fork down and lean back in his chair, sufficiently ignoring Watson's choke. He's used to them enough by now.

"Yes, Watson is a very dear friend to me still even after my disappearing spell of late. I am very fortunate to have him, as he is even about to resume rooming with me at Baker street."

He delivers all of this information in the most casual, matter-of-fact way, but what he really is doing is telling his brother that he is in a stable relationship with Watson and that things are going wonderfully, and that he is really very happy. He can deliver all of this with choice facial ticks, inflections, a turn of hand, a twitch of his lips. If his brother can read anything, it's Holmes's subtle body language. He knows because he is fluent in Mycroft's.

"I must thank you for passing along my messages, and for maintaining our rooms for us while I was away."

Mycroft, understanding perfectly, smiled. He was perfectly aware that he and his younger brother had a somewhat unconventional fraternal relationship (although this suited him just fine, thank you), but he did care quite genuinely, and to have reassurance that all was going well between these two was extremely gratifying.

"How very good of him," Mycroft said. He turned his smile on Watson, briefly, only faintly apologetic for their little verbal sparring match. "I have to say I think it very fortunate indeed that you've found so loyal and dependable a partner." There was very little pretense and hidden meaning in that, as he was speaking as much for Watson's benefit as for Sherlock's: it was simply a statement of his blessing and his acceptance, which he doubted would come as much of a surprise to anyone.

"And it was my pleasure to do my part, my dear brother, and certainly no hardship. Speaking of your messages," Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, "now that I have both of you here to answer me, I admit to being rather curious about this island holiday you two have mentioned. If you're suggesting that I take a holiday," ridiculous premise that it was, what would they do without him in Whitehall even if he wanted to take a vacation, "perhaps I should try this island, as it is so remarkable?"

Watson, who had been recovering fairly quickly, returned Mycroft's smile as best as he could. He was, truthfully, still very grateful that Mycroft was not disgusted or disturbed by their relationship, because he would have had every right to be.

The island, however, was a bittersweet memory, and he glanced somewhat helplessly at Holmes beside him before looking back to Mycroft. "I can't recommend it as a destination," he said. "It was... well, it was all very impossible, everything that happened."

Though he knew he already had it, hearing Mycroft's blessing is enough to settle Holmes's nerves. He yearns for the privacy to be able to talk to Mycroft in less guarded terms, but perhaps that would be better saved for a visit to Mycroft's house, without Watson in tow. He returns Mycroft's smile, hiding it briefly when he looks down at his plate, realizing he is putting rather a great deal of emotion into that smile.

How to begin to explain this island? He glances back at Watson, though he doesn't look helpless; he could never go so far as to dare to look helpless or clueless in front of his brother, not without some major catastrophe having recently occurred in his life.

"I'm not certain how to explain this island to you, dear brother," he begins, frowning slightly, "for it makes little logical sense to us, and we are not entirely certain of how we found ourselves there to begin with. You will have to satisfy your curiosity with the knowledge that it was a pleasant place to spend some time, and Watson I found ways to keep ourselves entertained while we were there."

He cannot possibly answer all of Mycroft's questions about this, at least not to any degree of satisfaction, but maybe divulging that this island was indeed where his and Watson's relationship changed since they impossibly found themselves there together may quench some curiosity. Maybe. Likely not.

Now, that was interesting. Mycroft had been fairly certain that his brother and Dr. Watson had not been having an affair during the doctor's marriage, and had been having trouble accounting for just when the circumstances had changed. If this island had something to do with that, then all the flippant dismissals in the world would not dissuade him, or at least so long as he was able to ask questions from his very comfortable chair.

"You are being deliberately vague, Sherlock," Mycroft declared, "and I warn you, I haven't any time for it. I am not in the least satisfied, nor do you expect me to be. Fortunately, I do not have to rely entirely upon you." He turned to Watson, an expectant expression on his face. "So, tell me, Doctor. Impossible, irrational, whatever word you may put to it... what is this place, and what can you tell me about the circumstances that brought you there?"

Put on the spot like this, Watson glanced at Holmes again, and decided that the best course of action was to give up the fight and explain what little he could.

"Well, Mr. Holmes," he said, reaching for his glass, "while I realise this sounds quite mad... about two years ago I was sitting in my office, and I must have dozed off, as the next thing I knew I was waking up in an unfamiliar house on an unfamiliar island, populated by other men and women who found themselves in the same situation that I did. I believe it was the next day that I discovered that Holmes," he faltered somewhat, aware that while it was natural for him to refer to him like that, it felt strange calling his husband by his surname to his brother who shared it, "was among the other residents."

He took a drink, and set the glass down again. It was strange to think of this now, after two years had passed; it seemed a lifetime ago, or a very vivid dream. "Most of the residents were from... other time periods. Generally the early twenty-first century, but not all. A few were from other worlds."

He's aware of how insane Watson sounds, but thankfully Mycroft can spot a liar on the ground from six stories up, and Watson has never really been gifted with an ability to act -- though he has more than Holmes gives him credit for, he will admit.

"And I had just reached Tibet, when suddenly I was on this island with several other people. More showed up as time went on, and none of them were able to come up with an explanation, even those who made their living on... time travel." After spending so long at home, the more he talks about the island aloud, the more ridiculous he feels, even though he believes every word to be true. He glances again at Watson, lifting an eyebrow.

"And then one morning I simply woke back up in Tibet as if no time at all had passed," he finishes, a little somberly, and he reaches for his glass again. "Truly, none had. It was as if I had never left."

Mycroft looked between the two of them, frowning. He'd had several theories about the truth of this, none of them very satisfying, and none, apparently, even remotely close to the truth. It was impossible, and irrational, and yet... well, neither of them were lying. Sherlock had more sense than to try, surely.

If either one of them had claimed this, he would have been inclined to suspect some sort of mental imbalance, but if both of them had, if their relationship had changed there, as it seemed to have done, then that made it a little harder to dismiss this. And of course, that was what that telegram had been about. Mycroft had seen at once that it was some sort of message between them, the meaning obscure to everyone else, but now it made a good deal more sense: it had been Sherlock trying to ascertain if the memories were not just his alone.

Deeply interested, he leaned forward in his chair. The idea that there had been professional time travellers trapped there to give their opinions intrigued him greatly, but certainly, some variety of time travel would have to be involved to return two men back to the very moment they had left. "Tell me, is there physical evidence of this, or is it simply what you remember and nothing else?"

"Theres's, ah." Watson looked troubled. He was well aware that there was really nothing at all that he could produce to prove their story. Perhaps that had been part of the design of the entities who had built the island and brought them there, assuming such entities existed. "There's not very much," he admitted. "Although... Holmes, the scar on your leg, that's still there, isn't it?"

From what little attention he had paid to the old scar last night, it had healed well, although it was not so noticeable as it had been. That did not help their story at all, but at least Watson could take some pride in his work.

"Oh yes," Holmes says immediately, knowing for a fact that the scar is there because in the two years that he has been separated from Watson, looking at that scar has helped him to feel the slightest bit closer, even if it had been procured in less than an ideal situation. Pushing back from the table, Holmes hikes up his trouser leg, revealing the scar.

"This scar," he begins, pointing it out with his finger, "I acquired when attempting to climb the perimeter wall of the island. I needed stitches and sprained my ankle in the process." Glancing up, he avoids looking at Watson, focusing instead on his brother. "It was not my finest hour, but regardless, it is an article of physical proof. It isn't nearly as definitive as I'm sure you would like," he ends, a touch apologetically.

Mycroft looked, his eyes narrowing. He dealt with figures and sums and politics and the occassional brush with deeper intrigue; time travel and impossible stories were quite out of his league, and he wasn't sure what to make of that. He didn't like that.

The scar was... well, it proved nothing about the story to anyone but them, although he could certainly see why Sherlock had been able to rule it likely enough that it had actually happened to risk sending a telegram. And climbing a wall! It was just like the ridiculous man; Mycroft had no idea where he found the energy, sometimes.

"I see," he said, thoughtfully. "It is something, at least." He believed them, he found, although it was nonsense. "And neither of you have any notion of how you came to leave this island, either?"

Watson shrugged a little, his gaze on Holmes. While he didn't like to think of the circumstances of that injury, the intervening years had done much to reduce the sheer misery of that incident.

"I certainly don't," he said. "It was just as abrupt and unexplained as my arrival. I had just about convinced myself it had all been a dream, or perhaps an extremely vivid hallucination that was part of a mental breakdown," he gave a deprecating smile, "when you summoned me to speak with you, Mr. Holmes."

"Strange," Holmes says with a deprecating smile of his own, looking over at Watson, "those were my first thoughts as well. I was not even certain of the wisdom of asking you about it in a telegram, but felt too desperate for confirmation that it was impossible to resist."

Turning back to his brother, he shakes his head, taking a drink from his glass.

"No, I have no memory of being transported to or from the island, and neither did anyone else that was there. There is not even anyone else we could contact to see if anyone else left -- unless we could somehow find Melchior Gabor," he finishes, glancing back at Watson.

"Melchior Gabor?" Mycroft asked, looking between them, feeling more exasperated than anything else. It was certainly interesting seeing Sherlock and Watson together like this, quite obviously lovers to Mycroft's eyes. He'd suspected it of Watson, although he had met the man so rarely previously to 1891 that it was hard to swear to it, and it was even harder to deduce whether or not the doctor might even be aware of his own feelings; men did tend to fall into denial about these things.

But the two of them knew each other very well, and were comfortable with each other, and even if it meant for this damnably opaque conversation, Mycroft couldn't really bring himself to disapprove. Even when their relationship had been more obviously platonic, Mycroft had thought Watson a good influence on his erratic brother.

"Do you two plan on explaining yourselves, or will you just carry on with this conversation without me? Who is Melchior Gabor?"

"Melchior Gabor," Watson explained, "was the only other person there brought from the same time as ourselves, if I recall right. He wasn't much more than a boy, actually, fifteen or perhaps sixteen years old, and from Germany." He glanced at Holmes. "I don't suppose it would be possible to find him, actually. I really don't think I ever heard where in Germany he was from."

"He would be older now," he says, musing, reaching for his fork once again. "It would be quite difficult to find him, and it may be entirely possible that he doesn't come from our own reality -- " Breaking off, he glances at Mycroft.

"We discovered on this island that there are actually several different versions of reality, different universes. In some of them... Well, in some of them people can do rather incredible things. For instance... some of them are wizards. Real, legitimate wizards. Or they possess supernatural powers."

Mycroft frowned. "Come now, Sherlock. You cannot honestly expect me to..."

He stopped himself. He was a rational man. They were, all three, rational men. His brother would not tell him this if he did not honestly believe it to be true. Different versions of reality. He wondered about the potential for this, for how far this might go, if it were actually true.

"Did you see these powers demonstrated?" he asked, still frowning thoughtfully.

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