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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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.

"Ah, no," Watson admitted. "Every person there who claimed such a thing also asserted that they were... bereft, of that particular skill, while they were there." This sounded ridiculous, even and especially to him. He would have been reluctant to believe in Mycroft's place.

"Either they were all lying, or they were all mad, and... well, none of them impressed me as being lunatics."

"Nor I. I was quite skeptical about their claims at first, but when I met men whose claims were equally difficult to believe, yet they possessed some proof, well. I began to believe everyone's." He takes a bite of his food, finding his appetite growing now that his nerves are abating. He has been bottling this conversation up for two years; finally being able to discuss it with someone, and with Watson, is quite liberating.

"There was one man, one of the claimed time travellers, who had his time traveling device with him. It was, of course, inoperable otherwise it would have been a very poor prison indeed, but still, it was quite obviously a piece of technology far beyond our capabilities at present."

"A time travelling machine," Mycroft said, thoughtfully. He found that only slightly easier to accept than wizards. It was still outlandish, but at least it wasn't magic.

But then, what was to prevent a man from claiming any old unfamiliar thing was a time travelling device?

"But you believe his story?"

"I was inside his machine," Watson said. "He allowed me to see. He... seemed to enjoy showing it off actually. And while it is true that it was not functional... it was significantly larger on the inside than the outside."

He exhaled, trying to think how to explain it. "It was, on the outside, a box perhaps four square feet, and taller than a man. On the inside a was a great room, many times larger. And I'm led to understand that there was more, but access to the other rooms of the machine had been blocked."

"While our fellow prisoners were unable to substantiate their more problematic claims, the longer we were there... it became quite clear that they were likely speaking the truth. The Doctor -- this time travelling man -- is perhaps the best example of that simply due to the technology he possessed."

There really is something thrilling in discussing this, and he finds himself growing reminiscent for the island; it wouldn't be the first time he missed it, and he doubts it will be the last, but it's very strange to be missing it while he's sitting here with his brother at long last.

"For all its frustrating constraints, it was really a very remarkable learning experience." He shoots Watson a very small smile. "Most of the people there were from our future, and so we saw many differences in the way people conducted themselves. The future accepts quite a bit more freedom. I'm not entirely certain how the women manage to keep from catching cold."

He isn't talking about women -- really he could hardly care less about what they wear or don't wear, but of course he is attempting to tell his brother about the freedom he and Watson experienced.

Boxes that were bigger on the inside. And that could travel in time. It was rank nonsense, of course, but... well, at the moment, it was hard to dismiss it entirely.

"And since when do you, Sherlock, of all people, pay attention to what women wear beyond what you can deduce from it?" Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, although he could hardly say he looked much beyond that, himself. He had a notion of what his brother actually meant by 'freedom,' with that reference to changing social mores, and that... well, if it was what he deduced, it was very interesting indeed, and encouraging. It would also go a long way towards explaining why they had finally been able to work out their feelings for each other. "But I suppose that social change is inevitable, and probably extends far beyond the sort of clothing that is socially acceptable. Our own time must seem rather... backward to you, now."

His smile was grim. "I do hope it's not too much of a struggle for you to avoid scandalising your peers, now that you're in this environment again."

Watson was not quite sure how he ought to respond to this, if at all. He was, unfortunately, all too aware of the need for caution, and he found it deeply discouraging that their relationship, that their marriage would have to be secret now, for the rest of the forseeable future. While he was not certain when the law changed, he was certain it was not going to be within their lifetime.

Instead, he looked at Holmes, attempting to somehow wordlessly communicate both that this troubled him, and that he would not let it affect anything between them if he could help it. He was not in the least sure how successful this was; it was rather a complicated message to be conveyed without speech.

It would be rather nice indeed if he could take Watson's hand just now, or touch his knee under the table, but he doesn't consider the Diogenes Club safe enough for such things; Mycroft's house, possibly, since he doubts his brother would keep nosy servants about, but still, it is too dangerous. That is what is troubling; he found nothing at all bothersome about having to stay quiet last night, other than that it is easy to forget. It's highly possible that Mrs. Hudson would be easy to keep quiet, or pay off, and for anyone else entering their rooms, they will just have to be careful.

It's their public conduct that will be more difficult. Not being outwardly affectionate is one thing, but he is aware that there is a certain level of closeness that is, eventually, impossible to avoid demonstrating in public. He's seen it far too often in old couples, or couples who are particularly well-matched. As he considers himself and Watson well-matched men who will stay together until they are old, this will be quite a challenge.

He returns his brother's grim expression, glancing down at the table.

"I have a scandalous nature, my dear brother. I am prone to sitting about in my dressing gown in front of company, and I have no qualms about being rude, or taking the law into my own hands." He flicks his gaze up. "The time I have spent on that island has changed me, opened my mind to greater possibilities, things that I cannot have in the time in which I live. It will be difficult for me to resign myself to letting go of the freedoms I am used to having, but..." He shifts in his seat, now desperately wanting to touch Watson, but resisting.

"But, after having spent some time with the Buddhist monks who saved my life, I think I have more control over my own mind and my own impulses. I will do my best to live the life that I want to live, which means that I will still sit about in my dressing gown when company is over, but I am much more interested in maintaining my happiness for the long haul. I recognize this requires me to don a jacket in my own sitting room occasionally. You have my promise that I will do my best, Mycroft."

"Yes, you are quite good at being scandalous," Mycroft said blandly. "I cannot say how glad I am to hear it that you've added the crime of being a heretic to your usual sort of scandal, but it will be interesting to see if unconventional religion counteracts your bohemianism any."

In all honesty, for all of Sherlock's eccentricities and peculiarities and downright dangerous lifestyle (in more than one way), Mycroft doubted that much would change, and wouldn't have greatly wanted his younger brother to Completely change. Not, especially, when he and Dr. Watson were sitting there looking so absolutely desperate for each other. It was dangerous, it could ruin them, the scandal would likely touch Mycroft himself if he could not prevent it, but he also couldn't wish it away.

He could not recall seeing Sherlock looking so happy, not in some time, and he could not have wanted to alter that, not for anything. He loved his brother far too much.

"I hope you will," he said at last, and he was smiling. "I have no desire to see you in a cell for any reason."

"I'm not exactly keen on the idea, myself," Watson put in, quietly. "But in all honesty, Mr. Holmes, I've been trying to impart some of my knowledge of how to appear respectable to your brother for as long as I have known him. I don't think it will ever take."

He cast a small smile in Holmes's direction, very fond, slightly teasing.

"I think we shall manage to stay safe, regardless."

The Actual Return, Post-Resort

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